Gospel Story Finder

Mark Hansen shut his car door and looked in through the glass entryway. Kelly wasn’t there. He looked down at his watch. She had told him to pick her up at eight, and it was a quarter after now. He kicked at the step, looked up through the door again, and bit his lower lip.
She knows I don’t like places like this, he thought. I ought to leave, and then she’d have to walk home. He smiled picturing her walking the ten miles to their house. He softened—no that wouldn’t be too good. Besides, he thought, Mom would be furious.
He leaned against the glass door. It swung open. He stepped inside. The air was warm and stank of antiseptic and pine deodorant that only partially covered other smells.
He remembered the smells from when he was younger. His mother pushing him forward, he saw his grandmother’s sunken face and felt her cold skin. There had been a strong smell in her room mixed with the odors of wilting flowers and stale perfume.
He was ten then, and now he was seventeen. He pushed the memory back.
How can she stand to work here? he thought.
“Kelly,” his voice echoed in the empty halls.
“Hi, Mark,” Kelly leaned out from a door, her dark hair hanging back over her white uniform.
“You’re late.” Mark furrowed his brows and turned the corners of his mouth down, trying to look angry.
“Sorry,” she said and smiled. “How did your track meet go?” She was still leaning out of the doorway. Mark kicked at the polished floor with the toe of his shoe.
“I’m going to state.”
“That’s great. What place did you take today?”
Mark smiled. “First in the mile.”
“Not bad for a kid.” She smiled again. “Mark, I’m going to be a few more minutes. Is that okay?”
Mark took a deep breath.
“I guess,” he turned and walked toward the doors. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“Mark, why don’t you go into the lounge and talk to Jackson. I think you’ll like him. He doesn’t get many visitors.”
“All right,” Mark mumbled. He pushed open the lounge doors and walked in. The room was quiet. A window was open, and fresh cool air blew in, waving the curtains.
Mark looked around the room. He felt his throat tighten. In the far corner, near the open window, half in the light and half in the dark was a thin figure in a wheelchair. Mark had expected Jackson to be an older man, but the figure in the chair looked young. Mark moved closer.
“Hi,” he said. His throat was dry. He felt a small aching pain somewhere deep inside his chest.
Jackson reminded Mark of a string puppet that had had the strings cut. He was sitting limp in the chair, his head bowed down with his chin resting on his chest. His arms, wax-white skin stretched loose over bones, were resting on his legs. There was a lifeless quality about the form. Jackson’s hands moved slightly, shaking. Then his head moved up slowly and stopped, his eyes looking directly at Mark. His eyes were warm and brown. A smile curled on Jackson’s face.
“Hi,” the voice was weak but pleasant.
“I’m Kelly’s brother.” Mark tried to smile.
“You’re Mark, aren’t you? Kelly talks about you a lot.”
Mark nodded.
“Yeah,” he couldn’t think of anything to say. He felt empty inside. He was back again in his grandmother’s room. The smell and the sound and the sight of her dying came rushing up at him. The aching pain in his chest grew and spread to his stomach. He felt weak.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I just wanted to say hello.”
Jackson leaned back, resting his head against the back of his chair.
“It’s nice in here at night when the windows are open and the outside air blows in. It smells like rain tonight, like a slice of watermelon. The others, they don’t like to have the windows open when the cool air blows in. They say it’s too cold.”
Jackson closed his eyes. His chest moved up and down with his breathing.
“It’s not that I don’t like them. I do. They’re fine people, but they make me feel so old. I don’t want to feel old. Come and see me again, Mark.”
Mark nodded.
“Sure.” He looked up. “I’ve got to go now. See you.” He waved and left.
Mark stood next to his car. The air was cool. A few drops of rain fell. Mark breathed in deeply and smiled.
“It does smell like watermelon.”
“What does?” Kelly stood smiling on the steps. “I’m finished. Are you ready to go?”
Mark got into the car.
“Did you talk to Jackson?” Kelly asked.
Mark nodded.
“What’s wrong with him? He looks like a skeleton.”
“Well, it’s a muscle disease. I don’t know much about it. I guess no one does.
He’s had it all of his life. There’s no cure, and they don’t expect him to live much past 20. He’s 17 now.”
“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Mark said.
“It is, but you know he doesn’t look at it that way. He just does the best he can with what he has. He’s been places inside of himself that most people will never come close to.”
She turned her head and looked forward. Rain fell lightly on the windshield and sparkled like diamonds and rubies in the light from neon signs and street lights. She smiled again and turned back toward Mark.
“What smells like a watermelon?”
Nearly a month passed. Mark stood on the steps looking through the glass doors. He felt his heart beating hard with excitement. He felt the smooth surface of the medallion deep in the pocket of his letterman’s jacket. Gold, he thought. First place in the mile. He remembered standing highest on the three-tiered platform, the red-and-blue ribbon with the gold medallion being hung around his neck, raising his arms up in victory, the sound of the crowd cheering and the handshakes and smiles and slaps on the back.
He couldn’t wait to tell Kelly. He looked through the doors. As usual she wasn’t waiting for him. He opened the door and went in.
“Kelly.” There was no answer.
She must be in the back somewhere, he thought. I’ll go say hello to Jackson. For the past month, whenever he had gone in to get Kelly, he had stopped and waved his hand up and said hello to Jackson.
Mark pushed the door open and stepped into the lounge. Always before he had found Jackson alone. Now there were about ten people in the room, most of them old. They were all smiling. Kelly was standing next to Jackson. They were all looking at Mark, then turned and looked at Jackson.
The room was silent. Mark noticed a table with paper cups filled with punch, and there was a large cake that had “State Champion” written on it in gold letters.
Jackson was looking directly into Mark’s eyes. He smiled slightly. His claw-like hands shook and began to rise slowly. The smile faded, and Jackson’s hand rose another inch. It came halfway up to his face and dropped slightly. Mark felt the muscles in his arm twitching with the effort. He remembered running the mile that day, the sound of feet hitting the track and the sound of his own heart.
He remembered the pain in his lungs and in his legs and calves. He remembered reaching inside of himself trying to find the strength to push on the last lap. He saw and felt that reaching in Jackson’s whole effort. The arm rose above Jackson’s head. Mark knew what he was seeing was incredible. Kelly had told him Jackson couldn’t move his arms more than a couple of inches. The hand dropped suddenly. Mark felt his lungs gasp for air. The hand stopped halfway down and slowly started up again.
“Come on, Jackson,” Mark whispered.
The hand was above Jackson’s head. The arm straightened. There was sweat on Jackson’s forehead. He took a deep breath. A smile spread wide and warm on his face. His eyes sparkled.
“Hi, Mark, congratulations.” The hand fell.
There was a loud cheer. The old people were shouting and clapping. Mark’s eyes were moist. He felt the medallion in his pocket. He remembered meeting another man who had done what others said was impossible.
The man was an Olympic gold medal winner and had broken the record for the mile. Mark saw the same look of inner strength in Jackson’s eyes that he had seen in the eyes of the athlete.
Mark stood in front of Jackson. The room was silent again. Mark tried to talk and choked. He cleared his throat. He took out the gold medallion and hung the ribbon around Jackson’s neck.
“I want you to wear this,” he said.

