Gospel Story Finder

When I was a junior in high school, I was wrestling in a state tournament against an opponent that I had previously defeated twice during the year. As we met at the center of the mat with the referee before the match, my rival looked at me and said, “Today is my day, Pinegar.” I assured him that it was not, that I had already beaten him twice during the year, and this would be the third time.
As the match began, we circled each other and then clashed. We wrestled very, very hard. He was serious about wanting to defeat me, and in fact was so serious that he turned me every way but loose. As I would go down to the mat with him, I realized I had mat burns all over my body.
In the third round, he had me in a position where my head was twisted in the three-quarter Nelson, and he had a leg hold on me. I realized if I moved any farther he would pin me. At that moment, I looked into the crowd, and several rows into the bleachers I saw a very large man, probably six feet, five inches tall and about 280 pounds. From the expression on his face, it looked like he was trying to help me. So I watched him for just that brief second, and I realized that if he was trying to help me the two of us could surely defeat this fellow who was about to pin me.
I don’t know if it was because of that, but almost immediately after I had turned my face away from him I noticed my opponent had slipped his right arm over a little bit too far. If I could hook his elbow, I could reverse the hold and pin him instead of being pinned. Without hesitating I quickly pulled on his elbow. Over he went and I had him pinned.
Following my win, I was anxious to let the man know I appreciated his help. As I stood waiting for the referee to raise my hand, I looked around to see if I could find the man. In the same place I had seen him before I saw him standing very straight with a satisfied, if not proud, look on his face. He looked at me and smiled. I guess I can confess that this man was my father.

