Gospel Story Finder

One afternoon Milo’s father came home early. “We are going to Copenhagen, Denmark, for a few days,” he said. “Hurry and pack.”
“Oh,” said Milo excitedly, “will we go to Odense?”
“Odense,” said his father, lifting his eyebrows and looking at Mother, “now why should we go there?”
“That’s where Hans Christian Andersen lived as a boy,” Milo answered.
“You’re right,” said his mother, and Father promised he would arrange for them to visit Odense.
When Father finished his work in Copenhagen, the family took a little boat to the island of Fyn to visit Odense.
On the way, Father asked, “Milo, how many of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales can you remember? And which one is your favorite?”
Milo did not have to think long to decide. “I’ll always remember ‘The Ugly Duckling.’”
“One of my favorites,” said Mother, “is ‘The Princess and the Pea.’”
“I’ll never forget ‘The Emperor’s Clothes,’” Father added. “What rascals those men were to deceive the emperor.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mother, “and do you remember ‘What Father Does Is Always Right’?”
The joy of the remembered reading warmed their hearts as they looked at the statue of Hans Christian Andersen and walked about Odense.
“His father was a poor shoemaker, you know,” said Milo’s father, “but he read stories and plays of another Dane, Ludwig Holberg, to Hans.”
Mother added, “And he made a puppet theater so Hans could act out the plays.”
“Time to leave now,” said Father at last, but Milo lingered one more moment to look into the face of the famous storyteller.
The last stop Father had to make was in Sweden. It was Midsummer’s Eve when Milo’s family arrived in the capital city of Stockholm. Everyone was in a holiday mood. People in gay costumes had gathered for the early festival.
“Why do they celebrate Midsummer’s Eve?” Milo asked Father.
“The people in Sweden celebrate the return of summer to their land about the middle of June each year,” Father replied.
Groups of young people were talking, laughing, and dancing. Their gay costumes were bright in the sunshine. Several boys invited Milo to join in their celebrating. He looked at Father who nodded and said, “That sounds fun, but don’t stay too long.”
“Meet us back at the inn for dinner,” called Mother.
Near the center of the green where groups were dancing there was a large pole with colored streamers hanging down from the top. The word Majstang (Maypole) was posted on a nearby tree. Soon all the dancers gathered around the pole to sing folk songs. It was a colorful sight and everyone was so happy that Milo could not help joining in with them even though he did not know many of the words.
After awhile everyone broke into small groups again and began winding the pole. In and out, over and under, went the colorful ribbons as the dancers swayed and dipped and danced to the singing.
Milo was sorry when it was over. Then he noticed how low the sun was and remembered he was to meet his parents at the inn for smorgasbord.
The smorgasbord was quite different from any Milo had eaten at home. The tables were piled high with smoked and pickled fish, tongue, sweetmeats, spiced fruits, relishes, cheeses, and various kinds of soda water.
“After dinner we’ll have to watch some of the young people start up the mountain. They climb to the top every year to welcome the sunrise,” Father explained.
Milo wished he could go with them but the family was leaving early the next morning to go home.
It had been an especially happy day for Milo. When his father and mother came in to say good-night to him, Milo tried to tell them about all the understandings he had gathered in the different countries they had visited.
“But now,” he said wistfully, “I guess all that will end when we go back home.”
“Oh no, Milo,” Father assured him. “As long as you have a sense of discovery and a desire to know more about other people, there will always be something to learn.”
Mother agreed. And then she added, “No matter where we live we can collect bits of knowledge and add to our understanding.”
Milo lay in bed thinking about the many things he had learned in the different Scandinavian countries. He would never forget his wonderful friends there.

