Gospel Story Finder

As we listen to and act on spiritual promptings to serve others, we can also be a vehicle for the Lord to do His work. I received a powerful reminder of this a few years ago. It was the Fourth of July, and my family chose a random spot on Main Street to watch the parade in Rexburg. As the parade ended and we prepared to leave, a beautiful Asian lady turned around and saw me. She had been sitting in front of me for over two hours. The moment our eyes met, she exclaimed with utter amazement, “Sister Mo, I’ve been looking for you for over 20 years. You taught me the gospel!”

She said her name was Sister Lee, and she lived in an area where I had served as a missionary so long ago. I tried so hard to remember her, but I got absolutely nothing. After our short visit on the street corner, I accepted a dinner invitation at her son’s home that weekend. At our second reunion, her son reminded me that I made him a binder full of pictures to study the gospel when he was nine. Suddenly I remembered who they were, and I couldn’t believe the transformation that this family had gone through since joining the Church. After Sister Lee’s baptism, her two sons grew up in the Church; both served missions and married in the temple. What a sweet reunion that was, and like Alma and the sons of Mosiah, we “did rejoice exceedingly to see [each other]; and what added more to [our] joy, [we] were still [brothers and sisters] in the Lord.” [8] My experience is not unique—we witnessed another heartfelt reunion between Brother Forest Gahn and his missionary three weeks ago at this pulpit. It turned out that Sister Lee had visited Rexburg before, but this would be her last visit, because her son was graduating that month. This astounding reunion is a small token of our caring Heavenly Father’s love for His children. Sister Lee had been longing to meet me, but I needed it as much as she did.

On the evening of the dedication day, the priesthood quorums met in the temple. It was during this meeting that a pentecostal outpouring transpired. The Prophet’s history states:A noise was heard like the sound of a rushing mighty wind, which filled the Temple, and all the congregation simultaneously arose, being moved upon by an invisible power; many began to speak in tongues and prophesy; others saw glorious visions; and I beheld the Temple was filled with angels, which fact I declared to the congregation. The people of the neighborhood came running together (hearing an unusual sound within, and seeing a bright light like a pillar of fire resting upon the Temple), and were astonished at what was taking place.

It wasn’t until the end of my eighth grade year that I realized I was very different from my classmates and even my best friends, who were nonmembers. I was faced with a situation that really bothered me. In class we were debating some controversial topics, including abortion. When I shared my thoughts, I was surprised to see my moral values ripped to pieces. Something I feel is so precious—physical intimacy, something that should be reserved for marriage—was simply a fun pastime to other people. I walked out of the classroom that day knowing that things were going to be very different.

In the same class, I was faced with another moment that would force me to act on all of the things I had been taught since Primary. My teacher was in the front of the class, talking about a snippet of a movie we were about to watch. Some of my classmates suggested that we watch the whole movie. My teacher shook her head and nonchalantly explained that she couldn’t because the movie had a mature rating. I was stunned when I first heard this. I never thought this would happen.

I sat in my chair, thinking about what I should do. A thought kept coming into my head: We have been asked not to watch offensive movies. I tried to rationalize that because I was in school, the part of the movie we were going to watch would be appropriate. But the thought of not watching offensive movies trumped my rationalizations.

I calmly raised my hand, and in front of my whole class, I asked to sit outside of class while the movie played. I felt everyone’s eyes on me as I pushed in my chair and grabbed my book. I saw the looks on their faces; they simply didn’t understand.

While sitting in the hallway, I felt very happy. I knew I had done the right thing, no matter what my peers or teacher said. I felt stronger too. I knew I didn’t have to watch an inappropriate movie clip just because my teacher had presented it to us.

Since then, I have often thought about the Mormonad hanging up in my room. It reads, “Adversity Can Make You Strong.” I believe that when we are faced with moments of adversity and we stand up to them, we are made stronger than if we had sat down and let them happen.

This is an inner strength that is found through our Savior. If we look to Him in our times of difficulty, we will be made strong. Our faith in Him can help us face adversity unashamed. We must “be strong and of a good courage” (Joshua 1:9) and look to our Heavenly Father and our Savior for everything; with all that, our adversities will make us stronger.