Now the third story, if I might skip another four years. At age 16 it became necessary for me to make a decision as to what I was going to spend my life doing. I lived within six blocks of Stanford University, and I was influenced by this university. Two of my friends had fathers who taught there. One of them, for instance, was a polio research scientist. He was trying to find, like many others, the way to prevent polio. He didn’t discover it—others did—but he made a contribution. One of the physicists helped direct my thinking. “Do I want to become a physicist? Do I want to become a research bacteriologist? Do I want to become this? Do I want to become that?” This is a common experience to teenagers.
I was active in music but I thought, “I don’t want to become a musician. Who wants to become a musician?” My view of a musician was that he was a drunken dance band bum or else that he was a long-hair who starved in a garret. So I dismissed, for a period, the idea of becoming a professional musician. I determined that very few of them ever made any money. Many of them, I thought, starved half to death, and that aspect didn’t attract me particularly.
During this period in which I investigated a number of other professional areas, and after thought and prayer, I finally came to a decision. I studied it out in my own mind. I finally came to a conviction within my heart—a burning within my bosom—that regardless of my previous views of what a musician was, how much money he would or would not make, or any of these other factors, my conviction was in this direction; this is how I was to make my contribution to the world; this is how I would make my professional life a reality.
That came like many of our decisions come. I studied it out in my mind, trying to perceive what would be the results if I went in any of several different directions, and then I asked the Lord to guide me in receiving a confirmation through his Spirit concerning the correct direction.
When I had made that decision, I told my father and my mother that I had arrived at a decision. They, of course, were cognizant that this churning process was going on. We communicated many times during the process. I still have this little slip of paper in one of my scrapbooks: “Today I know what I want.” My father, who was a businessman, couldn’t carry a tune in the bathtub. He had not much sympathy for music as a career. When I said, “I want to go into music,” he said, “All right, son [these words have come back to me many times], but don’t be a second-rater.”
Now that is a hard challenge. I do not believe that we need necessarily to compete with the great ones of the world. We need to compete with our own best selves. And isn’t that the challenge we all have? Isn’t it hard to be a first-rate John Jones or Mary Smith? It is easy to be a second-rate John Jones or Mary Smith. I find myself qualifying, frequently, for a second-rate Crawford Gates. And I am sorry that I qualify so frequently.
It is hard for us to measure up to our own potential. I find it very difficult to be equal to the Lord’s blessings. Don’t we all have that same problem in our lives—the necessity to creatively measure up to our own potential?
And so those words of my good father have rung in my ears many times since then, and they have spurred me to try to jump one step higher in the creative act of becoming better in any number of different individual achievements.
I went to the College of the Pacific my freshman year. They had a good music school there and it was close by my home. At the beginning of that first year there was a sign out on the bulletin board of the music department, and it said, “Composition Contest,” and I said, “That’s for me!” It had a huge prize for the one who won—twenty-five dollars! That would take you almost through a whole semester of school in those days. But more important than the financial prize was the fact that the winning composition would be played by the Stockton Symphony Orchestra.
So as a young freshman—it was still before my 17th birthday and I looked much younger than that—I started to brag to my colleagues that I was not only going to enter this composition contest, but I was going to win it. I became very unpopular. In fact there was a master’s degree candidate who played cello in the symphony orchestra of the school—he was very old, about 22 or so—who would come by on campus, look at me, pat me on the head, and say, “How is your tune coming, Buster?” He was referring to my masterpiece for symphony orchestra—and he called it a “tune”; that was very insulting to me.
In the course of time the “tune” was finished and submitted to the necessary authorities in the Stockton Symphony Orchestra. The conductor was one of the judges, and soon the word got back that I had won first prize. But there was a note on the front of the score, and the note said, “This composition is written for much too large an orchestra. Please have the student composer reduce it for the size of the Stockton Symphony.” Now that was one detail I had overlooked. I had read in Life magazine that the Boston Symphony had 104 pieces, so I had written for a 104-piece symphony. I didn’t take time to check that the Stockton Symphony Orchestra had only 52 pieces in it. The reduction of a score intended for 104 players down to 52 is a very unpleasant task, so I said, “Well, I hear it in my head this way.” This is the brashness of a freshman mind. I said, “Nuts to the Stockton Symphony Orchestra. I’ll find an orchestra that is big enough to play this tune.”
So I looked around California and found that San Jose State, which was also near my home, had a large symphony orchestra of over 100 pieces in their school, and in my sophomore year I changed from the College of the Pacific to San Jose State on the sole motivation that they had a big enough symphony orchestra to play my piece.
The first day after I had arrived there I went to the office of the director of the symphony orchestra; his name was Adolf Otterstein. I said, “Professor Otterstein, I have a composition I would like to have the college symphony orchestra play.” He took a dim view of a new brash young sophomore, but he was kind and said, “Leave it here; I am busy right now, but come back next week.” So I came back the next week and, sure enough, he had taken a moment or two to glance through it, and he said, “Well, it isn’t too bad.” He asked, “Have you copied the parts?” And I indicated that I had.
When you write a piece for an orchestra, it isn’t like writing a hymn for the hymnbook, where you write the soprano, alto, tenor, and bass so that you can play the result with the right hand and left hand or sing it with a congregation; you have to write the music on a score sheet that may be 18 to 20 inches high and 12 to 15 inches wide, and has many music score lines on it. And you have to write a note or a line for every instrument of the entire orchestra.
Orchestration is, in a sense, the coloring of a musical line, so you have to write that out to complete the reality of the musical thought. Maybe you have three or four or five or six hundred sheets of paper. You can’t gather the orchestra around the package of sheets and expect them to all play or blow at the same time. You obviously have to do something with the score, or someone else has to. If you’re fortunate, you can get someone else to do it or hire someone else to do it; or if you aren’t, you do it yourself.
You get a stack of blank manuscript paper and you label one page “first flute,” and then you copy off every note from the “full score” onto the new blank sheet—every sharp, every accent, every dot. And finally you get through with the whole book for the first flute part and you put it to one side. Then you start again with a new blank set of sheets and do the second flute part, and thereafter you start over again, using the same procedure. Well, by the time you get through a 104-piece orchestra, you wish you were working for a ten-piece combo. It is a very laborious task.
I had spent all summer at a Boy Scout camp as a director. I would tuck my Scouts in every night and then go down to my little tent and light the oil lamp and copy my parts. I had 25 pounds of parts for this piece.
So when Professor Otterstein asked me, “Do you have the parts copied?” I said, “Yes, I do.” He said, “We rehearse on Monday nights in the Morris Dailey Auditorium, and next Monday you come with your parts, and after the intermission we will let the orchestra read through it.”
Then he asked me a strange question. He said, “Would you like to conduct it?”
Now, if he had said, “Can you conduct it?” I would have had to answer differently, but he said, “Would you like to conduct it?” Well, who wouldn’t like to conduct a 100-piece orchestra playing his own piece? The fact that I had only conducted “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” in my Sunday School class wasn’t much preparation to conduct a 104-piece symphony orchestra. But he phrased the question the way he did and I answered the way I did, “Of course I’d like to conduct.”
I went home and the whole next week I checked my orchestral parts over trying to see if it really would sound right, and I felt squeamish inside because I had imagined this piece but I had never heard it played. I thought that I had checked everything; I felt that it ought to sound all right.
Although it was actually a Monday, and though the previous day had been a fast Sunday, this was a fast Monday to me—I couldn’t eat at all, I was so excited. I wheeled a wheelbarrow full of parts out to the car—I had borrowed my father’s car—and put them in the rumble seat and then drove down to San Jose.
All day long I fidgeted through my classes. I couldn’t eat my lunch. That night I placed the parts in the seats in the front row of the Morris Dailey Auditorium and waited while the symphony orchestra rehearsed the Beethoven Fourth Symphony or some other obscure work.
Finally Otterstein turned around and said, “Where’s Gates?”
There I was, hidden behind this stack of parts, and I said, “Here I am, sir.”
He said, “Do you have your parts with you?” What a ridiculous question! Here they were.
He said, “Well, pass the things out.”
I went up there during the intermission and I passed the cello parts out this way and the violin parts out that way and the heavy artillery out here—the “garbage can” section in the back, with the timpani, bass drum, cymbals, etc. The parts were all passed out when Professor Otterstein came up after the intermission.
I had written my name very big on all the parts—CRAWFORD GATES—and it was terrible. I should never have done it because the players thought, “Well, who is Crawford Gates?” Otterstein apologized vaguely to the players concerning the experience he was about to subject them to, suggesting it would perhaps have some value for them or for me.
Players don’t like to play from handwritten music manuscript, and my manuscript was horrible. Otterstein said, “This is Crawford Gates. He is from the College of the Pacific!” Well, that would be like saying at BYU, “He is from the University of Utah!”
He then said, “I’m going to let Mr. Gates conduct.” He boosted me up on the podium and gave me the baton, and the coward went out of the auditorium into the safety of the darkness—there was no audience; this was a rehearsal.
I held the baton up very shakily. I remember there was a cello player just like the one at the College of the Pacific. He was down to my right and he was older. He had his finger on the string, on the first note of the cello part. As I held my hand up there, shaking like a leaf for this first note, he said something to this effect: “Just drop the baton, Buster, and we’ll play the notes.” So I dropped the baton, and the cellos and basses came out on the pianissimo and it didn’t sound too bad. (Anyone can write that, cellos and basses in unison; that is not very hard.)
I knew that it was 3/4 time, so I conducted 1—2—3, so the music moved along. A few minutes later the French horns came in. I knew that you were supposed to point to them, so I gave a signal to the French horn section, and they came in much like a cow taking its foot out of the mud—it was a terrible sound.
The conductor at the back of the hall called out, “It isn’t that modern, is it, Gates?”
I said, “No, sir, something is wrong.” I was turning red and purple as I went to the back of the horn section, and everyone was fidgeting. I found that I had left all the sharps off the French horn parts, which I corrected in a moment or two, and then I came back. Well, this experience was excruciating. The orchestra droned and grunted along and the players were saying, or looking like, “Oh how can we bear this terrible stuff?” It was a frightful experience.
Well, something happened. I suppose that if it hadn’t happened at the end of that 40- or 45-minute period, whatever it took to grind through the thing, I would have probably decided that my conviction of a few years earlier had been in the wrong direction. I would have gone back into physics or something else. But what happened in the last moment of that piece was the fact that somehow there was a tune. It had been orchestrated to some degree with natural instinct from the orchestra, and it soared up to a climax and relaxed away from it in a pattern that changed the whole spirit of the orchestra. The feeling changed immediately during the last few minutes of the piece. Instead of saying, or looking, “How can we bear this?” I saw their expressions, as though they were saying, “Not bad! Not bad!”
At the end they started to applaud, and the conductor came running down the aisle, saying, “Well, the first part was pretty terrible but the last part wasn’t so bad!”
I recall all the way home that night I could hear that wonderful big sound of the ending and I forgot the terror of the first part. I remembered that for the last few moments I was raised about a foot off the podium—I conducted sort of instinctively, feeling that “This is why I’m alive! This is my contribution to the world!” I felt that “men are that they might have joy” is no longer just a statement in the Book of Mormon (2 Ne. 2:25), but it is a reality for me right here, right now!
I thought, this is how the Lord must have felt when he said that “it was good” (see Gen. 1:4). What a remarkable understatement the Lord made about his own work. And one reason God exists is because he has joy, and what does he have joy in? In the creative act—in the act of creating a galaxy or in creating a human soul.