Don Antonio Manuel de Garcia was a short, round man with a tall opinion of himself. “I am the wealthiest man in all of San Pedro,” he would say. “Therefore, I am also the most important.”
Yet when he went out onto the calles (streets) of San Pedro, nobody gave him the attention he felt that he deserved.
“Perhaps if you thought more of others instead of yourself, you would gain the respect of the people,” his wife said gently.
Don Antonio did not listen. “Why, they pay more attention to that peasant, Juan Mendoza, than they do to me,” he grumbled.
His wife smiled. “Juan is a good man. He grinds corn for the old women of the pueblo, for their tortillas. He has a kind word for everyone, and you can always see him coming, because of that large sombrero he always wears.”
“Ahhhh, his sombrero!” Don Antonio ignored everything else she had said.
The next day he rode to the big city. When he returned, he was wearing a new sombrero—but what a sombrero! It had red tassels that bobbed as he trotted by, and a shadow so large that it kept both Don Antonio and his horse in shade from head to tail.
Villagers filled the calles as Don Antonio rode by. They stared in amazement.
He smiled and waved.
“At last the people see how important I am,” Don Antonio told his wife when he returned home.
She looked at the sombrero, shook her head, and said nothing.
For days Don Antonio went out whenever he could, enjoying the crowds that gathered at the sight of his unusual hat.
Soon, however, the novelty wore off. People saw him coming and merely murmured, “Buenos días (Good morning),” before returning to their tasks.
Don Antonio was not pleased.
“Why even Claudia Sanchez gets more attention than me,” he complained to his wife.
“Isn’t she the one who tutors the children after school?” she asked. “Even so, she has time to grow that magnificent garden—and shares what she grows with the less fortunate.”
“Ahhhh, a garden!”
The next day he rode into the big city. When he returned to San Pedro, people flocked to the calles again, their jaws dropped in amazement. Don Antonio was wearing the same sombrero, but now above the red tassels were piles of potatoes, cascades of corn, and bunches of bananas. It was a most amazing sight.
“At last they see how important I am,” he told his wife proudly.
She sighed and said nothing.
For a week Don Antonio basked in the attention of the village. However, his fame did not last. Soon people grew accustomed to his strange sombrero. They no longer gazed in awe as he rode through the calles, and he began to feel smaller and smaller beneath his enormous, heavy hat.
“Why, they pay more attention to Carlos Ramirez than they do to me,” he complained to his wife.
“Ah, Carlos,” she replied. “Isn’t he the boy who carries water for half the women of the pueblo and never charges a peso for it? He sings in the church choir and has a parrot named Xiomara.”
“Ahhhh, a parrot!”
The next day he rode into the big city. As he returned to San Pedro, the people of the pueblo gathered to stare. His sombrero was still huge, with red tassels, and it still looked like a garden. But now four enormous parrots perched on the crown. Their tails dangled down over the sides of the sombrero, and they nibbled at the corn as they rode along.
It was a most unusual sight.
Don Antonio smiled as he rode through the crowd. At last they see how important I am, he thought proudly. But as he rode down the calle, enjoying the amazement of the crowd, he noticed that not everyone was watching him. Some of the children were playing a game.
He was angry. A man of his importance deserved the attention of everyone!
He waved his hands and shouted to make the children look at him.
The startled parrots fluttered from his hat. One landed on the horse’s head. The horse reared, and Don Antonio fell off—kersplash!—into a mud puddle nearly as large as his hat. The sombrero went rolling down the calle, scattering potatoes, corn, and bananas. The parrots winged their way to freedom.
The people of the pueblo sprang into action.
“Save the sombrero of Don Antonio Manuel de Garcia!” they shouted as they raced down the calle after the runaway hat. “Save that magnificent sombrero!”
Soon there was no one left but a short man sitting in a large mud puddle.
“Save Don Antonio Manuel de Garcia!” he cried, but nobody answered. So Don Antonio had to get himself out of the puddle and limp home with mud on his clothes and water in his boots.
“Even my sombrero is more important than I am,” he told his wife, sadly.
She looked at him and shook her head. “You’re the one who made the hat so important,” she pointed out. “If you spent as much time making friends as you did making a magnificent sombrero, you would not have been left alone in the calle. Never let what you wear become more important than what you are.”
For once, Don Antonio had nothing to say.

After joining the Church, we decided to create Christmas traditions for our family that would focus less on materialism and more on Heavenly Father’s love for His children, embodied in His Son, Jesus Christ.
Aside from the tradition of decorating our home with a tree and garlands, each year our family holds a series of family home evenings to help us remember the Savior. For these meetings, we have compiled a book of our favorite Christmas songs and various drawings for the children. On the first Monday of December, we talk about the origin of Christmas, its symbols, and the ways people celebrate Jesus Christ’s birth around the world. We also read a favorite Christmas message from the Liahona of December 1986, the year my wife, Vani, and I were married. On the second Monday, we read from a favorite book about Christmas. On the third Monday, we read and discuss the First Presidency Message from the current Liahona.
The most special day of the month for us is 24 December. We invite friends and our extended family to our home for dinner and a Christmas program. In the program, the children present a musical number, we read the story of Christ’s birth, and I give a Christmas message I have prepared. We then enjoy a wonderful dinner my wife has prepared.
In these and many other ways, we have created family traditions to help us celebrate Christmas as the birth of Jesus Christ.
Antonio Carlos Pedrosa dos Santos,Visconde de Araújo First Branch, Macaé Brazil District