Winter had set in, and mounds of snow covered the hills and rounded the shapes of the trees. It was the kind of weather one would expect two days before Christmas in Sharon, Vermont.
About midnight the few farmhouses scattered among the hills were dark—except for the Smith’s where a lamp was still burning.
Even though it was Christmastime, a light that late at night was unusual. But something wonderful had happened on that twenty-third of December, 1805. A baby had been born.
The next day, a neighbor came to visit the Smiths. Alvin and Hyrum, the oldest of the children, saw him coming. They ran to meet him, shouting the news as they went, “We have a new baby!”
“It’s a boy! A boy!”
As they plowed through the snowdrifts surrounding the small frame home, they all had to laugh. Little sister Sophronia was watching from the window with her nose flattened against the glass. Father Smith opened the door to let them in and took the neighbor to see the baby, who was sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms. “Well, what do you know,” he exclaimed, removing his hat, “a baby boy!”
“Yes,” Lucy said. “He’ll be named for his father. We’re going to call him Joseph.”
There weren’t any telephones, just neighbor folk to pass the word along. So when he left, the neighbor must have carried the news to the men and boys clustered around the stove at the village store. “Another boy for the Smiths,” he announced. “They can always use another hand on the farm,” a hand-warmer declared.
However, when Lucy stroked the soft baby hair, she imagined him not as a farmhand but as a leader and a mighty man. Then she smiled at her dreams. He looked like every other baby born to farm folk in the backwoods of Vermont. There was no reason to think he would be known outside the neighborhood.
Even in her wildest dreams Lucy could not have guessed that this small, new Joseph would run into hatred and yet would inspire such admiration that millions would follow him. And it would be said of him, “In all that he did he was manly and almost godlike.”
Yes, a baby had been born, and “the Lord had his eyes upon him.”
The baby grew and was strong and well. But when he was six, the Smith children became ill with typhus fever. Then a swelling in Joseph’s leg caused him so much pain that he could scarcely bear it. One day Joseph thought it was Dr. Stone, who was treating him, at the door until he heard Rebecca Perkins speak to his mother.
“I brought some honey bread, Lucy—new-baked.”
“Thank you, Rebecca.”
“It’ll help some, I reckon.”
Joseph knew it would help. His mother was bone tired from tending him and his brothers and sister, who slept only fitfully because of the fever. Sophronia was sick for ninety days, even came near dying.
“I understand young Joseph is still feeling poorly,” Joseph heard Mrs. Perkins say.
“Yes. He’s been real sick for some weeks. The typhus caused a fever sore in his shoulder. Dr. Stone lanced it, but the pain shot like lightning down his side and into his leg. He cut into it, clear to the bone, trying to relieve the infection. But it’s still so red and swollen.”
“We deemed it wise to call a council of surgeons to consult about the case,” Joseph heard his father explain. “We’re just waiting to hear.”
Waiting. So much waiting, Joseph thought. Everyone had done his best; he knew that. Even his big brother Hyrum had held Joseph’s leg, day and night, to help relieve the pain. But the pain persisted. Once Joseph cried out in desperation, “Oh, Father, how can I bear it?”
Now his father called to him, “The doctors are riding up, Joseph.”
Rebecca spoke a hasty wish-you-well as Lucy invited the doctors into a room apart. “Gentlemen, what can you do to save my boy’s leg?” she asked.
There was no answer for a moment, then one of the surgeons said as kindly as he could, “We can do nothing … his leg is incurable. Amputation is absolutely necessary in order to save his life.”
Lucy covered her mouth with her hands as if to silence the cry that rose in her throat. “No! Not little Joseph!” Then she found herself thinking back to the time when the doctor said Sophronia couldn’t live. How he even stopped coming, death was so close. They prayed for a miracle … and it happened, just like that. With her head in her hands, Joseph’s mother prayed again—for another miracle.
When she raised her head she said quietly, “Dr. Stone, can you not make another trial? You must not take off his leg until you try once more.”
After consultation the doctors decided to try to remove the infected bone. Lucy went for some clean homespun sheets to fold under the infected leg while the doctors told Joseph what they were going to do. And because there were no anesthetics to deaden pain, they called to his mother, “Bring some cords. We can tie him down to the bedstead. And bring a little brandy or wine; the pain will be almost unbearable.”
But Joseph protested. He didn’t want any liquor; neither would he be tied down.
“Mother, I want you to leave the room. Father can stand it, but you have carried me so much and watched over me so long that you are almost worn out.” Tears rimmed his eyes. “I’ll have Father sit on the bed and hold me in his arms. Then I’ll do what’s needed to have the bone taken out.”
One of the doctors objected. “The boy’s so young! He needs some kind of help to get through it!”
Joseph reached out for his father’s hand and pulled the big man down beside him on the bed. “The Lord will help me . … I’ll get through it.”
So the big, weathered farmer wrapped his arms around his little son and hugged him to his heart.
The operation began. It was long and excruciating with no medicine to deaden the pain, just his father to cling to. At one point Joseph’s mother heard his screams and came running back into the house.
“Oh, Mother, go back, go back. I don’t want you to come in. I’ll try to tough it out if you will go away,” he sobbed.
When the crude operation was over, Lucy stood hesitantly at the bedroom door, not daring to ask the question that trembled on her lips. Her husband, tenderly supporting his son’s shoulders, looked up and held out his other hand to her.
In a moment Lucy was across the room, that hand curving around her own as she knelt by young Joseph’s bed. How small and pale he looked. How still.
From the dark depths of his exhaustion, Joseph heard her coming, felt her touch—gentle but hesitant. He opened his eyes and his steady blue gaze swept the anxiety from his mother’s face.
Dr. Stone wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “It’s all right,” he said, nodding.
Young Joseph knew the Lord was with him. Their prayers had been answered. His leg would heal.
(To be continued.)