As a young man on a mission, I recall reading Paul’s words to the Corinthian Saints and pondering what he meant by the phrase “faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity” (1 Cor. 13:13). I wondered why charity should be the greatest. Charity was a word I did not understand. Part of the reason for my dilemma was that the common use of the term charity did not seem to be consistent with the doctrinal or scriptural use.
As I searched the pages of the Book of Mormon, I gained a new view. Mormon, an ancient prophet of the Americas, connected the word charity to the Savior. He declared that “charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever” (Moro. 7:47).
I considered what was meant by the phrase “love of Christ.” That answer is critical because “the Lord God hath given a commandment that all men should have charity, which charity is love” (2 Ne. 26:30). If we must have charity, then we must know what it is. The phrase “love of Christ” might have meaning in three dimensions:
Love for Christ
Love from Christ
Love like Christ
First, love for Christ. This concept proclaims Jesus as the object of our love, and our lives should be an external expression of our gratitude for him. Sometimes that is difficult to do. I once visited a high priests group meeting where an older brother taught us. He noted that “as a people we often pray, ‘We thank thee for all the blessings we enjoy.’ But what about the blessings we don’t enjoy? It can be very hard to be thankful for those.” This dear man had just experienced his first Christmas without his sweetheart in more than fifty years. It is difficult to be grateful to the Lord under circumstances we don’t enjoy.
Our beloved President Benson told some of his experiences with the Saints in war-torn countries and shared the following: “One sister walked over a thousand miles with four small children, leaving her home in Poland. She lost all four to starvation and the freezing conditions. Yet she stood before us in her emaciated condition, her clothing shredded, and her feet wrapped in burlap, and bore testimony of how blessed she was” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1980, pp. 47–48; or Ensign, Nov. 1980, p. 33). Things we don’t enjoy must not overshadow our reasons to maintain our love for the Savior. Otherwise we may lose our perspective or become bitter, and our love for Christ may be lost.
How deeply do we love him? Does our love depend on favorable environments? Is it diminished or strengthened by our experiences? Is our love for him evident by our behavior and our attitude? Charity, or love for Christ, sustains us in every need and influences us in every decision.
A second dimension of the meaning of charity is love from Christ. From a prophet of the Book of Mormon comes an inspired explanation. Speaking to the Lord, Moroni declared: “Thou hast said that thou hast loved the world, even unto the laying down of thy life for the world. …
“This love which thou hast had for the children of men is charity” (Ether 12:33–34).
Through his compliance with the severe requirements of the Atonement, the Savior offered the ultimate expression of love. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). And by permitting his Son to make such a selfless and suffering sacrifice, the Father provided us with an ultimate expression of his love as his gift to the rest of his children.
The Apostle John accurately testified of this infinite though conditional representation of the charity of the Gods when he wrote, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life” (John 3:16). This gift of charity is to be received. The Savior’s act of redemption for our sins is of no effect without our willingness to comply with the conditions of his atonement.
Speaking of the need for us to receive the divine love of God, Moroni prayerfully declared, “Except men shall have charity they cannot inherit that place which thou hast prepared in the mansions of thy Father” (Ether 12:34).
Some years ago I prepared to teach a class on a subject I felt would be particularly difficult. The night before the scheduled class, I prayed for guidance and then retired, still troubled in my mind. When I awoke, a certain thought was introduced to my mind that I shared with the class later that morning. After the class, a young man spoke with me privately and said, “The lesson was for me. I now know what I have to do.” Later, I learned that he had come to that class as his first contact with the Church in many years. He then proceeded to get his life in order and eventually served a faithful mission. Presently he is experiencing the happiness associated with keeping eternal family covenants. He possesses the gift of charity because he received the atoning love of Christ.
A third perception of charity is to possess a love that is like Christ. In other words, people are the object of Christlike love. Nephi said: “I have charity for my people. …
“I have charity for the Jew. …
“I also have charity for the Gentiles” (2 Ne. 33:7–9).
Since Nephi had such love for everyone, we wonder how he acquired it. He must have lived in anticipation of the divine directive that would later be proclaimed by the Savior as the key to the development of love: “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you.” (John 13:34; emphasis added).