Sierra Leone was a sad place during my teenage years, but it was my home. For much of my life, my small West African country was torn by a civil war. The war affected everything. My family and I were constantly on the run, trying to escape the rebel soldiers. It was terrifying every time the rebels came through a city. Someone would see their torches approaching in the night, warn the others, and we would all run for the bush, grabbing whatever we could along the way.
About seven years after the war began, the rebels came to our city. My whole family was running to escape, but my parents, who were just a few steps behind me, were shot and killed. I was so sad to lose them, but I had to keep moving.
My brother, sister, and I moved to a safer place, and for a short while we were all right, but the rebels eventually hit that town too. This time we didn’t have time to run away. My brother was taken and later killed. My sister and I were lined up outside with all the other women. The rebel soldiers were chopping off limbs of all the women in the line. We were all so frightened. Everyone was crying and praying—even people who had never believed in God before. I was not a member of the Church at the time, but I believed in God and prayed that His will would be done and hoped that He would find a way to save me.
My dear sister, who was several places ahead of me in line, had both of her legs cut off. But as the rebels reached the woman in front of me, our army came rushing in, and the rebels ran away. I know that I was not better than the people who were in front of me or behind me, but I thanked God that I had been spared and prayed that I might understand His plan for me.
I moved to another village to live with a friend. As I was telling my story to my friend and some of her neighbors, one neighbor said, “Mariama, we don’t have anything to offer you except an invitation to church tomorrow. That’s where we find safety. That’s where we find hope.” I loved God already and needed comfort in my life, so I decided to go.
My first Sunday in that Latter-day Saint branch is a day I will never forget. I learned of hope. You could just see that there was hope in those people, and I was drawn to them. I was given the Book of Mormon and started reading right away. I remember hearing in church about how families could be together again after death and then reading in Alma 11 where Alma teaches about how our bodies will be made perfect again in the Resurrection. I felt the Spirit so strongly as I thought of my family. I knew that the Church was true and that we could be together forever—each of us well and whole.
There were no missionaries in Sierra Leone at that time, so I took the lessons from my branch president and was baptized and confirmed soon after. We were blessed in our town because the Church sent food and humanitarian kits for the members of the Church and others. The food kept us all alive. Everyone was so grateful even to receive a small bag of rice or beans. I received a blanket and a hygiene kit that included a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, a comb, and a washcloth.
Not long after, the rebels hit again. They burned down the house I was living in, and as I was running to escape the flames, I took time to save only two things—my scriptures and my hygiene kit. We had to live on the run for a while after that, and I used my hygiene kit to help those around me. I would squeeze out one pinch of toothpaste for each person, or we would go to the river and carefully pass my bar of soap from person to person. The kit was so precious to us. The blanket too was invaluable. It sheltered us for many days until I used it to wrap an old woman who had died and had nothing to be buried in.
Eventually, I went back to my town and my branch. It was then that I decided I wanted to serve a mission. This was a difficult decision for me because I had nothing and would be leaving behind people I loved. As I was trying to decide, I read D&C 84:81 and 88, which say, “Therefore, take ye no thought for the morrow, for what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink, or wherewithal ye shall be clothed … for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.” I knew the Lord would care for me, so I turned in my mission papers and was called to the Utah Salt Lake City Temple Square Mission.
I arrived in Utah with practically nothing, but I insisted on bringing my hygiene kit because it meant so much to me. One day, my companion and I were taking a tour of the Humanitarian Center in Salt Lake, and I recognized a blanket that had the Relief Society logo embroidered on it, just like the one I’d had in Sierra Leone. I looked around and saw hygiene kits like mine and familiar bags of beans and rice, and I began cry.
“This is where they came from!” I thought to myself. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I remembered what these things sitting in stacks in the Humanitarian Center meant to my friends and to me in Sierra Leone. I was so grateful to the Lord for preserving me, for bringing the gospel into my life, and for allowing me to serve a mission. I knew that His angels truly had been round about me, to bear me up.

For example, our granddaughter Miranda is very motivated to grow spiritually by participating in daily early-morning seminary classes. She became interested by hearing positive comments from other seminary students in her ward. Her mother does not have to wake her up for class. On her own, she is up and connected by videoconference at the appointed time of 6:20 in the morning because she has developed good habits that help her to do so. My own parents told me recently that Miranda now talks more when she visits them, as she has grown in self-confidence. These are lessons for life and growth with noticeable outcomes.

I think I was most grateful when I left California to attend BYU. First of all, I was glad that I had earned the grades necessary to enter college. And although I told my roommates I wasn’t interested in getting married because I was going to be a famous journalist, I really was. And I didn’t want to marry a slouch either. I wanted a man who had lived a righteous life and kept himself clean. I did find Mr. Right, and it was sublime not to have any serious transgressions to hide or confess before we knelt at the altar of the temple.

The Young Women and mothers from the San Antonio Eighth Ward, San Antonio Texas Stake, took a step back into time to the days of the Old West. The group scheduled an overnight outing to a reconstructed western town complete with covered wagons and a jail. After the girls cooked dinner for their mothers, they had a special campfire meeting. The following day, they combined a nature study with a service project to clean up the area. Competition in camping skills between mother-daughter teams added to the fun. The outing concluded with a trail ride. Both girls and mothers found that they had come to know each other a little better.

