Gospel Story Finder

While recently reading the Book of Mormon, I came upon the following admonition: “Why do ye … suffer the hungry, and the needy, and the naked, and the sick and the afflicted to pass by you, and notice them not?” (Mormon 8:39).
Instead of feeling the peace and comfort I usually find in the scriptures, I was overcome by a lingering feeling of sadness. I had long recognized that I am not a particularly observant person. I had allowed myself to get so involved in my life, my callings, and my family that I just didn’t notice the challenges other people were having.
I knew I wasn’t doing all I could “to bear one another’s burdens, that they [might] be light; … to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:8–9). I wanted to change; I wanted to be better. I simply didn’t know how. I prayed that the Lord would help me.
My answer came in an unexpected and unwanted way when I contracted a chronic illness. It slowly took away all my cumbersome busyness. As the disease progressed, I had to give up my outside activities, my callings, and my Church attendance. I’m housebound, I’m lonely, and I feel unnoticed.
I pray that someday the Lord will heal me. When He does, I promise myself that I will never be so blind again. When I arrive at church, I will look to see who is sitting alone and who is not attending that day. I will take time each week to overcome my shyness and visit somebody who is sick or afflicted or just in need of a friend. I will love my brothers and sisters every day—not just on Sunday or during Church activities.
I will remember and, I hope, be worthy to hear the Lord’s approbation: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).

When my wife, Kathy, and I were in Africa a few weeks ago, we visited Mbuji-Mayi, Democratic Republic of the Congo. Because the chapel was not large enough for the 2,000 members, we met out of doors under large plastic coverings supported by bamboo poles. As the meeting began, we could see dozens of children watching us, clinging to the bars on the outside of the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property. Kathy quietly whispered, “Neil, do you think that you might want to invite the children to come in?” I approached District President Kalonji at the podium and asked him if he would welcome the children outside the fence to come join us inside.
To my surprise, with President Kalonji’s invitation, the children not only came but came running—more than 50, perhaps 100—some with tattered clothes and bare feet but all with beautiful smiles and excited faces.
I was deeply moved by this experience and saw it as symbolic of our need to reach out to the youth who feel alone, left behind, or outside the fence. Let us think about them, welcome them, embrace them, and do everything we can to strengthen their love for the Savior. Jesus said, “Whoso shall receive one such … child in my name receiveth me.”14 In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

A little-known fact is that President Monson has rescued someone in distress. Here’s how the story goes: A warm summer day found 12-year-old Thomas Monson floating in a large, inflated inner tube from a tractor tire down the river in Provo Canyon. Just as he was about to enter the swiftest part of the river, he heard frantic cries, “Save her! Save her!” A young woman had fallen into a deep part of the river. None of the people on the bank could swim to save her. President Monson reports that he saw the top of her head disappear several times under the water before he stretched forth his hand, grabbed her hair, and lifted her over the side of the tube. He paddled the tube with the young woman over to her relatives and friends, where he was hugged and kissed. He says that he was embarrassed and that he quickly returned to the tube and continued his float down the river.

Elder Koichi Aoyagi of the 2nd Quorum of the 70 spoke in April General Conference about his life changing as a result of a seemingly "small thing" that someone did for him. In his talk, he told of his conversion at age 17 in Matsumoto Japan.
He said:
"The next year I entered the university in Yokohama. Living alone, far from my hometown and the people I knew, I became lonely and strayed from the Church. One day I received a postcard from a Church member back home. She wrote that she had heard I was not attending Church meetings. She quoted a scripture and invited me to return to church. I was overwhelmed by the words of the scripture. This helped me realize that maybe I had lost something important, and I pondered and struggled for many days..."
"I realized that I was not praying with all of my heart and decided to do so. ...Through the power of the Holy Ghost, I learned that God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, live and that They truly appeared to Joseph Smith. I made a commitment in my heart to repent and faithfully follow Jesus Christ for the rest of my life." "This spiritual experience changed my life completely! I decided to serve a mission out of gratitude to the Lord and to the Church member who rescued me. Following my mission, I was sealed in the temple to a wonderful girl, and we have been blessed with four children. Not coincidentally, this is the same girl who saved me by sending a postcard to that lonely apartment in Yokohama many years ago. I remain ever grateful for the mercy of the Lord and the help of this Church member, who invited me to once again come unto Christ."[1]

A homely story contains a warning. I like this story because it translates easily into different languages and cultures.

