Gospel Story Finder

“After making the decision to serve a full-time mission—and as I was waiting for my mission call—I received an opportunity from a well-known coach who wanted to send me a plane ticket and a visa so I could go play in Iran. I took three long days to think about the coach’s offer; but on the first day, I knew I already had the answer to my prayer—and that answer was to serve the Lord.
“I can truthfully say that I believe in my future and that serving a mission will help me make the dream come true.”

Another time, Harold was standing in the open doorway, watching a thunderstorm outside.
Suddenly his mother shoved him away from the door.
Mother: Move, Harold!
Harold: Ouch!
Seconds later, a bolt of lightning came down the chimney of the kitchen stove. It shot out the front door and split a tree trunk outside!
He was thankful his mother listened to the promptings of the Holy Ghost. Several times she protected the life of the boy who would become the eleventh President of the Church.

Sandra: As a child, the experience with prayer that impressed me most was kneeling together with my father and older sisters and brothers, pleading for the life of “little Linda,” one of our four-month-old twins.
Overnight she had become ill—burning up with fever. Mother was at the hospital with the twins; Dad had come home after an all-night vigil and wearily gathered us together for prayer.
We were all alarmed and a little insecure to see him so contrite in the very depths of humility.
I remember how he begged and pleaded with the Lord for the life of that little baby, the tears streaming down his face. I also remember feeling that the heavens were opened—those pleadings were heard and received.
When little Linda died, I knew the Lord had said no. I didn’t understand why, but I knew somehow it would be all right.

When my younger siblings are annoying me, I’ve learned to ask them kindly to stop and then I walk away for a few minutes. Then I come back with one of their favorite toys and play with them. Sometimes the most tempting way to handle things is by threat and force. Whenever I want to do this, I silently sing the lyrics to “If the Savior Stood Beside Me” (New Era, Aug. 2007, 8–10). That helps me keep calm and remember to love them. Another good song to sing is “Love One Another” (Hymns, no. 308).
Bria W., 12, Texas, USA

Beatrix did enjoy the family holidays in Scotland every summer. It was here that her creative ability grew. She loved to see the frogs leaping, rabbits hopping, and little wood mice playing. She would hide in the fields for hours at a time, sitting in tall weeds as she watched and dreamed. The simple cottages where the Scottish families lived appealed to Beatrix. She was amazed at the love and affection Scottish parents showed their children.
Farmers allowed Beatrix to feed their small animals. She gave bread to the ducks, corn to the chickens, lettuce and carrots to the rabbits. It was as though she suddenly lived in a magical world, and Beatrix was spellbound. She and little Bertram sketched everything in sight.

Such trust in God can bless communities as well as families. I grew up in a small town in New Jersey. Our branch of the Church had fewer than 20 members who regularly attended.
Among them was a woman—an older, very humble convert to the Church. She was an immigrant who spoke with a heavy Norwegian accent. She was the only member of the Church in her family and the only member of the Church in the city in which she lived.
Through my father, who was the branch president, the Lord called her as the president of the branch Relief Society. She had no handbook to tell her what to do. No other member of the Church lived near her. She only knew that the Lord cared for those in need and the few words in the motto of the Relief Society: “Charity never faileth.”
It was in the depths of what we now call the Great Depression. Thousands were out of work and homeless. So, feeling she had her errand from the Lord, she asked her neighbors for old clothes. She washed the clothes, pressed them, and put them in cardboard boxes on her back porch. When men without money needed clothes and asked her neighbors for help, they would say, “Go to the house down the street. There is a Mormon lady living there who will give you what you need.”
The Lord did not run the city, but He changed a part of it for the better. He called one tiny woman—alone—who trusted Him enough to find out what He wanted her to do and then did it. Because of her trust in the Lord, she was able to help in that city hundreds of Heavenly Father’s children in need.

