Gospel Story Finder

For years, I have wanted to create a large poppy display and in November of last year, I voiced this to our Relief Society president, Yvonne Kerr, who expressed a similar desire. Because we were coming to the close of a horrible year of lockdowns, we felt that setting this up as a project for 2021 would be an ideal time to do it as it would give us something to focus on while we were restricted to our homes and by giving us a common purpose, we would not feel so isolated. Little did we know at that point that we were heading into further lockdowns and this project became a lifeline for many women. The culmination of this work was to be a display at the chapel where we would hold a special commemorative meeting, to which we would invite community leaders as well as our members and friends.
Yvonne asked me to pull a small committee together to make this happen and I knew exactly who to ask.
Esther Wilford became our internal communications director, whose job it was to keep the sisters and ward members updated with our progress. When she relocated out of our ward, we enlisted Julie Beveridge who also did a wonderful job.
Yvonne Kerr acted as our external communications director. She sent out all the external invitations to official delegates, war veterans and medal holders to attend our event.
Mandy Watson acted as the technical and structural engineer (to ensure the large display was stable). The fact that the structure is so sound is very much down to Mandy’s skills and hard work. Part of the display was the silhouette of a soldier. Mandy built all the framework and did all the sealing to make it waterproof before spending many hours as doing several coats of undercoat and paint. She really needs to be acknowledged more for her role in it all. I had the idea and vision, but she engineered the whole thing. Mandy has lots of experience with making sure structures and frameworks are safe and secure and we would need her skills when it came to putting the display together. Mandy is in the middle of restoring a very large, old house and so many of the materials that went into the framework and structure of the display came from her home—from the netting holding the poppies to the cobblestones that weigh the stands down, to the scaffolding outriggers used to stabilize the frame.
I had the easy task of chairing the committee and acting as a wool merchant and distributor. Because we commenced the project during a four-tier lockdown in Scotland, no one could get out to buy wool so I bought in bulk then coordinated with individuals, finding safe ways to deliver and distribute.
Thirty women made and contributed poppies. Because we wouldn’t physically collect poppies from sisters, every four weeks, Esther, and then Julie, would send a request on various messaging platforms to ask how many poppies had been made since the last count. Sisters would relay this to me, and I would keep a tally in a small notebook. We were hoping to reach a total of 1,500 poppies, feeling we could do a nice, decent display with that amount. However, I soon had to keep a record using a spreadsheet because within no time at all we had by far exceeded our initial goal. By the week before the display went up, we had received a staggering 5,589 poppies!
3,592 were made by sisters from the Alloa Ward. Another 262 by sisters from other wards around the country.
There were 967 poppies made by a friend of one of our members and a further 692 made by others not of our faith based up and down the country who belong to a Facebook crafting group. There were also 76 that came from a nonmember relative of mine in Holland.
We were grateful to all 30 women who made and added to the total, but recognition should go to a committee member, Julie Beveridge, who made a very impressive 1,373 poppies herself.
A brother who gave plenty of help throughout the project, Eammon Brereton, made a ‘Lest We Forget’ sign as part of the display.
We estimate that thousands of hours were spent by so many in the preparations for this event but they all felt that this truly has been a labour of love.
Other neighbour and local companies contributed the steel and used their equipment to cut out the soldier’s gun, others donated tenting fabric, and super heavy-duty guy pegs from rebar. A kind and generous benefactor donated £200 for the making of the soldier. A self-employed contractor came to the building on the final day of construction, and when he saw that we were rapidly running out of time, took the afternoon off to help us with some of the wire tethering and knocking in ground spikes.
On 22 October we held an outside lighting up ceremony, conducted by Sister Yvonne Kerr. Besides members of the ward, we had in attendance invited guests who included the lord lieutenant of Clackmannanshire, Lt Col (Retd) Johnny Stewart, and the most senior member of the Alloa Ward, Sister Dorothy Kendall, who pushed a button that lit up the monumental display. Esther Wilford beautifully sang Vera Lynn’s “When The Lights Go on Again, All over The World” and “I Vow to Thee My Country”. One of our Primary children, Emma Black, read the much-quoted lines from ‘For the Fallen’ by Laurence Binyon. People passing stopped to join the crowd, inside and outside of the fencing surrounding the grounds.
We tried to give each poppy its own space to clearly represent an individual. There are varying shades of red and a myriad of patterns, symbolizing the differences in those individuals who, all together have made a huge difference for each of us.
Just before the button was pressed to illuminate the display, we acknowledged to the assembled crowd, many who were not members of our Church, that as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we try to put Christ at the centre of all we do and it was in His name that on that night and during the season of remembrance, we honour those from World War I and World War II who fought and fell to give us our freedom, but the display also honours and gives reverence to those in the past and those who currently protect our land, shores, and skies from unseen enemies. They are the real heroes, and that really is what the display is about.
Yvonne Kerr, president of the Relief Society, said: “We really felt that there was a need for people who weren’t able to get together to be able to do something in unity. “It was a good way for the women of the Church to stay in contact with one another and to be able to serve and help other people.” She added: “As COVID started to progress, we really wanted to run with the idea, to be able to acknowledge that there were other people who had sacrificed a lot more than we got to sacrifice. We were very privileged to be able to acknowledge them by creating the poppies.”
Yvonne Kerr told the Advertiser: “It was very well attended. We were surprised by how many people came. It was really wonderful—a lovely event and a great tribute to those who served in our military services and a great way to thank them for what they’ve done for us.”