Some who profess to be followers of Christ insist that members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are not Christians. Indeed, there are those who make their living attacking our church and its doctrines. I wish all of them could have the experience I shared.
A friend who was making his first visit to Salt Lake City called on me in my office. He is a well-educated man and a devout and sincere Christian. Although we have not discussed this with each other, we both know that some leaders of his denomination have taught that members of our church are not Christians.
After a short discussion on a matter of common interest, I told my friend I had something I would like him to see. We walked over to Temple Square and into the North Visitors’ Center. We viewed the pictures of Bible and Book of Mormon Apostles and prophets. Then we turned our steps up the inclined walkway to the second level. Here Thorvaldsen’s great statue of the risen Christ dominates a setting suggestive of the immensity of space and the grandeur of the creations of God.
As we emerged and beheld this majestic likeness of the Christus, arms outstretched and hands showing the wounds of his Crucifixion, my friend drew a sharp breath. We stood quietly for a few minutes, enjoying a reverent communion of worshipful thoughts about our Savior. Then without further conversation, we made our way down to the street level. On the way we walked past the small diorama showing the Prophet Joseph Smith kneeling in the Sacred Grove.
As we left Temple Square and took our leave of one another, my friend took me by the hand. “Thank you for showing me that,” he said. “Now I understand something about your faith that I have never understood before.” I hope that every person who has ever had doubts about whether we are Christians can achieve that same understanding.

“Figuratively, all of us need to transform ourselves into modern Captain Moronis in order to win the wars against evil. I know a very faithful young deacon who transformed himself into a modern Captain Moroni. Inasmuch as he has sought to follow the counsel of his parents and Church leaders, his faith and determination have been tested every day, even at his young age. He told me one day he was surprised by a very difficult and uncomfortable situation—his friends were accessing pornographic images on their cell phones. In that exact moment, this young man had to decide what was most important—his popularity or his righteousness. In the few seconds that followed, he was filled with courage and told his friends that what they were doing was not right. Moreover, he told them that they should stop what they were doing or they would become slaves to it. Most of his classmates ridiculed his counsel, saying that it was a part of life and that there was nothing wrong with it. However, there was one among them who listened to the counsel of that young man and decided to stop what he was doing.
“This deacon’s example had a positive influence on at least one of his classmates. Undoubtedly, he and his friend faced mockery and persecution because of that decision. On the other hand, they had followed the admonition of Alma to his people when he said, ‘And now I say unto you, all you that are desirous to follow the voice of the good shepherd, come ye out from the wicked, and be ye separate, and touch not their unclean things’ [Alma 5:57].”
Elder Ulisses Soares of the Presidency of the Seventy

Michelle sat outside the bishop’s office trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. Would this interview be like a test? What if she got the answers wrong? Could she still get a temple recommend in time for her first trip to do baptisms for the dead?
“Is everything all right, honey?” Mom asked.
Michelle tried to smile. “Yes. I’m just nervous. What if I don’t know all the answers? What if I forget one of the Articles of Faith or something?”
Dad reached over and patted her hand. “It isn’t a quiz, sweetie. Just be yourself and answer honestly. You have nothing to worry about.”
But she did worry! Today was her 12th birthday, and she wanted to do baptisms for the dead the very next day. She’d been planning it for months. She was even going to wait to have her birthday party until her family got home from the temple. If she messed up in the interview and missed doing baptisms, she’d be so disappointed.
She kept running through the Articles of Faith in her mind just in case.
Soon the door opened. The bishop leaned out of his office and smiled. “Hello, Michelle. Come on in!”
Michelle gulped and walked inside his office.
The bishop started by asking Michelle about her birthday plans. That wasn’t so scary to talk about. Then they talked about her Primary class for a little while.
“Are you excited to go into Young Women?” he asked.
“Oh, yes!” Michelle answered. They talked for several minutes about why she was looking forward to becoming a Beehive.
Then the bishop asked Michelle about her testimony and if she kept the commandments. Those questions were easy to answer. She knew the Church was true. She tried to live the gospel. Michelle started feeling less worried.
And then, before she knew it, the interview was over. The bishop filled out the recommend and handed it to Michelle. She blinked at the little paper she held in her hand. She had her very own temple recommend!
The bishop smiled. “Have a happy birthday and a wonderful time at the temple.”
Michelle could hardly wait!
For the rest of the day, Michelle couldn’t think about anything but the temple. All her life she’d been learning about the temple. And tomorrow she was going inside for real.
Finally the big day arrived. Later that night there’d be a party with presents and cake. Grandma and Grandpa would be there too. But none of that was on her mind as she put on her best church clothes. She was going to the temple. Her birthday wish was coming true.
“All ready, Michelle?” Mom asked.
Michelle nodded. Boy, was she ready!
And yet, as soon as Dad pulled the car out of the driveway, Michelle started feeling jittery all over again. Would she be able to stay quiet inside the temple? She knew the temple was a sacred place, and she wanted to be reverent. But sometimes she got so excited about things that she forgot to whisper. Would this be one of those times?
But as soon as they stepped inside the temple, Michelle’s nervousness completely disappeared. She felt more peaceful and calm than she ever had before. She could feel this was a special place. Michelle was inside the temple with Mom and Dad.
This really was the best way to celebrate her birthday.

I have permission to tell you the story of a young man who grew up in our community. He was not a member of the Church. He and his parents were active in another faith.

