Gospel Story Finder

Sister Mette Hansen supported her family by operating her own typesetting business in Denmark. When business slowed to a stop, she and her mother and daughter fasted and prayed for more work. The next day, she received a thick manuscript from a new customer.
But, for some reason, Sister Hansen was unable to do the job. Her computer would not function properly. And when she picked up the manuscript, she had the strange sensation that her hands were dirty.
Frustrated, she prayed for help and was prompted to read the manuscript—from back to front. On the second-to-last page of the book, which was to be a manual for colleges throughout Denmark, she found “the worst blasphemy of Jesus Christ I had ever read.”
One voice within her said, “Don’t typeset this, Mette. You’ll forsake Christ if you do.” Another voice said, “The book will be printed whether you typeset it or not. And you will be able to pay your bills for the next month if you do the work.”
Praying for strength, she explained her feelings to the printer and returned the manuscript. Days later, she received enough orders to keep her busy for six months. And that printer became one of her best customers. (See Tambuli, April 1986, page 12.)

Last summer I took a ballet class. I enjoyed seeing my friends there. We practiced for months for a Christmas dance. When December finally came, I was so excited to perform our dance. But two weeks before the performance, our teacher told my mom that it would be on a Sunday. When Mom told me, I said I would not go. I was sad that I would not be able to perform in our Christmas dance, but I was happy that I chose the right.

It was just an old board Kristen and I had found—maybe ten feet long and just wide enough to sit on. The desert sun had already started to turn the board gray, but even faded it was the perfect addition to our makeshift playground. In fact, other than a lot of sand and a few Tonka trucks, it was the only thing in our playground. Laid across a big rock sticking up in the backyard, that old board became a teeter-totter, kind of like the one at the park by Grandma’s house. Of course, our teeter-totter didn’t go as high as the one at the park. But it was ours.
One day we were teetering and tottering when a couple of men came to visit. I didn’t know what they wanted, but they talked to Mom in the kitchen for a while. Kristen, who was a year older than I was, said they were from church—the new one we had just started going to. One of them was young, and the other had white hair and a white beard. He was the oldest man I’d ever seen. As they were leaving, the old man walked over to us and watched as we went up and down on the teeter-totter.
“That’s a nice looking board you have there,” he said. “Would you mind if I took it with me for a while? I could sure use a board like that.”
We both looked at Mom, who was standing by the kitchen door. She told us to give the man the board. So Kristen and I got off our teeter-totter, and the man put the board in his truck. They said good-bye and drove away.
“Mom, what were those men doing here?” I grumbled.
“They’re our home teachers; the church we went to on Sunday sent them to make sure we’re okay.”
“I’m okay, but I was better when I had my teeter-totter.”
Mom ran her fingers through my hair. “I know, honey. It’s almost dinnertime. Go inside and wash up.”
Most kids would have probably put up a fuss when someone took their favorite toy, but we knew if Mom said it, we should do it.
That night, Mom said the old man’s name was Brother Andelin. My four-year-old mouth had to work to get his name right. Mom said Brother Andelin lived on the other side of town, but would come and visit again.
A few days later, I was on the porch when Brother Andelin’s truck came rattling up the drive.
“Hello, Bobby. Would you like to see what I built out of that board you gave me?” he said, getting out of his truck.
I ran behind him to the back of his truck where he pulled out the board, now painted green with a seat and handle at each end. In the middle on the other side were some steel rings. Also in the truck was a big, wooden, pyramid-shaped box, painted the same color as the board.
“Is your sister here?” Brother Andelin asked. “Run and get her while I set this up in the yard.”
I ran into the kitchen and down the hall. “Kristen,” I yelled, gasping for air. “Brother Andelin brought our board. But he, he—come see.”
Mom followed as Kristen and I ran outside. Brother Andelin had fastened the board on top of the box.
“It’s a real teeter-totter,” Kristen whispered to me. “Is it for us?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
“You ask him.”
“Brother Andelin,” I said, stepping closer, “is this for us? For keeps?”
“It’s your board, isn’t it?” he said. “Besides, what am I gonna do with a seesaw? My kids have all grown up.”
Kristen and I climbed on the new teeter-totter. It wasn’t like before. When we went up, we went off the ground way up in the air. Brother Andelin laughed as we played, his teeth smiling from behind his long, white beard.