Photograph courtesy of the author
In September 2021, our youngest son, Joey, passed away after living for only about two months. Despite prayers, fasting, priesthood blessings, and the monumental efforts of some of the best doctors in the world, little Joey’s body would not allow him to live.
During Joey’s last moments of life, my wife and I held him. As I watched him take his last breath, everything inside me broke. In desperation and deep anguish, I cried out to the Lord. In His mercy, He responded.
Immediately my anguish was replaced with an intense feeling of gratitude that is hard for me to describe with words. I felt overwhelmed with thanks that the Lord had given me a wonderful wife, four beautiful children, and covenants that bound them to me forever. I felt like Alma the Younger when he experienced joy as exquisite as the pain he had previously felt (see Alma 36:20).
As I basked in gratitude to the Lord, I received a profound spiritual impression. The anguish I felt for the death of my son helped me appreciate the anguish Heavenly Father must have felt when His Son died for me, and for the rest of God’s children, two thousand years ago. Because Jesus Christ died for us, I know I will see my son again.
In a small way, I better understood the sacrifice that Heavenly Father and His Son had made. Again, I felt grateful for the deep love of God.
During the time that has passed since our son’s death, I have often contemplated what I felt that day. The anguish, the gratitude, and the powerful spiritual impressions have changed me forever. I can truly testify that the trials of life give us experience and will be for our good (see Doctrine and Covenants 122:7) if we allow the Lord to be involved in our lives and hold on to our faith in the Savior and His Atonement.

Sweat beads up on Bret Rasmussen’s forehead and drips down his face. He pauses in the brilliant sunshine and wipes his face on his sleeve, then hoists a stack of six folded wooden chairs. A few rows away, Brian Herr and his dad carry tables two at a time and set them up. They move steadily in the afternoon heat, staying just a little ahead of the group cutting white plastic and taping it to the tables as covers.
Bret and Brian are Boy Scouts, and they are part of a ward effort to benefit the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra. Twice a week, all summer, the youth of the Noblesville Indiana Ward labor in the hot sun. They carry dozens of tables and chairs to the base of a long grassy hill in preparation for a symphony concert. Sweat, Scouts, and symphony—an unlikely trio? What brings them together?
It all started when the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra began outdoor summer performances at Conner Prairie Pioneer Settlement, a restored 1836 village. The first few years, all concertgoers sat on lawn chairs or blankets on the grass. Later, Symphony on the Prairie organizers offered reserved tables and chairs near the stage for a higher price. But who would set up a hundred tables and a thousand chairs twice a week? The symphony looked for a service group, and that’s where LDS Boy Scout troop 596 came in.
They are not alone. Scout leaders, families, and friends all lend a hand. “It’s a time to see friends and get to know new people,” says Emily Runyan, whose brother Chris is a Scout. “Those of us who aren’t in the troop can still be an example of service to others.”
Missy Wardwell feels that her work at Conner Prairie changed her attitude towards service. She used to feel it was a duty, “but I found this was fun because I chose to come. It was great to work on something important.”
People notice the unity between youth and adults in the Noblesville Ward. Jennifer Rasmussen attributes it to what happens when teachers and leaders labor alongside the youth. “Before,” Jennifer says, “you only saw them on Sunday. But working together is a bonding experience.”
Jennifer also points out the benefits for new or quiet kids in the ward. “These youth get to know people and become comfortable working together, whereas otherwise they might have taken years to open up. They get invited to stay and join us in other activities.”
Missy points out another benefit. “In the summer, sometimes school friends call and invite me to a party. I know what kind of party it will be. It’s security for me to have another place to go that is good and fun and social.”
The LDS youth finish and settle down on the hill with cool drinks and snacks. With their service comes a bonus—they can stay and hear the symphony concert for free. As the sun lingers near the edge of the concert shell, thousands of concertgoers arrive. Sometimes 10,000 people throng the grounds on a symphony night. After the sun goes down, the scattered lights of hundreds of tiny citronella candles flicker like caged fireflies.
“I never thought the kids would stay for the program,” says Rich Armstrong of the Scout committee. “I could see youth using lots of outdoor energy, but I didn’t expect them to be interested in symphony music.”
“I had never heard a symphony orchestra before,” says Brennan Wood. “But the more you hear symphony music, the more you understand it.”
Trent Wardwell agrees. “This has given me a better appreciation for what goes into producing symphony music. Hours before the concert, while we are putting up chairs and tables, the symphony workers have to set up their sound system and prepare the stage, just for a short, two-hour show.”
The concert is finished. A few fireworks light the sky over the orchestra shell, and the LDS youth scramble up from their places. Swarming down the hill, they start folding chairs, clearing tables, and carrying them back to storage. Now that it is cooler, demonstrations of strength take place. Austin Armstrong carries eight chairs at once. Brennan staggers under 13. Jamie Ketring and Jennifer tote one table between them, but Jon Foote hoists one above his head and carries it alone.
The final tarpaulin is tugged up and over a mountain of chairs. It is time to go home.
The thoughts of all the youth are echoed by Emily Runyan. “My main memory of summers is our work at Conner Prairie.”

One of the best ways to make friends is to invite them over, right? That’s what the Montreal Ward of the Montreal Quebec Mount Royal Stake did. Their new chapel created so much interest in the surrounding neighborhood of La Salle that ward leaders decided to open it up for tours.

And when they did, the youth of this ward played a major role. The Latter-day Saint teens served refreshments, directed parking, and greeted guests at the door.

“It was a good experience because it gave other people in the community an opportunity to know more about us—what we believe and what we do,” explains Melissa Poirier, 15. More than 300 non-Latter-day Saints toured the building.