From Church history we read: “Certain residents of Hiram, Ohio, vented their personal feelings with mob action directed against the Prophet and Sidney Rigdon. Stimulated by whiskey and hidden behind blackened faces, a gang of more than two dozen men dragged Joseph from his bed during the night of March 24, 1832. Choking him into submission, they stripped him naked, scratched his skin with their fingernails, tore his hair, then smeared his body with tar and feathers. A vial of nitric acid forced against his teeth splashed on his face; a front tooth was broken. Meanwhile other members of the mob dragged Rigdon by the heels from his home, bumping his head on the frozen ground, which left him delirious for days. The Prophet’s friends spent the night removing the tar to help him keep a Sunday morning [preaching] appointment. He addressed a congregation that included Simonds Ryder, organizer of the mob” (James B. Allen and Glen M. Leonard, The Story of the Latter-day Saints [1976], 71).
Ryder was a convert who turned away because the Prophet Joseph had misspelled his name, apparently concluding that a prophet was one who had to be a perfect speller.

On the morning of 19 August 1991, families in Ukraine woke up to startling news: The government they had lived under for nearly 70 years had suddenly ceased to exist. In an instant, life changed forever.
Dmitry Mikulin from Kharkov, Ukraine, remembers well both that morning and the disorienting days that followed. “We went to sleep in one country and woke up in another,” he says. “Almost immediately, people began to experience real freedom in many facets of life.”
Many viewed the freedom to believe in God as a great blessing. Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles dedicated the land of Ukraine for the preaching of the restored gospel on 12 September 1991. A year later missionaries first came to Kharkov, Ukraine’s second largest city. And in January 1993, a branch was organized in the residential Alekseyevka area of town.
In his dedicatory prayer, Elder Packer asked “that the people [in Ukraine] will be blessed with food and clothing and shelter.” Obtaining these necessities has been a challenge for most citizens of Ukraine. Many have had to work long hours at the expense of family time. For others, the opportunity to grow rich through privatization of business has provided a distraction from home life. In addition, Ukraine has one of the highest divorce rates in the world, the number of out-of-wedlock births is increasing, and more couples are choosing to have one child or to remain childless. Somehow, for many citizens of Ukraine, the family has seemed to lose much of its significance.
But Latter-day Saints in Kharkov say the Church has helped restore their faith in the family. Dmitry, a returned missionary who recently moved from Kharkov to Moscow and now serves as second counselor in the Russia Moscow South Mission presidency, is one of these valiant Saints. He was sealed to his mother and father in the Freiberg Germany Temple in April 2000 and to his wife, Viktoriya, in the Stockholm Sweden Temple in August 2003.
“When we heard of the restored gospel, it gave us hope, a strong foundation, and faith in eternal life for our family,” he says. “Those problems that once seemed important became insignificant. Priorities in the family changed; values and the feelings of confidence and protection appeared.”
Dmitry’s father, Sergey, is currently Kharkov district president. He adds, “Our Church is the only place where people learn the truth about the family.”
Because of this fact, members of the Alekseyevka Branch are committed to building on eternal principles to strengthen families, not just their own but also other families who are striving to be in the world but not of the world (see John 17:11–14). The “family first” attitude has helped many here to achieve happiness in home life despite those distractions inherent in modern Ukraine. For Saints in Alekseyevka, the family and eternal goals permeate everything they do.
Vitaly Yemtsov served in the Soviet army on the East German side of the Berlin Wall in 1988. “I had a normal childhood,” Brother Yemtsov says, “but when I lived in Germany, I saw how families suffered under a foreign government. I felt bad for them. Soldiers often treated them harshly. After that experience, I wanted to have a better family life than those I saw, better even than the family in which I grew up.”
After his service in the army, Vitaly Yemtsov and a childhood friend became dissatisfied with the spiritual emptiness they felt and dedicated themselves to finding the truth. Both quickly accepted the restored gospel just months after the Church was introduced in Kharkov. “When I met the missionaries, I finally found spiritual food, especially for the family,” he says. “I found what is lacking all around us.”