A few years ago, a Presbyterian minister moved into my community wanting to serve all her neighbors, not just her church congregation. As she reached out in our predominantly LDS neighborhood with friendliness, offers to help, and invitations to neighborhood parties, ward members began participating in her congregation’s service projects; together, she and neighbors of various faiths held a fundraiser that significantly helped an LDS family with dire medical expenses.
Apostle Orson F. Whitney (1855–1931) stated, “God is using more than one people for the accomplishment of his great and marvelous work. … It is too vast, too arduous, for any one people.”3 Great things can be accomplished when good people band together. Our neighborhood minister’s efforts led to the formation of a community interfaith committee that, along with our stake Relief Society, put on a women’s conference supplying hygiene kits and books to refugee agencies. These interfaith connections then enabled stake members to help a congregation feed a large refugee gathering and to step in when another church needed additional volunteers at a homeless shelter.

When Arthur was 16, two six-foot-one Mormon elders in tailcoats and top hats came visiting. The Sadler children could see the tops of the elders’ hats coming way off down the lane in spite of the tall hedges, and the younger ones would call out, “Here come the poplar trees!” The tall, young Americans taught the family and the family was baptized. The Church was unpopular in England in those days, and the family suffered some harassment for their decision, but they stayed faithful, walking four miles each way to their meetings.

“During our annual planning meeting at the beginning of the year, we planned several service projects in our quorums and classes. One was when my quorum helped a family in our ward trim the large tree in their backyard.
“It was pretty awesome! We worked on the tree with chainsaws and branch cutters. With all of us working together, we finished in no time at all. It was also really fun because we got to use power tools. We’d just been looking for an opportunity to serve as a quorum when we heard of this family’s need. At the end, our quorum and the family were very happy!”
Andrew S., 14, Arizona, USA

You may remember a story about a ship’s captain who had a problem with his pride. One night at sea, this captain saw what looked like the light of another ship heading toward him. He had his signalman blink to the other ship: “Change your course 10 degrees south.” The reply came back, “Change your course 10 degrees north.” The ship’s captain answered, “I am a captain. Change your course south.” To which the reply came, “Well, I am a seaman first class. Change your course north.” This so infuriated the captain, he signaled back, “I say change your course south. I am on a battleship!” To which the reply came back, “And I say change your course north. I am in the ­lighthouse.”16

“Before the concert at the Bolshoi,” said Ann Halversen, “I felt a hand on my arm. ‘Would you tell me more about Mormons?’ said a woman. ‘Do you speak English?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Are you Christian?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Did you know that Christ came to America after he was resurrected?’ I asked. ‘He did!’ she exclaimed, wide-eyed. I then briefly gave an overview of the Book of Mormon. I felt to keep going—to tell her how we obtained the Book of Mormon. When I got to the name of Joseph Smith, the Spirit was so powerful that the instant I said his name I started to cry. The Spirit was so strong that she started to cry, too. ‘What is it that I am feeling?’ she tearfully asked. I then explained about the Holy Ghost. Immediately she reached out and stopped me and said, ‘This is what I have been looking for.’ Before the evening was over, I was able to introduce her to the missionaries.”

My interest in the Church had been sparked the winter before, and with the help of a friend, I began receiving the missionary discussions at her home.
After my fifth discussion with the missionaries, I went to church. That Sunday was fast Sunday, and during the testimony meeting I had an overwhelming feeling of peace and warmth. I had never felt so much love in one room. That day, my testimony of the Church started to grow.
A few weeks later, I went to my first Mutual activity. The people there were so welcoming, and their actions set them apart from the other kids I knew at school. It was a fun activity that added to my fledgling testimony.
I had started to feel like I was on my way to building a strong gospel foundation, but my aunt’s visit really shook me up. Since I had promised to read her book, I did. I decided that reading the book couldn’t do much harm. Boy, was I wrong.
After reading the book I was confused and sad and didn’t know where to turn. To make matters worse, a friend of mine encouraged me to read more material that was critical of the Church. I found that much of the literature had little or nothing to do with the Church, and little of it made any sense. Now I had more questions than ever.
In search of some answers, my friend and I went to the temple visitor’s center. Two missionaries showed us videos and bore their testimonies. I asked them all the questions I had about the books I had read. The missionaries answered every single one.
Shortly after my experience on the temple grounds, I received my first priesthood blessing. The special feeling I had experienced in my first testimony meeting returned. I was awestruck by the power of the Spirit.
Finally, it seemed everything was getting back on track, except for one thing. My mom was trying hard to talk me out of going to seminary. Although it was difficult, I stood my ground. Seminary is important to me.
I can now relate to the pioneers who traveled across the country to Utah so they could practice their religion. I used to think, “Why would anyone give up that much just for a religion?” Now I know.
I know the Church is true, and I have been able to build my testimony ten times stronger through prayer and studying the scriptures.
Because of this trial of my faith, I have learned not to take the valuable messages of the gospel for granted. I can’t be baptized until I’m 18, and even though three years seems a long time to wait, I am happy to have the time to prepare. I cannot deny the feelings that the Church and the scriptures give me, and I cannot deny what I almost lost forever—my testimony of the gospel.

