Gospel Story Finder

It was one of those special times when a daughter comes to her father with an honest question that deserves a careful answer. The question of this attractive teenage daughter was, “With all the influences for evil around me, how can I be ‘in the world’ yet still maintain standards that are acceptable to you and to my Father in Heaven?”
“There are two important forces in the world,” the father replied. “Centrifugal forces and centripetal forces. The term centrifugal force comes from Latin roots meaning ‘fleeing from the center.’ Centripetal force is ‘a force directed toward the center.’”
“I ask a simple question and you give me a complicated answer!” cried the dismayed girl. “Can’t you just give me a simple answer?”
“Well, my dear, let me try to show you what I mean. Let’s take a little ball of cotton and put it on the turntable of the record player.” He placed the ball on the very edge of the turntable and said, “Now turn it on.”
She did so, and after three or four revolutions the little cotton ball went flying out into the room.
“Turn the record player off,” he directed, “and put the cotton at the center of the turntable. Now turn on the record player again.”
She did as she was told, and round and round the turntable went. But this time the ball of cotton did not move.
“That is what I mean by centrifugal and centripetal forces,” the father continued. “One force causes an object to flee from the center, and the other directs an object toward the center.”

Teri leaned close to the windowpane and blew on it. She watched the steam spread out on the glass in front of her face. Then she wiped the steam away and looked at the swirling snow outside the window. Snowflakes were falling everywhere. Teri could barely see the green tips of the evergreens peeking out of their white covering. Even the fence had a coating of snow.
Suddenly Teri saw two sparrows flutter down and land on the porch rail.
“Mother,” she called. “Come quickly. There are some sparrows on the porch. Can we throw a few bread crumbs to them?”
Mother walked across the room and stood next to Teri at the window. Together they watched as the birds flew from the rail onto the porch.
“Can we?” Teri asked again.
“We can do better than that,” Mother answered. “Today is a perfect day for bird pie.”
“Bird pie? May I help make it?” Teri asked excitedly.
“You certainly may, and you can begin by bringing me that wire basket I hung my flowers in last summer. We’ll hang our bird pie in a basket in the apple tree.”
Teri brought the basket and put it on the kitchen counter. “What does bird pie have in it?” she asked.
“Just three things,” Mother answered. “First all the bacon drippings I’ve been saving.”
Teri spooned the drippings into a big yellow bowl.
“Next we need enough flour to make a paste,” Mother said.
Teri stirred in the flour.
“And last we’ll add sunflower seeds,” Teri guessed, picking up the seeds that were lying on the counter.
“Right,” Mother smiled.
Mother held the basket while Teri spooned the bird pie into the wire container. Then Mother took the bird pie out into the yard and hung the basket in the apple tree.
Teri looked at the wire basket blowing gently back and forth on the limb of the apple tree.
“Do you think the birds will find our pie?” she asked Mother.
“I’m sure they will,” Mother answered. “Birds always seem to know when food is nearby.”
It was quiet while they waited and watched. Teri could hear the wind blowing around the house, picking up puffs of snow as it blew.
Then she saw a sparrow land on the branch above the pie. She held her breath. The bird bobbed along the branch closer and closer to the basket. Finally it fluttered into the air and landed on the basket.
Teri hugged her mother. “The sparrow found it!” she exclaimed. “He found our bird pie!”
Mother smiled. “Look again,” she said.
Teri looked out the window. Her eyes opened wide.
“One, two, three, four, five birds,” Teri counted. Then she smiled. “You were right. It is a perfect day for bird pie!”

While a lot of good things were happening in his life at Dixie, like joining the Church and being named the National Junior College Player of the Year in 1991, some hard things were happening. Kalin’s father, whom he never knew well, died. Then three months later his mother passed away from cancer. It shook Kalin. “During her worst time, I wasn’t there to comfort her. It helped out an awful lot that I knew I would see her again, but it was still very hard. Both my parents are gone, and I don’t have any blood brothers or sisters. I’m the last of my immediate family.”
During this time, Kalin was adopted by Wendell and Joyce Donahoo. He met the family while playing with their son Kelly in high school. “They have been great to me,” says Kalin. “They are a great family.”