However, she had much more experience than another first-time Olympic bobsledder, David Bissett, a member from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada.
David’s first ride in a bobsled was just three months before the Games, because he was still playing running back for the University of Alberta’s football team while the Canadian bobsled team was preparing for international competition.
“They were ready to leave for Europe, and he still hadn’t been in a bobsled,” said David’s father, Ron Bissett. And yet David’s start times were the third and fourth fastest at the Games. He placed 11th overall.
Watching from home, his parents couldn’t believe he was really there. During the opening ceremonies they talked to David on the cell phone while watching him enter the Olympic stadium on TV.
“He waved to us while he was talking to us,” said Kim Bissett, David’s mother. “We almost tried to wave back!” They are excited, as he plans to compete in the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympic Games, which will be closer to home.

Drusilla Hendricks was furious with Brigham’s decision to cooperate with the United States. Her husband, James, had been shot in the neck during a skirmish with Missourians in 1838, leaving him partially paralyzed. Like others in camp, she still resented the government for not helping the Saints at that time. Even though her son William was old enough to volunteer for the battalion, she did not want to let him join. With her husband’s paralysis, she depended on her son for help.42

Recruiters visited the camp daily, often with Brigham or other apostles. “If we want the privilege of going where we can worship God according to the dictates of our conscience,” Brigham testified, “we must raise the battalion.”43 Many Saints swallowed their resentment and supported the endeavor, but Drusilla could not bear parting with her son.

Sometimes the Spirit whispered to her, “Are you afraid to trust the God of Israel? Has He not been with you in all your trials? Has He not provided for your wants?” She would acknowledge God’s goodness, but then she would remember the government’s cruelty, and her anger would return.

On the day of the battalion’s departure, William rose early to bring in the cows. Drusilla watched him as he walked through the tall, wet grass, and she worried that her lack of faith would do him more harm than good. He could get hurt traveling on the trail with his family just as easily as he could marching with the battalion. And if that happened, she would regret having made him stay.

Drusilla started breakfast, unsure what to do about William. Climbing onto the wagon to get flour, she again felt the Spirit’s whisper: Didn’t she want the greatest blessings of the Lord?

“Yes,” she said aloud.

“Then how can you get it without making the greatest sacrifice?” the Spirit asked. “Let your son go in the battalion.”

“It is too late,” she said. “They are to be marched off this morning.”

William returned, and the family gathered for breakfast. As James blessed the food, Drusilla was startled when a man interrupted the camp. “Turn out, men!” he shouted. “We lack some men yet in the battalion.”

Drusilla opened her eyes and saw William staring at her. She studied his face, memorizing each feature. She knew then that he would join the battalion. “If I never see you again until the morning of the resurrection,” she thought, “I shall know you are my child.”

After breakfast, Drusilla prayed alone. “Spare his life,” she pleaded, “and let him be restored to me and to the bosom of the Church.”

“It shall be done unto you,” the Spirit whispered, “as it was unto Abraham when he offered Isaac on the altar.”

Drusilla searched for William and found him sitting in the wagon, his head buried in his hands. “Do you want to go with the battalion?” she asked. “If you do, I have had a testimony that it is right for you to go.”

“President Young said it is for the salvation of this people,” William said, “and I might as well have a hand in it as anyone.”

“I have held you back,” Drusilla said, “but if you want to go, I shall hold you no longer.”44

Martin, who mortgaged—and later lost—his farm to finance the publication of the Book of Mormon, was rebaptized in 1842 in Kirtland, Ohio. He didn’t move to Utah, however, until 1870.
During the final five years of his life, Martin had ample opportunities to share his witness with the Saints. During the last year of his life, he testified: “I tell you of these things that you may tell others that what I have said is true, and I dare not deny it; I heard the voice of God commanding me to testify to the same.”11
George Godfrey, a longtime acquaintance, sat up with Martin for many nights while he battled the illness that eventually claimed his life on July 10, 1875, in Clarkston, Utah. Just a few hours before Martin’s death, Godfrey said, “I asked him if he did not feel that there was an element, at least, of fraudulence and deception in the things that were written and told of the coming forth of the Book of Mormon, and he replied as he had always done, so many, many times in my hearing, and with the same spirit he always manifested when enjoying health and vigor.”
Martin then declared: “The Book of Mormon is no fake. I know what I know. I have seen what I have seen and I have heard what I have heard. I have seen the gold plates from which the Book of Mormon is written. An angel appeared to me and others and testified to the truthfulness of the record, and had I been willing to have perjured myself and sworn falsely to the testimony I now bear, I could have been a rich man, but I could not have testified other than I have done and am now doing, for these things are true.”12