It was Christmas Eve. Grandpa had come down to our house to get Mama to cut his hair. He was going into town for a little celebrating, so he asked her to also trim his eyebrows. They were so overgrown that they looked like pyracantha at a vacant lot. Grandpa’s eyes were deep set and penetrating—mostly serious except when he was whistling “Strawberry Roan” or “Big Rock Candy Mountain.” Grandpa had donned his best bib overalls with white and blue stripes. “They are a little classier,” he used to say. He wore his suit coat and red tie with matching handkerchief.
Grandpa Jode Howes was a sheepherder; but since this is going to be a Christmas story, let’s call him a shepherd. He was a good shepherd, too. He prided himself on a well-trained dog and a clean camp.
Grandpa had found Grandma in good shape when he got home from camp. There was still flour in the bin, apples in the cellar, jerky in the barn, and love in her heart. Oh, the farm wasn’t Grandma’s first love. When she met Grandpa Jode, she was an aristocrat—a red-headed, curly-lashed school mistress who came down to our parts to spend the winter; and well, she spent plenty of winters and had wintered well. Her hair had been mixed with white, and now that she was “pink haired,” some of “the girls” wondered if Grandma might be a phony. But Grandma wasn’t phony; she was real and had a real big heart. It had to be big to support her stature. We all called her “Big Grandma.” This referred to her “insides” as well as her “outs.”
In town during shopping, Grandpa heard that his friend Sim had some horses he wanted Grandpa to see. So Grandpa rode to the corrals, made a good inspection, and was about to throw a bale of hay out to the animals for the night when he saw a slight figure crouching behind the bale where a new lamb fed. It was a boy who seemed to be hiding.
“Come out, son,” Grandpa said. “What goes with you, lad? Can I help you?” The boy only shook his head and trembled. Sim reported that the last traders through town had left the kid and said they didn’t want him.
“Get rid of him for us, can you, Sim?”
“Well, by golly,” Grandpa Jode had said, “I can’t see much use for any of the horses, but I’ll take the kid.”
After a little coaxing, the boy got into the DeSoto with Grandpa and they started for home.
“You’ve got a name, haven’t you, boy?” Grandpa asked. “Where are you from? I’ve got a nice bed for a guy like you at home—for a guy with a name.”
After some warm pats on the knee and kindly smiles, the little urchin uttered, “My name’s Hady.”
“Hady,” Grandpa repeated, “now that’s a right good name. Where did you get that one?” He laughed, tousling the boy’s curly locks, with his gnarled hand.
Silence from the boy.
“From your mom, I bet,” Grandpa assured him.
Hady’s eyes dropped.
“Your dad read it in a story?”
“No, no!” Hady screamed and bit Grandpa’s hand.
“Well,” Grandpa said with a laugh, patting Hady’s little legs, “your name has as much snap as your bite, and I like them both. Hady is fine for me. And you know what? That’s what all of us at our house are going to call you.” Grandpa’s voice softened and dropped a few decibels as it often did when he got dead serious, and he whispered, “And it means something because I found you like a surprise Christmas package behind a bale of hay. And you know what else? You’re going to like that name and all of us, too.”
Grandpa’s DeSoto turned down the lane to the house. When the car was parked, Grandpa and the little fellow entered the kitchen. Hady ducked his head to avoid the blinding brightness of the electric lights and scampered behind the Heatrola in Big Grandma’s living room. It was there that he stayed, trembling like the aspen leaves that sheltered the sheep camp. But it was not the gentle wind that made him shake. It was there behind the Heatrola that he stayed during the festivities, occasionally popping his little head out (when he was quite certain that no one was watching) to survey the new family that was to be his. If his eyes met those of another, he quickly ducked away in retreat.
Most of the kids didn’t notice Hady during the first part of the evening, until we saw Grandpa rolling peanuts behind the Heatrola. They didn’t roll out the other side, and the shells didn’t pile up. It was a clean sweep; Hady had eaten them shell and all.
There seemed to be some quiet muttering about the child but nothing strained nor curious. Grandpa told us that he had brought us home a new friend. He did that quite often. Once it was a Collie dog; another time he carried home a little lame lamb and said he hoped that we’d take good care of each other.
I watched Mama’s face to see if I’d like the boy, and I did. I put my hand out to see if he was real, but Mama told me not to stare and please not touch the burrs in his long, snarled curls.
“And if you sniff a new sort of odor—well, sheep smell that way,” Mama carefully explained as she made her eyes twinkle and her nose wrinkle. Then she coaxed the urchin from his hiding place behind the Heatrola to be “spotted off.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“None of your business.”
“Bet you can’t read,” I nipped, and Mama pulled me close under one arm and the kid under the other.
“He looks about the right age to try though,” Mama said, refereeing eye glances.
“Yeah, I’m about ready to be learning.”
Mama lifted up Hady’s long hair and washed his neck. It made the air smell like our kitchen when Mama presses Daddy’s wool suit with a wet rag, but her face looked happy and her nose kept straight out as she asked me to run for the Bon Ami. I wished afterward that I hadn’t said anything about stinking. Mama hated the word and always asked us to use smell instead. Hady must have found that word unwelcome also, for it drove him back behind the shelter of the stove.
Big Grandma, her pink hair freshly finger-waved and her silk blouse newly beaded, took her place in the chair by the glittering tree and turned out the lights. Grandpa, in his bib overalls, crisp white shirt, and bright red tie told the story of Christmas, using cutouts and a flash light. Then in black silence he gave a Christmas prayer.
“Oh, Lord, we thank thee for the blessings of this season, for the gift of thy Son, the Good Shepherd, who calls us all to his fold. We thank thee for our flocks and our fields and the bounties of life, for the sheep and the shepherd. Keep us safely in the fold we pray, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”
When the lights were turned on again, we all knew that it was “present-getting time in the old corral,” as Grandpa joked.
