Gospel Story Finder

Red Moon was searching for duck eggs among the marsh reeds when she found the leather pouch. She would have known it was a white man’s bag even if she had not already seen the hoof marks of a shod horse—a hard-running horse, too, from the depth of the tracks. But they were three days old so she was not afraid.
The bag was as stiff as wood, not soft and pliable like Indian leather. Red Moon found a dry knoll, carefully laid the eggs on soft grass, and sat down to examine her find. She traced the letters USC with her finger, thinking it was only a strange design.
The United States Cavalry messenger’s pouch was closed with a heavy metal buckle and strap. The Indian girl’s eyes sparkled with excitement as her nimble fingers struggled with the stiff leather. She hoped the bag would contain colorful glass beads or perhaps some red or blue lengths of ribbon.
Red Moon sighed with disappointment when only letters and dispatches slid out. She turned the pouch upside down and shook it, but there was nothing more.
Oh, well. It will make a nice carrier for my eggs, she decided with a sigh. She packed the large eggs between layers of grass, slung the strap over her shoulder, and started home.
Red Moon did not know it, but among the scattered papers she left behind was one very important message concerning her tribe. It was a dispatch from Washington, ordering that the peaceful Indians be permitted to remain on their land.
The girl was puzzled and uneasy when she again found the tracks of the white man’s horse. Is he sick or perhaps crazed from the sun? she wondered. She had already crossed his trail several times. He had backtracked and ridden in circles. Not even a white man could be that lost! she thought.
“The pouch! He must have crossed back and forth searching for it,” Red Moon murmured. “But he could easily make another bag.” It must be the paper packets with the strange squiggly marks that he’s so anxious to find, she thought.
It was a long way back to the marsh, but the girl retraced her steps. She gathered up the loose papers and tucked them into her blouse. It wasn’t likely that she would ever meet the man or be able to return them, but she had saved them from being blown into the water and destroyed.
Her heart grew heavy as she approached her village. The tribe would be leaving this beautiful site soon, and not for just a hunting season. This time they would never return! Soldiers had come. They said her people must go farther north than they had ever been and remain there. It was a desolate place where snows were deep and summers short.
Red Moon disliked cold weather. She could not understand why her people were being forced to leave their land. Her tribe had never preyed on wagon trains nor fought with the white soldiers. It was Black Buffalo and his braves from a neighboring tribe who were so troublesome. But the soldiers could not seem to distinguish one red man from another. The powerful white chief had decreed that all the tribes would be moved. It was tragic and unfair for all to be punished when so few were guilty.
An air of gloom and sorrow hung like a cloud over the little settlement of tepees along a sparkling brook. The Indian girl sighed and went directly to her family’s wigwam. No one was there so she put the eggs in a basket. Then she tucked the papers in the pouch, put it under her sleeping robe, and forgot about them.
A week later soldiers rode into the village. The officer in charge told Chief Wetaug to prepare to move his people. The chief’s appeal to stay here had not been answered. The tall white man inquired about a leather bag that had been lost by one of his messengers.
“The pouch! The one I found!” Red Moon gasped from her hiding place behind the chief’s lodge. He can’t have it! she decided. Why should I return it? The white soldiers are cruel. They’re driving us from our land, so I owe them no favors.
But her conscience bothered her as the white officer’s words were translated. The pouch did not belong to her. Keeping it would be the same as stealing it. And besides, some of the papers were letters to lonely soldiers who had not seen their families for one or two years.
Red Moon’s heart hammered with dread as she walked forward with the leather pouch and laid it on the buffalo robe of the surprised chief. Then she turned and ran away into the trees, afraid of the soldiers’ long guns and clanking swords.
It was the throbbing drums and dancing that drew Red Moon back to her rejoicing village. The officer had gone through the bag and discovered the dispatch that would allow them to remain free on their land. Only Black Buffalo’s tribe would be moved.
Red Moon shuddered as she thought how close, out of spite, she had come to keeping the pouch. If she had not returned it, her people would have been relocated in the north by the time another message of reprieve could be sent.
Red Moon would remember the lost pouch all her life!

As a leader in the Philippines, I was able to help in the planning and building of the Manila Philippines Temple. The Lord was watching over its construction. The day before the groundbreaking, a typhoon approached Manila and we feared that we would not be able to proceed. That evening at a mission conference, a missionary prayed for the weather to clear so that the groundbreaking could continue. During the night, the typhoon changed direction, and we were able to proceed the next day.

I was 14 and had just moved to a new school with very few members. I had lived in a town made up mostly of LDS residents, so living in a place where I was the minority was a whole new experience. I didn’t quite know how to take it in. I was really struggling to find where I belonged while still upholding my standards.
After one extremely trying day, I fell to my knees in prayer, pleading for comfort and support. Then a calm feeling came over me. I felt arms embrace me as if someone were holding me gently. It was like my dad was giving me a big hug, only the warmth went all the way through. I knew without a doubt that the Lord felt my pain and was there to reassure me that my struggles were known. That’s something I will always keep with me in times of pain.