But Robert’s memory lived on when the Special Olympics became a great thing for a group of LDS teenagers on the East Coast—Lee included.
Last summer, leaders of the New Haven and Hartford Stakes in Connecticut, and the Providence Rhode Island Stake, were planning to combine three youth conferences into one.
“The stakes were up for youth conference ideas, and they asked kids what they felt like doing,” recalls Lee, 15, a teacher in the New Haven Stake’s Newtown Ward. “We talked about doing community service; you know, gardening and stuff like that. But none of the ideas were even close to this.”
“This” was the more than 400 Latter-day Saint youth from the three stakes volunteering their services—ranging from cheerleading to working in concession stands—to the 7,000-plus athletes who gathered from 136 countries for the Special Olympics World Games held in and around New Haven. The youth conference theme was “Ye Are the Light of the World.” And they were.
“We really felt that we are like a candle and we can pass that light on to each other through caring and service to these athletes. You really can do that by just being a great example,” says Lee, who couldn’t have asked for a better scenario. The Special Olympics World Games were in his home state, and if there’s one thing Lee knows, it’s the Special Olympics.
Counting all the time he spent with Robert when his brother was competing, and then in 1994 when Lee was a Special Olympics volunteer for Connecticut’s state games, he understood what volunteering at the World Games involved. And he was able to watch other youth his age learn how much fun they could have through helping and serving the special-needs athletes during the three-day youth conference.
“I’m just really happy to see that all the kids here are really into this. They went up to the athletes and gave them hugs, gave them a high-five or whatever they needed,” says Lee.
Ben Johansen, a priest in the Trumbull (Connecticut) First Ward, agrees. “We had a lot of fun. We wanted to be here serving, and everything has been totally focused on serving. These athletes do the best with the abilities they’ve been given. I’ve learned that the winners in this life are the ones who do the most with what they have, not who crosses the finish line first.”
At the track-and-field venue during the week-long competition, the LDS youth gathered near where the athletes entered the track, and took time to shake hands, give pats on the back, and offer general encouragement. The athletes’ smiles got even bigger when they were asked for their autographs.
“They’re just so happy when you smile or say congratulations to them. As soon as you start talking to them, they’re just so cheerful and talkative,” says Stephanie Perry.
That attitude rubbed off on the LDS youth too.
“At other youth conferences I’ve been to, we do service and then one of our leaders gets a letter of thanks and half the people who worked on the project don’t even realize what we did was appreciated. It’s so much better being interactive,” says Merilee Hales, who moved to Florida a couple of weeks after the Olympics ended. “You could see the excitement these kids had when we would shake their hands and give high-fives.”
Says Ben Stratford of the Trumbull First Ward, “The best thing about it was the time we spent with the Special Olympians and the example they provided for me.”
On a brutally hot day in New Haven, many of the youth gathered in the Yale Bowl, Yale University’s football stadium, with brooms in hand. Their job was to sweep up debris in preparation for the Games’ closing ceremonies. While he swept piles of garbage into bags, Lee stopped to consider what they had been doing during their three days of service.
“Sweeping is just manual work. After you’re done sweeping, the Yale Bowl is not going to remember you sweeping it,” he says. “But these athletes will remember you. They’ll remember us. That’s what really means a lot to me. And I will remember them.”
It wasn’t that Lee was ungrateful having to spend part of his youth conference cleaning up after others. It was just that he enjoyed interacting with the athletes more. When Lee was with the Special Olympians he saw real joy and happiness, especially when the athletes would smile at him.
And as Lee smiled back, he couldn’t help but think of Robert.

I have found happiness in doing as the prophets ask, so when President Ezra Taft Benson urged us to read the scriptures every day, I wanted to do so.
But I began making up excuses. I decided that I had too much homework to begin my scripture study that day. I did this for weeks, even months, while my conscience continued to bother me.
One night while I was frustrated over my math homework, I knelt in prayer to ask for strength. When I looked up, the first thing I saw was the Book of Mormon sitting on my dresser. I picked it up and began to read, not really knowing why since I had a lot of math left to do. I finished a chapter in 1 Nephi, then went back to my treacherous math problem. I found I could solve it.
I made a decision to be obedient. I would read the Book of Mormon each night. Then I would see if taking the time to study the scriptures had any effect on my grades. After several weeks, I found that this habit of reading every night, even though it took some time, helped me achieve more academically. I still had to do the work, but the reading gave me an extra push. It motivated me in ways that nothing else could. I was able to understand what I studied, and I had the patience to stick with my work. Not only did my grades improve, but I was easier to get along with and happier than I had ever been.