During the prayer all was dark, and Hady crawled from behind the stove and stayed out by the side to see the Christmas story and watch the gifts being unwrapped. Big Grandma read the names out. “Merry Christmas to our fine missionary.” That was Paul, my cousin. “Merry Christmas to our little girl with Shirley Temple curls,” Grandma called. That was me, and I pranced forward with my curls like bed springs dangling down the back of my dress. “Merry Christmas to our new brother, Hady.”
This sound so frightened Hady that he retreated again to his cozy security, and Grandpa had to push the present behind to him. He looked pleased and grabbed anxiously for the gift; then he became suspicious, but mustered courage and walked to Grandma’s chair to return it. But Mama went to the tattered, beautiful waif, took his grimy little face in her kindly hands, and coaxed, “Take it, honey; you’ll like it.” She then patted his pink flushed cheeks.
Hady rubbed his fingers over the waxy glossed paper and fondled the tinseled bow, unbelieving. Carefully unwrapping the package to preserve its beauty, he revealed with delight a shiny, new, red lunch bucket. I was glad that he liked the bucket. I could tell that he did by his almost smile. But it was my lunch bucket with a red thermos and a snap cork, and I wasn’t sure that I was glad that I had said yes to Mama when she coaxed.
“But everyone here will have a present—everyone but Hady.”
“It’s mine. I bought it with my own weeding money (20 rows of corn) to take to school.”
“Well, next year they’ll be making better buckets; and we can get you another,” Mother consoled.
I really didn’t want to give it, but I couldn’t stand to see Mama’s face disappointed, so I did.
Hady clutched my lunch bucket, my shiny red bucket, like it was all his—his first personally owned, somebody-gave-you present.
Cousin Jimmy stared at the bucket, the tattered clothes, and the long, straggly curls and hissed, “You’re a girl, aren’t you?” and ran his fingers covetously over the edge of the opened bucket as Hady snapped the lid.
He caught Jim’s fingers and sent him yelping to Grandma. Realizing his mistake, Hady hastily retreated to the Heatrola where he felt warm, secure, justified, fortified, and even armed in the event that it became necessary to defend his possession again.
“Let’s have Jana play carols on her violin while we sing,” everyone demanded. Then Grandma served carrot pudding with caramel sauce, and the festivities were over. As we went into the chill of the night, Hady pulled on Mama’s coat to get her attention, and with downcast eyes too emotional and embarrassed to look up, he muttered, “Thank you,” pointing to the bucket held tight in his arms.
“Thanks for coming to our party,” Mama said. She always said things to make people feel right. “But I didn’t give you the present; Jana did,” and she pointed to me.
Bashfully I sidled up to the new one and whispered, “I like you to be here.”
“Oh,” was the quiet reply.
Left alone with Grandpa and Grandma, Hady looked about shyly and said to Big Grandma, who was gathering up crumpled paper, “Hey, you, where does a fellow hit the hay around here?”
Grandma showed him to the cold, east bedroom. It was the guest room where all us kids slept overnight with Grandpa. Later when Big Grandma went into the bedroom to check his sleep, Hady still clutched the handle of the red lunch bucket tight in his fist as it rested on the pillow beside him. Sniffles broke the silence of the room, and soft tender sobs indicated the sweet comfort of tears.
Hady’s identity was never really certain. He signed his name Hady Howes, but when he got angry, he’d yell at Grandma, saying, “Hey, you, I’m not your boy. I’m Hady Querry. Querry is my name.”
We never knew if that was really his name. We thought maybe he’d tell us when he turned 16 and got his driver’s license, but when he found out he’d have to apply for it in his own name, he never did.
Hady stayed with us for exactly ten years. I remember because he had come on Christmas and he left on Christmas, too. He left no note, not a word to Grandpa or Grandma. Their Little Boy Blue had gone as strangely as he had come, on Christmas.
We all missed Hady, but I did especially. We had herded cows along the ditch bank together, picked green apples from the manure spreader, ridden horses to the mountains to round up cattle, churned butter, made wire fly traps, plowed fields, bottled fruit, and watered lucerne in the dead of the night.
Hady had become a part of me, and the cold, east bedroom echoed with emptiness. But the passing of 20 years eventually eased the loneliness into forgetting.
I was stringing twinkle lights on the entrance sign of our newly acquired business, “Pleasant Way Trailer Court.” This year the pines on either side of the neon sign were large enough to be decorated impressively. The tenants had agreed that the entire mobile community should be connected with long strings of lights, and I liked that cozy, friendly feeling. Music ran through the courtyard.
Peace and goodwill filled my heart as I rang the bell of trailer No. 15. It was answered by a slightly grayed, handsome man with wavy hair. He smiled shyly, apologizing for the Christmas wreath that had fallen as I knocked. His eyes were soft and blue.
That voice, that man—could it be! It was! “Hady!” I cried. “Aren’t you Hady?”
He looked with a strange but certain recognition; then he threw his arms around me. “It’s you—you’re Jana!”
“Do you remember?” I asked.
“Jana,” Hady’s voice trembled, “how could I forget? You’ve come at Christmastime. How did you know?”
Holding me in a warm embrace, he recalled, “You were the first person ever to offer me love and the first to ever give me a present.” Then, laughingly, he added, “Remember that most wonderful shiny red lunch bucket, the first possession I ever called mine?”
Then still standing in the doorway with the Christmas music from the court ringing out, he remembered nostalgically, “You were the first to offer friendship to me—a kid who had never known love, love of any kind, Jana.”
As the music of the court swelled, so did the love in the hearts of two who knew the meaning of the words:
“For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: … thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in.” (Matt. 25:35.)
A blithe, beautiful 16-year-old slipped shyly into the room, her long curls sweeping the table top, her violin under her arm.
“I’m ready, Daddy,” she said, and then in recognition of me added, “Are you Daddy’s friend? Merry Christmas, I’m Jana.”
“Oh yes, my darling,” I exclaimed thrillingly, tears suddenly swelling, “and so am I.”