However, faith does not free Brother Yemtsov and his wife, Lyudmila, from the family-threatening pressures and challenges of life. Within 18 months, both left well-paying jobs that required too much sacrifice of family time. Both found new jobs offering comparable salaries. Even so, everyday life often makes it difficult to focus on the family. Brother Yemtsov works nine hours a day, six days a week painting and repairing cars. Sister Yemtsova until recently worked as a warehouse manager. She now works at a care center for the elderly. In addition, Vitaly serves as branch president and as an institute teacher, and Lyudmila is district Young Women president.
Like others in their country, the Yemtsovs continually face challenges stemming from influences that subtly work against the family. Brother Yemtsov often feels isolated at work as the only employee who neither smokes nor drinks. “Everyone was surprised when I told them that I don’t do any of that,” he says. “Some considered me crazy in the beginning. Most respect me for it though.”
Alcoholism is a serious problem in Ukraine; some people do not know anyone who does not drink. Smoking is almost as widespread, especially among youth. Pornographic images are visible on advertisements and are for sale on almost any street corner.
“There is temptation everywhere,” says Sister Yemtsova. “Satan works diligently here. But the Spirit works diligently too. We find that it is not just how much time we spend together as a family but also what we do during that time that is important. And we make it a priority to do things that strengthen our bond.” For example, they say that family prayer and scripture study have become crucial, daily reminders of the importance of family happiness.
“The Lord said, ‘Stand ye in holy places,’” says Brother Yemtsov (D&C 87:8). “We try to make our home our own holy place so time spent together here will bring us closer.”
If he so chose, Aleksandr Chervyakov could have it all materially. Nine years ago he founded his own food technology company. Clients come from all over Ukraine and even Russia to take advantage of his firm’s services. “Without the Church, I could have easily become one of those people who works all the time and earns more than enough money but lacks the blessings of a loving eternal family,” Brother Chervyakov admits.
Fortunately, when two young missionaries asked if he would like to know more about Jesus Christ, he said yes. He and his wife, Lyudmila, and daughter, Inna, were baptized in 1995. Since then he has reduced his time at work so that he can nurture relationships within his family as well as serve in the Church. He has been the branch president and is currently second counselor in the branch presidency. The Chervyakovs were sealed in the temple in August 1997.
“One thing that has helped us keep our priorities in order has been family home evening,” says Aleksandr. “It’s so easy to forget what is truly important. Monday nights provide a great opportunity to forget about everything that is not important and to concentrate on our family.”
He says of their family home evening activities: “We always read from the scriptures or from the Liahona. If there are any family-related issues, we discuss them. Right now the question is, Which university will Inna enter when she graduates next year? We have been discussing that a lot lately. And we have fun. I think it’s a great secret of life that being with one’s family is fun. Sometimes we even dance.”
President Gordon B. Hinckley has said: “We believe that the family is the basic unit of society. You can’t have a strong community without strong families. You can’t have a strong nation without strong families—the father, the mother, the children as one unit working together. Now the family is falling apart all over America, all over the world. If we can just cultivate good, wholesome family life among our members, I don’t worry very much about the future of this Church.”1
Unfortunately, many families are struggling. However, there is tremendous hope because of the dedication of the Saints. Few people in Ukraine know the eternal principles that lead to happiness in the family, but the number is growing. As members live these teachings, their friends and family notice. Opportunities are abundant to share the peace members experience at home because of their diligence in establishing a house of God.
President Hinckley noted: “If we live the gospel, people will come into the Church. They will see the virtue of our lives, and they will be attracted to the message we have to teach. That message places great emphasis on the family.”2 And it is a message the Saints in Kharkov have embraced.