My name is Job Abram Goldrup. When I was four years old and my older brother, Matt, was six and a half, Dad took us camping at a place called Blue Lake in northern California. It was in the middle of a very hot summer. Although most of the other lakes around there were very low and muddy, Blue Lake was filled with water.
We slept in sleeping bags on the ground that night, and Dad told us a story. I can’t remember what it was about, but I liked the soft sound of his voice and the feeling of being with him by the lake in the woods. I felt safe and loved and excited. The moon made silver, bouncy light on the water, and I heard an owl hooting in the dark trees, whose branches swayed back and forth in the dry wind. I looked a long time at the warm, bright glow of our campfire. It made the dark not too scary, just like Dad’s voice did.
In the morning Dad made hot chocolate and cooked hot dogs. The chocolate had a few twigs in it because he spilled the chocolate powder on the ground and some stuff got mixed up with it when he scooped it up. But that was OK because Dad said there was hardly any use being in nature if you didn’t get a little of it in you. "Besides," he added, "a little roughage is good for the system." We just laughed and drank it down. It was kind of a strange breakfast—what we ate should have been for dinner, and what we had for dinner we should have had for breakfast—that was part of the fun of camping with Dad.
After breakfast, we rented a rowboat and went out on the lake. Dad made us wear orange life jackets. That’s the only part that wasn’t much fun, because it was already getting hot and the life jacket made me hotter. But Dad said that just as the words of the prophets are meant to help keep us spiritually safe, life jackets are made to help keep us temporally safe.
I scrunched up my face something awful and fidgeted as if to shake that life jacket right off me.
"You have to plow your own furrow, huh, Joby?" Dad said, smiling and shaking his head.
I didn’t know what he meant. I scrunched up my face again and reached my hand down into the cool water. The water felt good. And, I have to admit, so did Dad’s counsel. Even if I didn’t understand it sometimes, I knew it meant that hecared about me and my brother.
We kind of went around in a few circles before Dad started rowing straight. Matt whispered to me that Dad was about as good at rowing as he was at cooking.
Dad heard us and laughed. "I’m just taking the scenic route," he joked.
After a while, we reached a small island near the other side of the lake. I felt like an explorer as Dad pulled the rowboat partway onto the pebbly beach. The island was covered with trees. A few big ones had long before fallen into the water along its edges, and there were logs on the beach.
There was only one problem: It was very hot! It helped to take off my shirt and shoes and wade in the shallow water along the beach, looking for rocks and small fish. It helped, but it wasn’t enough. "Dad," I begged, "can’t I take off my life jacket? It’s so hot, and the water isn’t deep here. It hardly comes up to my knees."
Dad, who was wading higher up the beach ahead of us, scratched his head and scrunched up his face. "I guess it would be OK, Joby," he said at last, "as long as you don’t wade out any deeper."
I promised I wouldn’t, and Matt helped me get out of the jacket. I threw it up onto the beach. It felt great to have it off! My brother and I continued to look for rocks and fish below the surface of the water, Matt poking and turning the rocks over with a stick he had brought from camp.
A few minutes later, Dad looked back to check on me and my brother and yelled, "Where’s Joby, Matt?"
Matt looked this way and that, then, bewildered, back at Dad. "I don’t know—he was right here a minute ago."
Dad raced up out of the water and faced the thick, tangly island trees. "Joby!" he yelled again and again, hoping I had decided to venture into the trees.
Matt was worried, too. "Where is he, Dad?"
Dad didn’t answer. He ran into the shallow water close to where Matt stood, scanning the water about him. Then he ran along the beach, first in one direction, then another. Suddenly he stopped, looked down into the shallow water by a fallen tree, and screamed, "Joby!" He threw himself beneath the surface and pulled me up!
A big gasp came from me as I breathed in air at last.
"Are you all right?" Dad looked at me with tears filling his eyes.
I nodded. "I guess I stepped into a hole. A feeling like a voice told me, ‘Stay calm; your dad will come for you.’ So I did. I just started looking around at the big tree roots, waiting for you to find me."
Dad started crying hard. He hugged me as though he would never let go. And for a moment, I didn’t want him to. I started to cry, too.
Afterward we all sat on a log up on the beach, and Dad explained what had happened. He said that I had stepped in a pothole and very well could have drowned. It was because of Heavenly Father’s loving, watchful care that I was spared. Dad said that the voice-feeling I had was the Holy Ghost telling me what to do. I know that’s true because of the special feeling I had while I was waiting for Dad to find me. "If you had panicked," Dad said, "you would have swallowed water and might have drowned."
I will always remember that day—listening to Dad’s story, sleeping by the campfire, eating those hot dogs, drinking twiggy hot chocolate, wading in the cool lake water on a hot summer day. But most of all I will remember my experience with the Holy Ghost that taught me how near he is to us—as near, Dad would say, as an amen at the end of a prayer.