Bruce came into the kitchen, slammed his books on the table, and announced, “I don’t want to set any table, even if it is an assignment!”
The assignment to enter a table-setting contest was given by his teacher in a marriage-preparedness class, a class Bruce had liked, until now.
“I might do it if it wasn’t sissy,” he said, staring at my lace tablecloth.
“You can make it look like a man’s table,” I told him, silently wondering how.
The day the assignment was due, Bruce gathered together what seemed to fit his idea of masculine. He placed plain white stoneware on a black leather desk pad and used a black and silver desk lamp for the centerpiece. The tablecloth he used was a piece of grey flannel I had purchased for a skirt but had not sewn. The table was accented with chrome salt and pepper shakers and a black goblet. But the clincher was the black linen napkin knotted as a man’s tie.
His table, one of 1,800 entries, was titled “The Executive Lunch.” It was original because it was masculine and exciting.
Bruce worried about his “macho image” when he entered the table-setting contest, but he participated and became more aware of the beauty of a table set with care. He does squint sometimes, looking at the sterling silver he won as first prize, imagining it in the shape of tire rims.

With permission, I'd like to tell you about another person who held on tightly to the word and found guidance and solace in times of trial. When I married Brandon Moon, I was so excited to become his eternal companion that I didn't really care to ask him about his future career goals. He was good to me and loved me. He decided that he wanted to attend vocational school and pursue an associates in drafting. After being married 10 years, I found an old journal of his. In it he had written, "I want to be a mechanical engineer." Hmm. That was odd. Was it true? Did he really have different dreams before we married?

I asked Brandon about this. He said he could never make it through the math. I understood this somewhat. When Brandon was 14, he was in a BMX biking accident which robbed him of sight in one eye and put him in Primary Children's Hospital during the beginning of his freshman year. When he finally returned to high school, he was quite behind in mathematics and never did catch up. So there it was. Mathematics was keeping him from accomplishing his goal.

Sometime after our conversation, Brandon was impressed to go back to school. He was unsure of how he was going to accomplish this. He would need to cut back his hours at work. We decided I should not work full time--we still had young children. We would need to live on less. He had a very demanding church calling. In addition, his math background was insufficient for an engineering degree. School did not seem like a good idea. We needed a miracle. We needed the faith described in Moroni 7:33: "And Christ hath said: If ye will have faith in me ye shall have power to do whatsoever thing is expedient in me."

So, with faith, very little money, and the promise that the Lord would support us, Brandon started back to school. He started in the very first math class--the one that doesn't count for any college credit--the one you take if you don't remember anything from your high-school education. Then he took the next one. Finally, after four years of preparation, sacrifice, and a little help from his wife, he applied to the engineering program at BYU-Idaho. He eventually graduated with the very first cohort in this brand new degree at this brand new four-year university.

Along this journey back to school, I watched Brandon put the Lord first. He continued to study his scriptures and pray. He invited light into his life every day, and the Lord supported him. He did learn mathematics. He did become a mechanical engineer. He also learned that the Lord loved him. He had to start at the very beginning, but now he understands principles that he had skipped through before.

About six months before the end of the war, I was assigned to an unit where the new incoming young people were trained on radar equipment. We were stationed in Seesen in the Harz Mountains, and I was about 17. One day we had to write a composition about Germany, and mine was judged the best one. The officer had me stand in front of the whole unit, and he said: “Congratulations for writing the best composition. I expect you to volunteer now to become an officer for the German Reich. We need people with your potential, and I expect your written application tonight.”
“I don’t have to wait until tonight,” I said. “I refuse.”
He got really furious and wanted to punish me. He said, “Tomorrow, I will ask you again, and the next day again.”
“Well, I’m not going,” I told him. I was not in tune with the spirit of national socialism. My father was a friend of the Jewish people, and we had always prayed for them in our home. The officer asked me what I wanted to do. “I want to go with the rest of the group,” I said. He told me if I didn’t want to volunteer I was ordered to stay behind and train the young people. There was no other choice.
Although I was forced to stay in that group where I didn’t want to stay, once that officer said I had to stay I felt very secure about it, like that was where I was supposed to be. All my friends were sent to Russia. Only one came back—all the others were killed. The Lord guided me to be in the right place at the right time for my life to be spared.