Since receiving her patriarchal blessing, sharing the gospel with family and relatives has always been on my mom’s mind. One day, she was talking to my sister, Jiyon, about it and asked what she could do to share the gospel with relatives. My sister’s answer was funny yet profound, “Wait until they all die.” We are not waiting for every relative to die, but we are doing a lot of work for the dead.

My mom reads the records that are written in Chinese characters and writes them on a separate piece of paper. By 2007, my mom had hundreds of sheets written, which meant tens of thousands of names waiting to be entered. Back then, GEDCOM files were made first. Then, those files were sent to a Korean sister, Sister Seong, who worked in the Family History Center to upload to the Church genealogy system. I started feeling I needed to do genealogy and enter those names into the GEDCOM system. My sister even bought me a computer to do that, but I didn’t jump right into it. Apparently, my ancestors were getting impatient. In the summer of 2007, I was laid off from my job. I was angry for less than a second. Then a clear and strong impression came, "Perfect! I can do genealogy!" I could never quit a job without lining up a new job because my mom would bury me alive. However, by divine intervention, I got six months of uninterrupted time to do genealogy. I knew this time was given to me to enter those names of my ancestors. The first couple of days, I was getting the feel of how long it would take to enter those names. I calculated if I entered about 1,000 names a day, I could finish it in six months. I prayed and asked Heavenly Father that I would not get a job before I finished entering the names. I did this every day. I woke up and entered the names. It was like a full-time job. Those six months were the most spiritual and happiest time in my life, even more spiritual than being a missionary or an MTC teacher. By the time I finished, it took a little under six months. A week after I finished, I got a job offer. Again, in the Lord’s mysterious way, He turned an unpleasant situation into a life-changing experience. It was a time of perspective shift.

Years ago my mother was killed in a car accident involving a drunk driver. In shock I flew to my parents’ home and helped plan the funeral with my siblings and injured father.
Soon after returning home I was called to serve as the Primary music leader. While I prepared, my emotions seemed blocked, and I began to doubt my abilities. “A Primary music leader needs to be enthusiastic and cheerful,” I thought to myself. I felt only sorrow. I wanted to encourage the children, but I felt I would let them down. My heart ached with grief. I wondered if I would ever be happy again—let alone want to sing.
The day before I began serving in my new calling, my husband and I attended a temple session with friends who were being sealed. Before the session began, we were invited to the temple’s chapel for an opening hymn, prayer, and remarks by a temple official. As we sang “How Gentle God’s Commands” (Hymns, no. 125), I couldn’t help noticing the hymn’s lyrics:
Why should this anxious load
Press down your weary mind?
Haste to your Heav’nly Father’s throne
And sweet refreshment find.
I felt that I had an “anxious load” and realized that there, in His holy temple, I was finding “sweet refreshment.” In the fourth verse I heard a direct message for me:
His goodness stands approved,
Unchanged from day to day;
I’ll drop my burden at his feet
And bear a song away.
At that moment I knew that I could fulfill any calling and that I could feel joy, even though I missed my mother. And because I knew that my Savior carried my burden, I could sing!
Sheri Stratford Erickson, Idaho, USA

During the next few months, I spent a lot of time at home and had plenty of time to think. I grieved for the loss of the person I thought I would be in my later years. I grieved for the future that my wife and I had previously envisioned. I endured days of discouragement. I prayed a lot as my symptoms grew worse. My need to find positive ways of coping increased.
Then the Lord provided an unexpected source of support. My wife and I were called to be our ward’s welfare and self-reliance specialists. As part of our calling, we facilitated a group meeting on emotional resilience. I had not thought about needing the class personally. However, by the end of the first meeting, I thought, “Wow! This is for me!” We talked about avoiding negative thought patterns, being positive, controlling our feelings. It gave me some practical tools that, over time, helped me—and my wife as well—to develop a healthy attitude toward my disease.

Karen said she thought writing to her parents and sharing her experiences at the conference with them was a good idea. They aren’t members of the Church, and she wanted to share some of her enjoyment with them. She was first introduced to the Church by her next-door neighbors, who invited her to a home evening, then to worship services. “Now I go to church every Sunday, even though I’m not a member yet,” she said. “I do my seminary, too. Having friends who are members has given me a place to turn for support.”

Tashia Wood, from the Lazona Ward, was paired with a 10-year-old girl named Angelica. Tashia, 16, was nervous at first, but soon discovered that she had more in common with Angelica than she thought. “It was really cool because they were just like us,” Tashia said. “They just wanted to have fun.”
After Angelica won a prize at one game, she gave it to Tashia and said, “I want you to have this because I don’t want you to forget me.”
“She wasn’t selfish at all,” Tashia said. “She taught me not to take for granted what I have, because I have a lot of stuff and I’m usually whining about things I can’t have. Instead she gave to me, and she hardly has anything. She usually doesn’t even have a home to go to at night.”