As a missionary in Germany in 1967, I attended a few lectures at a Catholic theological seminary on what we called Diversion Day. There I heard about the writing style in the Bible known as chiasmus. My companion and I purchased a book that the professor had mentioned. We studied the book carefully and reread the entire gospel of Matthew with this tool of literary analysis in mind. Only after this effort and careful study was I awakened early one morning by the words, “If it is evidence of Hebrew style in the Bible, it must be evidence of Hebrew style in the Book of Mormon.” I wondered why no one had ever seen this feature in the Book of Mormon before; yet with faith that it might be so, I got out of bed and began reading where my companion and I just happened to have left off the night before. In a few minutes I discovered the classic chiastic passage in Mosiah 5:10-12, and soon after encountered several others. I never would have found this on my own. I don’t know that the Book of Mormon is true because I find these things; rather, I can find these things because I know that the record is true. As President Packer has cautioned, we should not say “I know the gospel is true, however . . . .” Rather, “I know the gospel is true, therefore . . . .”

When I drove home that night, I asked myself, “What kind of father will Pablo be?” And the answer was crystal clear: he’ll be just like his dad. Jesus said, “The Son can do nothing of himself, but what he seeth the Father do.” This is the pattern of how Heavenly Father blesses His children from generation to generation.

As I continued to think about my experience with Pablo, I felt sad because my four daughters were grown and the nine grandchildren I had at the time didn’t live nearby. I then thought, “How could I ever help them the way Pablo’s father helped him? Had too much time gone by?” As I offered a prayer in my heart, the Spirit whispered this profound truth: “It’s never too early and it’s never too late to begin this important process.” I knew immediately what that meant. I could hardly wait to get home. I asked my wife, Sharol, to call all of our children and tell them that we needed to visit with them; I had something really important to tell them. My urgency startled them a little.

We began with our oldest daughter and her husband. I said: “Your mother and I want you to know that we were your age once. We were 31, with a small family. We have an idea of what you might encounter. It might be a financial or health challenge. It may be a crisis of faith. You may just get overwhelmed with life. When these things happen, we want you to come and talk to us. We’ll help you get through them. Now, we don’t want to be in your business all the time, but we want you to know that we are always in your corner. And while we’re together, I want to tell you about an interview I just had with a young man named Pablo.”

After the story, I said, “We don’t want you to miss helping your children and our grandchildren understand these important truths.”