Perhaps just one example will suffice. One day just over a year ago, after taking care of matters at the office, I felt a strong impression to visit an aged widow who was a patient at St. Joseph Villa here in Salt Lake City. I drove there directly.
When I went to her room, I found it empty. I asked an attendant concerning her whereabouts and was directed to a lounge area. There I found this sweet widow visiting with her sister and another friend. We had a pleasant conversation together.
As we were talking, a man came to the door of the room to obtain a can of soda water from the vending machine. He glanced at me and said, “Why, you are Tom Monson.”
“Yes,” I replied. “And you look like a Hemingway.” He acknowledged that he was Stephen Hemingway, the son of Alfred Eugene Hemingway, who had served as my counselor when I was a bishop many years ago and whom I called Gene. Stephen told me that his father was there in the same facility and was near death. He had been calling my name, and the family had wanted to contact me but had been unable to find a telephone number for me.
I excused myself immediately and went with Stephen up to the room of my former counselor, where others of his children were also gathered, his wife having passed away some years previous. The family members regarded my meeting Stephen in the lounge area as a response by our Heavenly Father to their great desire that I would see their father before he died and answer his call. I, too, felt that this was the case, for if Stephen had not entered the room in which I was visiting at precisely the time he did, I would not have known that Gene was even in that facility.
We gave a blessing to him. A spirit of peace prevailed. We had a lovely visit, after which I left.
The following morning a phone call revealed that Gene Hemingway had passed away—just 20 minutes after he had received the blessing from his son and me.
I expressed a silent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for His guiding influence which prompted my visit to St. Joseph Villa and led me to my dear friend Alfred Eugene Hemingway.

Searching for a great idea for a youth conference? The Aurora Colorado Stake has a suggestion.
Work.
Hard work.
Like shoveling gravel, digging dirt, weeding, painting, washing cars.
Mixed with fun and fellowship.
There’s an explanation. The young people from Aurora wanted to do something different for their youth conference, something special. So they spent three days cleaning up a city.
“We asked the stake youth committee what they wanted to do,” explained Richard C. Humpherys, second counselor in the stake presidency. “They said, ‘something to help someone else,’ and ‘something to build our testimonies.’ Since they asked for it, we encouraged them to go ahead.”
Inspired by a story on service in the Tambuli (see “Building a House Helped Build Testimonies,” February 1988, page 47), the youth committee looked around for a community they could help. They settled on Granby for three reasons: it was close to Aurora; economically the community wasn’t doing very well; and the mayor, town council, and chamber of commerce seemed genuinely interested in providing projects for the youth to work on.
There was an added benefit, too. The small Latter-day Saint branch in Granby, with a total of five active families, had youth who would welcome some company and fellowship with other Church youth. And, while the young people from Aurora were there, it was decided, they could help paint the Granby chapel.
Buses left Aurora at 7:00 on a Thursday morning. By 10:30 A.M., eighty-four young people divided into eight teams were busy all over Granby. Since they were all wearing identical T-shirts, they were fairly conspicuous. And a local radio station advertising the Latter-day Saint youth’s free car wash also let people know who they were and what they were doing.
Besides cleaning up the main street of Granby, washing cars, tidying the cemetery, spreading gravel at the train depot, and chopping weeds at a main intersection on the highway into town, the youth painted the city’s historic log church, landscaped its grounds, and polished the benches and the organ inside.
And of course, that’s very much what the youth were saying over at the chapel.
The Granby youth and the youth from Aurora did everything at the conference together, not only the service projects, but the other activities as well. They played volleyball together. They played football together. They even played soccer with an oversized ball.
Activities included a Hawaiian-style dinner with a floor show, a swimming party, and a dance. But the main activity was conversation, a sharing of ideals and fellowship.
Over the three-day period, the youth from Granby and the youth from Aurora grew comfortable discussing common goals—missionary work, reading and sharing the Book of Mormon, morality and standards, maintaining faith when the world’s full of doubt. That closeness was also reinforced at nightly devotionals, where leaders stressed themes such as “Little Decisions Made Now Have Big Consequences Later,” “Gospel Suggestions on How to Be Happy,” and “Your Most Important Possession is Your Testimony.”
But of course, as it always is, the final meeting of the conference was the highlight. In a sunlit room, the Latter-day Saint youth met Granby’s mayor, Jerry Roberts. The presented him with framed historical photographs of Granby, which now hang in the train station, and with a Book of Mormon, which they hope he will read. They listened while he expressed the community’s gratitude.
Then the youth and their leaders spent an hour or two talking to each other, speaking from the heart.
Of course, as they talked, the youth also offered an evaluation of their three days of service.
Then the president of the Granby Branch, Gary M. Cooper, spoke.
“The branch was formed fifteen years ago, he said, “and I can honestly say that this is the best thing that’s ever happened to us. We appreciate that you took the time to come here and bring us into the limelight in our Community. It’s something we’ve wanted to do for a long time. You did a lot of work and you cleaned up the community, and that’s important. But what I really hope is that because of your example, someone will accept the gospel. That would be the greatest service of all.”

Nina watched as Sister Kelly struggled to pick up the toys her baby had scattered during sacrament meeting.
Sister Kelly was going to have a new baby soon, and Nina figured it must be hard for her to move around. She wondered how Sister Kelly managed to take care of Emily, especially since Brother Kelly had to travel a lot for his job.
The Kellys had moved into a house down the street from Nina a few months ago. Sister Kelly waved to her each afternoon as she walked home from middle school. Sometimes she stopped and played with two-year-old Emily for a few minutes.
Nina stooped now and began to gather up the toys and put them into the diaper bag.
“Thank you, Nina,” Sister Kelly said, standing with a sigh. “It’s getting harder and harder to bend over.” She smiled as she patted her rounded stomach, but her smile looked tired rather than happy.
How does Sister Kelly take care of Emily? Nina wondered. But what can I do? I’m only eleven years old. I have school all day and homework after that.
Nina thought about it all during Primary. When a girl in her Valiant class told a story about President Spencer W. Kimball,* Nina listened intently.
When the prophet had been waiting in an airport, he noticed a young, pregnant mother struggling to urge her child along in the line. She nudged the toddler along with her foot but didn’t pick her up. Other passengers whispered and pointed at her, but no one offered to help. President Kimball picked up the crying child and comforted her. The woman told him that because of orders from her doctor, she could not lift her child.
Only President Kimball had recognized that the young mother needed help. Only he had offered that help. Never once did he judge her, as the other passengers had.
A wave of pure knowledge swept through Nina, and she knew exactly what to do and how to do it. She spent a lot of time talking on the phone with her friends and watching TV at night. If she gave up those things, she’d have plenty of time to help Sister Kelly for a few hours each day. She could do her homework after the supper dishes were done.
She found her mother after church and explained her plan.
“I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Mom gave Nina a quick hug. “I’ll fix a casserole and send it over. If I double the recipe, they can freeze half of it and have it another night, as well.”
Nina found Sister Kelly after church. Her eyes looked tired, and faint lines creased the corners of her mouth.
“Sister Kelly, may I come over and play with Emily after school for a couple of hours? Oh, and Mom wants to bring a casserole.”
A single tear tracked down Sister Kelly’s cheek. Then another.
Nina didn’t know what to do. Then she remembered that when Mom was expecting her little brother, Jared, she had cried really easily. Nina reached out to touch Sister Kelly’s shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Something is right!” Sister Kelly dug in her purse for a tissue, then wiped away her tears. She hugged Nina. “I’m crying because I’ve been praying for someone just like you.” The tears fell faster. “You’re an answer to my prayers.”
Nina felt tears well up in her own eyes. “Does Emily like to play with puzzles? My little brother has some wooden ones that he’s outgrown. Maybe I could bring them with me.”
“Emily loves to do puzzles.” Sister Kelly found another tissue and handed it to Nina. “Would you like to come to the nursery with me and tell her the news?”
“I sure would!”
Nina could hardly wait until the next afternoon.