Jesus’ love was inseparably connected to and resulted from his life of serving, sacrificing, and giving in behalf of others. We cannot develop Christlike love except by practicing the process prescribed by the Master.
The Apostle John was not only loved by the Lord, but he also loved others like the Lord. John affirmed the process by saying, “Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren” (1 Jn. 3:16).
Is it a coincidence that missionaries give a portion of their lives in behalf of others, then come home and testify of their great love for the people they have served? Is it any wonder that bishops and other priesthood and auxiliary leaders who sacrifice for others are filled with love for those who are recipients of their labors? Is there a greater love among mortals than that of a mother, who offers all for her child? Many who desire to have charity like Jesus attain it as he did.
On one occasion my wife expected to be away for the weekend and asked one of the sisters in our ward to teach her Relief Society lesson. The week following the session, that sister came to our home and returned the instruction manual. She also brought to my wife a freshly baked loaf of bread and a handwritten note that read, “I love you. You are a special person. Thank you for thinking of me.” She was grateful to have been asked to serve. She was full of the love of Christ.
Charity is not just a precept or a principle, nor is it just a word to describe actions or attitudes. Rather, it is an internal condition that must be developed and experienced in order to be understood. We are possessors of charity when it is a part of our nature. People who have charity have a love for the Savior, have received of his love, and love others as he does.
It may be of some significance to note that the word charity does not appear in a single verse in the Old Testament. Surely the prophets of ancient times understood the need for charity as did the Apostle Paul and the prophets of ancient America. And surely those prophets knew and taught that “charity is the pure love of Christ” (Moro. 7:47). We are left to wonder if the enemies of Christ deliberately removed from the holy writings these saving truths as part of the plain and precious teachings that Nephi prophetically said would be removed (see 1 Ne. 13:20–29). Also, charity is only partially explained in the New Testament. But thankfully the Book of Mormon, another witness for Christ, has restored to us an understanding of this eternal precept. I testify that as we abide by this precept, we will draw nearer to God. Indeed, we will become more like him.
Individually and collectively, we can experience the peace and happiness enjoyed for nearly two hundred years anciently when “there was no contention in the land, because of the love of God which did dwell in the hearts of the people” (4 Ne. 1:15). This I know, as I know the Savior lives, in the holy name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When I was a young boy growing up in South Africa, I was not a member of the Church. But I read the Bible and said my prayers often, like my parents had taught me to. Because of that, I always felt that the Lord was close to me. I especially liked reading stories about Jesus’s life. I tried to be honest, hardworking, trustworthy, and kind, like Jesus. That’s what the scriptures and Jesus’s example taught me.
revelation: messages or direction from Heavenly Father
From reading the Bible, I also learned what the Church was like when Jesus was alive. And it made me wonder why none of the churches I knew about looked like Jesus’s Church had. Why don’t they have prophets and apostles? I wondered. Why isn’t there revelation in our day?
One day when I was older, two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints knocked on our door. “We have a message for you,” they said.
My mother, who was a very friendly person, said, “We’d like to hear it. Will you come back this evening?” When the missionaries came that evening, the room was full—my mother and father, my four siblings, and me. My parents had even invited our neighbors over to listen to the missionaries.
My family was amazed by what they taught. We were thrilled that Jesus’s Church had been restored. It was a church with prophets and apostles! Over time, the missionaries answered all the questions that I had from prayerfully reading the scriptures. Because my family and I were already familiar with the Bible, we were ready to hear the missionaries’ message. We were excited about the gospel. Our neighbors didn’t feel the same excitement.
What truly converted me to the gospel was the Book of Mormon. I read some verses from it. Then one day I decided to follow Moroni’s promise to “ask God … if these things are not true; and … he will manifest the truth of it unto you” (Moroni 10:4). So I said a prayer and started reading the very first verse in the Book of Mormon. When I read it, the Holy Ghost witnessed to me in a wonderful way that the Book of Mormon truly is the word of God.
You’re never too young to start reading the scriptures and praying every day. Doing those things will help you know what is true. It will give you faith and the courage to make right decisions.
God doesn’t expect us to rely on anyone else’s testimony of the gospel. He will tell us Himself that the gospel and the Book of Mormon are true. If we are sincere and pray with faith, He will answer our prayers to know the truth.