Two men formed a partnership. They built a small shed beside a busy road. They obtained a truck and drove it to a farmer’s field, where they purchased a truckload of melons for a dollar a melon. They drove the loaded truck to their shed by the road, where they sold their melons for a dollar a melon. They drove back to the farmer’s field and bought another truckload of melons for a dollar a melon. Transporting them to the roadside, they again sold them for a dollar a melon. As they drove back toward the farmer’s field to get another load, one partner said to the other, “We’re not making much money on this business, are we?” “No, we’re not,” his partner replied. “Do you think we need a bigger truck?”

We don’t need a bigger truckload of information, either. Like the two partners in my story, our biggest need is a clearer focus on how we should value and use what we already have.

During a spelling test I looked at someone’s paper and saw that I had spelled the word tease wrong. I changed my answer. During lunch that day my mom took me to my violin lesson. I felt bad about cheating, and even though I was scared to tell my mom about it, I did. She said I needed to tell the teacher what had happened. When we got back to school my mother asked if I needed her to come with me to tell my teacher. I told her no. I was scared for the rest of the school day. I kept walking up to my teacher to tell her and then going back to my desk because I was too scared. Finally at the end of the day I told my teacher what happened. She marked the answer wrong but then gave me a hug and told me, “Thank you for being honest.” I’m glad I told my teacher even though it was very hard. I felt much better afterward. I will never cheat on a test again. I will always try to be honest in everything I do.

The 18th century was destined to be a time where the greatest nation ever to live upon the earth was born. It also produced a vast array of great men. Among these wise and spiritual men were the founding fathers-a specially selected group of men who God raised up to give our nation the start toward its destiny. One of these superb men went by the name of Benjamin Franklin.

In 1728 when he was just 28 years old he said, "It was about this time that I conceived the bold and arduous project of arriving at moral perfection."

Ben Franklin then wrote down the qualities that he wanted to acquire, that we today know as his 13 virtues. Below each of these virtues he added a short precept that expressed the meaning he wished the virtues to have. He made a small book, which he carried with him constantly, from the time he was age 22 until the time of his death at age 84. In this little book he made a check each night of al the places where he had fallen down in his determination to develop these qualities of personality. After keeping this technique up after 57 years he made this marvelous statement: "it may be well that my posterity be informed that this little artifice of constant attention and daily checking." It is here where you can see the similarities of President Eyring's voice to write these things down. It may not be for you.