Lindsay felt nervous as she looked around the hospital room. She knew that soon someone would come to take her to the operating room for surgery. Mom and Dad stood close to her bed.
A few days before, Lindsay’s family had had a special family home evening. Mom gave a lesson about priesthood blessings. Then each member of the family told about a time when he or she was blessed by the power of the priesthood. Lindsay felt peaceful and happy as she listened to their testimonies. Mom explained that the peaceful feeling was the Holy Ghost telling Lindsay that what she was hearing was true.
At the end of the lesson, Lindsay’s older brother, who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, put a drop of consecrated oil on her head and said a prayer. Then Dad gave her a wonderful blessing. He said that Heavenly Father knew and loved her. He said that the doctors would be blessed in their work and that the surgery would go well. He also promised that Lindsay would have a special feeling of comfort and peace that would replace her fears.
Waiting in the hospital, Lindsay tried to be brave, but tears slowly leaked from the corners of her eyes. Two men in hospital clothes came into her room and said it was time for the surgery. They were kind as they tried to cheer her up, but still Lindsay’s fear did not go away.
Lindsay hugged Mom and Dad from her bed. Then one of the men pulled up the railing on her bed so she would be safe as they wheeled her down the hall. As Lindsay turned to see what he was doing, she saw a familiar silver ring on his finger. A warm, peaceful feeling filled her heart as she saw the letters CTR on the ring. Lindsay smiled as her fears slipped away. She knew that everything was going to be fine.

Illustrated by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
When Wilford was 17 years old, his father arranged for him to continue going to school.
Wilford: But Father, I can’t afford to attend school in West Hartford!
Father: If you do chores for my friend, he will pay your room and board.
Wilford went to school but became terribly homesick.
Wilford: I miss my family, and I want to return home!
In order to avoid feeling homesick, Wilford decided that he needed to stay busy by focusing more on his studies. He grew to love history and started reading every history book he could get his hands on.
One day Wilford picked up the Bible and started to read it. Although he began reading it to learn about Christian history, he gained a testimony that the Bible was the word of God.
Wilford: I resolve to diligently seek the Lord, follow the Holy Spirit, and do the will of God as far as I can learn it!
Wilford talked to different priests and ministers, asking them questions and comparing what they said to what was said in the Bible. Although most of the church leaders were nice, he did not feel that any of the churches were correct.
Wilford: Reverend, why are some people baptized as infants? Jesus and His disciples were baptized after believing in the gospel.
When he was 24 years old, he prayed one night and felt prompted to read the Bible. He opened it randomly to Isaiah 56:1.
Wilford: “For my salvation is near to come, and my righteousness to be revealed.” I wonder if that means I will soon learn of the true gospel.
Within two years of this inspiration, Wilford had moved to New York, learned about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and been baptized. The Lord had answered his prayers!

At first I didn’t want to serve a mission. I thought there were many other things I could do during this time, like going to college or working hard to buy a car. But then I heard a talk from our prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, where he talked about faith and mentioned missionary service. I thought about how I have a knowledge of the gospel only because two missionaries decided to serve. So I talked to my bishop about going on a mission.
I realized that I needed to work to pay for my mission, but finding work during the pandemic was hard. One day I was feeling stressed about earning money. I decided to pray to God. As I pondered, the words “Sell bottled water” came to my mind. The impression was so strong! In Brazil, people often sell treats or drinks at stoplights. I immediately had lots of questions about selling water, but I felt inspired about how to do it. I did some research and decided to sell water in a more professional way.
It was hard to sell water, because it was extremely hot. The first day we started working, it was a brutal 100 degrees Fahrenheit (38 degrees Celsius) and extremely humid, and we couldn’t stay for too long under the umbrella because we were keeping the coolers under it. That day, we worked for five hours nonstop under the burning hot sun. During all those hours I kept thinking, “This is for my goal. I am going on a mission!” Deep inside I knew the Lord was with me and was going to protect me and help me through.
I am the only member of the Church in my family, so what motivates me is my faith in Jesus Christ. I know that even though I am alone in some ways, He is there for me. And if we do what He asks, trusting in Him, He will help us get where we need to be.
Even though we may have many storms in life, I know that I can choose to strengthen my faith in tribulations. Jesus Christ has the power to help me come closer to Him and witness miracles that I would never have witnessed without tribulation. If I follow Him and repent of my mistakes, all my sacrifices will be for a great purpose, and that brings me peace.
Ítalo O., Brazil
Since writing this article, Ítalo has begun serving in the Ecuador Guayaquil South Mission.