If anyone had ever told me that I’d gulp down three tablespoons of mustard, I’d have said they were crazy. But being raised in a big family can do strange things to a person.
It had been one of those days that only somebody who has been raised in a big family could possibly appreciate. I had been working all month at school to complete a social studies unit, and our grades had been announced. I had received an A plus, and I couldn’t wait to get home so I could tell my mother.
When I bounded through the door, eager to bring the good news to my mother, I heard a screech.
“Come here! Quick!” my mother shouted.
I ran into the kitchen and saw my mother trying to put my two-year-old sister on the kitchen table.
“Hurry,” Mom continued, motioning me over to the table. “I need you to hold her down while I try to get this rubber plug out of her nose!”
I grabbed my young sister’s thrashing hands while Mom tried to dislodge the plug with a pair of tweezers.
“How’d she get a …” I started to ask above my sister’s screams.
“Don’t ask questions,” Mom interrupted. “Just hold her still, please!”
Later, with the rubber plug operation finally completed, I started to tell Mom about my school project.
Suddenly, my kindergarten-age sister came crashing through the front door screaming at the top of her lungs.
“I’m bleeding to death! I’m bleeding to death!” she shouted all the way into the kitchen. She walked into the kitchen bleeding from two big holes in her long stockings.
Then the baby started crying from downstairs.
“Will you go take care of the baby while I clean your sister up?” Mom asked as she carried my sister upstairs to the bathroom.
I slowly walked downstairs and into my baby sister’s room. She stopped crying as soon as she saw me and started to jump up and down in her crib, coaxing me to pick her up.
She wrapped her pudgy arms around my neck as I carried her to the family room and sat her down on the couch. I changed her pants and tickled her, and she started to laugh. As I reached down to pick up a toy for her to play with, she rolled off the couch and onto the hard floor.
She was screaming when I picked her up and started to run upstairs with her. A lump was already starting to swell on the back of her head.
“What did you do?” Mom asked taking the baby from me. “Can’t you be more responsible?”
I ran out of the room sobbing and went downstairs to the furnace room.
When I heard the baby stop crying, I crept out of the furnace room and started to go upstairs.
Just then I heard Dad come through the front door and greet Mom with, “Well, how’s your day been, dear?”
Mom collapsed into Dad’s arms and said, “Well, Grant shaved off all his hair. He said he was afraid that he was starting to look too much like the establishment. Diane said she’s never going to school again because her boyfriend told her she was too fat. Mary’s got the flu or something. Linda thinks I’m the most terrible Mom in the world because I won’t let her wear her dresses as short as all the other girls. Joy fell down and skinned both her knees on the way home from school. Dawnene ran outside without any clothes on and danced around in the front yard until the neighbor boys called and told me what our three-year-old was doing. Lori got a rubber plug stuck in her nose, and Janene let Lisa fall off the couch and bump her head.”
“Sorry I asked,” Dad said as he ran upstairs. “I’ve got to get packed and ready to go. My plane leaves in an hour.”
I went back downstairs to the furnace room. It was the only place in the whole house where I could be alone. I had fixed myself a little desk and chair and called the room my “laboratory.”
Suddenly I heard Dad’s voice booming through the heat duct, “Who’s been using my razor?”
I suddenly remembered leaving Dad’s razor in the girls’ bathroom again.
“You’d have to get the black plague to even get noticed around here,” I mumbled to myself as I slid my thumb over the cover of my social studies unit that I was so proud of.
Then I remembered a conversation I had had with a girl friend earlier that day. She told me that if you ate three tablespoons of mustard, it would make you throw up for sure.
Suddenly, throwing up seemed like a good way to get a little attention and forgiveness at the same time. Mom would forgive me for letting the baby fall off the couch, and Dad would forgive me for sneaking his razor again.
Just then I heard Mom call, “Time for dinner. Come and get it or I’ll throw it out.”
All the kids ran like a stampede for the kitchen. I quietly slipped into my place at the table while Dad gulped a glass of milk.
“Got to go. See you Saturday,” he said as he pecked Mom on the cheek and left.
Two of my sisters were giggling about Grant’s bald head until he gave them both an elbow. Diane wouldn’t touch her food because she was suddenly on a diet. Mom asked me to run a tray of food up to Mary. Linda was still sulking about her old-fashioned wardrobe. Lori started to stuff a bean up her nose just as the baby kicked over my glass of milk, and Dawnene started crying because she wanted to have two bandages on her knees like Joy.
Later, after I’d finished doing the mountain of dishes, I opened the refrigerator door and stared at the mustard. I looked around to see if anybody was watching, then quickly pulled a tablespoon out of the kitchen drawer and plunged it into the jar of yellow goo.
I brought the spoon up to my nose and turned away at the smell. Then I held my nose with one hand and shoved the spoon in with the other. That was quickly followed by two more heaping spoonfuls.
I quickly put the jar back in the refrigerator and rinsed the spoon off in the sink as a chill ran up my spine. Then I waited by the sink for something to happen. I waited and waited but still nothing.
Two of my sisters ran into the kitchen and asked me what I was doing.
“I don’t feel well,” I said, trying to act a little greenish.
“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with you,” they taunted as they skipped back out the door.
I walked back down to my furnace room and waited again. But nothing happened.
I ate three tablespoons of mustard for nothing, I thought. I felt so embarrassed at myself that I went upstairs and went to bed early so I could avoid everybody.
As I lay in bed, I felt like I did the night I jumped off the top bunk bed because my Sunday School teacher told me you could do anything if you had enough faith. Well, I wanted to fly really bad. I refused to tell anybody in the family where my goose egg came from.
Later, Mom tiptoed into the bedroom I shared with three sisters and found me rolled up in a ball underneath a pile of quilts in my bed.
“Are you feeling all right?” she asked as she tucked the blankets around me. “Joy said you were feeling sick.”
“I’m feeling fine,” I said avoiding her eyes.
“You sure did a nice job on the dishes,” Mom continued. “I saw your schoolwork too. You got an A plus. That’s wonderful, honey. I know you’ve been working hard on that project.”
I sat up in bed feeling a lot better.
“I didn’t mean to shout at you about the baby,” Mom continued. “You’re always so responsible with your younger sisters. I’m sure it was just an accident. It’s happened to me before too.”
“Really?” I said. “I’m the one that took Dad’s razor too, Mom. I know I’m not supposed to use it, but Mary and Diane always lose mine.”
“I’ve borrowed Dad’s razor without asking a few times myself,” Mom answered.
“Really?” I asked putting my arms around her neck.
I never ate three tablespoons of mustard again.
At that moment I realized that my mother was not only aware of me and my problems, but that she also cared a great deal in a very specific way. She had already experienced many of the things I was going through.
Earlier that evening it had seemed impossible to feel important since I was just one in a crowd, but suddenly I received a sweet assurance that I was not unnoticed and that I was loved.
And there have been other times since that night, times when my solitary struggles have seemed too heavy to bear. There have been times when I have felt lost and alone and not understood, times when I wondered if anyone knew my heart or cared.
Then thoughts of that evening and those three tablespoons of mustard come back. And as I felt assured of my earthly parents’ love that night, though I was only one of many, I also feel assured of my heavenly parents’ love. Even in the vastness of the eternal plan, they know me and they love me and they care. “And not one of them is forgotten before God” (Luke 12:6).