Our friend Jasmine was a good example to us too. Jasmine was 12 years old. Her family became our good friends when we lived in the Middle East. In her country, Church members can’t talk about the gospel with others. It’s against the law. But Jasmine decided she could share the gospel by doing what Jesus did. She could show love and kindness to others. Wherever Jasmine went or whatever she did, she tried to be like Jesus. She was a bright example to others.

There’s a great story told to me by the father of the young woman who was involved in it. I promised I’d share it with women across the Church when it was appropriate.
A three-year-old had wandered off on an adventure, shedding his clothing as he went. When he realized he was lost as well as cold, he knocked at the home of this young woman. She saw a little boy standing on the step; he was wearing only soiled underwear and was crying his heart out. She took him in, and while they waited for the police to find his mother, she wrapped him in a blanket and held him on her lap and sang songs to him. She made him clown faces on home-dipped ice cream cones and drew pictures with him so he could surprise his mother. She made him feel marvelous.
When at last the boy’s mother arrived, he started for the front door. Then suddenly he stopped, maybe remembering what a special time he had had with the young woman.
“Hey!” he asked, “Are you Heavenly Father’s wife?”
The young woman was startled—and sobered. At last she replied, “No, but I am his daughter.”

“Sarah, your father needs my help with the planting for a few hours this morning. Would you please take care of John and Laura for me? It would be a big help to us. I would like you to finish washing the breakfast dishes for me, too, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Ten-year-old Sarah was annoyed and frustrated by her mother’s request. She had wanted some time by herself today so she could finish the poem she had started last week. Sarah had gotten the idea for the poem when she had seen a mother robin feeding her tiny babies in the nest outside her bedroom window. She had just started on the poem that day when she had had to stop and help her mother.
Sarah could see, however, that her mother really needed her help again today, so she answered, “All right, Mama, I’ll help you. But do I always have to be the one to take care of the children? Isn’t there anyone else who can do it? John’s almost six. Isn’t he old enough to help out with some of the work?”
Mother smiled and replied, “John and Laura really do need someone older to take care of them. We don’t want to take advantage of your good nature, dear, but I always have a calm, secure feeling when I know you are home taking care of things. We love you and appreciate your help.” Mother kissed the children and quickly left the house.
“Sarah, why don’t you like to watch us?” asked Laura, her dark eyes flashing. “John and I are always good.”
Sarah looked at her four-year-old sister and tried to smile. “I know you’re good, Laura. It’s just that I wanted to finish writing a poem I started. I want to be a writer when I grow up, and I’ll never be any good if I don’t have time to practice. Will you and John go outside and play while I clean up the kitchen, please?”
“We’ll go outside if you tell us a story first. Your stories are always good,” said John.
“Not now. I’m just not in a storytelling mood,” Sarah replied.
The two younger children knew better than to bother Sarah when she had something on her mind, so they went outside. With a sigh Sarah began to wash the breakfast dishes. She watched the soapy water cover the plates in the large dishpan and thought about her life. Here she was, ten years old, and all she really knew how to do was wash dishes and take care of Laura and John. Would she ever have time to learn to be a real writer, like the people who wrote the books and poems she loved to read?
After the last dish was put away, Sarah hurried outside. She found Laura and John and told them a story she had written for a school assignment. Then it was time to fix lunch for the three of them. Just as they finished eating, Mother returned.
“The kitchen is so clean, Sarah! What would we ever do without you? Would you like to walk into Kirtland and meet Mary when she gets out of school? I won’t need you until later this afternoon.”
Sarah was delighted. There were a lot of things she needed to straighten out in her mind, and this would give her a chance to do it. Walking into Kirtland, she was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hardly noticed the temple. Usually when Sarah walked into town, she gazed at the beautiful temple and admired the sparkly outside walls. Her mother had given some of their best china to the Church building committee. Their dishes, along with those of other members, were ground up and mixed with the plaster for the outside walls so that the temple would always sparkle in the sun.