I think of dear Sister Amy Gent, whom I was privileged to visit for several years as branch president, home teacher, and friend. The first time I visited her, she was 87 years of age. Widowed twice, she was the only member of the Church in her extended family. Was she lonely? Never!

She read the scriptures every day. Once she asked me to bring her some missionary tracts, which I thought were to vary her reading. I gave them to her saying, “You will enjoy reading these, Sister Gent.”

“Oh, they are not for me,” she replied. “I visit an old lady, and I want to share the gospel with her!”

Reaching out, helping, serving, this is the way we overcome the fear of loneliness.

We had barely arrived in our motel room when the phone rang. I knew it would be bad news about Jodi, my nine-month-old sister. She had been in a coma since birth and required round-the-clock monitoring and special tubal feedings. We had left Jodi temporarily at a care center so our family could take a much-needed vacation.
I answered the phone. My grandpa was on the line. His voice was firm: “Get your dad.”
Their conversation ended quickly. My fears were confirmed. Jodi had died.
The next day, after we had arrived home, I breathed a sigh of relief. The school bus was at the top of the street. My friends would be coming. At last I would have somebody my own age to share my pain.
However, as I stood in my driveway waiting for my friends, something strange happened. It was almost as if I had become invisible. I watched as my friends crossed to the other side of the street and continued talking with one another. They didn’t even look at me.
The next morning my friends didn’t pick me up as they usually did. “That’s understandable,” I thought. They probably knew I wasn’t going to school because of funeral planning. But they didn’t come the next day or the next or the next. They didn’t wait for me after school either.
During this time my family received lots of support from the Relief Society and other ward members. However, chicken casserole did little to soothe my 13-year-old aching heart. When I returned to Mutual, my adviser gave a lesson on life after death. I started crying. My adviser looked down and continued reading. My classmates stared ahead. I sobbed. How I wished somebody would have cried with me or put her arms around me.
Looking back on these events, I realize that my friends were not cruel and uncaring. They just didn’t know how to respond to my pain. They assumed that I wanted to be left alone to grieve and, since I was in mourning, I would not want to do anything fun.

Jessica also likes to read about recipes. She logs on to the Internet and types in the kind of food she wants to make and searches for recipes. She likes to bake cookies and cakes. She likes simple recipes the best—ones that don’t have too many ingredients. Jessica has already planned on baking her own chocolate birthday cake. She found a recipe that looks wonderful, with not too many ingredients.
Also on the Internet, Jessica found a recipe for gingersnaps. “It turned out that the recipe was 128 years old. It was created just after the Civil War. Don’t you think that’s interesting?” she asks.
The cookies tasted great, but Jessica couldn’t resist trying a little experiment. She used food coloring to make the cookies green. Then she put some orange food coloring in some granulated sugar and shook it, turning all the sugar bright orange. Then she sprinkled the orange sugar on the green cookies. “I took three cookies to school,” Jessica says, “but no one would try them except for the teacher.”

The story of Lorenzo Odone, a six-year-old boy who developed adrenoleukodystrophy (ALD), a rare fatal genetic disease, powerfully portrays the connection between family and questions of the heart.

The story opens when Lorenzo begins having trouble at school. Teachers meet with Lorenzo’s parents, Michaela and Augusto, and explain that Lorenzo is often unresponsive in the classroom and should be placed in a special education program. Unconvinced that Lorenzo has a problem, the Odones argue that with the proper attention, Lorenzo will do fine in the regular classroom. But then Michaela notices some of the behavior problems at home. Lorenzo begins having accidents around the house, and when he plays outside with his friends, he seems to have difficulty at times controlling his arms and legs.

The Odones begin to worry that something is seriously wrong with their child, but when they take Lorenzo in for a medical examination, the physicians are unable to identify the problem. After a series of frustrating visits to the hospital, Michaela and Augusto finally find a physician who diagnoses Lorenzo’s disease as ALD, a disease that strips away the myelin—the insulating tissue that surrounds the nerve endings. The doctor explains that there is no cure for the disease, that the medical profession is just beginning to understand what it is. The Odones plead with the doctor; they tell him that they will take Lorenzo anywhere for special treatment—anywhere they can find someone who is working on a cure. But the physician cannot help them. He looks over his desk at them and simply shakes his head, indicating that neither he nor anyone else can provide the help Lorenzo needs.

The next day Augusto goes to the local library and begins reading about ALD. He finds that the disease often leads to death within two years of diagnosis and that before the child dies, he gradually loses control of bodily functions, often experiencing blindness, deafness, and complete loss of speech and mobility. Augusto and Michaela cry out for help; they begin searching for answers to their son’s problem. They seek help from God, as well as from the medical profession.