He recalls that when he was growing up, some of his LDS associates belittled him, made him feel out of place, and poked fun at him.

He came to literally hate this Church and its people. He saw no good in any of them.

Then his father lost his employment and had to move. In the new location, at the age of 17, he was able to enroll in college. There, for the first time in his life, he felt the warmth of friends, one of whom, named Richard, asked him to join a club of which he was president. He writes: “For the first time in my life someone wanted me around. I didn’t know how to react, but thankfully I joined. … It was a feeling that I loved, the feeling of having a friend. I had prayed for one my whole life. And now after 17 years of waiting, God answered that prayer.”

At the age of 19 he found himself as a tent partner with Richard during their summer employment. He noticed Richard reading a book every night. He asked what he was reading. He was told that he was reading the Book of Mormon. He adds: “I quickly changed the subject and went to bed. After all, that is the book that ruined my childhood. I tried forgetting about it, but a week went by and I couldn’t sleep. Why was he reading it every night? I soon couldn’t stand the unanswered questions in my head. So one night I asked him what was so important in that book. What was in it? He handed me the book. I quickly stated that I never wanted to touch the book. I just wanted to know what was in there. He started to read where he had stopped. He read about Jesus and about an appearance in the Americas. I was shocked. I didn’t think that the Mormons believed in Jesus.”

Richard asked him to sing in a stake conference choir with him. The day came and the conference started. “Elder Gary J. Coleman from the First Quorum of the Seventy was the guest speaker. I found out during the conference that he also [was a convert]. At the end Richard proceeded to pull me by the arm up to talk to him. I finally agreed, and as I was approaching him he turned and smiled at me. I introduced myself and said that I wasn’t a member and that I had just come to sing in the choir. He smiled and said he was happy that I was there and stated that the music was great. I asked him how he knew the Church was true. He told me a short version of his testimony and asked if I had read the Book of Mormon. I said no. He promised me that the first time I read it, I would feel the Spirit.”

On a subsequent occasion this young man and his friend were traveling. Richard handed him a Book of Mormon and asked that he read it aloud. He did so, and suddenly the inspiration of the Holy Spirit touched him.

Time passed and his faith increased. He agreed to be baptized. His parents opposed him, but he went forward and was baptized a member of this Church.

His testimony continues to strengthen. Only a few weeks ago he was married to a beautiful Latter-day Saint girl for time and eternity in the Salt Lake Temple. Elder Gary J. Coleman performed his sealing.