My classmate and I were working together in the school library just after winter vacation when he asked me if I was interested in going to church with him. I asked him what kind of church he was talking about, and he told me it was near our school. He said it was a lot of fun, and there were many girls. I was 16 at the time, and that description of church appealed to me. I decided to go. I had gone to a Presbyterian church for a couple of years in elementary school, and I had good memories of church.
My friend and I went to a Saturday activity, and everyone came to greet me and welcome me. I was impressed that they would be so kind to welcome a small guy they didn’t know. I went to church the next day, and I was introduced to the missionaries.
The missionaries taught me about basic gospel principles, about Jesus Christ, and about the Restoration of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith. All the lessons I was taught were reasonable and logical, and I was impressed by eternal progress and the plan of salvation. I had often thought about why I was here on earth and what things were waiting for me after death. It was comforting to know that if I would do all I could for myself, the Savior would do the rest.
Two months later I wanted to be baptized and confirmed, but I needed permission from my parents. They were Buddhist, but they trusted me. I decided it would be best to ask my mother first, so I asked the missionaries to come to my home during the day. Before I went to school, I told my mother that she might have some foreigners come to ask her something and that she should just say yes. And then I ran out the door to school. When I returned, my mom said she had two handsome American visitors. She said they spoke wonderful Korean, and she was so impressed that she said yes. So I got permission from my parents to join the Church.

I had an appointment scheduled a few days later with a neurologist, but that January morning, my older sister, Kylie, felt prompted that my family should take me to the emergency room at a nearby hospital. Doctors quickly ordered a computed tomography (CT) scan and the first of several spinal taps to reduce cerebrospinal fluid pressure. The next day, I had two MRIs (magnetic resonance imaging). Then an ophthalmologist examined me.

“How many fingers can you see?” he asked, holding up several fingers right in from of my face. I couldn’t see anything.

After his examination, he concluded that I had symptoms of both pseudotumor cerebri and optic neuritis. Neither condition on its own seemed fully responsible. He explained that with the severity of my vision loss, recovery could take over a year and that my vision might not fully return. He recommended a high dose of intravenous steroids and other medication.

After he left, I started crying. My mother reassured me, “If you can’t hold on to your faith right now, you can rely on ours.”

I was a teenager when the missionaries brought the gospel into my home. I remember listening to their message and thinking that the Father and the Son appearing to 14-year-old Joseph Smith and an angel leading Joseph to golden plates sounded too good to be true. The missionaries also said that there was a living prophet on the earth. That also sounded too good to be true. But I noticed positive changes in our home as the missionaries taught our family. Soon I joined the Church.
Changes in my own life, however, didn’t come immediately just because I was baptized. I began attending church on Sundays, but other than that, I still did the same things I was doing before. It wasn’t until I was 17 years old that I made a promise to the Lord that I would read at least 10 pages of the Book of Mormon every day.
One of the first things I read was that the Book of Mormon was “written to the Lamanites,” and I was taught that the Lamanites “are among the ancestors of the American Indians” (Book of Mormon, Title Page and Introduction).
I am proud of my name and of my heritage. Because of my heritage, I felt that the Book of Mormon had special messages for me. I was eager to continue reading.
I never missed a day. As I read, I marked in red all the great truths everyone needs to know. Then I marked in yellow the promises the prophets made to the descendants of the Lamanites. As I did so, their words seemed to fly off the page!
After reading the last page, I got on my knees and asked Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon was true, if Joseph Smith was a prophet, and if the Church had a living prophet. As I prayed, I felt the Spirit powerfully witness to me the truth of these things.
“Because of my heritage, I felt that the Book of Mormon had special messages for me.”