When my parents got married, they bought the refrigerator secondhand. My mother took it upon herself to paint it a strange yellow color I have never seen on any other refrigerator. (She also ended up painting the floor, some of the other furniture, and a new dress.) But we actually saw the strange yellow color only when the refrigerator broke down, had to have a new part, and Mama took everything off of it.

Its color was hidden because my mother covered it with all sorts of things: a good cartoon from the newspaper, a well-known saying, my dad’s picture, scriptures to be memorized, the ticket from the cleaners, an ad for some product, a letter to be answered, a recipe, the shopping list, the ward telephone directory, and even our report cards. As we got older, she put up lists of weekly assignments, schedules, and messages for the family. We didn’t have a chalkboard or a bulletin board, so our parents also posted gospel pictures on the refrigerator.

In February, my mom would put up a big heart with all our names written on it; in March, her wedding picture and a list of some things she would like for her birthday. June she dedicated to Dad, because it was the month of his birthday—she did the same in the month each of us was born. In September, a Mexican flag was displayed. In November, the month in which my parents remembered their ancestors, Mom put up pictures of loved ones, providing an opening to talk about them. In December, she displayed a small nativity scene she had fashioned out of cloth.

Each time one of us went on a mission, Mom stuck a missionary photo on the fridge and didn’t take it down until our return. When Mom’s only brother died, she displayed on the refrigerator a picture of the two of them together and never took it down. She didn’t ever mention it, but to see her so profoundly contemplating that picture, we knew how much her brother meant to her.

Together, the refrigerator and my mother united the family.

Today in my own home there is a refrigerator that, although new and not a strange yellow color, is learning its duty of uniting and teaching the family. The old photo of my parents’ wedding, another of my aunt, and the formless artwork made by my little children hang there. And when I see these objects, I think of my mother and thank her for teaching me to understand how a refrigerator can nourish in more ways than just keeping food cold.

Anna Kate scuffed the toes of her sneakers into the dirt and watched a cloud of dust puff up around her ankles. Her wonderful week with Grandpa and Grandma was almost over. It had been great fun, especially the part here at Aunt Pru’s cabin. Just yesterday Grandpa had taken Anna Kate to his favorite fishing spot on the Provo River, and she had caught her very first fish!
But this morning had been a disaster. First, she had slept late, and Grandpa had gone fishing without her. Then Grandma and Aunt Pru just wanted to visit in the kitchen about dull, grown-up things. Anna Kate ended up sitting on the front porch by herself, feeling bored and lonely. Worse yet, tomorrow Mommy and Daddy were coming to take her home.
Suddenly she jumped to her feet. “I’m not going to spend my last day sitting around!” she thought. “I’ll find Grandpa by myself. I know the way.” She skipped across the front yard and walked down the lane to the canyon road, looking carefully both ways before crossing. Soon she came to a small bridge over the river and hurried across to the railroad tracks that ran between Heber City and Provo, Utah. This was the secret to finding Grandpa. Cross the river and turn left, then follow the railroad tracks to a huge rock. On the other side of the rock was the fishing spot.
Anna Kate walked a long time. Where was the rock? It hadn’t seemed so far with Grandpa, and somehow the railroad tracks seemed even lonelier than the front porch. Looking for a happier thought, she remembered her baptism day. How proud she had been when her parents told her she was old enough to make wise decisions and could spend a week away from home. Plodding along, she began to wonder if running off without asking Grandma had been a wise decision.
To cheer herself up, she started singing her favorite Primary songs. She was halfway through the first verse of “Give, Said the Little Stream” when she heard a noise in a bush by the side of the tracks. It sounded a bit like a loud cricket, and Anna Kate stopped singing to listen. She decided to look for the cricket, but before she could take a single step, a voice in her head said, “RUN!” She didn’t know who was talking to her, but she didn’t have to be told twice. She ran.
She was out of breath when she finally found Grandpa fishing by the river. He looked up in surprise. “Does Grandma know you’re here?”
Anna Kate shook her head. “I’m sorry. I should have asked her.”
Grandpa smiled kindly and started putting away his fishing tackle. “Let’s hustle back to the cabin before she has a chance to worry.”
They hadn’t walked far when they saw Anna Kate’s older cousin William standing by the tracks. “There you are,” he said. “Grandma sent me to find you, and it’s a good thing.” He pointed to a bush a ways off. When Anna Kate and Grandpa got closer, they saw a huge rattlesnake with a diamond pattern down its back hiding there. “I didn’t dare let it out of my sight with you out here alone,” William said.
After that, Anna Kate always told someone where she was going. It was a long time, though, before she told anyone about the loud cricket or the voice that had saved her life. She would realize later that it had been the Holy Ghost. She already knew that it was a voice to be obeyed.