One young woman from Utah, USA, learned this lesson when she was struggling to create a better relationship with her dad. They were having a hard time getting along, and she was praying for help and strength to know how to heal their relationship. One day, she felt like she should tell her dad she loved him. But that was something her family didn’t say very much. Their love was understood in how they acted around each other, but actually saying the words I love you was not a normal occurrence in their house. Still, she felt like she needed to do it.
She mustered up her courage, looked at her dad, and said, “Dad, I love you.” It caught everyone by surprise. Her dad looked up at her and replied with a slight catch in his voice, “I love you too.”
It was a simple step, but from that day forward, her whole family started saying those words to each other, and they’ve been saying it ever since. Of course, it doesn’t always happen exactly like that; another young woman tried it several years ago, and it took her family a couple of years to start saying “I love you” back to her (and then to each other). But she kept saying it, and she could tell it made a difference. And those changes come not just through words but also through actions!

“Mommy,” Marla called, frowning, “I’m hungry!”
“Lunch isn’t ready yet, but while you wait, you can play a game,” said Mother.
Marla’s frown vanished. “OK!”
Mother picked up a ball of string, opened the back door, and said, “Follow me.”
Marla skipped along beside her mother. The sun danced on Mother’s hair as they made a big circle with the string in the yard.
“Inside the circle,” Mother explained, “are many wonders of God’s world. While I’m fixing lunch, I want you to count them.”
Marla’s smile faded. “All I see is grass.”
“Look carefully. Not all of God’s wonders are big,” Mother explained.
Marla sat inside the circle. She saw a purple violet blooming.
Next, she discovered an acorn missed by the squirrels. The brown shell had cracked open, and a sprout was curling out of it. Marla gazed at the tall, leafy branches above her. Will this little sprout grow that big? she wondered.
Nearby, an earthworm poked its way through the earth, seeming to wave hello.
Her eyes now saw tiny ants working their way through their grass jungle.
When Mother returned, Marla proudly shared her discoveries with her.
“What a good detective you are,” Mother praised her. “But I see one of God’s wonders that you missed—a very large one, compared to all these others.”
“Where? Where?” Marla asked, looking around.
“Why, you, of course!” Mother told her. “To me, you’re the most special of God’s wonders in that circle.”

When he returned to London and resumed composing operas, his work was not well received, and creditors began to hound him again. In the depths of despondency, he began to wonder, “Why did God permit my resurrection, only to allow my fellow-men to bury me again?”3 In April 1741 Handel held what he assumed would be a farewell concert. His creativity was spent. A biographer wrote: “There was nothing to begin or to finish. Handel was faced with emptiness.”4
Late one August afternoon that same year, Handel returned from a long and tiring walk to find that a poet and previous collaborator, Charles Jennens, had left him a manuscript. This libretto quoted liberally from the scriptures, particularly the words of Isaiah, foretelling the birth of Jesus Christ and describing His ministry, Crucifixion, and Resurrection. The work was to be an oratorio. Given his previous failures, Handel was apprehensive as he began to read through the text.
“Comfort Ye,” the first words of the manuscript, seemed to leap from the page. They dissipated dark clouds that had been pressing upon Handel for so long. His depression waned and his emotions warmed from interest to excitement as he continued to read of angelic proclamations of the Savior’s birth and of Isaiah’s prophecies of the Messiah, who would come to earth to be born as other mortal infants. A familiar melody Handel had composed earlier flooded into his mind as he read “For unto Us a Child Is Born.” The notes distilled upon his mind faster than he could put pencil to paper as he captured the image of the loving Good Shepherd in the aria titled “He Shall Feed His Flock.” Then came the overpowering exultation reflected in the “Hallelujah Chorus,” followed by the soft, supernal testimony of “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth.” The work came to its majestic conclusion with “Worthy Is the Lamb.”
After all the music he had composed throughout his lifetime, Handel would eventually be known worldwide for this singular work, Messiah, largely composed in just three weeks during the late summer of 1741. Upon completing his composition, he humbly acknowledged, “God has visited me.”5 Those who feel the touch of the Holy Spirit as they experience the overpowering testimony of Handel’s Messiah would agree.

For my birthday this year, I decided to have a lemonade stand and a bake sale and give the money to a children’s hospital. My sister, cousins, and I made flyers and took them around our neighborhood. Then we made treats and lemonade. We were so excited to see so many friends and neighbors come to our sale. I am happy I could help the sick children and their families. I think that’s what Jesus would do.
Avery J., age 7, Utah, USA

“Christ has required us to take up our cross and follow Him. For certain new members, they need to give up their friends. They need to give up their habits. They give up a lot of things so they can turn a new page, and they need a lot of support—sometimes even just a smile and a kind handshake.”

Ka Bo Chan, shown with his wife, Maila, and their children

Ka Bo Chan was born in Hong Kong and moved to the United States while young. He learned about the Church as a teenager from a college roommate when studying music in Portland, Oregon. Gospel truths resonated with him, and he was baptized and confirmed. A short time later, he flew to Estonia to continue his studies.

Finding the Church in Estonia proved difficult. Gradually, with no contact with members and limited understanding of prayer and scriptures, his faith cooled.

During this time, he met Maila, a young lady in school. “Everything about her glowed,” he says. He began sitting by her, and soon they became friends.

Maila wasn’t a member of the Church and was unfamiliar with religion. But as their relationship continued, she said that if she were to marry, it would be for eternity.

During his studies, Ka Bo felt a spiritual tug to return to church and sought the branch in his area. The first activity he and Maila attended was a branch Christmas party. She felt the activities were awkward and it left a bad impression, so she vowed to never return. But Ka Bo continued to attend church.