One of Elder Kimball’s most remarkable mission experiences occurred in Alabama.
"Let me call your attention to an incident. It happened away down in Alabama. That was at a time in the ’90’s when I presided over the southern states mission. The elders had been asked to assemble themselves together. They were laboring in that low, marshy, malarial district that was scarcely safe for a human being to live in, … suffering with malaria, rather low-spirited, because they had been travelling without purse or scrip through that section of the country. We assembled to hold a conference. After the conference was over, two days, we were to hold a priesthood meeting. We had no place to meet in those days except in the woods, but I had instructed the elders to clean some place off in the woods, a circle, where we could meet together and hold our priesthood meeting. On that occasion there was a young man whose mother was a remarkable woman, a Latter-day Saint. The father had left the Church years and years ago. He opposed the boy, he stood out against him, … but the mother’s faith and the faith of the young man who was in that conference did not fail. I don’t know what the trouble was, but one of his legs was as large as my body, and it looked like a great piece of raw meat. It looked like it would burst. The people there did the best they could for him. He had no physician. We did not know what a physician was in the South, in my day. There may have been physicians there, but I never happened to meet any. So on this occasion I said to this elder: ‘Well, you will have to stay here with the people. You can’t go up there.’ ‘Why,’ he said, ‘Brother Kimball, I have been dreaming about this, and I have been talking about it. It would ruin my whole mission unless I can be at that priesthood meeting.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you feel that way, two of the elders will carry you up there, one mile.’ We went there in order to get away, to a place where we would be secluded, and when we got into the woods in that little circle and sat down, as best we could, I looked those elders over. I was not very well myself, but I said: ‘Brethren, what are you preaching?’
“‘We are preaching the Gospel of Jesus Christ.’
“‘Are you telling these people that you have the power and authority, through faith, to heal the sick?’
“They said, ‘Yes.’
“‘Well then, why don’t you believe it?’
“This young man spoke up and he said: ‘I believe it.’ He sat down on a stump and the elders gathered around him. He was anointed and I administered to him, and he was healed right in their presence. It was quite a shock; and every other elder that was sick was administered to, and they were all healed. We went out of that priesthood meeting and the elders received their appointments, and there was a joy and happiness that cannot be described. The people gathered around, and the elders before their departure, got down and they cried. Those elders, many of them, had never seen one another until they assembled in that conference, and ‘Such love,’ those people said, ‘we have never known’" (in Conference Report, Oct. 1927, pp. 52–53).

With limited space and resources, it’s not easy to have a garden or a supply of food. But “our bishop told us that it’s not a matter of having a place to garden—it’s a matter of finding a way to obey the principle,” Lindo says. So he improvised. “I got some wood and made a box. Then I took several bus trips out to the country and brought sacks of soil back with me. I planted some vegetables.”

When the 1990 earthquake hit, they were glad they had put some rice and canned foods in a closet. Although their apartment building was destroyed, they were able to salvage and use some of their supply.

“We do our best,” he says in his unassuming way. “The Lord knows whether you’re doing all you can do.”

Brigham Young, like many other early Mormons, traveled hundreds of miles to meet the man whose revelations had already profoundly changed his life. With his closest friend and fellow craftsman, Heber C. Kimball, he went from Mendon, New York, to Kirtland, Ohio, and found the Prophet felling trees and chopping wood behind his father’s home, where he was living: “Here my joy was full at the privilege of shaking the hand of the Prophet of God, and received the sure testimony, by the Spirit of prophecy, that he was all that any man could believe him to be, as a true prophet.”3 From that first handclasp Brigham began to be bound, heart, mind, and spirit to Joseph, whom he came to accept without reservation not only as the spokesman for God in his generation but as his own most powerful, personal model among men. In a letter to a non-Mormon friend he had known in Port Byron in the 1820s, he wrote, nearly ten years after Joseph Smith was killed:
“In 1833 I moved to Ohio where I became acquainted with Joseph Jr. and remained familiarly acquainted with him in private councils and in his public work and acts until the day of his death, and I can truly say that I invariably found him to be all that any people could require a true prophet to be, and that a better man could not be. …”4