The baptisms went ahead as scheduled, and afterwards Erroll Bennett had time to think. No one called from the soccer club with congratulations or criticism, and by the end of that quiet evening he had made his decision. It was no good agonizing over an elusive compromise, and there was little point in training if he wasn’t going to play on Sundays. The following day he would talk to Napoléon Spitz and withdraw from active soccer, leaving his position open to some other hopeful.
Mr. Spitz’s reaction was a surprising one. “Hold off for a few days,” he said. “Wait until after the meeting of the league later this week.”
When Erroll heard the news a few days later, he could hardly believe it. Napoléon Spitz had advised league officials that the Central club had decided not to play on Sundays. Mr. Spitz explained that playing on Sundays was preventing team players from being with their families, and that it was an unacceptable practice. Whatever other league teams wanted to do, Central would not play on Sundays.
A vote was then called for, and the decision was unanimous. From now on, all Honours Division games would be played on weekday evenings.
Michael Ferrand, senior sports writer for the Tahitian daily newspaper La Dêpêche, attended the meeting as a delegate of another club, and remembers it well. He smilingly recalls: “Of course, we all knew the real reasons for the requested change. Napoléon Spitz was addressing the meeting as a delegate of Central. He offered some good reasons why we should all make the change—pressure on players and on their families and so on—but I guess everyone in the room knew that it was Erroll Bennett’s joining the Mormon Church that prompted it all.”
Mr. Ferrand says the players themselves seemed happy to go along with the new arrangements, though the public reaction was mixed. “It’s not easy to change a long-standing tradition,” he says. “People had been going to Sunday soccer for years and now suddenly it was to be switched to week-nights. Some of the sports writers were a little unhappy with it, but criticism was fairly subdued. You have to remember that Erroll Bennett is enormously popular in Tahiti. No sports writer is going to be outspokenly critical of a national hero!”
Since Erroll Bennett’s baptism in 1977, all twelve top clubs in the Tahitian Honours Division have played their games midweek. It has now become such an established practice that it is unlikely to change even if Erroll retires or leaves the game. Mr. Ferrand, who is also executive secretary of the College La Mennais, the largest private Catholic college in Tahiti, welcomes the change.
“Personally, I feel it’s a good thing,” he says. “If it contributes to a more sacred Sunday, so much the better.”
No one is suggesting that soccer enthusiasts now flock to churches on Sundays instead of to a game. Yet besides making a point for the sanctity of the Sabbath, the changes prompted by Erroll Bennett’s baptism six years ago seem also to have had a positive effect on Tahitian soccer itself. Napoléon Spitz, a man who has observed the repercussions as closely as anyone, is unhesitating in his response.
“There’s no doubt the players prefer playing on weeknights,” he says. “They have discovered that they like being with their families on Sundays. They appear to be better rested, they practice better and they play better. The public may have been uncertain at first, but I believe there is no doubt now that they value the extra freedom they have on Sundays to do what they want to do with their families. All of us have benefitted.”
Brother Bennett’s no-Sunday play rule has meant that in the past five years, Erroll has missed only two games held in Tahiti—both were in 1977. The first was the day following his baptism—before the historic meeting of the league to change days. The second game was the final of the Tahiti Cup—an open competition for all 112 clubs in Tahiti. Napoléon Spitz says it was just too complicated, with short notice, in that first year to switch the cup final to another day. The following year, however, and every year since, the Tahitian Cup has been kept off Sundays—because of Erroll Bennett.