Not far from the temple was a small building that was used as a school for young ladies. Sarah’s best friend, Mary, attended the school. Mary often talked about her teacher, Sister Snow, and the exciting things she taught. Sarah had seen Sister Snow many times at church and thought she was beautiful with her dark hair and eyes. Sarah hoped that she, too, would someday be taught by this fine lady. She knew that Sister Snow was a great poet, and she wanted to grow up to be just like her. As Sarah waited for Mary to come out of school, she wondered how Sister Snow had ever found the time to learn to write poetry. Girls and women had so much to do around the house every day.
“Sarah, what are you doing here?” Mary asked smilingly, interrupting her friend’s thoughts.
“Mother let me leave the house for a while. May I walk home with you?”
“Oh, you know you may. I want to tell you about our lesson in school today. Sister Snow told us about her early life. Did you know that she had a lot of younger brothers and sisters and that she always had to take care of them? She told us today that no matter how hard she worked, she always made time for her writing because it was important to her. When she was only twenty-two, she was asked to write a poem in tribute to President Thomas Jefferson and President John Adams when they both died on the same day. Her poem was published, and Sister Snow could have been famous if she had wanted to be! But she told us that such things were not important and that she would much rather write for the people she loved.”
Sarah was silent as they continued walking. When they reached Brother Whitney’s store, they went in. Sarah had brought several pennies with her from home, and she bought them some candy.
As they were sitting on the porch of the store eating their candy, Sarah said, “I’m glad you told me about Sister Snow’s life. If she could do all of the things she had to do in a family with younger brothers and sisters and still become a great poet and writer, so can I. If I do everything I’m supposed to do every single day, I can still find a little bit of time to do what I want to do. I’m going to become a great lady and a great poet just like Sister Snow. Come on, Mary. I want to get home. If Mama doesn’t need me, I’m going to work on my poem.”

A few years ago, my friends had a beautiful baby named Brigham. After his birth, Brigham was diagnosed with a rare condition called Hunter syndrome, which sadly meant that Brigham would have a short life. One day while Brigham and his family were visiting the temple grounds, Brigham pronounced a particular phrase; twice he said, “One more day.” The very next day, Brigham passed away.
I have visited Brigham’s grave a few times, and every time I do, I contemplate the phrase “one more day.” I wonder what it would mean, what effect it would have in my life to know that I had only one more day to live. How would I treat my wife, my children, and others? How patient and polite would I be? How would I take care of my body? How fervently would I pray and search the scriptures? I think that, in one way or another, we all at some point will have a “one more day” realization—a realization that we must use wisely the time we have.

John’s family had been a part of the Church for many generations. He wanted to go to the temple on behalf of a family member but assumed there wouldn’t be any persons with work left to do since his family had been active in temple work for such a long time. His ward family history consultant invited him to give Ordinances Ready a try.

John followed the steps, selecting the ordinance he wanted to perform. He was surprised and excited to see Ordinances Ready find a person—a fifth cousin, twice removed. He printed the card on his home computer and took it with him to the temple. With a special joy in his heart, John was able to perform the ordinance for a family member.

I was quite young when World War II started, but I was old enough to be frightened by what was happening. My father assured me that the Lord was in control and that all would be well. As he told me not to worry, he put his arms around me, enveloping me in security and love. I had the same feeling of safety as we knelt in family prayer and I listened to my father, a bishop, pray for the servicemen who were from our ward. I knew that Heavenly Father lived and that He was listening.

In school we earn a “100% ticket” when we get 100 percent on our morning schoolwork. The tickets go into a treasure chest. At the end of the month you get a treat if one of your tickets is drawn from the chest. One day I found a 100% ticket on the floor. I gave it to the teacher, and she asked me to try to find the owner. I asked around the class, but nobody claimed it. The teacher said I could have the ticket because I did the right thing by bringing it to her instead of putting it in the chest when I hadn’t earned it. I felt good inside for doing the right thing.

