Gospel Story Finder

Next, young men, may I admonish you to participate in a program of daily reading and pondering of the scriptures. We remember the experience of our beloved prophet President Spencer W. Kimball. As a fourteen-year-old boy he accepted the challenge of reading the Bible from cover to cover. Most of his reading was done by coal oil light in his attic bedroom. He read every night until he completed the 1,519 pages, which took him approximately a year; but he attained his goal.

It was late March 1977. I had hurried home from my job as a school teacher in order to plant strawberries. The sky darkened ominously as the dusky clouds piled themselves into a menacing thunderhead. I was anxious to get my strawberry plants out of the refrigerator and into the warm earth before the storm broke, for in southern Arizona rain is precious and welcome. It meant, too, that I would not have to irrigate the strawberries after planting, but could let nature do the job for me.
As I planted, I congratulated myself on my good fortune, and dreamed happily of the tangy scarlet fruit which I would harvest in June. But a glance at the sky told me that I must hurry if I did not want to receive a thorough drenching along with the plants. I stepped up my pace. Perspiring, I wiped my brow with my forearm, leaving a long muddy streak on my face. My clothing was covered with dirt and I smelled like the fish fertilizer I was using. I suddenly recognized how I must have looked—and smelled—when I saw, coming across the field toward me, two little old ladies—my visiting teachers.
Although I had been inactive in the Church for nearly a year, I had always allowed the visiting teachers into my home. I must confess that often I considered them something of a nuisance, for though their manners were always kind and polite, their very presence reminded me that I was not living up to my beliefs. A life-threatening illness and other family problems had left me bitter and resentful toward my Heavenly Father, and it was impossible for me to explain these feelings to them.
Looking back, I don’t think I fooled them; but they were never critical or judgmental. Arriving every third Wednesday like clockwork, they bore their testimonies, encouraged me, praised my child, and often brought some home-baked goody. My frequent coldness never deterred them, and my biting remarks went unregarded. Month after month they came, never failing, always showing love.
Today, however, I would have to be firm. I resolved to tell them that I did not have time to listen to them. But I was never to have that chance. Wearing their Sunday best, complete with nylon stockings, each of mv visiting teachers got down on her knees in that strawberry patch. My mouth was still hanging open as Sister Batty began to read the monthly message while Sister Costner began planting strawberries beside me.
I resumed my planting also, and it was not long before great heavy rain drops began to pelt us and make small craters in the dust. Still we planted, and still Sister Batty read on. I don’t remember what the official message was, but I was grateful that it was raining hard enough to hide the flood of tears that ran down my face as I received a message, not of word, but of deed—a message of love, unselfishness, and devotion. A message that would literally bear fruit.
By the time the last plant was nestled into the earth, we were all drenched. I invited them in for a moment, but they declined, saying that they still had stops to make, as if they were not wet at all. They then produced a fragrant loaf of banana bread from the back seat of their car and drove away, leaving me to marvel at their dauntless spirits.
Years have passed since that blustery day in March. Those fine sisters do not know it, but their unfaltering love worked a miracle in my life. Through their example I was able to yield up my bitterness and again seek the blessings that come through active Church membership. I cannot eat a strawberry or hear the words “visiting teaching” without thinking of those dear sisters on their knees in my garden. And I cannot examine my life without thanking my Heavenly Father for their faithfulness.

Manti, Utah, USA, 1869
Lorena Washburn watched her mother get ready for Relief Society. “Can’t I come just this once?” she begged.
Mother smiled. “You can come when you’re grown.”
“I am grown! I’m nine years old.”
Mother kissed Lorena’s head. “Perhaps a little more grown, then.”
Lorena decided to visit her friend Anna while their mothers were at Relief Society. Back in those days, Relief Society was held on a weekday. The girls played jackstraws and talked about what it would be like when they could finally join Relief Society.
Anna sighed as she flicked a piece of straw off the top of the pile. “I wish we had our own Relief Society.”
Lorena paused. “Why don’t we make one?”
“Our own Relief Society?”
“Yes!” Lorena jumped up. “We could make a Junior Relief Society!”
Anna jumped to her feet too. “We could!” she said. “We should talk to the other girls to see what they think.”
Lorena and Anna went around the neighborhood and invited the other girls to Lorena’s house. When they had all arrived, Lorena told them about her idea. They were all so excited to have their own organization!
“My mother is the Relief Society president,” Lorena said. “When she comes back, I’ll ask her for permission to organize our Junior Relief Society.”
When Mother came home, she was surprised to see 25 girls crowded into the parlor. Lorena stood up tall and straight. “Mother, with your permission, we want to organize our own Junior Relief Society.”
Mother’s eyebrows flew up. Lorena was worried that she would say no, but instead she smiled.
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” said Mother. “I’ll pay Bishop Moffatt a visit right now and see what he thinks.”
It felt like years before Mother came back, but finally she did.
“What did the bishop say, Sister Washburn?” Hannah asked eagerly. Lorena held her breath.
“He gives his hearty approval!” Mother said. The girls cheered.
Lorena was so excited that she asked if the girls wanted to organize right then and there. They chose Lorena as president, Anna and Alice as counselors, Hannah as secretary, and Sally as treasurer.
“We should invite all the other girls our age too,” Lorena said.
Alice frowned. “Even the ones we don’t really like?”
“Yes!” said Lorena. “We wouldn’t want to leave anyone out, would we?”
“You’re right,” said Alice. “I’m sure we could all get along.”
“We should make it a rule,” Lorena said. “No one should say an unkind word to or about anybody while we’re in our meetings.”
And with that, the Junior Relief Society had begun. They met every Saturday at two o’clock in the Washburns’ grain house. They worked hard like they had seen their mothers work in Relief Society. They started making their very own quilt. Every week they brought cloth and thread and even eggs to trade for calico fabric from the store. They eventually presented two fine hand-sewn quilt tops to the Manti Relief Society.
The girls loved to sing while they sewed. Lorena and Anna wrote a special Relief Society song just for them:
Hurrah, hurrah, our quilts we have begun!
Hurrah, hurrah, we are having lots of fun!
And while we are united, together we will come
In the old board granary of Washburns.
After a few years, Lorena moved away, and the Junior Relief Society came to an end. Lorena was sad to leave her friends behind. But she got to visit often, and it was always like coming home to family.