When the prophet dedicated the Curitiba Brazil Temple on June 1, 2008, he called a lad up to assist him at the cornerstone ceremony. A photographer suggested someone take off the boy’s hat for a picture. The boy had no hair and was obviously undergoing cancer treatments. President Monson lovingly put his arm around him and helped him place mortar on the wall. One of those accompanying the President mentioned it was time to go back in the temple to finish the dedication on schedule. President Monson shook his head. “No,” he said, “I want to call up one more.” Looking over the crowd, he settled on a woman at the back, and as their eyes met, he motioned for her to come forward. He put his arm around her and with loving care escorted her to the wall to finish the cornerstone sealing.
The day after the dedication, Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who had also been at the dedication, asked President Monson how he knew the woman was the boy’s mother.
“I didn’t know,” he replied, “but the Lord knew.”
It was not many months later that the boy died. Elder Nelson says: “You can imagine what [the experience at the dedication] meant to the mother of that family. That was the Lord’s way of saying, ‘I know you, I am concerned for you, and I want to help you.’ That’s the kind of man we’ve got in this prophet of God.”11

When I talked to my wife, Clirime, about the Church, she would not listen at first. Her grandfather belonged to a different religion, and she wondered why The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had even come to Albania. I knew that the only way I could bring her into the gospel was through my example. Through our actions, people can see who we really are.
Clirime noticed changes in me as I gave up alcohol and started coming home early from work. Because of the changes I was making, she started to feel the Spirt of God as I told her about the Church. I cannot describe the happy feeling I had when she told me that one day she would also get baptized. Soon she began taking the missionary lessons, which I helped the missionaries teach. I was especially happy when she set a date for her baptism, six months after I was baptized.

Many years ago I was in a professional association with two older, more experienced men. We had been friends for many years and found it mutually beneficial to help one another. One day, one associate sought our help on a complex matter. As soon as the issue had been explained, the first thing the other associate said was, “What’s in it for me?” When his old friend responded so selfishly, I saw the look of pain and disappointment on the face of the one who had invited our help. The relationship between the two was never quite the same after that. Our self-serving friend did not prosper, as his selfishness soon eclipsed his considerable gifts, talents, and qualities. Unfortunately, one of the curses of the world today is encapsulated in this selfish response, “What’s in it for me?”

Ron calls his mission a “fantastic” experience. “The Lord blessed me with many miraculous, faith-promoting experiences,” he says. “My mission was huge for my spiritual life.”
Ron spent part of his mission in the Bermuda islands. His mission president, Harold Nephi Wilkinson, sent only “straight-arrow missionaries” there because he could visit them only occasionally.
“We were totally on our own, but the president didn’t have to worry about us,” Ron recalls. “We got the job done.”
After completing his mission in 1972, Ron found a job, enrolled at the University of Utah that fall, and joined Delta Phi Kappa, a fraternity for returned missionaries. At the fraternity’s social activities, he couldn’t help but notice an attractive young woman named Melanie Twitchell. Melanie was one of Delta Phi’s elected “dream girls,” who helped with the fraternity’s service activities.
Like Ron, Melanie came from an active Latter-day Saint family. Her father, a career military officer, and her mother never let the family’s frequent moves become an excuse for missing church.
Melanie was impressed by Ron’s kindness, courtesy, and gospel knowledge. “I said to myself, ‘He is such an amazing man that it doesn’t matter if I never get to date him. I just want to be his best friend.’”
As their relationship grew, the Spirit confirmed her impressions of Ron and of his commitment to the Lord. Soon their friendship blossomed into what Melanie calls a “storybook, fairytale romance.”
Elder Rasband says she was a perfect match. “Melanie was every bit my equal in gospel devotion and heritage. We became best friends, and that’s when I asked her to marry me.”
They married on September 4, 1973, in the Salt Lake Temple. Since then, he says, his “selfless eternal companion … has helped mold me like potter’s clay into a more polished disciple of Jesus Christ. Her love and support, and that of our 5 children, their spouses, and our 24 grandchildren, sustain me.”3