One spring morning, Maila told Ka Bo he had to choose between her and the Church. Without flinching, he said he needed the Church and urged her to attend with him.

His blunt response caused her to wonder if she was missing something; her feelings softened, and she agreed to attend again. The next Sunday, she was immediately greeted by the smile of a sister missionary. She felt drawn to her, as if they had been longtime friends. Her apprehensions faded, and she was baptized and confirmed two weeks later.

Ka Bo and Maila didn’t understand the nuances of scripture and gospel practices, and there was nothing in their experience with their new religion that was familiar, not even the music. But they attended church and tried to learn the gospel.

When missionaries were transferred, Maila didn’t know the members well and felt unsure in new circumstances, like in Relief Society, where she once wondered if she was in the wrong place. Soon the bishopric felt inspired to call her to play the piano in Primary. “Playing the piano gave me place and purpose,” she says.

Mari and Jorma realized they were going counter to Finnish culture and tradition when they joined the Church. Yet they changed course in life and never looked back.

Mari and Jorma Alakoski know the road of conversion. In the years since joining the Church in their native Finland, they have served in various capacities, including Mari’s calling as an assistant temple matron and Jorma’s calling as counselor in the first temple presidency of the Helsinki Finland Temple.

But like many converts, they had to fight for their faith. When missionaries met them, a testimony didn’t come as easily to Mari as it did to her husband. At first, she was uncomfortable with the Book of Mormon and pushed it away by touching it as little as possible with only the tip of a finger.

Later, when she saw tears streaming down the cheeks of her husband while he read the Book of Mormon, she thought to herself, “If this book touches him so deeply, it must be valuable.”

Her resistance gradually softened, and she began her quest for truth. In time, she too shed tears when reading the Book of Mormon.

Mari and Jorma realized they were going counter to culture and tradition when they joined the Church. Yet they abruptly changed course in life and never looked back. “The Church brought great contentment into our lives. I almost think that everything was too good to be true. We were received very kindly in the congregation,” Mari says.

“A lot of new things suddenly came into our lives,” she says. Sundays were no longer leisure times but packed with Church meetings, which were held three times throughout the Sabbath day at that time. “This required dressing the children for each meeting and timing their meals and naps.”

Every day of the week required time for gospel-related activities and meetings, whether home evening, Relief Society, or Primary. “On Saturday, we prepared food and clothes for Sunday,” Mari says.

Tha Alakoskis didn’t make a grand announcement when they joined the Church, but their family and friends gradually came to know. “Not everyone understood our decision,” Mari recalls. “A few friends stopped talking to us. But that was a small price to pay for all the precious things that came into our lives. Nothing and no one could influence us to abandon the Church. My father, after learning about our conversion, settled any discord when he said, ‘Let them do as they see fit. They are grown people. They know what they want to do.’”

In time, the couple desired to be sealed. They planned, sacrificed, and traveled two days by bus and one night by ship through Sweden and Germany. They finally arrived at the Bern Switzerland Temple, the only temple in Europe at the time.

The Alakoskis are an example of those who receive a witness of the gospel and forge ahead, much like Nephi, not knowing everything beforehand but following the Spirit (see 1 Nephi 4:6). They took cues from fellow members to learn the doctrine and how to apply the gospel to their lives. When they didn’t know something, they studied or asked for more direction.

“We have long been taught how we can help our new friends to feel welcome and loved in the restored Church of Jesus Christ. They need three things so they may remain strong and faithful throughout their lives,” Elder Soares taught, echoing counsel from President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008).

“First, they need brothers and sisters in the Church who are sincerely interested in them, true and loyal friends to whom they can constantly turn, who will walk beside them, and who will answer their questions,” Elder Soares continued.

“Second, new friends need an assignment—an opportunity to serve others. … It is a process by which our faith can grow stronger. …

“Third, new friends must be ‘nourished by the good word of God’ [Moroni 6:4]. We can help them to love and become familiar with the scriptures as we read and discuss the teachings with them, providing context to the stories and explaining difficult words.”

Helping new members brings spiritual and temporal blessings to converts and lifetime members alike. It strengthens the Church in multiple ways. “Our new friends bring God-given talents, excitement, and goodness within them,” Elder Soares taught. “Their enthusiasm for the gospel can be contagious, thereby helping us revitalize our own testimonies. They also bring fresh perspectives to our understanding of life and the gospel.”

Two Resources for Guiding New Members

How can leaders, missionaries, and ministering brothers and sisters mentor new members? They can use “My Covenant Path” (found in the Gospel Library under “Adults” and “New or Returning Members”). It lists 20 gospel experiences new members are likely to have during their first two years of membership, including receiving temple ordinances.

Each of those experiences—such as “Improve Gospel Study” and “Learn about the Melchizedek Priesthood”—is designed to help new members have spiritual experiences as they build lasting friendships with Church members.

Leaders can also use the Covenant Path Progress record, which is available in the Tools app and in Leader and Clerk Resources online. It shows the names and progress of new members in their wards or branches. It will help local leaders and members know how to serve new members so they are “no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints” (Ephesians 2:19).

A Warm Welcome

“A new convert or recently activated member should feel the warmth of being wanted and being welcomed into full fellowship of the Church. Members and leaders of the Church should nurture and love them as Jesus would.”

President M. Russell Ballard (1928–2023), Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, “The Hand of Fellowship,” Ensign, Nov. 1988, 29.

Over the past couple of years, Luis Miguel Meza, 17, has begun feeling distant from the friends he has known since his first year in school. “They began to smoke and drink and put pressure on me to do so,” he says. “I had to be strong in the face of lots of criticism.” He prayerfully studied the section in For the Strength of Youth on choosing friends wisely. “As time passed, I had opportunities to become friends with people who don’t drink or smoke and who respect me for my standards. I still see my old friends, and we say hi to each other. But because I was willing to make a sacrifice, Heavenly Father was there to give me a hand.”