My impression of each year in my life is linked to its events—the year I was married, the year my father died, the year we built the dairy barn … For me, 1977 is the year of the miracle.
I’m a farmer in Cache Valley, Utah. We live or die according to the weather, and 1977 was the year of the drought. It started in the fall of 1976 when the seasonal snows did not come. A dry fall seldom happens in our high mountain valley, and we took advantage of it to do the plowing, repair the sagging fences, level several fields, and even pick up rocks.
By the end of January, we still had no snow; even the mountains were bare and gray. It was so cold that the one light snowfall we had had was still on the ground; we knew we were in trouble.
During the month, the stake presidents in the Logan region met with Brother M. A. Kjar, our Regional Representative. A special fast was authorized. On Sunday, January 23, the members of the Hyrum Utah Stake met for the first time in their new building; Brother Kjar outlined the plans for the fast; our stake president, Garth Lee, announced that the fast would begin January 26 at 6 P.M. and that on the 27th we would hold a prayer service.
That was the beginning of the miracle. We fasted willingly. Over 50 per cent of the stake assembled for the prayer services—old people, men and women with their families, teenagers, college students. We sang. President Lee led our congregation in prayer, asking the Lord to send us the needed moisture in due time. It was uplifting; I was confident that the Lord had heard our prayers.
The moisture did not fall that night, nor did it come in the following weeks. February was warm, melting what light snow remained. I tried to work down the plowed ground, but it was in hard lumps. Obviously, the Lord’s answer was “not yet”, but in our impatience we sometimes found it difficult to hear him.
In mid-February, the governor declared Utah a disaster area. The whole economy was suffering. Many winter resorts had failed to open; others were operating at limited capacity. Tire stores featured snow tires in an ironic never-ending sale. Communities urged citizens to use water sparingly. Now the skeptics began to mock those who trusted in God; one skeptical person even wrote to the local paper asking if we did not know that nature, not God, controlled the weather.
What the skeptics did not know was that the prayers and fasting continued. Time and again, I turned to the promise: “If ye walk in my statutes, and keep my commandments, and do them;
“Then I will give you rain in due season, and the land shall yield her increase, and the trees of the field shall yield their fruit.” (Lev. 26:3–4.)
In March our faith renewed. Several good snows came—“normal” for the month. The last week was clear and warm; the ground dried quickly; the plow turned the once hard clods into a good seed bed. On March 21–22, I planted 18 1/2 hectares of barley; a week later we finished planting the welfare farm’s grain.
The testing began again. April came and went, virtually dry. Stake quarterly conference came, and President Lee sent us home with the reassurance, “Plant your crops; the Lord has heard our prayers.”
By now, Porcupine Dam Reservoir (our main source of water) was barely half-full; runoff from the mountains had already stopped. March’s moisture had penetrated only 15 or 20 centimeters. Experts were predicting a total loss of dry-farm crops and less than 50 percent harvest on irrigated land. Local irrigation boards set up plans for summer water rationing. We continued to pray in public meetings and privately.
On May 5, the answer began. None of us could doubt it. It was as though the Lord had waited until the test of our faith was completed, and then accepted it fully. Day after day, the rain fell on our young crops. May became the wettest month in recorded history in our valley, and we cut one of the best hay crops the valley has ever seen.
Officially, the year is described as a drought. Statistically, it was. But those rains came as the manna fell for the ancient Israelites—exactly what was needed each day, with none left over. As each crop of alfalfa matured, we wondered if there would be enough moisture for another. Each cutting was average or better.
As the season of the sign drew to an end, our barns were full and running over. The stake welfare farm had its best year ever. So did my own. The barns and granaries were filled and my heart was overflowing.
Our stake met again on September 22 at the call of our stake president, this time to express appreciation and gratitude to the Lord for his mercies. Once again, approximately 50 percent of the stake gathered to share that prayer of thanksgiving. I left the meeting feeling peaceful. The test had strengthened my faith and testimony—I would never again doubt miracles. I understood deeply the meaning of a familiar scripture: “And in nothing doth man offend God, or against none is his wrath kindled, save those who confess not his hand in all things, and obey not his commandments.” (D&C 59:21.)
Driving home, I suddenly realized that rain was falling on the windshield.