Once there was a small kingdom that was known far and wide as the Curious Kingdom. It was curious because all the people who lived there did nothing but call each other silly names.
“Camel’s Cabob!” yelled the baker to the woodcutter.
“Nimble Nit!” returned the woodcutter to the baker.
Because it took all day to think up new names that had never been used before, there was no time for the baker to bake bread or the seamstress to sew clothes or the woodcutter to cut wood. Children had no time to play, mothers didn’t churn butter, and fathers failed to plow the fields.
Instead, everyone sat around with pencil and paper, switching words here and fitting letters there. They could be heard calling names in the stores, in the streets, on the rooftops, and in the meadows. The names became more curious and the shouting more unbearable every day.
King Mossoloss tried to think of some way to stop the name-calling. First he sent out a royal edict forbidding any new names to be called, but the people were too busy yelling “Pickled Prune!” and “Gibbledy Gibber!” and “Purple Periwink!” to hear the edict.
Then the king tried locking people in the dungeon if they dared to call each other names, but it soon became so crowded there that the dungeon walls bulged on every side. After all, there was not enough room for an entire kingdom in one dungeon!
Try as he might, poor King Mossoloss could not stop his people from calling each other names, and before long the shouting became so loud that he was forced to plug his ears with cotton.
“If the baker will not bake bread,” the king said, “we will soon have nothing to eat. If the seamstress will not sew, we will soon have no clothes to wear. If the woodcutter will not cut wood, we will soon have no fires to keep us warm. This is indeed awful!”
One day a weary traveler stopped to get a cool drink of water from the well outside the Curious Kingdom. He was startled to hear all the noise from within.
“Why are the people in such an uproar?” he asked the king, who was pacing back and forth in front of the gate.
The king still had his ears plugged so he asked the stranger to speak louder.
“Why are the people in such an uproar?” the traveler asked again.
“They have been calling each other names for so long that they can’t even remember why they started. They are so busy thinking up new names that the baker does not bake bread, the seamstress does not sew clothes, and the woodcutter does not cut wood. If they do not stop, we shall all perish!”
“Even though I am just a poor weaver and a stranger, I think I know a way to make your people stop calling each other names,” the traveler said.
“If you can help me,” said the king, “I will give you all the silk thread and gold yarn in the Curious Kingdom and the finest loom on which to weave.”
“I need only a small wooden loom,” replied the weaver. “With that I can weave you the most beautiful robes your eyes have ever beheld!”
The weaver then pulled from his satchel a bottle of fine white powder. “This powder was given to me by an old woman with whom I shared my last meal,” he said. “Whoever smells the powder will sneeze and sneeze until someone says, ‘Illy, quilly, lampampilly.’ Now fetch me a sheep and we shall see what we shall see.”
A sheep was brought immediately, and the weaver sprinkled the strange powder onto its wool. Then the king and the weaver pinched their noses shut, and off they went through the streets leading the sheep behind them.
At once the people began to sneeze.
“Achoo!” said the baker, who was right in the middle of calling, “Lumpy Loon!”
“Achoo!” said the seamstress, who really meant to say “Globber Gob!”
“Achoo!” said the woodcutter, who was about to say, “Growling Grunch!”
Soon the only sound to be heard in the Curious Kingdom was “Achoo!” King Mossoloss thought it was such a pleasant change from the terrible name-calling that he sat down on the steps of his castle and smiled as he listened.
The people of the Curious Kingdom had a difficult time catching their breath between sneezes. At last they could stand it no longer, and all of them gathered together before the king.
“Good King Moss—Achoo!—oloss—Achoo!—you must know the way—Achoo!—to stop—Achoo!—this horrible curse—Achoo!”
King Mossoloss answered, “If you will all promise that there will be no more name-calling and that you will return to your work, I will help you.”
“We prom—Achoo!—ise! We give—Achoo!—our word!” they sneezed.
All eyes were on the king as he rose slowly from his royal throne. He looked at the anxious faces of his people and then said nobly in a deep voice, “Illy, quilly, lampampilly!”
Suddenly it was so quiet that everyone could hear the patter of mice feet on the court floor.
The people of the Curious Kingdom were so happy that they began to dance and sing, “Three cheers for King Mossoloss! Three cheers for our king!”
Soon the baker began to bake bread again, the seamstress commenced to sew clothes, and the woodcutter’s ax could be heard chopping away in the forest. Children played together once more, mothers churned butter, and fathers plowed the fields. It was a peaceful kingdom at last!
King Mossoloss gave the weaver the largest room in the palace and stacked it to the ceiling with silk thread and gold yarn. And the weaver happily wove for the king the most beautiful royal robes that anyone had ever beheld.