It was just another regular day at school for Sam. Until the cupcakes.
“Today is Ryan’s birthday,” Sam’s teacher, Mrs. Coley, said. “He brought a treat to share with us. Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and then I’ll pass these out.”
Sam sat up straight and watched Mrs. Coley lift the lid off the box. The cupcakes stood in neat rows, piled high with swirly red frosting. On top, there were little plastic basketballs.
Sam wanted to sing really fast so they’d be done quick. But everyone sang so slow! He stared at the cupcakes the whole time he sang. The frosting looked like a twisty mountain with a cave full of magical creatures. Maybe the basketballs should’ve been dragons instead! Sam was practically drooling as he stared at the cupcakes.
When the song was finally over, Mrs. Coley called everyone to line up. Sam moved fast, but by the time he got to the front of the classroom, he was all the way at the back of the line. Well, not the very back. Jenny was behind him. Since it was his birthday,
Ryan was first in line. Mrs. Coley handed him a cupcake. Next was Emma. Then Zoey. Sam watched them taste their frosting before they even sat down. They giggled at each other’s red-stained tongues.
After what felt like five million years, it was finally Sam’s turn. “Oh no!” Mrs. Coley said. “I should have counted them first!” Sam glanced in the cupcake box. It was empty. Mrs. Coley was holding the very last cupcake.
Sam looked back at Jenny. There wouldn’t be another cupcake for her. She looked sad.
Mrs. Coley offered Jenny a granola bar, but Sam knew what Jesus would want him to do.
“That’s OK, Mrs. Coley,” Sam said. “Jenny can have it.”
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Coley asked. “I’m so sorry there isn’t one for both of you.”
Sam turned to Jenny. She gave him a small smile.
“Do you want to split it?” Jenny asked.
“That’s a great idea!” Mrs. Coley said. She found a plastic knife and sliced the cupcake in half. She gave one half to Jenny and the other half to Sam.
“Thanks for sharing!” Sam said.
Jenny smiled. “You too.”
Sam felt great as he walked back to his seat with his half of the cupcake. He was glad he chose to be kind to Jenny and that she had shared with him too. He didn’t think anything could make him feel any better. Well … maybe one thing. He took a big bite of his cupcake. Yum!

Since the time he entered the Manila Philippines Temple in July 2001, just before leaving for his mission to Singapore, Riaz Gill of Pakistan knew that he wanted to return to the temple so he could have an eternal family.
In 2007, his wife, Farah, was baptized, but funds were tight and they didn’t know when they would be able to make the trip to the temple, more than 3,500 miles (5,700 km) away. With the birth of their son, Ammon Phinehas, in 2009, their desire to be sealed in the temple grew even stronger, and late in 2010, with help from the Church’s General Temple Patron Assistance Fund, their prayers were answered.
“Going to the temple with my family has helped to make my testimony stronger,” Brother Gill said. “After our temple visit, it seems like I have more to give to the Lord. … The temple visit was so good and faith-promoting, it is hard to express in words.”
While there, Brother Gill was also able to perform ordinances for his father, grandfather, and father-in-law, who have all passed away. He had the work done for his mother, and he was sealed to his parents.
“It has been a great privilege for me and my family to visit the temple,” he said. “I want to give my special thanks with a lot of prayers to the leaders who made this temple trip possible.”

You know, conference is a great time for spiritual uplift, for association, and for wise counsel. With all the counsel I’ve been hearing, I couldn’t help but reminisce a little bit about the young athlete who attempted most all sports but had never tried skydiving. And so he took several theoretical courses in how to jump.
When the day came for the solo flight, he became a little fearful, so he approached his instructor and said, “I’m not sure I want to go through with this.”
The instructor said, “Don’t worry. We’ll protect you by putting two added parachutes on you.”
The plane took off and arrived at the three thousand foot level. With some fear and trepidation he was pushed out.
On the way down, at about two thousand feet, he remembered that that’s when you pull the rip cord. He did so, and the chute didn’t open. He pulled the second, and it didn’t open. He pulled the third, and it didn’t open.
To his amazement, at about that time he met in the air, coming up from the ground, another man. They passed on the way. The young parachutist shouted to his new friend, “Pardon me,” he said, “do you know anything about parachutes?”
“No,” his friend shouted back, “what do you know about Coleman lanterns?”
I suppose it seems all of us are in need of good counsel.

One day I was walking to work and had stopped for a traffic light. There was a strong wind whipping around the buildings. A teenage boy suddenly moved past me as I stood on the curb. He stepped into the line of traffic, which was heavy at that hour of the day. Startled, I reached out to stop him. It was then that I realized he wasn’t just a carefree youth: he was blind!
He was on his way to the Blind Center a block or two farther on. We walked that way together, friends now, as he said, since I had probably saved his life.
He explained that at the blind school he was taught to listen to the traffic before he crossed a street. However, the wind that day was so severe that he couldn’t hear the usual traffic sounds, and he’d decided to take a chance. He was grateful that I had been watching.
I asked him how long he’d been blind. He told me his story.
“When I was eight years old my sole purpose in life was to be the world’s best and most famous baseball player,” he explained. “I was practicing one afternoon when a fellow player threw the bat after a hit. It landed across my eyes. This accident brought a terrible period of tribulation for my entire family.
“I was a mess,” he said. “I lived, but there was nothing science could do to restore my sight.”
“What happened next?” I asked, intensely interested in this vigorous, handsome teenager’s story.
“I withdrew from life. I sulked. I had tantrums. I wouldn’t go to school. I wouldn’t talk to friends. I hated my family, and I especially cried out in anger against God. I mean vocally. I would shout my hate—much to my religious mother’s deep distress. This went on for many months.
“One day my father coaxed me into going outside with him to fly a kite. He said I’d be able to feel the tug on the kite. It would be exhilarating even if I couldn’t see it. We got the kite up, and I was feeling pretty good as I held the string and felt the force at work. Suddenly, the course of the breeze changed and the kite got caught in a tree.
“I was soon out of control. I screamed and lay down on the grass and kicked. Oh, I was one ugly kid. My father called for the fire department, in desperation I guess. They came and got the kite down, but it was broken. More tantrums from me.
“‘Fix it! Fix it!’ I screamed. My dad tried explaining it all to me, but I would not be comforted. It was just another of life’s rotten tricks. Then Dad took my hand and moving my fingers with his, we traced the broken crossbars of the flimsy kite.
“‘See, son,’ he said, ‘It is broken. It can’t be fixed. Any repair work, however carefully done, could add weight to the kite and it wouldn’t fly. It just can’t be fixed. Like your eyes! We’ll have to go and do something else.’”
The young man paused in his tracks, shook his head, remembering. Then he turned toward me and said, “That was the phrase that made the difference. ‘Go and do something else.’ God had given us a lot of options, and Dad would find another one for us. I’m going to the blind school now and learning a trade.”
His feet had felt the pebbles laid in the concrete in front of the school as a signal for the blind students. “I’m here,” he explained confidently. “Thanks again. Make it a good day.”
He didn’t say “Have a good day” as so many well-wishers do. He said, “Make it a good day.”