One evening in a small courtyard on Mount Zion near David’s tomb, I sat on a weathered wooden bench talking to a group of Yeshivah (orthodox Jewish seminary) students. The sun cast long golden shadows as they told me of God’s purposes for them in Israel. Several of them, American Jews who had immigrated to Israel, felt that God had arranged the events of their lives so that they would finally come to Israel. Their feelings were intense and sincere, and they seemed willing to follow God’s will as they felt it.
Israel seems to be preparing herself to renew her ancient covenant with God.
Even now there is a rapidly growing group of Jewish Christians. These are Jews who believe that Jesus was, indeed, the Messiah. Quite by accident I met a young couple who held that belief. Early one morning I entered a small stationery store in Jerusalem and was greeted by a friendly couple who spoke excellent English. We chatted for a few moments, and they were impressed by my Mormon attitudes, so they invited me out to lunch with them later that afternoon. After a very pleasant meal of Hungarian goulash, we talked for three hours, mostly about the similarities in our religious feelings. They were fascinated by the story of Joseph Smith and the idea of a personal, tangible God. They were especially interested in the Latter-day Saint concept of family unity and exaltation. They warmed to an invitation to attend our branch services in Jerusalem and expressed a desire to learn more about the Church. As we talked, I made a mental note to send them a copy of the Book of Mormon with my personal testimony written on the flyleaf.
Even atheists seem affected by God’s influence. A veteran Israeli soldier told me of his experience during the fighting of the six-day war of 1967. “Even though I was an atheist, a strange feeling came over me when we broke through the opposing forces and reached the Wailing Wall. I stood there crying like a baby. And since then … I don’t know … maybe there is a God.”
Most Latter-day Saints are familiar with the spirit of gathering that has impelled thousands of Jews to leave the lands of their birth, comfortable homes, and good businesses to immigrate to Israel. And they come in spite of extremely high income taxes (generally 50 percent) and the constant threat of war and terrorist raids. One immigrant told me that he had left his whole family and all of his friends in Chile. “I really don’t know why,” he said simply. Another young man from South Africa shrugged his shoulders: “I guess if I’m going to die for something, I want it to be for God.”
“Behold, I will gather them out of all countries, whither I have driven them in mine anger; … and I will bring them again unto this place, and I will cause them to dwell safely:
“And they shall be my people, and I will be their God.” (Jer. 32:37–38.)
Just the land itself is enough to stir up thoughts of ancient prophets and the ministry of the Savior. Jesus spoke of sowing seeds among the rocks; I’ve stumbled through fields that seemed more rock than dirt. Rocks are so numerous that the many hilly terraces, walls, and buildings made up of them do not seem to deplete their endless plenty. Wild flowers, the “lilies of the field,” are in great abundance and beauty. Everywhere there are shepherds and sheep, reflecting a changeless cycle and adding credence to the life of the Good Shepherd.
For me that sense of reality is the strongest message of Israel. The Savior’s feet walked and his voice sounded on the hills I climbed each evening as I wearily, but happily headed homeward after a long day of photography. He saw the sun coming up in the morning and felt its heat at noonday. Even some of the unpleasant odors of Old Jerusalem were common to him. Jesus taught here.
Later I climbed the Mount of Olives by way of a very old stone path. The huge stones were polished from the countless sandals of several thousand years. The feet of Jesus probably climbed this path from Jerusalem to Bethany. It was long and steep, and I stopped several times to gulp much needed air and to wipe the sweat from my eyes. As I lifted my eyes to see the top of the hill, I imagined myself to be one of the Savior’s disciples, following him up the path to Bethany. Perhaps I would have stumbled on a projecting rock and called, “Master, wait for me.” Or I might have asked, “Lord, what of the last days?” For a moment I stood there, aboard my own personal time-machine, wondering about the closeness to Christ that I was feeling. As tears came unexpectedly, I understood those I had seen in President David O. McKay’s eyes during a sacrament meeting a few years ago. He had cried in contemplation of the suffering of a close friend, a man called Jesus.
Later, almost by chance while reading an obscure book, I made a discovery. There were still in existence two pillars, with the original capitals still crowning them, that had been part of the portico of Solomon’s temple. It took special permission from the Arab Religious Council to gain access to them, and then I could only get as close as the open mesh of a wire fence. In breathless silence I looked at a fragment of the glory that was Israel 3,000 years ago. Now they stand in a storage room crowded with empty chairs, silent sentinels of a glorious past.
Even in the midst of modern technology, ancient Israel pokes its way into the present. As they have done for thousands of years, Arab women in brightly colored dresses still carry baskets balanced gracefully on their heads, though the baskets are now made of garish plastic mesh. I saw a woman hand-spinning wool into yarn as she walked along herding sheep; she wore modern slacks under her purple and orange dress.
Such is life in Israel today. An old Arab in the mosque-of-the-Dome area in Jerusalem, caught my eye as I laughed at a group of children teasing him. “Children, the same everywhere,” he smiled. And didn’t the Master of us all say, “Suffer the little children to come unto me”? Jesus did walk and teach in changeless changed Jerusalem.

We will find happiness as we show our love to God and to our neighbors through our actions. Over the last six years, we have lived in three different countries and five different cities. Although it may sound exciting, it was very difficult to learn and adjust to new cultures and make new friends. Many times, we felt very lonely, but we quickly learned that the best way to connect with people and to find happiness was through service. During the time that we lived in Florida (United States) our kids would get up early on Saturdays and help in the local community food pantry for a few hours. That sharing of love through service helped them feel happiness despite the difficulties they were facing at the time. My wife, too, on special holidays would bake goodies and then as a family, we would go around the block and share them with our neighbors. Through these very small acts we were able to make new friends, share the gospel and find happiness.

Jim tried his best to wipe away the tears before he got home. He didn’t want Mom to see that he had been crying.
Randy, a boy in his class, stopped Jim every day after school and called him names. Jim tried not to let it bother him, but when Randy started saying mean things about Jim being a Mormon, Jim couldn’t hold back the tears.
As Jim opened the front door, Mom looked up from the sofa. She could see that something was wrong. “What happened?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Jim mumbled.
Mom patted the cushion by her. “Tell me, please.”
Jim sat on the sofa next to her. “There’s this boy at school named Randy who keeps calling me names,” Jim said. “Today he said Mormons are weird.”
“That must have hurt,” Mom said.
Jim nodded. “What can I do?”
Mom gave him a quick hug. “I think you can figure out something. Just remember that Heavenly Father loves Randy—just like He loves you.”
Jim thought about his problem. “Maybe I could invite Randy home and make cookies,” he said.
“I think that’s a great idea,” Mom said.
The next day, Jim worked up the courage to talk to Randy. “Hey, Randy,” Jim said. “We’re going to make cookies at my house tomorrow. Do you want to come?”
Randy squinted at Jim and raised an eyebrow. “What kind of cookies?” Randy asked.
“Chocolate chip.”
“Sure. They’re my favorite!” Randy said.
The following day, Randy and Jim walked home together. Mom was waiting for them.
“Hi, Randy. It’s nice to meet you,” she said.
“Nice to meet you too,” Randy said.
“Come into the kitchen and we’ll get started,” Mom said.
In the kitchen, she pointed to the sink. “Wash first.”
After the boys washed their hands, Jim showed Randy how to measure the ingredients and mix them together.
By the time they spooned the cookie dough onto the baking pan, Randy was smiling. “Can I put them in the oven?” he asked.
“Sure. They need to bake for 12 minutes,” Jim said as he set the timer.
When 12 minutes had passed, Jim carefully removed the pan from the oven. Randy started to reach for a cookie, then stopped. “Can I have one?”
Jim smiled. “Yes. But they need to cool first.”
When the cookies had cooled, Jim and Randy each took two. Mom poured glasses of milk for them.
“These are great!” Randy said after he’d finished both cookies and his glass of milk. “Thanks for inviting me, Jim. Thank you, Mrs. Sheridan.”
Mom placed some cookies on a plate and covered them with foil. “These are for you to take home and share with your family.”
After that, Randy no longer teased Jim. The boys played together after school and on the weekends. Jim was glad a simple act could help him make a new friend.