One of the men who touched my life was the late Elder John A. Widtsoe, a man who graduated summa cum laude from Harvard after three instead of four years, who was given that last year an award for the greatest depth specializing in his field (which was chemistry); but they also gave an award that year for the student who had shown the greatest breadth of interests, which he also received. Brother Widtsoe has written perceptively about the temple and temple worship. I heard him say in sacred circumstances that the promise was given him by a patriarch when he was a mere boy in Norway: “Thou shalt have great faith, in the ordinances of the Lord’s House.” And so he did. I’ve heard him say that the temple is so freighted with depth understanding, so loaded with symbolic grasp of life and its eternal significance, that only a fool would attempt in mere prosaic restatement to give it in a comprehensive way. I’ve heard him say that the temple is a place of revelation. And he did not divorce that concept from the recognition that the problems you and. I have are often very practical, very realistic, down-to-earth problems. He often said, “I would rather take my practical problems to the house of the Lord than anywhere else.” And in his book In a Sunlit Land he describes a day when, having been frustrated for months, I assume, in trying to pull together a mass of data he had compiled to come up with a formula, he took his companion, his wife, to the Logan Temple to forget his failure. And in one of the rooms of that structure, there came, in light, the very answer he had heretofore failed to find. Two books on agrarian chemistry grew out of that single insight-a revelation in the temple of God.

I grew up in the dryland wheat-farming country of northeastern Oregon, where my father managed an agricultural experiment station. I spent my boyhood in the little town of Moro, Oregon, which had about 300 people. There were no other members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Moro. We were the only members in the whole county.
We attended a small branch in The Dalles. But when I was about five years old, World War II started and we could not get tires or extra gasoline and could not drive the 80-mile round trip each Sunday. So a home branch was organized in our home.
Each Sunday we held sacrament meeting and Sunday School. My father taught my older brother, Richard, and my older sister, Joan. My mother taught my younger sister, Mary, and me. My mother was an excellent teacher and a wonderful storyteller. She made the scriptures come alive. We sang hymns and Primary songs.
My parents taught us exactly who we were and where we came from. I grew up with the sure knowledge of Father in Heaven, of Jesus Christ, and of the teachings of the gospel. My testimony developed steadily because of the teachings I received in my home.

One Saturday morning I found myself glaring at the mess of clothes, trash, and toys littering my bedroom. I wanted to be outside, not cleaning my room. Sighing, I placed my headphones into my ears and started cleaning.
Soon I began to get tired of my same old songs. I talked to Mom, who suggested we put a few new songs on my MP3 player. I began thinking of favorite songs I wanted to add.
Then Dad reminded me of a website where I could download Church music for free: youth.lds.org. At first I wasn’t too excited about the idea. I kept thinking instead about popular songs on the radio. Still, I was curious, so I decided to give these new songs a try.
As I looked at the list, I found many songs labeled “Especially for Youth.” I clicked on one. I loved it! I downloaded almost all of the EFY songs. Once we finished I went downstairs and began to clean. The EFY songs were upbeat, like the other songs I listened to, but they also had inspiring messages. The music picked me up and kept me moving beyond the time it took me to clean my room. All day long I found myself working and helping people. I had found my working tool!
Since then I have used these songs in a lot of ways. I have used them for parties, cleaning, exercising, family home evening, and creative thinking. I’m still discovering new ways to use them. I am grateful for the songs on the Church youth website.