Weeks went by, and in our history class, with the same teacher, Mrs. Protschka, we began to study the ancient civilizations of America.
One night while doing my homework I felt the strongest desire to speak in class again about the Book of Mormon. For a moment I tried to put the thought aside, because I saw no way to do this. Then I knelt in prayer and asked Heavenly Father to grant me an opportunity to do so. After praying, I felt I should again prepare a discourse on the Book of Mormon.
The next day as Mrs. Protschka began class I raised my hand, planning to ask her if I could share some further comments on the Book of Mormon.
But before I could say anything, she looked at me and said, “Yes, Robert. Last night when I was preparing my lesson for today, I suddenly thought of you, and wondered if you wouldn’t have anything else to tell us about the Book of Mormon?”
I presented my speech, this time focusing mainly on Christ’s visit to the ancient Americas. I quoted from a book called Gods,Graves, and Scholars, which relates the legend of the Great White God Quetzalcoatl. The similarity between Christ and this Indian God was obvious. Again, I told my friends and teacher that Christ had indeed visited the people in the Americas; he had indeed taught them the gospel.
At the conclusion of my speech, Mrs. Protschka wrote on the blackboard: “The Book of Mormon is the best theory of how the ancient civilizations of America came to be,” and asked us to write it down in our notebooks. What a triumph! I felt like jumping for joy. God hears and answers prayers. He is indeed a God of miracles. And he knows how to soften the hearts of men for his purposes.

Just before April conference in 1986, our missionary son David wrote home: “President Benson has been in Ohio. He’s pushing the Book of Mormon hard and wants us to use it even more in our missionary work. Our Regional Representative told us he’s going to ask the Church members to read the Book of Mormon daily. You’d better get ahead and start reading now! I’m doing great. I’ve never felt better in my life.”
How those words touched me! It had been 15 years ago that the Book of Mormon became an integral part of David’s life. I had read it to him as he lay in bed, at life’s edge.
“What are you reading, Mommy?” David asked in the faintest whisper of a sound. His delicate face closely matched the color of the snowy pillowcase. Deep red drops of blood, descending from a bottle suspended above, provided a vivid contrast as they dropped through a tube into his motionless white arm.
“The Book of Mormon,” I replied. It helped me through the endless hours of watching my son fight a seemingly insurmountable battle. It was supposed to be minor surgery to correct a small health problem, but the whole procedure had become a nightmare. Face to face with the fragile quality of mortality, I groped for an anchor with eternity.
“Read it to me,” David said.
“But you wouldn’t understand it, David,” I told him. “You’re too young. Later, when you’re well and at home, I’ll read you some stories from the Book of Mormon.”
Again the whispered words, urgent this time. “Please read it to me, Mommy.”
Not knowing what else to do, and not wishing to further upset him, I began in First Nephi: “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents, …” I intended to read a few lines while he drifted off to sleep, and then continue my silent reading. Every time I thought he was asleep, my voice quieted and quit. Then, from the hospital bed, again and again, I heard, “Read it to me.”
And so I read it to him. I read all during the hospital stay, and then at home, where he lay attached to two tubes that drained fluids from his body into bags, one on each leg. Doctors had discovered a congenital defect that gave him only part of one kidney.
I did not read stories from the Book of Mormon. I read from the book itself. One morning, after David’s two sisters had gone to school and his two little brothers were sleeping, we sat together reading as usual. I stopped and looked down at him. “David, do you understand this?”
His blue eyes looked thoughtfully into mine. “Not all. But some of it.”
When I continued reading he stopped me and said, “Mother, kneel down.” Startled by the request, I simply knelt, feeling his small body at my side. Then, totally trusting, he said, “Now pray for me. Pray that I will understand the Book of Mormon.”
By the time we finished the book, David had turned five and was able to recognize and read many of the words on his own. Eventually he read alone. His health improved and, by the time he was baptized, he had read the whole thing by himself more than once. By the time he was ordained a deacon, he was eagerly preparing for a mission.
But during his sophomore year in high school, his physical condition worsened. His one remaining kidney deteriorated rapidly, and a transplant became necessary to save his life. His father was the donor. The eve of the surgery brought our ward members together in prayer and fasting. David was the happiest one present. “I don’t know why everyone is so worried,” he said. “This just means that I can make serious plans for my mission.” And by this time, daily reading of the Book of Mormon had become a habit that sustained him through his recovery.