Sabita Thapa was born and raised in the country of Nepal, a small country between China and India. She had a blissful childhood and grew up in a very big family, surrounded by many extended family members.
As she grew up to be a teenager, there were divisions in ancestral properties, which gave her father the opportunity to build the family a beautiful and comfortable home.
Her father decided to try his hand at a new business. In the course of time, he had a very big loss in his business. Sadly, they had to sell their beautiful home and move out. In the coming days, her family faced many hardships and difficulties due to financial instability.
“While everybody around us seemed to be so happy and successful, my family and I went through many difficult times,” said Sister Isaac.
When Sabita was 15, she started to search for true happiness. She started to search for God, beginning to pray sincerely to know who God is. She asked many questions such as, “Does He love me?” and “Does He love my family?” She wanted to know Him and wanted to be happy.
Sabita said, “God did hear my prayers.”
In 1995, her father happened to meet a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In 1994, the Church and missionaries had just entered Nepal during the same time she was searching for the truth. The missionaries went to their home and invited them to church.
“The day I stepped into the Lord’s Church was the turning point in my life. I have not looked back since then”, Sister Isaac declared.
She was taught about the true and living God and His plan of salvation. She has received peace, joy and happiness and knows this is where she belongs. She said she has sincerely and faithfully attended all her church meetings.
Sabita testified, “I know God is mindful of our needs. He knows us personally and he answers our prayers as we sincerely seek him. As I look back, I understand what has happened in my life was not by chance. I had to go through these trials, so that I would sincerely seek for him. Did I find Him? Yes, indeed.”
Sabita and her older sister Usha joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but the rest of the family members did not. Did joining the Church mean she did not have any more hardships? Certainly not, but it helped her to know that trials and hardships are a part of life. It helped her to face them and overcome them.

Hey! Your half is bigger! I want that half!
No, it’s mine! Eat your own.
Mom, Tony isn’t sharing right!
Erin’s trying to steal my cookie!
It sounds like you two need something else to do.
Please rake up all the leaves. But you’re not allowed to help each other. That’s the rule, OK?
Good! I don’t want to help him.
I don’t need your help!
Ugh! My leaves won’t stay in the bag.
This is taking a really long time.
This is too hard to do alone.
You’re right. It would be easier if we helped each other.
Hey! You’re not supposed to help each other. Remember?
But, Mom! Working alone is too hard.
It’s better when we work together as a team.
Ohhhhhhh!
I’m sorry I yelled at you about the cookie.
I’m sorry I made my piece bigger.
From now on let’s be a team.
Good idea!
See family manual, page 155.

One day while playing with his friends as a boy, Elder David A. Bednar accidentally broke a window in a store near his home. The glass shattered and set off a security alarm! Elder Bednar thought he would have to go to prison. He was so afraid that he hid under his bed until his parents helped him calm down and apologize to the store owner. Elder Bednar used this story to teach that all of us are scared sometimes, but when we look to Jesus Christ and follow Him, we can feel peace instead of fear.

Way back in 1969, I was in South America. I flew from Argentina to Santiago, Chile. The Andes mountains were dry. There was no snow. The grass was burned. Chile was in the midst of a devastating drought.
The people pleaded for help in bringing moisture.
We dedicated two new buildings on that visit. In each of those dedicatory services we pleaded with the Lord for rain upon the land. I have the testimony of many who were in those meetings that the heavens were opened and the rains fell with such abundance that the people asked the Lord to shut them off.

Several years ago I attended a stake conference in Tonga. Sunday morning the three front rows of the chapel were filled with men between 26 and 35 years of age. I assumed they were a men’s choir. But when the business of the conference was conducted, each of these men, 63 in total, stood up as their names were read and were sustained for ordination to the Melchizedek Priesthood. I was both pleased and stunned.
After the session I asked President Mateaki, the stake president, how this miracle had been accomplished. He told me that in a stake council meeting reactivation was being discussed. His stake Relief Society president, Sister Leinata Va’enuku, asked if it would be appropriate for her to say something. As she spoke, the Spirit confirmed to the president that what she was suggesting was true. She explained that there were large numbers of wonderful young men in their late 20s and 30s in their stake who had not served missions. She said many of them knew they had disappointed bishops and priesthood leaders who had strongly encouraged them to serve a mission, and they now felt like second-class members of the Church. She pointed out that these young men were beyond missionary age. She expressed her love and concern for them. She explained that all of the saving ordinances were still available to them and the focus should be on priesthood ordinations and the ordinances of the temple. She noted that while some of these young men were still single, the majority of them had married wonderful women—some active, some inactive, and some not members.
After thorough discussion in the stake council, it was decided that the men of the priesthood and the women of the Relief Society would reach out to rescue these men and their wives, while the bishops spent more of their time with the young men and young women in the wards. Those involved in the rescue focused primarily on preparing them for the priesthood, eternal marriage, and the saving ordinances of the temple. During the next two years, almost all of the 63 men who had been sustained to the Melchizedek Priesthood at the conference I attended were endowed in the temple and had their spouses sealed to them. This account is but one example of how critical our sisters are in the work of salvation in our wards and stakes and how they facilitate revelation, especially in family and Church councils.17

Many years ago I was assigned to divide the Modesto California Stake. The Saturday meetings had been held, the new stake presidencies selected, and preparations concluded for the announcements to be made the following morning in the Sunday session of conference.