When I was a boy, my father (Gordon B. Hinckley) often would use an interesting phrase when he was offering the family prayer. He would say, “Heavenly Father, please bless us that we may live without regret.” I did not understand what that phrase meant for many years. Then, when I was about ten, I had an experience that helped me understand it better.
On warm summer nights, my friends and I enjoyed sleeping out under the stars. Our favorite camping spot was “the hollow,” a steep, wooded gully near our homes. There were no houses or businesses in the hollow, so we boys felt like real adventurers. Over the years we constructed several huts there—tree forts and ground forts—from scrap wood we collected.
One night after dark, one of my friends suggested we explore the new homes under construction on the other side of the hollow. We scrambled up the bank, raced across an alfalfa field, and began tiptoeing through skeletons of just-framed houses. It was exciting to wander through other people’s homes, imagining the families who would soon move in. We were about to learn an important lesson, a lesson that, in part at least, would teach me about regret.
In the corner of one house we found a pile of wood—perfect for building our huts. The wood had been used in pouring cement for the home’s foundation. We convinced ourselves the workers would throw it away. My friends and I grabbed the wood and dragged it to the hollow, talking all the way about what sort of hut we would build with it. We hid the wood among some trees and soon fell asleep.
The next morning we heard a loud groan. One of my friends was standing at the top of the hollow looking over the alfalfa field.
“We’ve left a trail!” he shouted. “We’re going to get caught!”
Hurrying to his side, I saw a wide path of trampled alfalfa, leading to the edge of the hollow above our hideout. If the builders wanted to know who had taken their wood, they need only follow our tracks.
My friends and I decided to go straight home and not return to the hollow for several days. For hours I hid in my parents’ closet. Every police siren in the distance was surely coming for me!
“Why are you staying in here?” my mother asked.
“Oh, I’m just a bit tired,” I fibbed. “It’s quieter in the closet.”
By the end of the week we figured no one had discovered that the scrap lumber was missing. We met at the hollow and went to work on our new hut. But I think we all felt embarrassed about what we had done.
That Saturday my father went to his office to catch up on some work. As he often did on a Saturday, he invited me to come along. He was then an employee of the Church and worked in the Church Administration Building. The office of President David O. McKay was down the hall. I had been introduced to President McKay and had spoken with him on several occasions. A tall man with wavy, white hair, he looked just like I imagined a prophet should. He spoke kindly, and I always hoped to see him when I visited Dad’s office.
But that Saturday was different. We were leaving the building when President McKay stopped us in the hallway. I couldn’t look at him. As I reached up to shake his hand, I felt as if his eyes were reading the words “wood thief” on the top of my head. How I regretted taking that wood! Even though we knew that wood was going to be scrapped, we also knew we should have asked before taking it.
My father’s prayers finally made sense! I knew that when my time came to stand before the Lord, I wanted to feel worthy.

One morning some time ago, my wife received a telephone call from a friend in a distant state, a person she had not seen for ten or eleven years. After visiting and renewing their acquaintance for a few moments, this friend said she had called to ask a special favor. She related that she had spent the night in prayer, seeking help in reaching her somewhat rebellious son. As morning approached, my wife’s name came to her mind, and this had prompted her telephone call. She asked my wife for the names of persons who could perhaps reach out to her son and touch his life in a positive way. She expressed her love and confidence in her son and said, “I know someday he can be reached, and I don’t intend to give up. If I have to stay on my knees throughout eternity, I’ll do it, but I will never give up!”

“I’m so hungry. What can I eat?” Ryan asked. “Have a banana or an apple,” Mom said. “I’m tired of bananas and apples,” Ryan said. “Would you like some grapes or crackers?” Mom asked. “I’m tired of grapes and crackers too,” Ryan said. Mom thought for a minute and asked, “How about Tooty Fruity Salad?” “Cool! What’s that?” Ryan asked. “A special family recipe,” Mom said. Ryan got one table knife, one banana, and one bowl. Then he cut the banana into 10 slices and put them in the bowl. He put 10 grapes in the bowl. While Mom cut up an apple, Ryan sliced four strawberries. He added them to the bowl and stirred with a spoon. He broke a long graham cracker into four pieces and put them in the bowl with the fruit. “Now you have Tooty Fruity Salad,” Mom said. “I like this fruity salad, but why is it tooty?” Ryan asked. “Because it’s too good to be turned down,” Mom said.