You take these pumpkin seeds, Brose. Plant them and take good care of them. Who knows—when pumpkin pie time comes this fall, your pumpkins might be just what we need!”
It seemed to Brose that even her eyes smiled as Granny handed him the little bag of seeds. The seeds were his! Not Jeremy’s, not Willie’s, but his, his very own! He was pleased that Granny had given them to him instead of to his older brother.
Brose took care of the pumpkin patch, all right. In fact, he did it so well that it began to bother Pa. “Every time I need you, Brose,” he complained, “you’re in that pumpkin patch. Why, the weeds in the rest of the garden could grow as high as cornstalks, and you’d be out there lifting up pumpkin vines, trying to find another weed to pull. Well, at least I always know where to find you.”
This second year in the Salt Lake Valley was proving to be about like the rest of his nine years, Brose decided. Being in the middle, a boy could scarcely move either way. No one paid him the attention that they did Willie, who was only two and a half and who had hair the color of the brightest sunset over Great Salt Lake. Why, even strangers would stop Willie and ask his name. All they ever said to Brose was, “Is he your brother?”
When Willie did something wrong, no one made a big fuss because Willie was still so young. But when Brose did something that Pa didn’t like, Pa would say, “Brose, you’re big enough to know better!” And whenever it came to deciding which boy would get the best jobs—like riding the pony and herding the cows on the east bench—Pa would say, “Wait up a spell, Brose. You’d best help Ma with the wash and let Jeremy do the herding this year. You’re still a mite small for that job, and Ma can use a little more help than Trudy can give her.”
Brose didn’t give up, though. He wanted Pa to know that there were lots of the good jobs that didn’t have to be left for his older brother to do.
One day the three of them took Old Brownie and Belle and went up City Creek Canyon for a jag of firewood. As soon as they’d found a good place to stop and load up, Pa had Jeremy unhitch the team so that they could graze while the wagon was loaded.
“There,” said Pa, when the wagon was full. “That’ll do it for this trip. Hitch the horses back to the wagon, Jeremy, while Brose and I fasten the chain around the load to keep any logs from falling off.”
“Let me hook up the horses, Pa!” cried Brose. “I can do it, honest! I watched you and Jere do it every day, coming across the plains! Let me hook ‘em up, Pa!”
Pa hesitated, then said, “All right, Brose. Don’t forget to fasten the crosslines, so you can drive the team together without their trying to go off in all directions.”
“So you can drive them!” That’s what Pa said! Maybe, if I hook ‘em up just right, thought Brose, Pa’ll let me drive all the way home!
Brose didn’t have any trouble leading the horses into place. Brownie stepped right over the wagon tongue into her place while Belle stood quietly waiting on the other side. Then, just as Pa had cautioned, Brose fastened the crosslines, snapping the one from Belle’s harness onto the ring on Brownie’s bit, and the other onto the ring on Belle’s bridle.
Next he took the wide leather strap on the front of Brownie’s harness, slipped it through the big ring on the end of the yoke, and fastened the snap to the ring on the other side of the harness. “There! That was just the way Jeremy would have done it,” Brose murmured, pleased. He fastened the strap on Belle’s harness to the yoke the same way. Then he took the driving line from where Jeremy had hung it on Brownie’s hame and threw it ever so gently over Belle’s back, just the way Pa would have done it—quiet, easy, so as not to frighten the team.
When he walked around to put Belle’s line with the other, Brose heard a bird call. It was a new sound, something like a meadowlark’s, yet different. It was more like that little brown bird he used to hear back in Connecticut before the family had come west. Maybe it was! Maybe that very same little brown bird had followed him, Ambrose Dodd, all the way to the Valley!
Brose didn’t know how long he had listened to the bird before he saw Pa and Jeremy. They had walked a little way down the canyon and had stopped, waiting for him.
Brose was to bring the team and wagon! He was going to drive! He climbed up onto the seat, picked up both of the lines, and slapped them against Brownie’s side, just as Pa would have done.
“Giddap!” he cried, loud enough for Pa and Jeremy and the horses to hear. The horses stepped forward. But the wagon did not move. Only the yoke went with the team, the ring on it sliding off the end of the wagon tongue and the lines slipping through Brose’s hands.
Jeremy ran toward him just as the wagon tongue banged to the ground. “Brose!” he called. “Hey, Brose! You forgot the wagon! It won’t move unless you hitch the tugs!”
Brose couldn’t move. How could he have been so dumb! How could he possibly have forgotten about the tugs?
Jeremy reached out and took the lines and drove the team around in a little circle, putting the team right in place. Brose came out of his daze and scurried around to pick up the end of the tongue and slip it through the ring of the yoke, which was still fastened to the horses.
Jeremy was just hooking the last tug to the doubletree when Pa came. Brose watched Pa climb over the front wheel and take his place on the front of the load. Pa reached for the lines, and Jeremy handed them up to him. Pa took them without a word, and Brose knew that he had lost another chance.
There wasn’t much talking during chores that night. When supper was over, Brose sat on the little stool beside the fire, listening to the crackling and hissing of the pine knot and watching the sparks it sometimes sent up with the smoke.
Jeremy took Pa’s fiddle from its case, and music began to fill the little cabin, then float away on the night air. Brose leaned back against the warm cabin wall near the fireplace and listened. He wished—oh, how he wished!—that he could play like Jere. Pa had been fair about it, though. He had tried to teach both of them. Brose still remembered Pa’s words: “Seems as though you’ve got ten thumbs, Brose, and they all want to go in different directions.”
Pa had quit trying to teach him soon after that, and at the time Brose had been relieved. But now every time he listened to the fiddle singing under Jere’s fingers, Brose wished Pa hadn’t given up quite so quickly.
He’d much rather be standing there by Pa’s chair, playing the fiddle, with Ma and Trudy and Willie giving him all the smiles Jeremy was getting, than do the job he was supposed to be doing. He saw Ma looking at him from time to time, but she didn’t interrupt the music with talking, and after a bit Brose made himself get started.
He knew someone had to straighten out the kinks in the wool so that Ma and Trudy could knit it into socks for winter. Brose hated to card. Mostly women and girls did it, but Ma said that Trudy was as fast at knitting as she was, herself. With both of them knitting, they could have twice as many socks ready when winter came. They could, that is, if Brose would just keep ahead of them with the carding.
Brose had his problems with this job too. Sometimes he got the wool so tangled up that Ma said it was worse for knitting when he got through with it than before he started. But she had more patience than Pa. Or maybe she needed the wool carded more than Pa needed another boy to play the fiddle.
Across the firelight Brose saw both Ma and Trudy knitting, each tapping a foot in time to the music. The only time either of them stopped was if one of them happened to drop a stitch. Then the stitch-dropper would move closer to the fire so that she could see to pick it up. Brose sighed as he pulled the big basket of wool closer to him and reached for the cards.
He laid one card close to the fire so that the wire brush would warm. He picked up a handful of wool and drew it across the other card. Then he took the card he had warmed and pulled it carefully across the wool, trying to get the strands straight.
“Learned that fiddle quicker’n I did,” said Pa, as Jeremy stopped for a moment. “Never did see a boy pick it up as fast as that.”
Pa will never be that proud of me, thought Brose, even if I did the carding perfectly! Ma would be pleased, but Pa and Jere wouldn’t care about it at all. Maybe … just maybe someday I’ll do something that they’ll think is important …
“Brose!” He was startled from his daydream by Ma’s voice. “The wool, Brose! I can smell it! You’ve got it too close to the fire!”
(To be concluded.)