Many stories have been related concerning the missionary experiences of those called to serve in Scandinavia. August Carlson served three missions, first as a local missionary in Sweden. It was difficult. Fined on more than one occasion for preaching the gospel, he sometimes had to go without a companion. He became discouraged and was ready to quit, but his mother, who had been deceased for 10 months, appeared to him and encouraged him to continue. As recounted in a biography written by his wife, Caroline:

He was considering asking for a release from his mission, as everything seemed dark and useless; so he decided to write to the mission president the next day. In the early morning of that day, which was the 6th of February 1880, he heard a knock on the door to his room. Thinking it was one of the people he was staying with, he said, “Come in!” To his surprise his own mother walked in. . . . He stretched out his arms as to embrace her, but she said, “Touch me not, for I am only a spirit. I have asked permission to come to see you because I know of your hardships.” Then she . . . told him to be faithful and finish the mission . . . and promised him that a way would be opened for him to get money so he could emigrate to Zion.18

His mother’s spirit also told him to gather genealogical information for temple work even though, at that time, vicarious work for the dead was being practiced only in St. George.

The promise his mother’s spirit made was fulfilled when August Carlson emigrated to Utah in August 1881 and located in Ogden. He returned to Sweden to serve two more missions, during the last gaining an audience with King Oscar and having the honor of introducing Heber J. Grant to him.

I wanted to save more tadpoles, so Dad and I went to the creek near General Vallejo’s old historic adobe place. There wasn’t much water left in the creek, just puddles with tadpoles in them. When the water dried up, they would die—unless we rescued them. Dad and I caught hundreds of those tadpoles in our jars and took them to the lake. Dad said that God wouldn’t waste time creating anything He didn’t love. The least we could do was respect His creations and help whenever, wherever, and whatever we could—tadpoles included!
One day while we were taking tadpoles out of the creek, Dad looked troubled. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’m worried about Eddie Porter,” Dad replied. Dad was Brother Porter’s home teacher, and he and his companion could never get Brother Porter to let them into his home. “He doesn’t come to church,” Dad said. “He’s getting old, lives alone, and has a lot of problems. He seems depressed most of the time, and I think he believes that God has given up on him.”
Dad scooped out three tadpoles and dumped them into a pail of water. “He never says much when Brother Phillips and I talk to him at the door. Just nods and says he has things to do. But last month when we stopped by, he had moved. Where, I don’t know.” Dad looked up the creek bed as if he hoped he might spot Brother Porter coming out of the heat rising from the rocks like a thin, wavy wall. “I doubt he moved out of town, because he has lived here all his life,” Dad continued. “I’ve got to find him, Matt.”
“Why, Dad?” I was confused. “If Brother Porter wants to be alone, why worry about it?”
“He’s my responsibility, son,” Dad explained. “And I feel that he’s in real need. Brother Phillips is out of town for a couple of months, so I’ll try to find Brother Porter on my own.” Dad smiled at me. “Unless, of course, you’d like to help.”
“But what about these tadpoles, Dad? If we don’t get them moved, they’ll die. They want to be helped. Brother Porter doesn’t.”
“They have enough water to last a few more weeks. But I don’t know if Eddie Porter has the same amount of willpower,” Dad said. “Besides,” he added in a voice that made me look straight at him, “like you and me, Brother Porter is a child of God. The scriptures teach us that the Savior spent His entire life loving, lifting, and healing others. These little critters are important, but what is more important than all these tadpoles?”
“Brother Porter?” I guessed.
For the next two weeks, Dad and I were like detectives. We searched for clues, asked questions, and talked to people. But most of all we prayed that Heavenly Father would lead us to the right house.
Then one evening Dad and I walked up to a little old place, kind of jammed between two warehouses near the canal. Dad knocked on the rusty screen door, and we waited.
We were about to leave when the door opened. The old man standing behind the screen seemed like a ghost—kind of there and not there at the same time. He had whiskers and wore rumpled, worn-out clothes.
“Brother Porter,” Dad said.
The old man’s eyes looked sad and surprised, maybe even angry. “How did you find me?” he asked.
Dad smiled. “It wasn’t easy, Eddie. It’s taken us two weeks.”
Brother Porter looked at me. I guess I was nervous because my voice was shaky. “Hi, Brother Porter.”
Brother Porter looked back up at Dad. “Why?” he said. “Why did you want to find me? I’ve never—”
“Because you’re important, Brother Porter,” I said. “You’re a child of God. He loves you. And so do we. Yep, we do.” I said it again because he looked so surprised. It was quiet for a little bit, so I said, “Dad and I were saving tadpoles from the creek that’s drying up, but Dad wanted to start looking for you instead. You’re more important than all the tadpoles that ever hatched. Mom thinks so, too.” I held out a lunch bag. “She made some cookies for you.”
Brother Porter turned away from us. I thought he was still mad at us for bothering him, but when he turned back, he was crying. He pushed open the door. “Won’t you come in?” Dad didn’t say anything. He was crying, too.
We went inside, and Dad squeezed my hand. Suddenly I knew how important Eddie Porter—and everyone else—was. Jesus wouldn’t have spent His whole life helping others if it weren’t so.
The tadpoles could wait. They would be all right. Dad and I needed to make sure that Brother Porter would be all right first.