Let me share another story. A new bishop was nervous because he had no training in counseling and a young man was coming for counsel with some serious issues. The interview started with prayer and some casual conversation. Then the real topic was shared. The bishop’s mind went blank. He looked down at his hands momentarily and as he was looking back at this individual, concerned with what to say, he saw his new journal on the desk. With a spiritual nudge (I believe a spiritual nudge is the still small voice that inspires thoughts and promptings), he stood, picked up the journal, crossed the room, and sat next to the young man. Still not understanding what he should do or say, he handed the journal to the young man. As the young man said thank you, the bishop had another spiritual nudge. He remembered why he bought the journal. It was to record his positive thoughts and promptings so he could be more aware of the Spirit and how to become better. The bishop then proceeded by giving the same instruction to the young man and asked that he do this every day for the next week. The following week came and they reviewed what the young man recorded. As they reviewed the journal, the young man began seeing steps he needed to take to work through his problems. Over time and with some guidance from the bishop, he used the journal to study the problem out in his mind. As he wrote and reflected, he saw small, spiritual nudges recorded in his journal. From these nudges, he came up with solutions, made decisions, and acted. He saw the hand of the Lord helping him change as he reviewed his journal. He recognized answers to his prayers—confirmation.

A few years after my wife and I returned home from our mission, President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) asked us to meet with him. During that meeting, he extended a call to me to serve as a General Authority. He reflected on my experiences as a young missionary and as a mission president and told us that although there were many people who were qualified to be General Authorities, the Lord would use me because of my previous experiences and decisions.

Since President Thomas S. Monson announced the change in the missionary age, young people have been asked to counsel with their parents, counsel with their bishops, and counsel with the Lord through prayer. When you know it is the right time to go, then you should go. As you have patience and exercise faith, I know that the Lord will make His will known unto you.

I testify that as you are obedient to the will of the Lord, you will be blessed beyond measure.

Many years ago, our family had an experience which left an indelible impression as to the importance and value and power of a father’s blessing. The lessons learned may be of interest to you.
When our oldest children were ready to begin formal schooling, Sister Bateman and I decided that a father’s blessing would be given to each child at the beginning of the school year. The family home evening preceding the start of school would be the occasion. The year our oldest son, Michael, entered the third grade holds special memories for us. During the preceding summer he had participated in Little League baseball. He loved the sport. When we gathered for family home evening just before the start of school, Michael announced that he did not need a blessing. He had completed his first season in Little League, and blessings were for younger children.
Sister Bateman and I were stunned. We encouraged him, suggesting that a blessing would help him with his schoolwork. It would be a protection to him. It would help him in his relations with his brothers, sisters, and friends. Our encouragement, along with some coaxing, failed. He was too old. Believing in the principle of agency, we were not about to force a blessing on an eight-year-old. All of the children except Michael received a blessing that year.
The school year proceeded normally. Michael and the other children did well in school, and the family enjoyed their associations together. Then the following May arrived, and it was time for Little League baseball to begin. Following the last day of school, Michael’s coach called a team practice. Michael’s anticipation could not have been greater. His dream was about to be realized. He was to be the starting catcher. The baseball diamond was only a few blocks from our home. The boys and the coach walked to the baseball field, crossing a busy highway. Following the practice, the boys and coach started for home. Michael and a friend ran on ahead of the coach and the other boys. As the two boys approached the busy highway, Michael failed to look and darted in front of a car driven by a 16-year-old young man out for his first drive. Can you imagine the fear that must have struck the young man’s heart? He slammed on the brakes and swerved in an attempt to miss the boy. Unfortunately, the side of the front fender and bumper hit Michael and threw him down the highway.
A short time later, Sister Bateman and I received a telephone call from the police. Michael, in critical condition, was in an ambulance on his way to the hospital. It was important that we hurry. Before leaving, I called a friend and asked him to meet us at the hospital and assist in giving a blessing. The 20-minute drive was the longest of our lives. We prayed fervently for the life of our son and to know the will of the Lord.
As we parked the car by the door of the emergency room, we saw a policeman exiting with a young man who was crying. The policeman recognized us and introduced the young man as the driver of the car. We knew enough of the story to put our arms around him and tell him that we knew it was not his fault. We then entered the hospital to find Michael. As we entered his room, the doctors and nurses were working feverishly, attending to his needs. My friend had arrived, and we asked if it would be possible to have two or three minutes alone with him. My priesthood brother anointed, and I sealed. As I laid my hands upon Michael’s head, a feeling of comfort and peace came over me, words flowed, and promises were made. He was then rushed to the operating room.
For the next four weeks, Michael lay in a hospital bed with his head bandaged and his leg in traction. Each Wednesday, his Little League teammates would visit him after the game and give him a report. Each Wednesday, tears would well up in Michael’s eyes and run down his cheeks as the boys relived the game. After four weeks in traction, Michael was put in a body cast from his chest to his toes. On two or three occasions we took him to a game to watch his friends play. Another four weeks passed, and the body cast was replaced with a cast from his hip to his toes. Two days before school was to begin, the final cast was removed. As the family gathered the next night for school blessings, is there any wonder as to who wanted the first blessing? A nine-year-old boy, a little older and a lot wiser, was first in line.
Over the years our children have come to understand that accidents are not always prevented by priesthood blessings, but they also know that more than one type of protection is available through the priesthood. Today, our grandchildren are the recipients of priesthood blessings. The tradition is in the second and third generations. We believe that this practice, like the family, will prevail through the eternities.