When Scott woke up in his grandfather’s den, he recognized the creaking noise even before he opened his eyes: Grandpa Max was hoisting his flag up the wooden flagpole in the front yard.
Today was the Fourth of July, but that wasn’t the reason that Grandpa Max was putting up the flag. He had hoisted “the old Stars and Stripes,” as he called it, to the top of that pole 365 days a year for as long as Scott could remember.
Two minutes later Grandpa was standing at the bottom of the stairs, hollering the familiar words, “Hey, buddy boy, get yourself down here. You’re on spud-peeling detail in five minutes.”
Scott groaned and rolled over. In a few hours about thirty-five relatives would spill onto the front yard for the big picnic that Grandpa Max hosted every year. This was Scott’s year to be cohost. His older cousin Jeff, who had held that title the year before, had told Scott that “cohost” translated into “free help,” and Scott believed it. His body ached from hours of washing windows, mowing the lawn, and carrying tables yesterday. And Grandpa evidently had much more in store for this morning.
“Well, it’s about time!” Grandpa Max grinned at Scott while sliding three slices of golden french toast onto a plate and passing the maple syrup to his grandson.
“I heard you out there with the flag, Grandpa,” Scott said between bites. “I guess it’s just another day for you.”
“Ooooh no, no, buddy boy. I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t ever say that.”
“Well, you do put the flag up every day. Why is that, Grandpa?”
Grandpa Max didn’t answer immediately. Instead he stood up and grabbed a ten-pound bag of potatoes off the counter. “Tell you what, Scott. You peel these; I’ll quarter ’em. You listen; I’ll explain.”
Scott shoveled in the rest of his breakfast and silently picked up the vegetable peeler. He knew that tone of voice, and it meant “Listen up.”
“First,” Grandpa began, “you have to imagine the place that I call ‘the old country,’ the place where I was born. My village wasn’t a town as you know it, but a small cluster of cottages and shops built along seldom-traveled dirt roads. Everywhere there were poor, shabbily dressed people. Why, they would’ve thought that I was a king if they could have seen me dressed like this.” And he snapped the strap of his bib overalls for emphasis.
“And speaking of kings, the leader of the old country taxed and imprisoned the people unfairly, sometimes forcing them to join his private army. Because of this, many people began to talk against him. They gathered at secret meetings where they talked of ways to overthrow him. The ruler knew that they hated him, so periodically he sent his soldiers throughout the country to show his strength and to question the people, hoping to discover his enemies.
“In my village every family, no matter how poor, had a flag because a flag was considered protection against the soldiers. If a house had a flag hanging from it, it was not as likely to be searched.
“I have a picture in my mind,” Grandpa Max continued, “of my last day in the old country. I was only four years old, but it was a day that I will never forget. My parents had been packing all night, loading our wagon with all our possessions. We were going to make our escape early in the morning.
“The next morning, of all days, the king’s soldiers rode into town to make one of their searches. Our closest neighbor came to warn us.
“Mother had us take off our traveling clothes and put on our everyday work clothes so that we wouldn’t look suspicious. Father pulled the wagon around to the back of the house and hid it in the trees. “Suddenly Mother remembered the flag. Nearly everything inside our small home had been packed into the wagon, and though we searched frantically, we couldn’t find the flag.
“I remember that that’s when I began to cry. Far down the road I could see all our neighbors’ houses draped with the hated flags. Hurriedly my father dumped a bundle of linens on the ground. Rummaging through it, he found the flag. He raced around to the front of the house and hung it up. That picture of my father hanging the flag is my last memory of the old country.”
Grandpa Max smiled at Scott. “A few months later I was living a very different life. My family had come to America, to New York City. We lived in an apartment building with more apartment buildings on both sides of us. On the bottom floor of most of the buildings were shops of all kinds. The street outside was always a busy place, filled with peddlers selling their wares, children playing noisily, and people doing their marketing. Women leaned out their windows and carried on loud conversations with each other.
“One hot, sticky morning I woke up to an unusual quiet. I knew that it was not the weekend, but the street was nearly empty. I heard no peddlers’ cries, no shouting or bargaining as on every other morning. The only sounds were those of a few children playing.
“As usual, I hurried through breakfast, anxious to go downstairs and join my friends. But when I bolted out the front door of our apartment building, I immediately stiffened, and my heart started to pound violently. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t open my mouth. I wanted to run back inside, but my feet wouldn’t move.
“Attached to every shop front, hanging from dozens of windows, stuck into window boxes, and tacked onto mailboxes were hundreds of flags. I stood trembling with fear, waiting for the soldiers to appear and search our homes.
“Laughing and chattering, several children asked me to join in a game, and I numbly followed along. Soon men and women joined the children outside. They sat on the steps of their apartment buildings, talking and joking. Aren’t any of the men going to work? I kept asking myself. Why is everyone so happy? I thought that perhaps they were all just pretending, trying to keep each other cheerful.
“All day long I felt as if I were in a nightmare. By afternoon I was too miserable to even join my friends in their games. I just sat on the curb and watched and waited. At suppertime the men set up long tables on the sidewalk, and the women covered them with tablecloths and began bringing platters and bowls of food to be shared by everyone. I couldn’t eat anything at all.
“Just before dark, Mother took me up to bed. While she was tucking me in, she told me that she was going back outside and that I could call her if I needed anything. I started to cry.
“‘No,’ I yelled, ‘you can’t leave me here alone!’ All day I had tried to be brave, but finally I just broke down and sobbed.
“My father raced up the stairs. ‘I heard you crying clear downstairs. Why are you sad after this wonderful day?’ he asked.
“‘How can you say it’s a wonderful day,’ I cried. ‘How can you pretend, when the soldiers will be here any minute?’
“‘Soldiers?’ he asked. ‘What soldiers?’
“‘The soldiers everybody put their flags up for,’ I sobbed. ‘They’ll be here soon, and we don’t even have a flag!’
“‘Oh, my poor frightened boy,’ my father said softly. He sat me on his lap. ‘First of all,’ he explained, ‘there are no soldiers coming to search our home today or any other day.’
“I stopped crying and looked up at him. Then he told me the story of America’s birthday and explained that all the flags were for the celebration.
“I went back outside with my parents and watched the fireworks to end the big birthday party and thought and thought about what my father had told me, trying to understand it all.
“I did understand one thing, though. My father said, ‘Someday we will be able to buy a flag, and I will be very proud to fly that flag. In fact, I will be so proud that when I am an American citizen, I will want to fly it every single day. And I hope you will, too, Max.’”
The potatoes were all peeled, quartered, and ready to boil, and Scott was still listening intently to his grandfather. “How come you never told me that story before, Grandpa?”
“Well, buddy boy, you never asked me before.”
“I think you should tell everyone today at the picnic, Grandpa,” I told him.
“Maybe I will, buddy boy. Maybe I will.”