“How long are you going to keep me?” Lily asked.
My mother looked down at Lily’s smooth, dark face and replied, “You’re a part of our family now. I’m going to keep you forever.”
Lily’s puzzled expression gave away her confusion, so my mother tried again. “I’m going to keep you until tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day. And every day, because I’m your mom forever.”
Our family adopted four-year-old Lily while we were living in Hong Kong. At least once a day for three years Lily would ask, “How long are you going to keep me?”
Slowly this repeated question transformed into a game for our family. Each member of our family gave a different answer. “As high as you can count—I’m going to keep you longer than that” and “I’m going to keep you for a million days times infinity” were a couple of Lily’s favorite responses.
Every day in Hong Kong Lily saw faces like her own. But when our family moved back to the United States, she went weeks without seeing another person with her same sleek black hair and deep brown eyes. Once while in the store, Lily saw a Hispanic woman and excitedly asked, “Mom, is she Chinese?”
Lily had her own system of deciding who was Chinese. She decided our mother, who has dark brown hair, was Chinese because, as Lily put it, “Your hair is like mine.” When my skin became brown in the sun, Lily would say, “You’re kind of Chinese because your skin is like mine.” Lily looked for and found ways each member of our family was like her.
Although Lily does not look like any other member of our family, she is sealed to my parents by the same authority that I am. I know that Heavenly Father has restored priesthood power to the earth and that this power can bind families together for eternity. I am so grateful for that power and my opportunity to be with my family—my whole family—together forever.

I began with a story of diminishing cornmeal. May I conclude with another. Amidst the terrible hostilities in Missouri that would put the Prophet in Liberty Jail and see thousands of Latter-day Saints driven from their homes, Sister Drusilla Hendricks and her invalid husband, James, who had been shot by enemies of the Church in the Battle of Crooked River, arrived with their children at a hastily shaped dugout in Quincy, Illinois, to live out the spring of that harrowing year.

Within two weeks the Hendrickses were on the verge of starvation, having only one spoonful of sugar and a saucerful of cornmeal remaining in their possession. In the great tradition of LDS women, Drusilla made mush out of it for James and the children, thus stretching its contents as far as she could make it go. When that small offering was consumed by her famished family, she washed everything, cleaned their little dugout as thoroughly as she could, and quietly waited to die.

Not long thereafter the sound of a wagon brought Drusilla to her feet. It was their neighbor Reuben Allred. He said he had a feeling they were out of food, so on his way into town he’d had a sack of grain ground into meal for them.

Shortly thereafter Alexander Williams arrived with two bushels of meal on his shoulder. He told Drusilla that he’d been extremely busy but the Spirit had whispered to him that “Brother Hendricks’ family is suffering, so I dropped everything and came [running].”

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

Last year a dear family friend passed away. Lucile was 89 years old and had been a widow for more than 20 years. She was not a rich woman, she was not famous, and most of the world knew nothing of her passing. But her family knew. Her neighbors knew. The members of her ward knew. For all who had experienced her love, her death had left the world a diminished place. During her years as a widow, Lucile had endured difficult challenges, including the death of a beloved grandson and infirmities brought on by age. But Lucile continued to nourish everyone she knew with her spirit, with her baked goods, with her quilts and afghans, with her humor and goodwill. And she loved to work in the temple. One spring day in 1981, she wrote in her journal: “This morning at 3:30 a.m., as I was walking up the path to the temple, I watched the flag gently blowing in the breeze and looked at the beautiful sky and thought how happy I was to be there. I felt sad for all the people who [were] sleeping and missing the awakening of a beautiful day.”