When you want to do a stakewide service project but your stake covers a 75-mile area, what’s a ward to do? The Auburn California Stake solved the problem recently with their “Day of Impact.”
Each ward and branch chose a local project that would be completed on the same day. Afterwards, they met at a centrally located park for a barbecue, games, and story swapping. They talked about things like how they painted bleachers at a high school, built a concession booth by the football field at another high school, and weeded and cleaned yards and cemeteries. They also repaired broken headstones. They sanded and painted picnic tables at an elementary school and even restored a historical landmark—an old caboose.
Later, at a stake fireside, everyone was able to catch a glimpse of their work via video—leaders had filmed each project. Even though they had spent the day working apart, they felt a spirit of pulling together.

At 5:40 in the morning, when most people are still asleep, Jay McKinley and Amy Fuqua of the Monroe Branch of the Mobile Alabama Stake are at church with their scriptures and seminary manuals. President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) said that seminary is one of the most significant experiences that any youth can have, and he encouraged youth to “regularly attend seminary and be a seminary graduate.”1 It is a while until sunrise, but these two students and their teacher know the importance of the blessings they receive from following the prophet’s counsel to become seminary graduates.
“Sometimes it is really hard to get up at 4:45 a.m., but it’s totally worth it,” says Amy. “I love the feeling I get when I have the Spirit with me so early.” All three agree that the early starts are tiring and hard to manage, but all know that the benefits of early morning gospel study far outweigh the challenge of juggling each of their schedules, chores, and lives on top of seminary. Amy says, “When I think about it, having class at 5:40 a.m. isn’t a sacrifice at all.” The opportunity to learn more about the Savior is worth every effort, she says.
Jay and Amy’s seminary teacher, Sister Miranda Smith, agrees, and Jay says, “I have to go to bed earlier than normal in order to get up around 4:30 a.m. Sometimes when I have a lot of homework, my big brother will take over my chores.” In Monroe, seminary really is a group effort, even for those who don’t attend seminary. One of the reasons for the early seminary is that Jay’s school is an hour’s bus drive away and his bus driver picks him up from the chapel immediately after seminary.
One of the benefits gained from the early start is the friendship that comes from spending quality time together. “Sister Smith, Amy, and I have become close. We really didn’t hang out together, even at church, unless we had to,” says Jay. “Now we like being around each other and really are friends.”
Of course friendship is not the only reason for being in seminary; the true goal is the gospel knowledge that comes from studying the scriptures. All three who attend the class can see the benefits. Sister Smith says the best thing about early-morning seminary is “getting to start and end my day with a gospel lesson.” Not only is she the seminary teacher, but she is also a mother of four and a Cub Scout den leader, so she normally waits for her children to go to bed so that she can have some quiet time to study the lessons and prepare for the next day’s class.
Amy agrees that seminary has brought many spiritual benefits into her life. “I have a better understanding of the scriptures,” she says. “Sometimes during the day I find myself thinking about scripture masteries I’ve learned, especially Moses 1:39.”
When asked what their favorite lessons from the past few months have been, both Amy and Jay agree that they enjoyed the lessons about Nephi’s journey to the promised land with his family in 1 Nephi and 2 Nephi. Jay says these chapters have been the most memorable so far.
“Whenever I read those chapters, I think about how I can make it through any trial that is placed in my way. Just like it says in 1 Nephi 3:7, ‘I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.’ He had such great faith and trust in the Lord, and in turn the Lord placed great trust in him. That is something that I want.”
Jay and Amy’s efforts have not been lost on Sister Smith. Not only does she get up to teach them, but she is also inspired by her students. “They are definitely the reason I keep doing this,” Sister Smith says. “I know they expect me to be there just as much as I expect them to be there. I’ve enjoyed seeing Amy and Jay grow in the gospel this year. Amy has been a member only for a few short years. She’s always excited about the gospel and has a beautiful testimony. Jay tends to be a little quieter, but I know he has a strong testimony and knowledge of the gospel as well.”
So what is it like to have early-morning seminary earlier than most schools have their classes? Jay says, “I find that I have more peace and patience as I go through school and other activities. It is such a blessing to have the scriptures in my life.” Jay, Amy, and Sister Smith are forgivably tired at times but cheerful and positive about regularly attending seminary. They find strength and comfort in overcoming obstacles and fulfilling a prophet’s advice to be seminary graduates.