I had about two months left on my mission in Costa Rica, and I was serving with an American companion, Sister Nguyen. We were excited to be celebrating Christmas and were preparing small bags of sweets and cookies to deliver on Christmas Eve to friends and families in the small city where we lived.
I had spent most of my mission in very poor areas, and I was grateful. The Lord had blessed me by allowing me to teach people in humble homes, to live among them and learn of their kindness, their humility, and their spirit of sacrifice.
The last family we visited to drop off some treats was the Carmona family, a large family that was one of the poorest in the ward. They all—parents, children, in-laws, and grandchildren—lived in a small wooden hut covered with sheet metal, lacking electricity and any other modern comfort. They were preparing traditional tamales that they would eat during the holidays. We made our delivery and returned to our house.
Very early on Christmas morning we heard a knock on the door. To my surprise, I found myself face-to-face with Minor, the 13-year-old son of the Carmona family. He was holding a small package in his hand.
“Sisters,” he said, “Mother sent me to give you these tamales. Have a merry Christmas!”
I was so thankful they had thought of us—we who had not yet received anything from our own families, we who had not been expecting anything. And this family that probably had just enough for themselves offered us a part of their Christmas “feast.”
I showed my companion the package, and I could see tears running down her cheeks. “Sister, what’s wrong?” I asked.
She answered me very simply: “Sister Burcion, it’s Christmas!”
Yes, it was Christmas, and they had shared the little they had with us, the missionaries, as they would have shared with Christ. It was the only gift we received that Christmas day, a gift I will never forget.

When we arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay, I nervously looked for my father and saw him standing with his wife. He waved his cane at me in recognition. I waved back. Finally, the customs officer told me to proceed. As I walked through the customs door, my father eagerly came toward me. We embraced and kissed each other. As we left the airport terminal, the Spirit told me that the man walking beside me was a different person than I had imagined.
We spent the next few days getting acquainted with one another, laughing together, discovering what we had in common, and becoming friends. Angie and I asked him to record on tape his experiences in his youth and in courting my mother, and we discovered many things about his past. Then, one morning, Angie and I prayed that we would be blessed that day with the right words in asking my father to share with us the Ainsa genealogy and history.
It was my father’s eighty-first birthday. After opening presents at breakfast, he excused himself and came back with an object hidden underneath a towel. He handed me a box and said, “This is the least I can do after all these years. Somehow I feel that I have to make it up to you.” Inside the box was a beautiful watch.
Thirty minutes later, as we were upstairs sitting around my father’s oak desk, I inserted a blank tape into the cassette recorder and asked him to tell me about my ancestors. He talked for a few minutes, then stopped. “It’s a waste,” he said.
I panicked. “Lord, please help me,” I prayed. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.” Then I asked my father, “Why do you say it is a waste?”
“Because I have it in print,” he replied. My heart began to beat faster as he reached for a drawer in his desk, opened it, pulled out a folder, and handed me a sheet of paper with a list of names on it. “These are your ancestors on my father’s side,” he said, “and you’re welcome to this list.” I glanced quickly through it; it contained the names of his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, as well as those of distant relatives.
“What about your mother? Have you compiled a list on her side of the family?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Your grandmother’s lineage is not important,” he muttered, brushing aside my inquiry. I replied that were it not for my grandmother, he wouldn’t be here, to which my father said, “Well, if it is that important to you, you can have it.” With that, he gave me an envelope containing names scribbled on several sheets of paper and said, “As a matter of fact, you might as well have everything.” He placed the folder in my hand.
I opened it and, as tears began to blur my vision, I read through several lists of names of distant relatives. Inside were pictures of my grandmother, my grandfather, and others. I wept openly. During the past twenty-one years, I had prayed on many occasions for this day. The Lord had heard my requests and had answered them at the appropriate time.
“Why are you crying?” my father asked.
“Because I am happy to be here,” I said.
At that moment, he, too, began to cry. He leaned his head on my shoulder and took my hand between his. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am sorry for what I did. I was wrong. I was never a father to you. During all those years, I never bothered to find out who you were. Will you ever forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you—it is forgiven and forgotten,” I uttered between sobs. As I embraced him, the Spirit whispered softly, “I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men” (D&C 64:10). We were at peace. All the years of separation, loneliness, and turmoil melted away. He knew who I was. He had found a son. And I had finally found my father.