Most of us don’t think the world is “awakening” at 3:30 in the morning, and we’re perfectly happy to roll over in bed about then and allow Lucile to feel sorry for us. But what an attitude! Only a flow of goodness from within could explain it. Did she possess this purity of spirit at 15, at 25, or even 55? I don’t know. In most cases, it probably takes a lifetime of listening to the Holy Ghost before we know God’s voice so well and before we trust in the living waters enough to taste them throughout the entire day—especially a day that begins at 3:30 a.m. But I believe the living waters sustained Lucile during those long years when she might have given way to self-pity, and her life, her spirit, became nourishment to everyone she knew.

All the young women in my ward were happily splashing in the swimming pool when a man from New York came over to the pool and asked us what we were all doing there.
As soon as he heard the word church, he let us know that he did not believe in any churches. His dad was a preacher and was the “meanest man alive.” That New Yorker was the angriest person I had ever met. I got out of the water and went off to be by myself. I knelt down and said a little prayer that I would be able to say something to Mr. New York that would be meaningful to him and would help him overcome his anger.
When I came back, it was obvious nothing had changed. Mr. New York was still talking in angry tones about how there couldn’t possibly be a God. “If there was, He wouldn’t have let my wife and daughter die,” he said. The words came to me without my even thinking: “You can be sealed to your wife and daughter in the temple,” I said.
Mr. New York stopped and asked me to repeat what I had just said. After I did, there was silence. His countenance softened and his voice became calm. He asked about the temple and how he could be sealed to his family. I was able to tell him everything I had learned about temples. I don’t know what happened to him, but my little prayer was answered in a big way!
Twila H., Arizona, USA

When the temple was completed, it was the most beautiful building for miles around. Inside were two curved stairways and beautiful wood moldings and railings. But the Kirtland Temple will be remembered forever not for its beauty but for the marvelous events that took place there.
On Sunday, 27 March 1836, hundreds of Latter-day Saints came to Kirtland for the dedication. The doors opened at 8:00 A.M., and 1,000 people entered. Hundreds more who had also worked and sacrificed for the building of the temple were left outside. Seeing their disappointment, Joseph Smith decided to repeat the dedication on Thursday.
The choir opened the meeting; then President Sidney Rigdon spoke for two and a half hours. After a brief intermission, the officers of the Church were sustained. Then the Prophet offered the dedicatory prayer, given to him by revelation. This prayer is now section 109 of the Doctrine and Covenants [D&C 109]. After the prayer, the choir sang “The Spirit of God,” which had been written specifically for the dedication.
The congregation ended the seven-hour service by standing and giving the sacred Hosanna Shout. Sister Eliza R. Snow said that it was given “with such power as seemed almost sufficient to raise the roof from the building.”
That evening more than 400 priesthood bearers again met in the temple, and while Elder George A. Smith was speaking, “a noise was heard like the sound of a rushing mighty wind, which filled the Temple, and all the congregation simultaneously arose, being moved upon by an invisible power.” Many members began to speak in tongues and to prophesy. Others saw glorious visions, including angels filling the temple.
People living nearby heard the sound, too, and ran to see what was happening. As they approached, they beheld a pillar of fire resting upon the temple, saw angels hovering over the temple, and heard heavenly singing.
Many other spiritual manifestations took place in the temple that year. Prescindia Huntington described how a little girl came to her door during one meeting and called out in excitement, “The meeting is on top of the meeting house!” Prescindia looked outside and saw angels walking back and forth on the temple. Many children in Kirtland saw the angels and remembered that glorious sight the rest of their lives.

Like Tino, Quim served a mission in Portugal. When Harold Hillam, president of the Portugal Lisbon Mission, told Quim, “Brother Moreira, you’re going to be a missionary,” Quim replied: “How? I have no money, my parents aren’t members, and I’ll have to quit my studies.” But the mission president insisted that he must be prepared to go on a mission in a few months, and Quim continued to pray, asking the Lord how it could be done.
One night, in a dream, he saw himself dressed as a missionary, leaving home with his suitcases, and he awoke knowing that it would happen. Financial help was found through the Church, and Joaquim Moreira left school to accept the call. That is a very important decision in Portugal, for it is difficult to gain readmission to a university.