When business meetings brought me to my childhood hometown of Mansfield, Massachusetts, I looked up the Web page of my old middle school. At the end of a list of current faculty members was Mrs. Christine Pfeil, my eighth-grade English teacher who was a truly influential person in my life.
When I was in eighth grade, difficulties at home left me angry and distracted from school responsibilities. Other teachers didn’t pay attention to my altered attitude and slipping grades, but Mrs. Pfeil took a personal interest. She would never accept less than my best. Often she would write on my assignments, “You can do better—try again.” Grudgingly, I would redo the assignment, thinking, “OK, you want something better? I’ll give you something better!” In her class, I felt intelligent and appreciated. When I left Qualters Middle School after eighth grade, I knew I could succeed scholastically because of Mrs. Pfeil’s belief in me.
As I looked at her name on the Web page that day, it suddenly seemed overwhelmingly important to tell her as soon as possible how she had influenced my life. I determined to find her, so at noon the next day, I excused myself from a business meeting and sped to Qualters.
I had just tried her locked classroom door when I saw Mrs. Pfeil walking down the hallway. “Carl Nelson!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in 25 years! What are you doing here?”
Impelled to deliver my message, I began abruptly. “I feel I need to tell you personally how important you were in my life. In eighth grade I was going through difficult times, but you expected my best. Precious few demanded that much from me then. As far as I can tell, your faith in me was the major reason I began trusting in my own abilities. I don’t know what my life would have been like without a teacher like you.”
As I spoke, Mrs. Pfeil’s eyes became wet. “I have to tell you a story,” she said. “I have always wanted to be a writer, even though I felt God wanted me to teach. Last night I was feeling hurt that I had never received any appreciation for my work. I told God that unless I received some thanks the very next day, I was going to retire from teaching and work on my writing. And now here you come after all this time to thank me on this particular day—this blessing is almost too much!”
Mrs. Pfeil and I were unable to talk longer. Her students began arriving, and I left, humbled that Heavenly Father let me share in helping one of His children. Reflecting upon my brief experience with Mrs. Pfeil, I remained impressed that no matter who we are or what church we belong to, our loving Father works in our lives to answer our prayers.

Even the youngest children weren’t bored. The little Batemans of Trumansburg, New York, all bore their testimonies. The fourteen Batemans were special to everyone because one or another of them was always there. Coming down in two Volkswagens loaded with fifteen people, fourteen suitcases, and a hundred dresses, they were the epitome of the always-laugh-at hardships genre. It was one of their littlest ones that brushed by me in testimony meeting as I was looking a bit dejected from only three hours sleep the night before. With a sweet smile on her face she said, “Smile—Heavenly Father loves you!” and the day was once again mine.