by James Wright
While attending Brigham Young University, I had a dream that grandpa had died and I had not recorded his life story on tape. I couldn’t sit still until I had arranged to go to San Francisco and record all those stories he had told my brothers and sisters.
Ever since we were kids, I remember visiting grandpa on the weekends and listening to the stories he would tell about life in the old days and about all our relatives whom we had never met.
It was the last week of April that I finally made it to see grandpa. I remember the day well. It was then, for the first time, that I started to take grandpa’s stories seriously.
He started out by saying that he was born in Lockport, Illinois, and that his father and grandfather were both from Lockport. Great-great-grandfather was a volunteer in the Civil War. I was fascinated by the stories and was glad they were finally being preserved.
I walked away from grandpa’s apartment that day feeling I had met the real Edward Lewis Wright. He had worked hard, lived hard, and played hard. He had managed to support a wife and raise six children while working in the steel mills. As I drove back to Provo to begin a new semester at BYU, I had plenty of time to think about my interview with grandpa. Having worked as a sound engineer, I decided I would process the tape. That is, I would run it through the compressor and the equalizer to take out all the background noises. I thought I would then make copies of the interview and send one to each member of the family.
It was while I was equalizing the tape that the idea for the song came. It didn’t take long before I was doodling with my pen, playing with words and phrases, slowly putting the ideas into a poem. I wrote the words first, and then the melody came. The song was titled, “Like a Man.”
I remember playing the song to grandpa. I put his voice at the beginning and then the music faded in as his voice faded out. When dad heard it, he proclaimed it the family song, and it has remained such. I made copies of the song for most of the relatives, and everybody got a good taste of their own history.
I am now working on a whole series of songs about my family and its history. I guess the reason I wrote the song is to give, in some small way, a fitting tribute to my grandfather. I love him and am grateful he has shared his life with me. I hope I have managed to preserve his story for my future children and grandchildren.

Kenji Nishibori, 17, of the Sugamo Branch, learned of the restored gospel from his older brother. “I knew he was attending meetings, but I was afraid to go to his church,” Kenji said. “Then about five months later, I ran into missionaries on my way home from school. I didn’t think I was serious about investigating, but I went to their chapel, in another part of town where my brother wouldn’t see me. As I listened to the speakers in the meeting, I found what they were saying was marvelous. Then I began to investigate in earnest, and it didn’t take long before I had a testimony of the truth. My father died 12 years ago, but now my brother and I are hoping our mother will someday join the Church.”

Before class begins, buy enough lollipops or suckers for all class members; then change the wrappers so that none of them match the flavor inside.
In class, have everyone pick their favorite sucker and start to eat it; then watch the varied reactions as people realize they’ve been duped!
Explain that while it’s disappointing to open your favorite sucker and find something different, the greatest disappointments come when people don’t live up to what they profess to be. If we are disciples of Jesus Christ, then we must be sure our thoughts and actions match our label.—Linda Garner

Horace Mann, that great educator somewhere back in the time of Abraham Lincoln, told how he was the speaker at the dedication of a great boys’ school, and in his talk he said, “This school has cost hundreds of thousands of dollars; but if this school is able to save one boy, it is worth all that it cost.” One of his friends came up to him at the close of the meeting and said, “You let your enthusiasm get away with you, didn’t you? You don’t mean what you said that if this school, costing hundreds of thousands of dollars, were to save just one boy, it was worth all that it cost? You surely don’t mean that.”
Horace Mann looked at him and said, “Yes, my friend. It would be worth it if that one boy were my son; it would be worth it.”

I depart from my text to give you an example of the blessings that flow from simple faith in the plan of salvation. About three and a half years ago a young mother, Vicki Nichols, came to my office. Something I had written had apparently helped her, and she wondered if she could visit. As the conversation began, she told me that her husband had recently died of a brain tumor, leaving her with four children. I began to bestow expressions of sympathy, but she, being strong, said, “Brother Maxwell, I am handling that, but I just learned that I, too, have cancer, and I wonder what is going to happen to our four precious children.” She is a woman of great faith, strong intellectually, strong spiritually! Sister Maxwell and I felt it a great privilege to be in touch with her from time to time in the intervening several years during which the Lord gave Vicki some prolongation of her time for the nurturing and preparation of those four children. Several days before she died, I called her in Spokane. By now her voice was very weak. She said something like, “You will understand how wrenching the prospect is of my leaving the four children,” expressing the kind of feelings that only a loving mother could have. However, because she understands the plan of salvation, Vicki said, “Brother Maxwell, can I tell you something? I am so torn at the prospect of prolonged separation from my children, but I want you to know that, nevertheless, I have a sense of anticipation about going through the veil of death.” It was a privilege to speak a few days later at Vicki’s funeral. The oldest of her children, Traci, is about sixteen, a wonderful daughter. As related to and remembered by me, soon after Vicki died, the oldest daughter gathered together her three siblings and they talked about their mother and the gospel’s plan of salvation. What a simple, yet powerful act of faith!

There is no adversity that can set aside God’s plan of salvation. It is an immense blessing to know about the plan, to believe in it, and to have faith in it.