I have just returned from one of the great nations of the world. We were so impressed with the people. How friendly and considerate they were to us. I would tell my wife, “If you want to have fun in this country, go out and get lost. Those people are so great at giving directions when you ask for assistance. They tell you where to go with such detail and then repeat it two or three times to be certain you understand.”

This country is in one of its most difficult periods. After suffering during World War II, the people went into a great rebuilding program. As they accomplished and things became easy again, they started to relax and wanted only to enjoy life. Their great interest became the pub and the television. If an industry was in difficulty, rather than attempting to solve the problem, it was much easier and more secure to turn it over to the government and nationalize it. One by one, the government found itself operating more and more businesses. To offset this great national power, the workers organized into national unions and union leadership had so much control that they could paralyze the nation anytime it was to their advantage to call a strike.

A strike was in progress while we were there. Public buildings were required to close down at 10:30 at night. Stores were only allowed to turn on their lights one half of each working day. Shopping in stores during the period without lights was interesting. There would be one light burning at the entrance to the store. As you would step into the selling departments to shop, a salesperson would carry coleman lanterns around to show you the merchandise. In one store we visited, the temperature was 45 degrees. The saleslady explained they had been without heat all winter. The work week was reduced to three days. In hotels, you would find each room equipped with a candle with a note stating the lights could be turned out at any time. The heat was on in the hotel only during the evening and the early morning hours. Having a haircut was an experience. The barbershop was cold and dark as you entered. The barber seated you in a chair and then ran downstairs to turn on a little handmade generator operated by his former Honda. One neon tube than came on and the barber commenced to cut your hair. I was greatly relieved to go outside after the haircut to see if my head was still in place. On top of all this, the people had to live with the realization that if the strike was allowed to continue two additional weeks, all power would be turned off.

The economic pressures caused the government to fall and a general election was called. This election was held while we were there. It was very interesting to see 85 percent of the voters turn out to cast their ballots. Unfortunately, the election just highlighted problems rather than solving them. There had been such lack of interest for so long that the elections failed to turn up new leadership. The vote was split between the two major parties. One received the popular-vote margin. The second received the greater number of seats in the governing body. Neither had the majority to rule. A small third party was now in control and could bargain for the best deal. The ability to organize the government rested in its hands. Radical leaders could now demand positions of importance and power in the new government far beyond what they were entitled to as representatives of the people.

This is a classic example, to me, of what occurs when complacency and the desire for security supersede the desire for freedom and the willingness to sacrifice for its preservation.

Elder H. Burke Peterson, then of the Presiding Bishopric, related the experience of a group of teenagers who were picnicking in the desert outside Phoenix, Arizona. One of the girls was bitten by a rattlesnake. Instead of immediately seeking medical attention, the group pursued the snake and sought revenge by killing it with rocks. Unfortunately, during the precious minutes that the group wasted in exacting revenge, the poison had time to move from the surface of the girl’s skin into the tissues of her foot and leg; her leg later had to be amputated below the knee.
“It was a senseless sacrifice, this price of revenge. … The poison of revenge, or of unforgiving thoughts or attitudes, unless removed, will destroy the soul in which it is harbored,” said Bishop Peterson.

The river is slow moving, so the girls had to paddle all the way. There’s no riding the current here. After a break for lunch and a few swampy portages, camp was in sight. The race was on to see who could be first on the beach. Those who had learned to paddle together had the advantage. Dawn Queen said, “Before we stopped for lunch, we were the last canoe, because we kept arguing with each other. But when we learned to work together, we passed everyone and finished first. It worked better when we encouraged each other.” A lesson about canoes and a lesson for life.