A friend spoke to me recently of her father, who had suffered a stroke. She faced a hard time of life as she tried to determine the best way to care for and support him and also consider her mother, who had good health and days still filled with promise and grandchildren. Then my friend spoke of the reverence she felt for this time. She said, “I am finding I enjoy learning from him, watching him deal with this difficult process of an aging body.”

Sammy Snake was busy crawling out of his old, dry skin when Hosea Hamster scampered by. “Ha-ha!” laughed Hosea. “Sammy, you certainly look funny—like a worm crawling out of its cocoon.”
Sammy Snake turned to his old friend and replied, “Snakes always shed their skins in the springtime.”
“I don’t see why you should shed your skin. Your old one looked just fine to me,” said Hosea.
“Every year I grow bigger so my skin becomes too small,” Sammy explained. “In the winter I hibernate, and I grow a new skin under the old one while I’m asleep. When I wake up in the springtime my old skin is dry. It splits along my belly and I crawl out of it. It’s like being born again every year.”
Hosea looked puzzled and replied, “Sure sounds like a lot of trouble to me. Why don’t you just stretch your old skin? That’s what I do. Watch this!” He puffed out his cheeks, making his little round face look like a fuzzy table tennis ball.
“No, no! You don’t understand,” cried Sammy, a little exasperated. “My skin doesn’t stretch like yours. It has to be hard and tough so it won’t tear when I crawl over sharp rocks. My skin needs to be strong enough to protect me from the hot sand and from Benny Badger or he could bite through it with his sharp teeth.”
“I see,” replied Hosea. “A skin that can do all those things couldn’t be expected to stretch too.”
Hosea sat on his hind legs and watched Sammy wiggle and squirm. Finally all his old skin came off. As Sammy crawled free of the skin, he gave a sigh of relief. “Well, I’m glad that job is over for another year. I am hungry! I’m hungry enough to eat a …” His beady eyes fixed on the plump little hamster sitting in front of him.
Hosea understood what he was thinking. Quickly, he scurried down the path to safety. He paused for a moment and turned to say, “Good-bye, Sammy. I’ll see you later—maybe we can play after you’ve had your dinner!”

When Doug Padilla was a high school freshman in Oakland, California, he decided to join a basketball team. Unfortunately, he was only four feet eleven inches tall. Fortunately, there was a special lightweight league for short people. “They took your age, weight, and height and rated you. If you scored low enough, they let you compete. If you scored really low, they put you in the D division. They put me in the D division.” But even in the D division there were challenges. “I had to play against some tall guys—some as tall as five feet four. And even the guys my size were better than I was, so I sat on the bench.”
But that was just for the first four quarters. “After every game they’d have a fifth quarter, where everyone would get to play. So I played in the fifth quarter.” Game after game, Doug rode the bench for the first four quarters, and then went out on the floor to do battle against the other fifth quarterites, fighting valiantly for rebounds against five-feet-four-inch giants. Although the rest of his body didn’t know it yet, the heart of a champion was beating in the thin little chest of Doug Padilla.

Perhaps you have all heard the story, and it is just a story, of the insensitive man who held two season tickets to the basketball games at the local university. His wife died, and a day or two later he went to the game. The seat previously occupied by his wife was empty. Someone said, “Those seats of yours must be very expensive. Couldn’t you find a member of the family to come and sit in your wife’s seat?” The man answered, “No, they couldn’t come. They’ve all gone to her funeral.”