The Odones know that their time is short. They know that if they do not respond quickly, Lorenzo will die. As they continue to study the disease, they find that ALD makes it impossible for the body to digest fatty acids and that the rise in fatty-acid levels gradually destroys not only the body’s myelin but all of the vital organs. The Odones’ question becomes “How can we lower Lorenzo’s levels of fatty acids?” After months of intensive study and personal prayer, they light upon the idea of using oleic acid, an extract from olive oil. When they administer the oleic acid to Lorenzo, they find that his fatty-acid levels indeed decrease, but the decrease plateaus at the halfway mark.

They watch in anguish as Lorenzo’s condition deteriorates. Michaela, his mother, devotes herself so completely to his care that she begins to forget her own physical needs. At a point of deep discouragement, Augusto convinces Michaela that she must continue on and that they must extend their search for a cure to Lorenzo’s illness.

Augusto returns to the library, studying all the scientific literature he can find on long-chain fatty acids. His search is intense; he thinks about Lorenzo’s problem day and night. When his research fails to yield what he is looking for, he becomes frustrated and knows that he needs help from others who are seeking a cure for ALD. He and Michaela begin working with a medical researcher who is conducting studies on ALD; they appreciate his help but do not believe that he is bold enough to try new approaches. Augusto returns to the library again and again; the librarian becomes an important resource for Augusto, supplying him with scientific studies on long-chain fatty acids. Augusto begins building models of the fatty acids so that he can visualize what is happening inside Lorenzo’s body.

After months of research, Augusto hypothesizes that an extract from rapeseed oil might be effective at reducing Lorenzo’s fatty acids to normal levels. But then he finds that this oil is not approved for human consumption in the U.S., so he is unable to convince an American firm to produce the substance for him. Finally, he finds a chemist in England who agrees to help him. He is close to retirement but agrees to extract the substance from rapeseed oil so that Augusto can try it with Lorenzo. When the Odones receive the oil from the British chemist, Lorenzo’s condition has already deteriorated significantly. They try the oil nonetheless and find that it indeed reduces Lorenzo’s fatty acids to normal levels.

The next morning the Godfreys wanted to try to find some valuables, even though pieces of their home were spread over 3 miles (5 km) or more and pictures of the Godfrey children were later found 100 miles (160 km) away. Before they started searching, Brother Godfrey offered a prayer that they would be able to find some specific items, namely his and his wife’s wedding rings, their wallets, scriptures, a journal, and a diabetic blood tester.
After 30 minutes of searching, a counselor in the stake presidency found the Godreys’ rings under some insulation. Fifteen minutes later their wallets turned up, fully intact with licenses and contents inside. Then the blood tester, the journal, and the scriptures were found.
“All that stuff is replaceable, but I think the reason we found them was to build everyone’s testimony of prayer,” Brother Godfrey said.

For about five years I suffered from a condition called hemifacial muscle spasms (HFS) which resulted in severe migraines, pain to my right side of my face, and muscle distortion and spasms. At first the spasms started as a flutter to my right eye but soon progressively moved down my face, cheek, mouth, and then through my neck and shoulder. Movement of my face or mouth and stressful or high-energy situations would trigger my spasms which did not let up for several hours. Sometimes spasms would continue through the night while sleeping. Imagine having your eyelid rapidly open and close all day and night! My face was constantly tired and painful. Simple things like smiling, looking people in the eye, being in front of others, teaching, reading, singing, were challenges for me. As a teacher with an outgoing personality I had to stand up every day for hours with my face, mouth, and shoulder spasming. Every day I’d pray to have courage to teach and look people in the eye. When my spasms would get really bad, I would use my hand to cover that portion of my face as I felt very self-conscious.

One day, I saw my daughter Keilani, who was three years old, staring at herself in the mirror. She was making a funny expression closing her eyelid and drawing her mouth up and down. I tentatively asked what she was doing and will never forget her response, “Mom, I’m just trying to be beautiful like you!” Through the voice of this small and tiny child, I saw myself in a completely different light. I wasn’t someone who was hideous or ugly, but a person my daughter admired and wanted to be like. From the voice and perspective of a child, who the world might view as “small” and “insignificant,” I was taught to change my perspective and to see true beauty through her eyes.

However, my condition continued to worsen. I tried to find ways to make the spasms stop, but nothing helped. Finally, my doctor recommended MVD brain surgery. I learned of one surgeon in Hawaii who performed this surgery. However, I was unable to schedule an appointment because of the surgeon’s busy schedule.

I had run out of options and I didn’t know what to do. Physically there was nothing I could do to stop the spasms and knowing that the spasms, pain, and headaches would only worsen with time made me feel hopeless. I couldn’t even schedule an appointment with the surgeon! It seemed that I had reached the end of my known path. I worried that God might not have a plan for me, and that this condition would eventually take away my ability to see, eat, and talk.

Yet, I continued to persevere in performing small and simple acts of faith, attending church and the temple, and seeking God’s light. In the solace of the temple, I received much needed comfort and perspective that God loved me, was aware of me, and these physical trials were not a punishment from God but part of God’s plan for me. I saw that God had not forgotten or forsaken me. This experience was part of His divine design, and I needed to patiently endure.