Cannon stared glumly out his bedroom window.
Rain! He could hardly believe it. Today was Saturday, the day his baseball team, the Angels, was supposed to compete in the final championship game. They had worked very hard to qualify for the championship. In addition to practicing with his team, Cannon had practiced pitching with his dad for an hour each evening after school and for two hours on Saturday. He had pitched several no-hit innings this season, becoming the team’s star pitcher.
Cannon looked at his shelf. Every player in the league received a small silver trophy at the end of the season for being part of a team, and three already lined his shelf. “I should be placing my new gold championship trophy on that shelf today,” Cannon thought, frowning.
He was disappointed that the game he had been looking forward to all season had to be put off, but it got worse. Cannon’s coach had called and said that the final game was rescheduled for the following Sunday.
“I’m sorry, Coach,” Cannon said in almost a whisper. “I can’t play in a game on Sunday.”
“You have to,” his coach replied. “Sunday is the only day we could get the field and the umpires. I’m sure you can get out of whatever you have scheduled next Sunday. You have eight days! Besides,” he continued, “you have worked so hard for that gold trophy, and you deserve it. You are our best pitcher, and if we want a shot at beating the Astros we need you on the mound. Your teammates have also worked hard to get to this point. I know you won’t want to let them down.”
“I am sorry, Coach,” Cannon repeated. “Sunday is a special day to me. I don’t play baseball on Sundays.”
“I know you’re a Mormon and that you don’t usually play on Sundays,” the coach said, “but a championship isn’t just any game. Tony goes to your church too. His family has made an exception for him to play. I’m sure that if you talk it over with your parents, they’ll understand how hard you have worked this season and how much our team needs you.”
The conversation played over and over in Cannon’s mind. Why did it have to rain today of all days? It was so unfair!
Cannon heard a light tap on his door, and Dad and Mom came in. “We are so proud of you for remembering the importance of the Sabbath,” Dad said, patting Cannon’s arm. “Your coach just called me. He explained that your game is set for Sunday, and that you told him you would not be playing in it. He also told me that Tony will play. This is a very hard situation, isn’t it?”
Tears filled Cannon’s eyes, but he tried to hold them in.
“We know how hard you have practiced this season,” Mom added. “Your coach may be right when he says your team won’t win this game without you. Do you want to pray about whether you should play on Sunday just this once?”
“I don’t need to pray about this, Mom,” Cannon said. “I already know that Heavenly Father wants me to keep the Sabbath day holy.”
Mom and Dad gave Cannon a hug, but he didn’t feel much better.
The week leading to the final game passed very slowly. Cannon’s teammates, including Tony, tried to convince him to change his mind. They didn’t seem to understand that winning the championship was something he wanted as much as they did. He could only hope that his team would win without him.
On Sunday when Cannon got home from church, there was a message on the answering machine from his coach. The Angels had lost the game by four runs. There would be no gold trophies for their team. “If Tony hadn’t been here,” his coach said, “we would have lost by at least six runs. I guess it comes down to who is willing to make a commitment and who isn’t.”
Cannon thought about his coach’s message. The coach was right—winning did come down to who was willing to make a commitment. For the first time in days, Cannon felt happy.
He smiled as words from his favorite Primary song came to his mind: “I’ll stand for truth. I’ll stand for right. The Lord can depend on me.”* As much as Cannon would have liked adding a gold trophy to his shelf, he knew he had won something much more important. He had made a commitment to keep the Sabbath day holy, and he had stayed true to that commitment.

I think of my own grandfather, Nels Monson, who waited seven years for his sweetheart to become his bride. The first entry in his missionary journal expressed eloquently his gratitude: “Today, in the Salt Lake Temple, Maria Mace became my eternal wife.” The entry written three days later was more somber: “Tonight the bishop came to our house. I have been called to serve a two-year mission to Scandinavia. My dear wife will remain at home and sustain me.” I treasure such faith. I cherish such commitment.

With this lesson in mind, I began to look back on my life and see how often I had been influenced by men and women who at the time held no great title or position. One of those Shiblon-like souls was my seminary teacher during my junior year in high school. This good man taught seminary for only two or three years, but he opened my heart in a way that helped me gain a testimony. He may not have been the most popular teacher at the school, but he was always prepared and his influence on me was powerful and lasting. One of the few times I saw this man in the 40 years since he taught me was when he came to see me at my father’s funeral. Truly, that was an act not motivated by title or power.

Let me briefly recount the life of Maggie Nichols Comer. African-American, she was born in Woodland, Mississippi, to a sharecropping family that had lived on in Mississippi after the end of slavery. Her father died when she was five years old. Her mother then married a man who was physically abusive to his wife and children and who kept them from school whenever it was possible for them to earn the slightest bit of money. At 16 Maggie ran away from home and migrated to East Chicago, Indiana. She worked as a domestic and eventually married Hugh Comer. With the help of her husband, who was often sick, she raised five children of her own as well as a stepdaughter. She was determined that her children would receive the opportunities that education could provide. She worked very hard, often at two or three jobs, to give her children opportunities. Her husband died of emphysema when her children were in high school. Still she did not let any obstacle deter her from helping her children to achieve all that was possible.