The Prophet went to visit his aunt and uncle. His uncle and his cousins were sick with the fever and chills.
Joseph, your uncle has the worst of it. I fear for his life.
Here, Uncle, have my shoes.
But, Joseph, what will you wear?
Joseph rode home without his shoes.
He sent for his uncle and had him brought to his home.
He will heal better at my house. Emma will take good care of him.
He also sent many supplies to help the rest of the family recover.
Thank you, Joseph. Thank you.
The Prophet’s genuine love for others saved his uncle’s life and eased his aunt’s burdens.

I was born into a home where my father was not a member of the church, and my mother was what today some would categorize as inactive. During my early childhood, I did not in any way understand the significance of the fact that there was no priesthood-bearing patriarch or consistent teaching of pure gospel principles in our home. Yet no son could have loved more or been more proud of my father than was I then and am now. He taught his five boys by noble example the importance of industry, integrity, education, manual skills, trust, and obedience. We gained self-confidence through the practice of these worthy traits. Because he traveled frequently and left our precious mother alone for significant periods of time to raise five active, exuberant boys, we discovered in her an amazingly marvelous combination of love, patience, firmness, and diligence. She was and continues to be more a friend and companion than anything else. (I should add the Lord has since greatly blessed our family. Dad is currently a sealer in the Washington Temple, and mother serves with him as a temple worker. Both provide powerful examples of righteous obedience for each of us.)

During my youth, through kind, understanding bishops and patient home teachers and other interested members, the five boys were encouraged to attend Church and to participate in its activities. We did so, although at times reluctantly. I remember with sadness the times when at separation for Sunday School classes, I would slip out the back door to walk in the park. There were, however, times when I listened to the teachings in class. I’m sure that, if anyone would have questioned my testimony and understanding of the gospel, I would have fiercely defended it as being strong and vigorous. Only from the perspective of time and the marvelous experiences of later, more active participation in the Church, do I now realize that I knew very, very little of the true meaning of the gospel plan. I participated in Church activities but somehow felt I was always at the periphery. I would approach Mutual activities daydreaming of a glorious evening dancing with the most popular girls in the ward. The reality of each evening was quite different. As I sat on the sidelines and watched others enjoying themselves, I felt somehow left out, not part of the central group. The same thing occurred in school. Though I felt comfortable in the academic activities, the social and sport activities left me feeling alone and unwanted. It was not until a lot later in life that I realized it was largely my fault.

I have since learned that one cannot demand love and respect or require that the bonds of friendship and appreciation be extended as an unearned right. These blessings must be earned. They come from personal merit. Sincere concern for others, selfless service and worthy example qualify one for such respect. All my rationalization that others had formed select groups and knowingly ruled out my participation was largely a figment of my imagination. Had I practiced correct principles, I need not have felt alone.

As a boy, Lorenzo loved to read. He later became a teacher and a community builder. He was chosen by President Brigham Young to lead fifty families to an area later known as Brigham City, Utah. His work was interrupted when he was called on a mission to the Hawaiian Islands.
After the ship’s arrival there, Lorenzo and his companions were going ashore in a smaller boat when suddenly their tiny craft capsized and washed them overboard. Lorenzo’s lifeless body was found and he was administered to. Lorenzo miraculously recovered from this terrifying experience, for the Lord had other important work for him to accomplish.

When Elder Ringger and I first arrived in Sofia, Bulgaria, on 30 October 1988, we had been led to believe, through our indirect “third-party” contact, that we would be met at the airport and that proper appointments had been made. (Incidentally, it had been our experience that most leaders in these totalitarian governments did not confirm any arrangements in writing.) So we went to Bulgaria in faith. We arrived late at night. No one was there to greet us. We took a taxi, which delivered us to the wrong hotel. Once we made that discovery, we trudged, luggage in hand, through a snowstorm until we finally found our correct accommodations. Our frustration continued the next day as bilingual telephone operators at the hotel were not able to help us identify either the office or the leaders with whom we needed to meet. We were at a complete dead end. All we could do was to pray for help.

Our prayers were answered. In a marvelous way, a day later, at 10:00 A.M., we met with Mr. Tsviatko Tsvetkov, head of the religious affairs department for the country. He had just returned to the city, and his interpreter was available also. Incredible!