Then the miracle happened. I was asked to give a talk in church! The night before, I had the worst HFS attack, I was up till about 3:00 AM, with no relief of my suffering. When I spoke in church, I shared briefly about my experience the previous night, and talked about how grateful I was to attend church and have the opportunity to speak.

A friend in the congregation heard my challenges. Here’s the miracle…this friend also suffered from HFS and had received the same brain surgery I sought from the very doctor I had been trying to contact for months. She understood my pains, worries, and fears. She told me how much her life improved from the surgery and encouraged me to undergo the procedure. She called the doctor’s office, who contacted me to make an appointment. After meeting the surgeon, he immediately scheduled me for surgery and I was able to have this life-changing operation.

HFS is uncommon with less than in one in 10,000 in the US suffering from this condition. What were the chances of someone with the exact same medical condition, treated by the exact same doctor with the exact same surgery? And she also lived in my small town and attended my ward too! God did not forget me! He loved me and had a beautiful plan for me.

Thankfully, this plan included being healed from my debilitating physical condition. I will never take for granted the ability I have to smile and look people in the eye. Today I am incredibly blessed to have my life back, spasm-free, and full of joy. I am grateful for the ability to see unimpaired or restrained. I am grateful for prayer and priesthood blessings. I am grateful for a loving Savior who knows my pains and carries me through my struggles. I am grateful for the power of perspective and to see my life with new eyes.