A few days ago a heartbroken young man came into my office. It was evident from his appearance and troubled look that he was seeking help. He had been a student at the Brigham Young University, married for two years, and now his wife was requesting a divorce. They had a young son.
Filled with remorse, he told me how he had been unsuccessful in holding numerous jobs, had tampered with drugs, had taken a so-called treatment at a commune-type ranch, and had not assumed his responsibility of providing for his wife and infant son.
As I visited with him, I found he had never worked at a paying job or assumed any responsibility prior to his college and marriage. His parents had separated. This young man was the product of a home where the parents ignored the teachings of the Church.

When 21-year-old Eric Ayala of Techiman, Ghana, was 3, he and his mother were at a street-side market when a car veered out of control and struck them.

“It hit my mother first and broke her leg,” Eric says. “Then it dragged me a long way before my body rolled into the gutter. I was pronounced dead and taken to a mortuary. The mortician was preparing my body when he discovered I was still alive. I was rushed to a hospital.”

Now paraplegic, Eric faced challenge after challenge as he grew up without the use of his legs. He eventually obtained leg braces that allowed him to stand, but he soon outgrew them and couldn’t afford replacements. He was given a small wheelchair, but outgrew that too. His legs withered, sometimes shaking with spasms, and his feet became deformed.

In Ghana, those with disabilities are often considered a burden. Eric’s family had little money, not enough to pay for medical treatment. When Eric was about 10, he developed pressure sores caused by lack of movement and by sitting on wood and concrete. The sores festered, oozing constantly, and they smelled terrible.

As a result, Eric lived outside, on a bench in an open-air shed. His mother, Lucy, and his sisters brought him food, washed his clothes, and helped him bathe. Eric was often drenched by rain and shivered from cold in the night. He learned to love morning sunshine because it brought warmth. Too poor to go to school and unable to work, he spent years in that shed, occasionally venturing into the neighborhood on his wheelchair.

Rather than becoming resentful, “I started to love and believe in God,” Eric says. “Nobody taught me about Him, but I could see His creations, and I could see the good and bad in people. Sometimes it is hard to believe in Him when life is hard. But then I would see something good come into my life, and I would say, ‘See, God is here, and it is wonderful.’”

Eric had not been formally taught how to pray, but he began calling upon God. He received answers—when he was sick, an unanticipated opportunity to see a doctor; when he asked for relief from his sores, they went away; when he outgrew his small wheelchair, a kind stranger brought him a larger one. “God did many good things in my life,” he says.

Still, sometimes Eric would get discouraged. He found himself crying when he was in pain and hungry. “I decided if I was going to be happy, it was up to me,” he recalls. “I forced myself to smile. If I didn’t, I was afraid I would turn to something bad.” In particular, he saw friends using alcohol and drugs, and, “my heart told me that was wrong.”

Then, in what seemed a miracle, at age 14, Eric was accepted for school. His mother, by cooking for others, had scraped together enough money to buy him a uniform and pay for books and tuition. At school, “I couldn’t go out and exercise with the others,” he explains, “so I stayed inside and studied all the time.” He amazed his headmaster by receiving top scores in math, reading, and writing.

A nun from the hospital donated a new tricycle that Eric could pedal with his hands, making it easier for him to go to school. But as Eric went back and forth, pressure sores opened again. Infection returned, along with the putrid smell as the wounds leaked. Students complained about flies constantly buzzing around Eric. He was 17 when the headmaster told him to go home and get well, or he could not return to school.

Eric’s father had a tiny farm out in the country. He had taken the family to work on the farm, but Eric remained at home in his shed, alone. Meanwhile, his sores enlarged to huge wounds and infection entered into his bones, a life-threatening condition called osteomyelitis.

When he was 18, Eric saw his friend Emmanuel Ofosu-hene speaking English with an obruni (white man). The obruni was a Mormon missionary, Elder Old. “I only spoke Twi, but Emmanuel interpreted for me: ‘I am so sick I think I will die. Can you help me know what to do so I can go to heaven?’

“Elder Old and his African companion sat with me and taught me. For some reason, they started with the Word of Wisdom. I knew they were speaking the truth because I already knew coffee and tobacco were bad.” They also gave Eric a brochure about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and invited him to church.

“When I went, I saw this Church was different,” he says. “It was reverent.” Even though it took him an hour to push himself to church in his wheelchair, Eric loved the meetings. “I wanted to go up front and be with people,” he says. “But I stayed at the back because I knew I smelled bad.”

Eric told the missionaries, “What I am learning is true.” He also told them he wanted to be baptized, but doctors had warned him not to get his wounds wet. “I will rely on God to provide answers,” he said. He attended church for about a year and then became too ill and weak to wheel himself there.

Eric’s mother, Lucy, met the missionaries, studied the gospel, and was baptized in 2015. But because her broken leg had never been properly set, it was painful for her to walk. Attending meetings was a challenge for her, as well.

Eventually, Eric was taken to the hospital again. In Ghana, patients have to provide their own water, food, bedding, medicine, and bandages. If they have no money, they are not treated. Eric’s mother and sisters did what they could. Eric received food and medical attention infrequently, so he grew weaker.

Then Eric received some unexpected visitors. Missionaries, Sister Peprah and Sister Nafuna, had seen his photograph at the church and came to see him in the hospital and brought him food. It had been a year since he had been to church, but he told them he still wanted to be baptized.