I thought back to my own childhood, when my mum’s big set of scriptures always sat open somewhere in the living room. Those same scriptures would be passed around as we studied them together, even when I was so small that I could barely read. I wanted my daughter to experience that—to always have a set of scriptures open and close by, ready to leaf through. Now, there is nothing more precious to me than those little moments where I spy my little girl toddle over to the scriptures and flip through. I can only hope that as she becomes familiar with those pages, that she will also grow to cherish the message inside.

Ensign: Are Primary referrals a very fertile source of baptisms?
Sister Shumway: Oh, yes, and some very touching stories come out of these children-missionary experiences. I received a letter a few weeks ago from a mother who let her daughter go to the “Mormon church for the kids” with the neighbors. Here’s what she says: “Every Thursday all the mothers would gather every child for miles around, Mormon or not. They called and showed concern, love, loyalty, and most of all they cared enough about my child to make the effort. Every week my daughter came in with all kinds of things to tell me about Heavenly Father. After a very short while, we were impressed, so we asked for the missionaries … A whole new world walked into our home … Nothing has ever changed us or our lives so much since our daughter ran in and asked, ‘Can I go to Primary, please Mom, please? ’”

As an example of the blessings that come through the learning process at BYU-Idaho, I would like to share two examples. The first is the blessings that have come to my own family through study at BYU-Idaho. The second is a family friend studying from a distance but witnessing similar blessings.

We are a pretty average family. Neither of my parents completed college as young adults. My dad didn't feel he belonged, and my mom was so homesick she couldn't make it any longer here at Ricks College. Yet they paved the way for their future posterity through years of tireless effort. From their examples of diligence, five of my brothers graduated from BYU-Idaho; one brother's educational journey isn't over yet. We were each first-generation college students. Besides the five brothers, my wife and four of my sisters-in-law also graduated from BYU-Idaho.

Here we have developed as disciples of Jesus Christ while preparing to meet a need in the world. As we diligently seek to live lives of discipleship, service has taken different forms, including employment in various fields of healthcare, management, education, and tourism. We also developed the capacity to serve in callings within our wards and stakes. Fundamental to our schooling at BYU-Idaho, we learned the greatest work we do is within the walls of our home. Education has enhanced our discipleship. We now strive to replicate the pattern taught to us at BYU-Idaho by preparing and teaching our children to be disciples of Jesus Christ

For those not able to gather on campus, I would also like to share an example of a family friend from Sialkot, Pakistan.

Nosheen Rahat is a great example of making her home a temple of learning. She has engaged in the sacred journey of being a pioneer in her family by seeking education one step at a time. Knowing that the knowledge and skills she gains will bless her and her family, she began Pathway Connect and is now pursuing a BYU-Idaho certificate through BYU-Pathway Worldwide. As a convert to the Church, her educational pursuits are an act of faith. She is a purpose-driven mother who desires to serve her family. BYU-Pathway Worldwide’s certificate-first approach has allowed her to begin working as a customer service and marketing specialist while providing the added support her family needs. Her pursuit of education is a blessing to herself and her family, even for many generations to come.