The gaunt figure came ambling up the rutted road leading to our slab-sided house on the hill. He was dressed in tattered pants and jacket, and his cap was nothing more than a bill, four heavy seams, and a button on top. His shoes consisted of shoestrings, bits of worn leather, and cardboard.
Poverty was not new to us. Dad worked on a public works program for the county, and we knew what it was to do without. Mom, however, always planted a garden, and it was the garden that helped us survive those long years of the Depression. We never went hungry.
The hobo’s look of uncertainty made me feel sad as I watched him come toward us. Bobby, my oldest brother, had already run to tell Mom, and my two younger brothers just stood there trying to decide whether this bundle of rags was a threat or just a curiosity. As for me, I was impressed that anyone so thin could climb the hill to our house.
Mom came out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind her. With the warmth of an angel, she greeted this stranger with all the dignity and pleasure that one would give a close friend. “You look kind of beat, young man,” she said. “Just step over to the well, and I’ll get you a pan of hot water so that you can wash up.” Pointing to the well, she went back to the house.
We were no different from any of our friends in the community; none of us had running water in our houses. My dad had dug the well years before when he had first built our house, and we took turns drawing water from the well for everything from drinking to bathing and washing clothes.
In a few minutes Mom was back carrying a wash pan, soap, towel, and Dad’s shaving cream and razor. “You’ll feel just like a million dollars, young man, if you get yourself shaved. After you’ve had a bite to eat, I’ll give you a haircut, seeing as how you could certainly use one.” With this declaration, she turned to the task of fixing him breakfast.
The four of us stood wide-eyed and watched the stranger as he washed and combed his hair. Then very carefully he shaved off his long beard with Dad’s razor, leaving his face tanned at the top and white at the bottom. We looked at each other and giggled, but never did he speak to us or we to him. Perhaps he was as puzzled by us as we were of him.
I was second to the oldest child, and the only girl, so I felt that perhaps I should take over the duties of hostess. The smell of hotcakes came drifting from the open door, and even though we had eaten, it was a heavenly smell. The stranger’s eyes shifted to the kitchen door and back to us. Digging my big toe into the dirt, I said, “My mom’s a really good cook. You’ll like her hotcakes.”
The man just nodded and said nothing. Shifting from one foot to the other, he gazed around the yard, taking in the picnic table that my dad had built and the old cookstove sitting in quiet dignity on cement blocks beside the well house.
“Why don’t you sit down,” I said, moving toward him cautiously. I wasn’t sure whether Mom intended for this bundle of rags to come into the house or not, but I felt that good manners forced me to say something.
Again he nodded. Moving to the table, he threw his long, thin legs over the seat and collapsed like a deflated inner tube.
With a flourish of pot holders and warming pan, Mom pushed open the screen door with her shoulder. She carried a stack of hotcakes, homemade syrup, and butter and set them on the table. She turned to me. “Sissy, run into the house and get this hungry young man a plate and a glass. And bring the pitcher of milk while you’re at it.” When I returned, she gave the table a last-minute check, then said, “Now, young man, you just dig right into these hotcakes, and you’ll feel better in no time.”
I have never seen food disappear so fast in my life! He was so hungry that it made me want to cry. I was thirteen years old, and I had never been hungry a day in my life. Most of the time our food was plain, but we always had plenty to eat.
As fast as the hotcakes were eaten, Mom put more onto his plate. I poured milk into his glass as fast as it vanished down his throat. At last he stood up and wiped his mouth with his ragged sleeve. “How can I thank you, ma’am?” he asked as he backed away from the table. “I’d be glad to chop some wood for you to pay for my meal—or whatever else you could find for me to do.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, young man, we’ll talk about that after I give you a haircut.” Mom smiled at him, then sailed into the house for her clippers and shears. Long hair was not something that she could abide on a man. It was an absolute sign of sinful neglect, and getting it cut neatly was your first step on the road to salvation, according to her. Mom was sure that the eleventh commandment was—or should have been—“Thou shalt be clean, with hair trimmed.” In no time at all, the young man was seated under the big old weeping willow tree, having his hair expertly cut.
There was something about my mom that made you feel right at home. She visited with the stranger, and in no time he was telling us who he was and where he’d come from, just as though he had known us all his life.
His name was Tad Bellows, and he was barely nineteen. He’d been raised in Missouri and had three brothers and four sisters, all younger than himself. His father had died when he was sixteen, and he’d left home, hoping to find work.
As Mom cut his hair, I saw this whole new person emerge. My mind remembered him as he had arrived, and matched it against this clean-cut young man. I wondered if his mother and brothers and sisters missed him. I wondered what it would be like to be a hobo, riding the rails among strangers—hungry, cold, and tired. I knew that some folks were hard on hoboes, thinking that they were just bums and having nothing to do with them. I quickly looked around at the home and family that I loved, and I silently thanked Heavenly Father for them.
“Just a minute, Tad,” Mom said as she shook out the old sheet she had put around him while cutting his hair. “I think that Dad has an extra cap you might as well have. The poor thing that you have has had its day.” She hurried into the house and returned with a cap and one of Dad’s old jackets.
Tad shuffled his feet in embarrassment but took the things that she handed him and headed for the woodpile. All morning we could hear him chopping away, and by noon we figured that he must have cut a stack high enough to build a fort.
At noon Mom called to Tad to eat lunch with us, and he did so gratefully, filling himself as though he had not eaten all those hotcakes just a few hours before.
My brothers and I were all blond and curly headed. We were each just two years apart in age, and during the summer Mom dressed us all in overalls, even me. They were easier to clean and much sturdier than dresses. We never wore shoes in the summer, except to church on Sundays or when we went berrying, so we must have looked funny to Tad. Our eyes never strayed from his face as we sat on the picnic bench, eating our sandwiches. Our blond curls and freckled faces shone in the sun, and our bare feet swung in perfect rhythm.
All of a sudden Tad winked at us and pulled a piece of green willow wood from his pocket. Placing it to his lips, he began to play. Soft at first, the melody floated across the yard and into the summer air as though seeking escape. Tad’s long thin fingers moved swiftly over the tiny holes, and the gentle melody grew and danced in the air like butterflies in flight. I wanted to sing along with its beauty, but the lump in my throat made it difficult.
We sat spellbound by the magic of it all, and when he lowered his arms, we clapped our hands and cried out with glee, urging him to play some more. Instead, he stood up quietly, tapped the simple flute gently in the palm of his hand, and stuffed it back into his ragged pocket. Looking at each of us in turn, he said, “I made it from one of God’s little miracles.”
He worked long into the afternoon, and we wondered what Dad would say when he came home to find half the backyard stacked with chopped wood. We each had our own chores to do before Dad came home from work, so the hours passed swiftly. It wasn’t until our stomachs began to tell us that it was time for dinner that we realized how silent it was in the backyard.
Hurrying around the stack of wood, and stumbling over each other, we were stunned to find that Tad was gone! But lying on the chopping block was a package of flower seeds and—wonder of wonders!—the magical little instrument that he had played for us. Written in a childlike scrawl on an old scrap of paper was, “Beauty has nothing to do with money. It is a gift of God!”

A few years before she passed away, she was diagnosed with cancer, a disease she fought with great courage. As a family we learned, strangely enough, that cancer is a disease of love. It provides opportunities to mend fences, say goodbyes, and express love. A few weeks before my mother’s death, we were visiting in the family room of my boyhood home. Mom had fine taste and liked nice things. She also longed to travel, but our family lived on a modest budget, and these dreams were not quite realized. Knowing this, I asked her if she had any regrets. I fully expected to hear she had always wanted a larger, more beautiful home or perhaps an expression of sadness and disappointment over never having traveled. She pondered my question for a few moments and replied simply, “I wish I had served more.”

I was shocked at her response. My mother had always accepted Church callings. She served as ward Relief Society president, Sunday School teacher, visiting teacher, and in the Primary. As children we were always delivering casseroles, jam, and bottled fruit to neighbors and members of the ward. When I reminded her of all this, she was undeterred. “I could have done more” was all she said. My mother had lived an exemplary and full life. She was loved by family and friends. She had accomplished much in a life that was often hard and which was cut short by disease and sickness. In spite of all of this, her greatest regret was she had not given enough service. Now, I have no doubt my mother’s earthly sacrifice has been accepted by the Lord and that she has been welcomed by Him. But why was it foremost in her mind just days before her passing? What is service, and why is it so important in the gospel of Jesus Christ?