A few days later, Eric’s sister visited him and found him very ill. She ran home and told their mother. Though their mother had suffered permanent leg damage in the accident with Eric, she walked to the hospital, wincing with every step. “You must come home,” she told Eric. “If you’re going to die, I at least want you near.”

The next morning, the sister missionaries came to the house. “You weren’t at the hospital,” Sister Peprah said. “So we came here.” With them were Elder and Sister Wood, senior missionaries from New Zealand. They took inventory of needs and promised to return.

A few days later, Eric’s father took the family back to the farm—except Eric, who found himself alone again and without food or water. When Elder and Sister Wood returned and discovered Eric alone and hungry, they brought him food and water. They returned the next day and noticed fluid running down his leg and found a huge open ulcer on his thigh. They immediately took Eric back to the hospital.

The Woods learned of a medical humanitarian team from the United States that would be coming to Ghana. The team would perform surgery for Eric without cost. The surgeon treated the ulcer on Eric’s leg. But when he saw the severity of Eric’s wounds, as well as the osteomyelitis, he determined he could not do all the necessary procedures in Ghana. Based on his recommendation, the humanitarian organization initiated a process that would eventually bring Eric to the United States to receive additional treatment and permanently close his wounds. In addition, a shelter in Winneba, Ghana, run by members of the Church, agreed to have Eric live there when he returned so that he could attend school and complete his education.

While in Utah for surgery, Eric visits the reflecting pool near the Salt Lake Temple. Eric says he loves the feeling of peace he finds at the Salt Lake Temple.

Elder Wood, an engineer by profession, rebuilt Eric’s hand-pedal tricycle. He performed a similar overhaul on his wheelchair. He also counseled with President Cosgrave of the Ghana Kumasi Mission, a medical doctor. They felt Eric could be baptized if proper precautions were taken.

Eric shows his tricycle to his mother and siblings after senior missionaries repaired it.

“Elder Wood wrapped my body in plastic, with tape around the plastic,” Eric explains. “Then he carried me into a font filled with water treated with disinfectant. I was baptized on June 26, 2016.” Eric had relied on the Lord, and the Lord had provided a way.

Today, Eric is studying to become a computer technician. But also feels he can influence others through music—he likes to rap in Twi. His upbeat message talks about how God rescued him. One of his favorite scriptures says, “Look to God and live” (Alma 37:47). And he still says, “I see God in everything.”

He adds, “I don’t want anyone to think the way Heavenly Father has blessed me is identical to how He will bless them. But He will bless those who trust Him. When you have to deal with hard things, pray and trust God.”

Eric looks forward to a bright future. He’s studying to be a computer technician and also feels he can inspire others with music.

When President Spencer W. Kimball was 15 years old, he attended stake conference and heard a speaker ask everyone who had read the entire Bible to raise their hands. I heard President Kimball say, “I cared not what others were thinking. I knew that I had not read it and I was filled with shame.” After the meeting was over, he ran home as fast as he could, grabbed the Bible off the shelf, and climbed the stairs to the attic. His brothers teased him, saying, “Why try? You’ll never finish it.” But he did. Almost a year later he finished reading the Bible. The integrity he had as a 15-year-old boy was one of the things that made him a great prophet of God.

I had this thought burned into my heart on a dirt road in the middle of the Congo. Three days into a seven-day journey we stopped our vehicle at a bridge. As we stopped, a group of children ran up to our car and began their daily effort to sell us something or hope that we would share some food with them. One little girl seemed particularly attentive to us. She pressed her nose against our car window and spoke in her native language. I had no idea what she was saying and so all I could do was smile at her. The idea popped into my mind to see if she could mimic the words I might say to her. So pointing at my mouth I said, "you say what I'm saying". Magically she seemed to understand. So I said, "I" and she repeated "I". I said, "am" and she repeated, "am". I said "a child", she repeated "a child". I said, "of God" she repeated "of God." "I am a child of God" and she repeated "I am a child of God". The mission president with whom we were riding began to sing the hymn. She looked at him and seemed to be thinking. At that moment the bridge guard waved us forward, and we left the children standing there. We travelled about fifty feet and were stopped again. Instantly the same little girl ran to our window and as clearly as any little child could say she repeated, " I am a child of God".
I don't know if anything changed for her, but my life view changed and it will never be the same. For me there was a window of light that opened in my mind and I recognized that all of these wonderful people of Africa were also loved children of our Heavenly Father who had stood in that grand pre-earth council of heaven with their arms fully extended in support of the Fathers plan to bring us home. They too had sustained the Savior's proposal.
I realized more clearly the expectation of our brothers and sisters from that pre-earth experience, to find them and help them remember who they are. In the spirit of love we promised to find them or at a minimum do the work for them in the holy temple.