At first, the atmosphere was pretty cold. He didn’t know we were coming. Through his interpreter, he scolded, “Nelson? Ringger? Mormons? I’ve never heard of you.”

I replied, “That makes us even. We have never heard of you, either. It’s time we got acquainted.” Everyone laughed, and we went on to have a great meeting.

Elder Ringger and I returned to Sofia in February 1990, at which time, as authorized by the First Presidency, an apostolic dedicatory prayer was given on February 13 at Park Na Svobodata, which means “Liberty Park.”

On this visit we again met with Mr. Tsvetkov and other governmental leaders and also with many representatives of the media. The director of the International Foundation in Bulgaria asked if could help provide teachers of English. We assured him that we could. Capable teachers were called and sent to fulfill that request. This director came to Salt Lake City in October 1990 to continue our friendship. With gratitude, he praised the work of our missionary sisters and couples who had begun teaching in Bulgaria. Their contacts have provided excellent referrals, and several individuals have since joined the Church.

A new mission, the 268th mission of the Church, was created on 1 July 1991. Kiril Kiriakov now serves as president of the Bulgaria Sofia Mission. President and Sister Kiriakov were both born in Bulgaria. Official recognition for the Church was granted by the Bulgarian government on 10 July 1991. Congregations of Saints and friends are growing in Bulgaria.

Some years ago in Eastern Europe, I listened as a young elder stood before his fellow missionaries in zone conference to share an experience that shaped his life. He and his companion had found and taught a middle-aged man named Ivan (name has been changed) in a distant city. Their investigator came from a difficult background, as was reflected in his well-used clothing, ragged beard, and hesitant demeanor. Life had been harsh and unkind to him.
Without any prior religious training, Ivan had much to overcome. Practices not in harmony with the restored gospel had to be set aside. New principles needed to be accepted and then incorporated. Ivan wanted to learn, and he prepared himself diligently for his baptism and confirmation. His clothing remained threadbare and his beard ragged, but he had taken the first steps. Shortly after Ivan’s baptism, the missionary was transferred. He hoped that he might again cross paths with Ivan.
Six months later the mission president reassigned the young elder to his former branch. Surprised but eager to return, the elder, with a new companion, came early to sacrament meeting his first Sunday back in the branch. The members were pleased to see the missionary in their midst again. They rushed forward with broad smiles and warm greetings.
The elder recognized nearly everyone in the small congregation. However, he searched in vain among the faces for the man he and his companion had taught and baptized six months earlier. There arose within the elder a sense of disappointment and sadness. Had Ivan returned to his harmful habits? Had he failed to honor his covenant of baptism? Had he lost the blessings promised by his repentance?
The elder’s fears and reflections were interrupted by the approach of an unfamiliar man who was rushing forward to embrace the missionary. The clean-shaven man had a confident smile and an obvious goodness radiating from his countenance. Wearing a white shirt and a carefully knotted tie, he was on his way to prepare the sacrament for the small gathering that Sabbath morning. Only when the man began to speak did the elder recognize him. It was the new Ivan, not the former Ivan they had taught and baptized! The elder saw embodied in his friend the miracle of faith, repentance, and forgiveness; he saw the reality of the Atonement.
The missionary told his peers attending the zone conference that Ivan had changed and grown by every measure during the months the elder had been away from the branch. Ivan had embraced the gospel, and it radiated from him. He had experienced a “change of heart” (Alma 5:26) sufficient both to be baptized and to press forward in the continuing process of conversion. He was preparing for the higher priesthood and the ordinances of the temple. Ivan had indeed been “born again” (Alma 7:14).
As the missionary concluded his remarks, he asked himself aloud, “How much of a ‘change of heart’ have I experienced in the past six months?” He continued his self-examination, asking aloud, “Have I been ‘born again’?” These are two profound questions that each of us should privately pose on a continuing basis.