First, we are commanded to serve one another. The first commandment is to love God. “And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.”
We demonstrate our love when we help and serve each other.
President Gordon B. Hinckley has said: “No man can be a true Latter-day Saint who is unneighborly, who does not reach out to assist and help others. It is inherent in the very nature of the gospel that we do so. My brothers and sisters, we cannot live unto ourselves.”
The Savior taught His disciples this important principle in Matthew:
“Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?
“When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in; or naked, and clothed thee?
“Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
“And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
This service is to be given unselfishly, with no thought of personal gain or reward. It is to be given as needed, not when convenient. Opportunities to serve may not always seem obvious, as it is human nature to worry about our own wants and needs. We must resist such tendencies and look for opportunities to serve. When we visit with those who are suffering from sickness, loss of loved ones, or other heartbreak, it is not enough to simply say, “Call if there is anything I can do.” Rather, look for ways to bless the lives of others through seemingly simple acts of service. It is better to do even things of little consequence than to do nothing at all.
Second, we have an obligation as members of the Church to accept callings to serve in building the kingdom of God on earth. As we serve in our various callings, we bless the lives of others. In missionary work lives are changed as people learn of the gospel of Jesus Christ and receive a testimony of its truth. By the sacred work in the temple we bless the lives of those who have gone on before us. In gospel service we have the privilege to teach others, to strengthen the youth, and to bless the lives of the little children as they learn the simple truths of the gospel. In Church service we learn to give of ourselves and to help others.
President Spencer W. Kimball, a great example of service, said: “God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another mortal that he meets our needs. Therefore, it is vital that we serve each other in the kingdom.” The responsibility of service in the Church, however, does not relieve us of our responsibility to serve our families and our neighbors. President Kimball went on to warn, “None of us should become so busy in our formal Church assignments that there is no room left for quiet Christian service to our neighbors.”
Finally, we have a responsibility to render service in our communities. We should work to improve our neighborhoods, our schools, our cities, and our towns. I commend those in our midst who, regardless of their political persuasion, work within our local, state, and national governments to improve our lives. Likewise, I commend those who volunteer their time and resources to support worthy community and charitable causes, which bless the lives of others and make the world a better place. My grandfather taught me at an early age, “The public service we render is the rent we pay for our place on earth.”
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.
It is my hope and prayer we can all do more in giving service. If we fail to serve, we fail to receive the fulness of the privileges and blessings of the restored gospel. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Several years ago I was visiting with a friend—Dale Andersen—from Mesa, Arizona. At the time Dale was serving as a stake president in Mesa, and he shared a personal experience with me that, with his permission, I’d like to share with you this morning. He said:

I was preparing for our stake conference and having a bit of a stupor of thought on what I should share with the members of my stake. On the Friday night prior to conference I had a most peculiar dream—one of those dreams that was as real as any experience I have ever had while awake.

I dreamed I was at a family reunion with my entire family—my wife, my children, and my grandchildren. We were all gathered in the backyard of our home and enjoying a wonderful spring afternoon together.

And then I saw a most amazing and beautiful sight. It was a flock of blackbirds—but not an ordinary flock of blackbirds. This was one of those flocks that must have had tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of birds, all flying gracefully in perfect unison.

The birds would dart one direction, and then, as if cued by their leader, they’d immediately dart the other direction. Not a bird missed a beat. I stood there with my family—eyes transfixed. It was beautiful and captivating.

President Andersen continued:

As we watched this spectacle, the birds came closer and closer to us. It was all very exciting to see. And as we watched, we noticed the birds were pairing off two by two, and it appeared as though they were landing in the yards of all of the homes in my neighborhood. I thought this was rather peculiar. And then, as they got closer to my own backyard, the scene began to come into focus, and I realized in an instant that these were not blackbirds after all. These were dark, evil spirits!

Immediately I panicked and yelled to my family to run into the house and to lock the doors and windows. I was frantically trying to make sure all the members of my family were accounted for and safe—my sweetheart, my children, and their children. We ran through the house slamming the windows and shutting the doors and locking them tight. I gathered everyone together in our family room, where we would be safe, but then, as I turned around, there they were. I found myself standing between these two terribly evil beings and my precious family.

President Andersen said:

A window had been left ajar in the basement, and they had found their way into our home.

You know and I know that the adversary and his evil spirits are descending upon our families and trying to find their way into our homes, our apartments, and our dorms. At first they appear to be beautiful, enticing, and captivating—even to the point that, if we are not careful, our families will stand right in their path gazing upon them as though we were extending an open invitation to them to enter our homes.