The principle is illustrated in an experience that some members of our family had when we were in a very large city. Because of differences in work and school schedules, we had to book separate flights from two different airlines. Some of the family left from one airport, but my son and I were scheduled to leave from an airport south of town, nearly two hours away. There were challenges ahead: motoring on the opposite side of the road from that to which we were accustomed, congested highways, road repairs, as well as a limited time to catch the plane. We felt a dependence on the Lord as we began our journey. With road map in hand, I tried to navigate (which is not my forte), and my son tried his hand at the wheel of a rented car. I earnestly hoped that the people who had made the maps had designed them to match the road signs. We were not in a position to make a mistake or backtrack, or our destination would not be realized.
How like life, I thought: If we rely on the Lord, follow the map, and watch the road signs, without making a lot of unnecessary detours, we can navigate through mortality and reach our destination safely, in the Lord’s due time. Decisions determine destiny.

Have you ever met a ten-year-old school teacher? No? Well, meet Ellen Morgan, a pretty blond with a sunshiny smile. Ellen, along with her sisters Anna (12) and Claire (8), set up a summer “school” for children in their neighborhood.
Ellen lives in southern Idaho, right beside the Snake River near a place called Thousand Springs. It’s not easy to organize a neighborhood school when your nearest neighbor lives almost a mile away, but the Morgan sisters were determined to earn money for school clothes. Besides, teaching reading sounded like more fun than baby-sitting or doing yard work. They got busy in the old, one-room schoolhouse that their father fixed up on their property, and they sent out announcements that Thousand Springs Academy Summer School was about to begin.
Eight students came. Three days a week for six weeks Ellen and her sisters taught phonics, reading, arithmetic, and music. They also had nature walks, games, recess, and a nutritious snack every day. On the Fourth of July, the students put on a patriotic play for their families.
Teaching school comes naturally to Ellen. Her parents, Randall and DeAnna Morgan, used to be schoolteachers; now they make educational films. Her grandfather owned a business college, her grandmother and great-grandmother were teachers, and several aunts and uncles have taught school.
Ellen has four other brothers and sisters besides Anna and Claire: Jess (14), Bo (6), Laddie (3), and Jane (1). Everyone has inside and outside chores (Ellen takes care of the chickens), and there are many interesting things to do right on their own property. In summer they ride their horses, raft on the Snake River, wade in ditches, and swim in a nearby hot spring. In winter they cross-country ski, put on plays, and have cozy evenings reading aloud. It’s fun getting snowed-in, because that means having school and church at home.
When Thousand Springs Academy Summer School ended, the old schoolhouse was soon bustling again with the Morgan children’s latest project: the Thousand Springs Rural Community Library. Ellen and her older brother and sister collected hundreds of good books for young readers. When they have finished cataloguing the books, the library will be open two days a week, and it will have guest lecturers, story hours, and plays.

I was in Idaho Falls and was the guest in a home of a typical Church family. There were a dedicated set of parents and many children. The oldest was in military duty in the dreaded South Pacific, and the hearts of the family followed him from place to place. They handed me his latest letter from the war zone. I read this:
“There have been times when we were so scared, we would tremble, but the fear went out of our minds with prayer and the knowledge that we were being guided by the Lord.
“Dad, I love my religion and I am proud that I had someone like you and Mother to teach me to pray. Then I also know that you are praying for me each morning and night. …”
Spirituality is born in the home and is nurtured in the home evenings, in the twice-a-day and oftener daily prayers, in the weekly meetings when the family goes en masse. That spirituality as the foundation of one’s life comes to his rescue when emergency strikes.
Security is not born of inexhaustible wealth but of unquenchable faith. And generally that kind of faith is born and nurtured in the home and in childhood.
Prayer is the passport to spiritual power.

When Jane was a tiny baby, she had a soft pink blanket. When she became old enough to sit in a playpen, she kept her pink blanket with her. And when Jane grew old enough to have a big bed, she took her “bata” with her to bed. Something happened to Jane’s blanket; it became smaller and smaller and had holes in it. Finally there wasn’t even one thread of the blanket left, but by then Jane didn’t need her blanket anymore.