When I graduated high school, I had my whole college life planned out. I would find my first boyfriend, make a great group of friends, and eventually get married.
Instead, I found out that dating and building friendships can be hard. I would meet people who were already in relationships or already had an exclusive friend group. I kept hitting roadblocks to my life expectations.
I quickly found myself comparing my life to those who had the relationships I wished I had. I became envious and jealous. Pretty soon, I felt lonely and depressed.
I wasn’t sure if I would ever feel satisfied with my life.
I turned to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and made some changes in my life. And I’ve found three practices that have helped me feel joy as I wait for the blessings I’m seeking:
Around this time of loneliness, one of my friends participated in a 100-day gratitude challenge where she posted something she was grateful for on social media every day. At first it seemed ridiculous to me.
But as President Russell M. Nelson recently taught: “Counting our blessings is far better than recounting our problems. No matter our situation, showing gratitude for our privileges is a fast-acting and long-lasting spiritual prescription.”1
I have always been taught that gratitude can bring happiness, but I didn’t really believe it. But if there was a chance that it could help me feel joy, then I was going to try practicing gratitude too.
At first I focused a lot on the extravagant things in my life I was grateful for. But soon I noticed everyday blessings, like my cat, good relationships, the inspirational quotes on my social media feed, and my talents.
I’m always grateful for the moments of peace I feel, and I silently thank God when I notice His mercies that often carry me through the day, reminding me that He has great things in store for me.
I remember when President Nelson invited the sisters and youth of the Church to do social media fasts. Since accepting that first invitation, I’ve fasted from social media multiple times when I’ve felt that it’s creating the “impression that everyone except [me] is leading a fun, adventurous, and exciting life.”2
Through taking much-needed breaks from social media, I’ve learned about the importance of real-life relationships and gained a greater appreciation for finding joy through hobbies and spiritual habits.
I’ve also been able to see others from a more Christlike view instead of judging them by the life highlights they post. As President Nelson added, “Social media … creates a false reality,”3 and if we take a break from it, we can better remember the things that matter most, overcome the world,4 and focus on the Spirit.
When I felt lonely during college, I always had this thought: “If I’m feeling lonely, someone else is too.” That would motivate me to reach out to a friend or acquaintance. Our conversations would always lift both of our spirits.
I’ve realized that when I focus on helping others, I’m happy. This happens every time I listen to my friends’ struggles and offer them love and support. Just as President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) said, “To find real happiness, we must seek for it in a focus outside ourselves.”5
As I continue to apply these practices to my life, I keep realizing that I do have a “best” life and I don’t have to wait on specific blessings to feel joy. Sometimes I let my unmet expectations overwhelm me, but I reorient myself to notice my blessings and remember that through trusting Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and keeping my covenants, I can find a lasting joy I can’t get any other way.
I still may not have all the blessings in life I desire right now, but I like to remember these words from Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “The day will come when you turn the final pages of your own glorious story ... and experience the fulfillment of those blessed and wonderful words: ‘And they lived happily ever after.’”6
Until then, I will keep focusing on enjoying the best life I have with God’s help.

My wife and I likewise wanted Jesus Christ’s miraculous compassion to heal our newborn daughter. Doctors had discovered a large mass in her abdominal cavity. They diagnosed her with infantile neuroblastoma. Because she was just two weeks old and the malignant (cancerous) mass was large, her prognosis was not hopeful.

Filled with faith in Christ’s ability to heal her, I gave her a priesthood blessing before we went to the children’s hospital. During that experience, no words came to my mind. It was blank. Seeking to muster any words possible, the only phrase I could utter was, “You are in God’s hands.”

Disheartened by that experience, we headed to the children’s hospital where the medical team would perform surgery to biopsy the mass, see how far it had spread, and determine what, if anything, they could do for our daughter. Before the surgery, I again gave my daughter a priesthood blessing and had the exact same experience as before; I could utter only the words, “you are in God’s hands.”

After handing our daughter to the surgeon, my wife and I wept bitterly. When our bodies were unable to produce any more tears, I sat in frustration. I began to wonder if the compassionate miracle we had sought was not given because my faith or worthiness was insufficient. Why had Christ performed so many amazing acts of compassion for others but would not do so for us?

I felt prompted to read the story of Lazarus found in John 11. The interaction between Christ and Martha stood out to me. It felt like Martha was hoping for the same thing I was hoping for, that it was not too late for my daughter to still be miraculously healed. In response to Martha’s request, Jesus Christ said, “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live:

“And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?” (John 11:25–26)

At this moment, it felt like Jesus Christ was talking to me. I felt that if I had eyes to see, Christ would have been sitting next to me waiting for my reply to His question. As I pondered my answer, conviction filled my soul, and I answered, “Yes, I do believe in the Son of God and all that He offers.”

Another question came to mind: “What has Jesus Christ made possible for children who die before the age of accountability?”

Again, in my mind, I replied, “That all children who die before they arrive at the years of accountability are saved in the celestial kingdom of heaven” (Doctrine and Covenants 137:10).

“Do you believe this?” was the response. Again, conviction filled my soul, and I answered, “Yes.”

The thought came into my mind, “Then you understand that she will be with God and can still become like God. What more do you want for her? You can enjoy that life with her as well when you stay faithful to the temple covenants Jesus Christ has revealed.”

I concluded that the greatest miracle in my life would always be the Atonement of Jesus Christ. There was nothing I wanted more for my daughter than for her to receive all of the blessings Jesus Christ has made available through His atoning sacrifice and sacred temple ordinances. A compassionate miracle was given to us—the miracle that matters the most.

The name Ceská Trebová brought to my mind Sister Lukasova, the sole member of the Church in that town in earlier years. In 1948, she requested that missionaries come to her area. My companion and I tracted in Ceská Trebová for many weeks, and Sister Lukasova helped us arrange several informal gatherings. When the police disrupted one of our meetings and subjected us to intense questioning, the mission president called us back to Prague. Sister Lukasova’s contact with the Church was cut off.