As the Sunday session was about to begin, there went through my mind the thought that I had been in Modesto before. But when? I let my mind search back through the years for a confirmation of the thought I was thinking. Suddenly I remembered. Modesto, years before, had been a part of the San Joaquin Stake. The stake president was Clifton Rooker. I had stayed in his home during that conference. But that was many years earlier. Could my thoughts be playing tricks on my mind? I said to the stake presidency as they sat on the stand, “Is this the same stake over which Clifton Rooker once presided?”

The brethren answered, “Yes, it is. He was our former president.”

“It’s been many years since I was last here,” I said. “Is Brother Rooker with us today?”

They responded, “Oh, yes. We saw him early this morning as he came to conference.”

I asked, “Where is he seated on this day when the stake will be divided?”

“We don’t know exactly,” they replied. The response was a good one, for the building was filled to capacity.

I stepped to the pulpit and asked, “Is Clifton Rooker in the audience?” There he was—way back in the recreation hall, hardly in view of the pulpit. I felt the inspiration to say to him publicly, “Brother Rooker, we have a place for you on the stand. Would you please come forward?”

With every eye watching him, Clifton Rooker made that long walk from the rear of the building right up to the front and sat by my side. It became my opportunity to call upon him, one of the pioneers of that stake, to bear his testimony and to tell the people whom he loved that he was the actual beneficiary of the service he had rendered his Heavenly Father and which he had provided the stake members.

After the session was concluded, I said, “Brother Rooker, how would you like to step with me into the high council room and help me set apart the two new presidencies of these stakes?”

He replied, “That would be a highlight for me.”

We proceeded to the high council room. There, with his hands joining my hands and the hands of the outgoing stake presidency, we set apart to their callings the two new stake presidencies. Brother Rooker and I embraced as he said good-bye and went to his home.

Early the next morning, after I had returned to my home, I had a telephone call from the son of Clifton Rooker. “Brother Monson,” he said, “I’d like to tell you about my dad. He passed away this morning; but before he did so, he said that yesterday was the happiest day of his entire life.”

As I heard that message from Brother Rooker’s son, I paused to thank God for the inspiration which came to me to invite this good man, while he was yet alive and able to enjoy them, to come forward and receive the plaudits of the stake members whom he had served.

On Brother Wayman’s last day at Cornell, he was saying good-bye to friends when Kim Ho Jik approached him. Brother Wayman felt impelled to ask the Korean why he had decided to leave his homeland and family to study in the United States. The Korean scholar responded that he needed the new knowledge in nutrition available at Cornell for the benefit of his people.
Then, Brother Wayman recalls:
“I bore my testimony … and told him that it was my opinion that the Lord had moved upon him to come to America … in order that he might receive the gospel and take it back to his people in preparation for a great missionary work to be done there. … I informed him … that if he refused to do the work the Lord had for him … another would be raised up in his place.”
Brother Wayman never saw Kim ho Jik again, but he left New York “sure that the Spirit which touched me when I bore my testimony to him touched him at the same time. I could see a change in his expression.”

Last October my mom told my siblings and me to listen to ward business that Sunday instead of drawing. So when sacrament meeting started, I paid close attention to the opening prayer and the hymn. Once that was over, the person conducting the meeting asked the bishop to stand up. Then he said the bishop was being released.
He asked my dad, who was first counselor at the time, to stand up. Then he announced that my dad was going to be the new bishop!
I was really worried that something about my dad would change drastically. I had always thought bishops were people who were formal and serious, most unlike my dad. That they had perfectly well-behaved kids who sat quietly on the bench every week. That was not my family.
But I realized that bishops aren’t men with perfect families. They aren’t men who are solemn and serious. They are men with the priesthood. Men with strong, good testimonies.
I don’t know why the Lord chose my dad to be the bishop, but I know that He has His reasons. And I know that my dad did change … but not into a stiff and serious man I didn’t know. I could tell his testimony grew.
And so did mine.