While a missionary, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley was assigned to serve as an assistant to Elder Jospeh F. Merrill, who presided over the European missions. One day Elder Merrill gave the young elder a tough assignment.
Elder Merrill: These newspapers have all printed reviews of a very unflattering book about the Church. I want you to go to the publisher and protest the publication of the book.
Elder Hinckley agreed to go, but he wondered if he was the right man for the job.
Elder Hinckley: Why are you sending me? I’m just a boy, and you are a distinguished man. Why don’t you go yourself?
Feeling a little frightened, he went to his room and prayed for strength. Then he set out.
Elder Hinckley: I wonder if this is how Moses felt when the Lord told him to go and see Pharaoh?
At the publishing house, Elder Hinckley received a cold welcome, but he was not discouraged.
Receptionist: Mr. Skeffington is too busy to see you.
Elder Hinckley: I have come five thousand miles, and I will be happy to wait.
When he was allowed to see Mr. Skeffington an hour later, Elder Hinckley did not complain loudly. Instead, he calmly pointed out the book’s errors and appealed to the publisher’s sense of fairness.
Elder Hinckley: I am sure that a high-principled man such as yourself would not wish to do injury to a people who have already suffered so much for their religion.
Mr. Skeffington: I will recall every copy of that book from the bookstores and add a statement that the Mormons have a respected and courageous history and that the book is fiction with no basis in fact.
Elder Merrill had sent the right man. Elder Hinckley later recalled, “I came to know that if we put our faith in the Lord and go forward in trust, He will open the way.”

It was a rainy day, and everyone was gathered at Grandma’s house. Dad and Uncle Carl were putting new paneling in Grandma’s game room while Mom, Aunt Shirley, and Grandma were busy in the kitchen.
When Aunt Shirley went to set the dining room table, she said, “Stevie, dinner won’t be ready for a while. Why don’t you play somewhere else?”
Carly went to the table and knelt to look under the jiggling, low-hanging tablecloth at her cousin. “What are you doing?” she asked.
Stevie shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Come up to the attic with me.”
Stevie grinned. As they passed the den, Carly paused. “Becka, do you want to go up to the attic with us?” she asked.
Her cousin looked up from a book that she was reading and wrinkled her nose. “Yuck!” she replied. “Too many spiders!”
“I’m not afraid of spiders,” Stevie announced as he and Carly climbed the stairs to the second floor.
“Neither am I,” Carly said. They walked side by side along the carpeted hallway. “Have you ever been in Grandma’s attic?” she asked as they neared the closed attic door.
“Maybe a long time ago,” Stevie replied. “Becka says it’s spooky.”
Carly shrugged. “It’s not spooky, just dusty.” She opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and raced up them eagerly. When she reached the top, she looked around and motioned to Stevie. “Come on,” she called happily. “You can see everything from up here.”
She went to the dormer and looked out. Below, the yard and rolling hills were washed with a fine gray mist from the rain. When Stevie reached her, she moved to make room for him to rest his elbows on the windowsill.
“See? I’m not afraid of spiders,” he said proudly.
Carly nodded. “I didn’t think you were.”
“If the weather was nicer, there’d be something to do,” he sighed.
“There’s always stuff to do,” Carly said. She walked beneath the slanted ceiling toward Grandpa’s old rolltop desk and slid back the cover.
“That’s a funny-looking book,” Stevie said, pointing at a thick volume inside the desk.
“That’s the kind of book that Grandpa read.”
“How could he read when he was blind?” Stevie asked curiously.
Carly chuckled. “He read the words with his fingers. Here, give me your hand.” She opened the book and moved his fingers slowly across the page. “Feel the dots?” she asked. “It’s called Braille writing.”
Stevie frowned. “I wouldn’t want to read a book that way.”
“You would if you couldn’t see.” Carly put the book back inside the desk. “Grandpa made this desk, too,” she announced with a smile.
Stevie looked at her with wide eyes. “Oh, wow! Even though he couldn’t see?” He ran his hand over the finely finished wood. “It’s as smooth as glass!”
Carly nodded. “He said that he knew what the desk looked like, even though he couldn’t see it with his eyes. He saw lots of things people who are sighted never even notice.”
“How’d he do that?”
Carly smiled. “Shut your eyes and tell me what you know without looking.”
Stevie closed his eyelids tightly. “It’s dark,” he said with a giggle.
“That isn’t what I meant,” she said. “I’ll do it.” She closed her eyes and stood quietly. “You have to listen and feel and stuff,” she explained. “I hear the rain falling and trickling through the downspout. It almost sounds like quiet music. I smell a roast cooking and musty books … and dust. The air up here feels warm against my skin, and I can tell that the floor is bare. You moved behind me,” she added as Stevie tiptoed around her. “Now you’re picking something up.”
Stevie took her hand. “Here,” he said as he put something in it. “Tell me what this is.”
Carly closed her fingers loosely around the material. “It’s an old hunting coat,” she said as she followed the lines with her fingers. “It’s trimmed with leather and it’s dusty. There’s a jagged tear here. Maybe it was caught on a thorn. Now someone’s coming up the stairs.”
Stevie moved closer to her and grabbed her hand.
“I feel the floorboards moving slightly, and a draft just blew across my ankles.” Carly opened her eyes and turned toward the stairs.
“It’s only Becka,” Stevie said with relief.
“I knew that you’d be pretending that you were blind again!” Becka said with a scowl.
“Carly was showing me how Grandpa saw things!” Stevie explained excitedly.
“Grandpa didn’t see things!” Becka insisted. “He remembered them from the time that he could see; that’s all!”
Carly frowned. “He saw things, Becka!”
Becka tossed her head and turned back toward the stairs. “It’s too musty up here for me!” she replied with a shiver of disgust. “You’d better come with me, Stevie—before she has you acting weird too!”
“Did Mom want me to come down?” he asked.
His sister didn’t answer.
“I’ll stay up here with Carly, then,” he said.
Becka stomped down the stairs and slammed the door behind her. Carly sighed and laid the hunting coat on top of a dust-covered trunk.
“Tell me more about Grandpa,” Stevie pleaded.
“Too bad you didn’t live around here when he was alive, Stevie. He was really nice, like Grandma. He could tell by the way the birds sang if it was going to rain or if it was going to be a nice day. And by the smell in the air, he could tell when spring was coming or if there would be a frost. He said that he could tell what kind of mood I was in just by the way I hugged him or the way I walked.”
“How could he, Carly?”
“Grandpa said that some people look and don’t see; they touch but don’t feel; they listen but don’t hear. He said that God gives us more abilities than we ever think about until we lose one of them—like he lost his eyesight. Then we start to use the others just as he started to see by using his senses of touch, taste, smell, and hearing. Grandpa said that most of all we could learn to see with our hearts.”
Stevie nodded thoughtfully. “Could I learn to see with my heart, too?” he asked.
“Sure,” Carly replied. “All you have to do is start using it that way. The more you learn to see with your heart, the better you’ll become at it.”
“Becka doesn’t have a heart!”
Carly chuckled. “Sure she does, and some day she’ll learn to see with it more too.”
“Thanks for asking me to come up here with you,” Stevie told her. “It was boring under the table.”
Carly grinned. “I’m glad that you did.” Grandma’s tinkling bell sounded from far away in the dining room. “We’d better go down now,” Carly said.
At the top of the stairs, Stevie turned. “I don’t care what Becka says—I know that Grandpa really could see.”