Let me give you a couple of examples of her tenacity. One of her sons who was attending Indiana University needed to take a course in the summer to be on track for his program, but the family did not have sufficient money to finance the education. Maggie Comer called Indiana University and asked to speak to the president. When the operator told her she couldn’t just call up and speak to the president of the university, Maggie simply insisted that she had to—and she eventually did obtain financial aid for her son. Once her son Charles had mistakenly received a “pink slip” from school indicating poor work. While driving down a four-lane highway connecting East Chicago to Chicago, she decided to discuss the matter with Charles. Here is her son James’ account of this conversation:

She said, “You can do better than that!”
He knew that there must be a mistake but he said, “No, I can’t.”
“You can!”
“I can’t.”
“You can!”
“I can’t.”
Finally Mom got so frustrated she stopped the car in the middle of the street and said, “You can!!!”
Mom was not the best driver in the world. . . . I was always a bit nervous when we got in the car. . . . But this was more than that. We were stopped in the middle of Columbus Drive, the busiest street in town—right in front of the main fire station. Cars were whizzing by and I could imagine that at any second the fire engines would roar out of the station. I was terrified! I could have choked Charles. Tell her you can and get us out of here, I thought to myself! [James P. Comer, Maggie’s American Dream (New York: New American Library, 1988), p. 111]

It turned out that the pink slip was a mistake. There were only two black children in Charles’ class, and the pink slip was meant for the other boy.

Maggie Comer raised five children, all of whom graduated from college and received advanced degrees. She taught them right from wrong. She taught them that they were responsible for their choices. All successfully pursued their professions with distinction and raised families of their own. Her son James, who tells her story in his book, is the Maurice Falk Professor of Psychiatry and associate dean at the Yale Medical School.

If you wish to believe that an undereducated black woman named Maggie Comer was programmed to use up her life in service to her children and many others, you may. I see her as a heroine who understood the principle of agency. Here is her statement in her own words.

Even as a little barefoot girl back in the country, I had this dream. I had this gift from inside to want something. I thought to myself that if this one could do it and that one could do it, I could do it. And when I couldn’t go on, I said my children would do it. People would say black folks can’t do this and can’t do that—I wouldn’t have any of it. Sure, I could see it was harder for black people, but I just wanted a chance. That’s what your father used to say, “Just give my people a chance!” [Maggie’s American Dream, pp. 227–28]

About a month later, my crew made another perilous medical evacuation, this time on the side of a 60-degree mountain slope under a double canopy of foliage. This meant that we had to maneuver our helicopter down through the first cover of branches and leaves and over to an opening in the lower canopy of foliage where a hoist could lower a litter for the wounded soldier. Our rotor blades were literally inches from the branches, and the rotor wash of air bouncing off the foliage made hovering critically unstable. Despite these obstacles, the mission was successful, and the crew felt it deserved special recognition. We were once again recommended for the DFC, but again it was lessened to an Air Medal.
I was furious! “Do those people know what it’s like to put your life on the line every day?” I fumed. “They must be crazy to think this kind of flying is part of normal duty!” But in the quietness of my quarters, I remembered the words of my patriarchal blessing, which reminded me that the Holy Ghost would guide me. I thought, “That’s right. The Spirit made this mission and all the other missions, as hazardous as they may have been, possible for me.” And I knew Heavenly Father had protected me. No crew members who had flown with me had ever been harmed. I realized I had a great deal to be thankful for.

I was born into a family of many children, and I remember being able to have open discussions with my mother. One day, I asked her: “Mommy, why does one of my classmates always obtain the highest grades in class?” She looked at me and kindly replied: “Indeed, you are going to the same school; but he does something differently than you do. In fact, he goes to church every week, but you only attend Church sometimes.”
Since that day, I made a personal commitment to always attend church on Sunday so that I could do better at school. My grades became better because I did go to church regularly, although I did not always fully understand the teachings.
Later, I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, where I was taught the importance of keeping the Sabbath day holy. I soon realized that going to Church was not only a matter of obtaining good grades at school but was also a matter of giving priorities to God in our own lives. It is a matter of keeping the Sabbath Day holy (see Exodus 20:8), a matter of partaking of the sacrament so that we might always remember Jesus Christ and His Atonement, and finally a matter of eternal life, which is the greatest gift of God to those that endure to the end.
Additionally, one of the greatest blessings I see in my life is to learn of Jesus Christ and His everlasting Gospel, and especially to keep His Sabbath Day holy. My understanding of the purpose of the Sabbath Day increased also.

One Sunday evening the family’s home teachers visited. The family was struggling through unemployment at the time, and that night she had only a half cup of rice, a little bit of oil to cook it in, and two small tomatoes. But appreciative of these faithful home teachers, she asked them if they would like to stay for dinner.
“My daughter asked how I could do that,” Sister Daggi recalls. She told her daughter to set the table. Then she went into the kitchen and prayed, “Lord, Thou fed 5,000. I’m asking only for seven.”
“That rice fed seven people,” she testifies.