When Harold was very young, he wanted to go to school like his older brother.
Harold: May I please go to school with Perry, Mama? I want to go to school!
Mother: No, Harold, you are too young. When you are Perry’s age, you can go.
Harold kept begging. Finally one day, his mother relented.
Harold: When can I go to school with Perry, Mama? Can I go today?
Mother: You may go with Perry this morning if you promise to be a good boy and sit quietly and not disturb the other children.
Harold walked excitedly beside Perry up the two-mile path to school.
Harold: I bet I can beat you to school!
Perry: Oh yeah? I’ll race you!
Sister Howell recognized Harold because he was also in her Primary class.
Sister Howell: Harold, what a surprise to see you at school today! Here are some crayons for you to play with while I teach the older children their lessons.
Harold became so absorbed with his crayons and paper that he didn’t notice Mrs. Howell watching over his shoulder.
Sister Howell: You have written all of the ABCs and your name! You should come to school every day. I’ll speak to your mother about it.
That afternoon, Sister Howell came to visit.
Sister Howell: You have taught Harold well. I think he should come to school with Perry every day.
Mother: But other boys Harold’s age won’t start school for two more years. Are you sure he is ready?
Sister Howell: Yes. I’m sure.
Harold always loved school. He decided to become a teacher. For many years he was involved in education throughout Idaho and Utah.

I sat at Jeremy Johnson’s kitchen table, staring at a bowl of yucky-looking green soup that Jeremy’s mom had placed in front of me. My friend Jeremy had invited me to sleep over that night, and my dad had driven me to the Johnson’s house just in time for dinner.
“I hope that you like split-pea soup, Tyler,” Jeremy’s mom said, smiling.
“I’ve never had it before,” I told her. “But I know that I like corn bread,” I added as she set a plate of it on the table.
Jeremy started to eat his soup. I just stared into my bowl. The color of the soup reminded me of grasshoppers. I didn’t think that I could eat it.
When I looked up, Jeremy was watching me. “Mom, Tyler doesn’t have to eat the soup if he doesn’t like it, does he?” Jeremy asked.
“Of course not,” said Jeremy’s mom. “I could make you a bologna sandwich, Tyler.”
I shook my head. “No, that’s OK. I’ll probably like the soup,” I assured them. I was remembering what my mom had said about missionaries having to eat foods that they aren’t used to when they are guests in people’s houses. Once during her mission in France. Mom ate fried snails—something she had never even thought of as food. The family who served the snails thought that they were giving her a special treat, and she didn’t want to hurt their feelings. Jeremy and his Mom aren’t members of the Church, I thought, and I want to be a good missionary. If Mom can eat snails, I can eat this split-pea soup.
I said a silent but fervent blessing on the food and then, between big spoonfuls of soup, took gulps of milk. When I was done, I asked Mrs. Johnson to pass me the corn bread.
“Oh, you finished your soup already,” she noticed, glancing at my empty bowl. “I’m glad that you liked it so much. Have some more.” She spooned more split-pea soup into my bowl and passed me the plate of corn bread.
“Thank you,” I said, looking at the second bowl of green soup in dismay. “Can I please have some more milk too?”
After dinner, Jeremy and I jumped on the trampoline in his backyard. He showed me how to do a back flop. I practiced a few times, and pretty soon I got the hang of it. We took turns inventing tricks to do on the trampoline.
When we went inside, Jeremy’s mom helped us make popcorn to eat while we watched a baseball game on television. After the game, Mrs. Johnson said, “Time for bed, guys.” She got two sleeping bags from the garage and helped us spread them out in the living room. Before turning out the light, she kissed Jeremy and patted my arm. “We’re having pancakes for breakfast, Tyler. Do you like pancakes as much as you like split-pea soup and corn bread?”
“I love pancakes,” I told her.
Before going to sleep, Jeremy and I talked for a while. He told me about the year his baseball team won first place in the league. I told him about the time I broke my arm sliding into first base. Then I told him that my family was going to play softball together next Monday night and asked if he wanted to play with us.
“Sure,” he said, yawning. “Well, good night, Tyler.”
“Good night,” I said.
Then I remembered—I hadn’t said my prayers yet. I waited until I thought Jeremy was asleep, then wriggled out of the sleeping bag and knelt on top of it. I was hoping that Jeremy wouldn’t wake up. He would think that I was crazy, kneeling there on the sleeping bag in the dark.
“What are you doing?” Jeremy suddenly asked.
I couldn’t think of any good way to answer him, so I just blurted out, “I’m going to say a prayer.”
“Oh,” Jeremy said. “How come?”
“Well, … I pray every night,” I started to explain. I wanted to be a missionary, but I wasn’t sure how to explain prayer to Jeremy. Then I had an idea. “Hey, do you want to pray with me? I’ll say the words.”
“I guess so,” Jeremy said. He climbed out of his sleeping bag and knelt on top of it like I was doing. I folded my arms, bowed my head, and closed my eyes.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” I began. “Thank you for all our blessings. Thank you for my friend Jeremy. …” I finished the prayer and closed it in the name of Jesus Christ. We both climbed back into our sleeping bags.
“I’m glad that you got to sleep over tonight, Tyler,” Jeremy said as he rolled over to go to sleep.
“Me too,” I told him.