In August of this year, there occurred a tragedy in Salt Lake County. It was reported in the local and national press. Five beautiful little girls—so young, so vibrant, so loving—hiding away, as children often do in their games of hide-and-seek, entered the trunk of a parent’s car. The trunk lid was pulled shut, they were unable to escape, and all perished from heat exhaustion.
The entire community was so kind, so thoughtful, so caring in the passing of Alisha, Ashley, McKell, Audrey, and Jaesha. Flowers, food, calls, visits, and prayers were shared.
On the Sunday after the devastating event occurred, long lines of automobiles filled with grieving occupants drove ever so slowly past the Smith home, the scene of the accident. Sister Monson and I wished to be among those who expressed condolences in this way. As we drove by, we felt we were on holy ground. We literally crept along at a snail’s pace along the street. It was as though we could visualize a traffic sign reading, “Please drive slowly; children at play.” Tears filled our eyes and compassion flowed from our hearts.
At the funeral, as well as the evening prior, thousands passed by the caskets and expressed support for the grieving parents and grandparents. In two of the three families, the deceased children were all the children they had.
At the funeral services for the five little angels, I counseled: “There is one phrase which should be erased from your thinking and from the words you speak aloud. It is the phrase ‘If only.’ It is counterproductive and is not conducive to the spirit of healing and of peace. Rather, recall the words of Proverbs: ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.’”
Before the closing of the caskets, I noted that each child held a favorite toy, a soft gift to cuddle. I reflected on the words of the poet Eugene Field:
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So toddling off to his trundle-bed
He dreamt of the pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue,—
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.
The little toy dog and the soldier fair may wonder, but God in His infinite mercy has not left grieving loved ones to wonder. He has provided truth. He will inspire an upward reach, and His outstretched arms will embrace you. Jesus promises to one and all who grieve, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.”
There is only one source of true peace. I am certain that the Lord, who notes the fall of a sparrow, looks with compassion upon those who have been called upon to part—even temporarily—from their precious children. The gifts of healing and of peace are desperately needed, and Jesus, through His Atonement, has provided them for one and all.
The Prophet Joseph Smith spoke inspired words of revelation and comfort:
“All children who die before they arrive at the years of accountability are saved in the celestial kingdom of heaven.”
“The mother [and father] who laid down [their] little child[ren], being deprived of the privilege, the joy, and the satisfaction of bringing [them] up to manhood or womanhood in this world, would, after the resurrection, have all the joy, satisfaction and pleasure, and even more than it would have been possible to have had in mortality, in seeing [their] child[ren] grow to the full measure of the stature of [their] spirit[s].” This is as the balm of Gilead to those who grieve, to those who have loved and lost precious children.
The Psalmist provided this assurance: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”
Said the Lord: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
“In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you … that where I am, there ye may be also.”
I express my profound thanks to a loving Heavenly Father, who gives to you, to me, and to all who sincerely seek, the knowledge that death is not the end, that His Son—even our Savior, Jesus Christ—died that we might live. Temples of the Lord dot the lands of many countries. Sacred covenants are made. Celestial glory awaits the obedient. Families can be together—forever.
The Master invites one and all:
“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
“Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.”
That all may do so is my humble prayer of thanks, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

About a month after I joined the Church, I met my wife, Magareth, and one year later we got married. While we were dating, I told her that because I knew Joseph Smith was a prophet, I desired to build our family upon the words and teachings of the prophets. For example, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) was the prophet at that time, and he counseled Church members to stay out of debt. In close to 29 years of marriage, my wife and I have never paid one penny of interest. Never.

I guess Annabelle and I sort of grew up together. I was eleven years old when she died, just a few months ago. Dad didn’t see her one day when he was backing out of the driveway in our van. And I guess Annabelle didn’t see Dad. Not in time, anyway. Dad felt so bad. It was the first time I’d seen him cry since he bore his testimony last year at church and told about how we joined the Church.
I think we were all thinking about that this morning when we buried Annabelle under the plum tree in our backyard. Mom had wrapped Annabelle in some pretty green material, and we put her in the hole Dad had dug in the soft earth. Then we all sat quietly in a circle around the little open grave and thought about our cat. Dad called it paying our last respects.
Sunlight shined into Annabelle’s little grave through the limbs of the plumb tree. Mom said it was as though Heavenly Father was filling it with light to remind us that He is with us in our saddest moments—maybe especially then.
Dad said that we’d always be indebted to Annabelle for directing us in our own, unknowing way to the gospel of Jesus Christ and that just as that hole was filled with light, so our hearts will be, too, as we try in our own way each day to share His living truths with others.
We put some daisies from Mom’s flower garden on Annabelle’s grave, and I made a little picket fence around it out of sticks.
I know we will have other pets. Maybe a dog. Maybe another cat. Or maybe something else. But I’ll probably remember Annabelle the best—and that night on Temple Square.

Service requires unselfishness, sharing, and giving. My wife and I learned a valuable lesson during our time of service in Africa. We were assigned to a district conference in Jinja, Uganda. Early Saturday morning before our meetings began, we took the opportunity to tour a new chapel in the area. As we arrived at the building, we were greeted by a young boy of three to four years of age. He had come to the Church grounds to see what was going on. Struck by his broad smile, Sister Snow reached in her purse and handed him a wrapped piece of hard butterscotch candy. He was delighted.

We spent a few minutes touring the chapel before returning outside. We were met by more than a dozen smiling children, who each wanted to meet the new neighborhood candy lady.

Phyllis was heartbroken, as she had given the boy her last piece of candy. She disappointedly gestured to the children there was no more. The small boy who initially greeted us then handed the candy back to Sister Snow, gesturing for her to unwrap it. With a heavy heart, Phyllis did so, fully expecting the boy to pop the butterscotch candy into his mouth in full view of his envious friends.

Instead, to our great surprise, he went to each of his friends, who stuck out their tongues and received one delicious lick of the butterscotch candy. The young boy continued around the circle, occasionally taking his own lick, until the candy was gone.

Now, one can argue the lack of sanitation with this gesture of sharing, but no one can dispute the example set by this young boy. Unselfishness, sharing, and giving are essential to service. This child learned that lesson well.