As a sophomore at BYU in Provo I took a geology class. A large part of this class concerned itself with the scientific explanation of this earth’s history, including the theory of evolution. On the first day of class the teacher went to the blackboard and took us through the Creation as outlined in our ancient and modern scriptures, making a chronological list of events. He spent the whole hour speaking of the Savior and His creations. He bore a powerful testimony about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, including our modern scriptures, with special emphasis on the Pearl of Great Price.
I am indebted to this great teacher for expanding my vision about the Creation as recorded in the 4th chapter of Abraham. For example, in the 18th verse we read:
“And the Gods watched those things which they had ordered until they obeyed.”
You may wish to read and ponder the whole chapter.
On the second day of class the teacher had covered up the blackboard of the previous day and wrote the chronology of the earth’s history according to science, including all the various periods. He then pulled the board back and displayed the previous day’s teachings beside those of the second day and proceeded to show where there were similarities and differences. He concluded by telling us that we had not signed up for a religion class but for a science class, and science is what we would be taught. However, throughout the semester he never shied away from sharing his testimony.
I am indebted to that teacher for showing me that science and religion are not really at odds. Scientific knowledge is incomplete, and the same could be said about the details of the Lord’s method of creation. Once all the facts are in, there will be no discrepancies. Since receiving that perspective 50 years ago, I have marveled at science and not felt threatened by it.

The ambulance bounced and bucked even though we weren’t really going very fast. Its siren kicked on again, screaming to try to clear the way as we brought the woman down off the mountain. I struggled against the movement to hold her head still between the sandbags that cradled it, and I twisted around so I could see out the windshield. The driver in the car ahead showed no sign that he even knew we were there, and I mentally pleaded with him to either turn off his air conditioner and stereo so he could hear us or to look in his rearview mirror for our flashing lights.
The young man sat on the bench beside his mother. Ashen-faced, he stared down at her, saying nothing, doing nothing.
She had been cruelly pinned in the wreckage of their van when we arrived on the scene. A glance told me what had happened. The driver of the van had misjudged his distance and had caught the corner of the rear end of the slowly moving highway department truck—caught it right where she had been sitting.
The jagged metal and glass had folded back around her, trapping her. There had been a small fire, but one of the highway men had worked quickly with an extinguisher and had snuffed it. She had been semiconscious, in sharp pain from the metal biting her body. The first thing I had noticed when I crawled into her twisted prison was the blood and clear fluid coming from her right ear.
While I had stayed inside with her, the others on the scene had worked as quickly and as carefully as they could to tear apart the front of the van to free her. It had taken what seemed like forever. But once freed of the torn van, she was carefully strapped to a backboard and removed. The sandbags were piled beside her head to keep her neck from moving. Straps bound her tightly and uncomfortably to the board and to the stretcher.
She was drifting in and out of consciousness, and she fought the restraining straps as I completed a more thorough examination on the road behind the ambulance. As we loaded her, she managed somehow to pull loose the strap that crossed her forehead. She fought hard as I tried to resecure it, so I decided to leave it loose and cradle her head between my hands.
We were just about to lift the stretcher and its cargo into the back of the ambulance when the young man stepped forward. “Please,” he asked in a quiet voice, “may I ride with her?”
There’s an ironclad rule in ambulance work. Nobody rides unless they’re injured. The last thing you need in the back of an ambulance is a hysterical relative when you’re fighting to keep someone alive.
But for some reason I looked up into his eyes, saw what was there, and said, “Yes. Get in.”
The ride down the mountain was a long one filled with a narrow, twisting road and slow-moving, unheeding tourist traffic. She still fought the head strap, so I still cradled her head in my hands. The blood and fluid still oozed from her right ear. Her level of consciousness seemed to be fading. The words she mumbled no longer seemed to make sense. I looked into her eyes as best I could. The light was bright, yet the pupils seemed dilated. The thought ran through my mind again and again, “This woman’s in trouble. Head hit the windshield. Basal skull fracture. Heavy duty injury. She’s in real trouble!”
We hit the flats at the bottom of the mountain, and the driver stepped hard on the accelerator. The rocking and bucking increased as our speed climbed. I thought of asking him to slow down some and then decided against it, weighing the need for speed against comfort. I could hold her head steady with my hands.
The young man—her son—sat numbly, staring. He had been driving the van.
She pulled against the restraining straps again and mumbled something. Her eyes rolled toward me, and she mumbled it again. I tried to tell her to lie still, but she kept pulling and there was a pleading tone in the mumbled words. I placed my ear next to her mouth and tried to understand.
“Are you Norman?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “My name’s not Norman.”
She tried to shake her head, and I had to hold firmly against her determination. “No!” I heard her say. “Not Norman. Are you Norman?”
I looked up at the young man. “Is your name Norman?” I asked.
He shook his head as she pleaded again, asking for Norman.
“What about your father? Is his name Norman?”
Negative reply.
“Norman’s not here,” I said into her ear, trying to make her hear me above the wailing siren. “You take it easy, and when we get to the hospital, we’ll find Norman for you.”
Her eyes were almost wild with concern as she asked again, “No, no! Not Norman! Mormon! Are you Mormon?”
“Oh! Mormon!” I couldn’t help exclaiming. “Yes, I’m a Mormon.”
“Can you give me a blessing?” she pleaded.
My hands were full, holding her head, and I didn’t want to let go. I looked up at her son. “She wants a blessing,” I said. “What priesthood do you hold?”
“Elder,” came the reply. “We were on our way to Provo and the MTC. I’m going to Norway.”
I nodded. “She wants a blessing. Move up here and help me. My hands are full.”
“Do you have any consecrated oil?” he asked.
“In a little gold canister with the keys on my gunbelt,” I replied.
I could feel him tugging at the keys, and in a moment the key ring with its little aluminum cylinder was in his hand. I nodded to him. “Unscrew the top and anoint her.”
“I’ve never done this before,” he answered, rather plaintively.
“Time you learned,” I smiled at him. “Don’t worry too much about it. Just do it.”
He poured the clear oil onto her head. “I don’t know what to say,” he pleaded.
I pronounced the necessary words. “Now, it’s your turn,” I said to him. “Give her a blessing.”
A stricken look passed over his face for a moment, and he closed his eyes. Then he suddenly sat straight up, placed his hands on her head, and said in a loud, strong voice, “Marge Robinson, in the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to stay alive until we can reach the hospital and medical help.”
Then he sagged back onto the bench, covered his face with his hands, and began to weep.
A smile crossed her face and she relaxed, letting her head slide down between the sandbags. There was no more fighting the straps, no more mumbling. I sat up, startled and concerned, and quickly checked her vital signs. Good. Everything was good. In fact, unless it was just my imagination, her signs were even better than before.
She was asleep when we reached the hospital.
I recited what I thought was my diagnosis to the doctor. He checked her ear and the red and clear drainage from it, nodded and looked grim. We wheeled her to the bright room filled with doctor tools, and the hospital team went to work.
I was restocking the ambulance when the doctor called me into the room again. The ear had been cleaned out, and I could see the laceration inside it clearly. “Take a look.” The doctor smiled and handed me the otoscope.
I looked deep inside the ear. There was the eardrum, clear pink. Intact. There was no clear fluid, no cerebral fluid draining from a basal fracture. The X rays hanging on the viewboard confirmed it.
The woman was awake, alert, smiling. She thanked me and my partner for all we had done. The rest of the family was there, standing in the hall. One of them was on the telephone trying to make arrangements for a rental car to finish the trip to Provo. “We’ll keep her overnight,” the doctor was saying. “But the rest of them will make it to the MTC on time.”
I was shaking hands with them all, listening to their thanks, which I certainly didn’t deserve, when my radio started talking, telling me to let my partner take care of the ambulance and to get back to my patrol car. I had another call. Somebody wanted to complain. Neighbor’s dog was in his trash can.
I left the hospital with a strengthened conviction that Heavenly Father watches over and guides his children. Without knowing why, I had let the young elder ride in the ambulance.
I have since found that many events defy explanation except in light of a knowledge of the gospel and priesthood power.

I remember specifically making this promise one day as I sat in a chapel waiting for a baptismal service to start. As I sat pondering the doctrine of Christ, I began to have a strong feeling of joy telling me that everything I had learned from the missionaries was true. In that moment I silently committed to God to always trust Him and that I would remain active in His Church throughout my life if it meant I could continue to have the joy that comes from the Holy Ghost. To me this promise included not only attending church every week but also trusting in the Lord’s doctrine, the scriptures, the living prophets, and especially my Savior, Jesus Christ.
It was relatively early in my life that I made this important decision to trust in the Lord’s promises. Since then my decision has proved to be very beneficial to me. Whenever a doubt or a question has come up, I have been able to think back to the commitment I made and have based my life decisions on that commitment. Deciding early on the standards you will live by will help you make correct choices when doubts or problems come.