One husband was invited to reflection and experienced a major wake-up call when he listened to a portion of an audiotape recording of my therapy session with his wife. She had offered the tape to him because in the session she was able to articulate some of her core beliefs: The belief that he did not see her as equal to him. The belief that nothing she had contributed to their marriage had made a difference to him.

He telephoned me in deep grief—a deep grief born of a deeper understanding of his wife’s pain.

“I never knew,” he said. “I never knew I caused her this much pain.”

His voice is a voice of authority in her life. His words can heal her pain or induce more pain.

And the missionaries were grateful for chances to share their testimonies. One day when they were running drills with the Russian team, an interpreter asked, “What training methods do you use?”
Elder Condie hesitated. The mission president had said the elders could practice only on Saturday mornings and play games only on Wednesday nights. They were missionaries first, so they didn’t train more than that. He wasn’t sure what to tell the interpreter about why their team did so well. Then an idea came.
“The Word of Wisdom,” Elder Condie said. The interpreter looked confused. “We don’t drink coffee, tea, or alcohol, or smoke tobacco,” Elder Condie explained. At that time lots of people drank and smoked, even athletes.
When the interpreter told the Russian team what Elder Condie said, they just stared. They were amazed at how long the missionaries could play before getting tired. Because the Mormon Yankees followed the Word of Wisdom, their bodies were healthy and strong.

Susan Wells remembered Christmas two years later in Salt Lake in December 1849, when there was a more formal party:
I well remember Brother Brigham’s [Christmas] party [of 1849]. Like the girls of today, on receiving my invitation the first thought was “nothing to wear.” This was literally true, as all our clothing was shabby and patched. Necessity is the mother of invention, so, after careful consideration, the wagon cover, that had done such faithful service in our journey across the plains, was brought out. We couldn’t afford canvas [for our wagon cover, so] our cover consisted of several thicknesses of unbleached factory [cloth]. This was carefully dyed and as good luck would have it, it turned out a very pretty brown. We made this into dresses for myself and sister, trimmed with silk from an old cape of mother’s. This cape, black, lined with light brown, not only furnished trimming for our dresses, but I made poke bonnets from the black with quilled lining of the light brown. I had embroidered buckskin moccasins . . . , but I believe for this occasion father, who was a shoemaker, made me a pair of slippers from his old boot legs. I tell you my first ball dress was stunning.

You may ask, “How do we seek personal revelation?” Paul counseled the Saints to rely on the Spirit rather than the wisdom of the world. To obtain that Spirit, we begin with prayer. President Lorenzo Snow had studied the gospel for several years before joining the Church. But he did not receive a witness until two or three weeks after his baptism when he retired in secret prayer. “The Spirit of God descended upon me,” he said. “O, the joy and happiness I felt, [for] I then received a perfect knowledge that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and of the restoration of the holy Priesthood, and the fulness of the Gospel.”

A few months ago after a meeting with new converts and less-active members, a reactivated gentleman about my age came up to me and said, “I am one who has been less active most of my life. I fell away from the Church early in my life. But I am back now, and I work in the temple with my wife.”

To let him know that everything was OK, my response was something like this: “All is well that ends well.”

He responded, “No, all is not well. I am back in the Church, but I have lost all of my children and my grandchildren. And I am now witnessing the loss of my great-grandchildren—all out of the Church. All is not well.”

The spirit of “thy will be done” was strongly reflected in the life of Elder Charles C. Rich. Brother Rich was ordained an apostle in 1849 at the age of thirty-nine after serving as a general in the Mormon Battalion. Two years later Elder Rich was called to settle San Bernardino, California. Then, in 1863, President Brigham Young asked Elder Rich to establish a settlement in the Bear Lake Valley in what is now southeastern Idaho.

In June of 1864 the entire Rich family joined a band of nearly a thousand residents at Bear Lake and began constructing log houses with roofs made up of “a layer of willow branches, then a covering of straw topped off with thick sod” (Leonard J. Arrington, Charles C. Rich [Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 1974], p. 259). That first summer Brother Rich proposed that the Saints celebrate the Fourth of July in grand style with a homemade flag, a little brass band, and lots of dancing (see p. 261).

But the joy of the occasion was short-lived. The very next day frost killed the spring wheat and stunted the growing corn. The subsequent winter was bitter cold, and the potatoes and wheat froze because of lack of storage facilities. The John Clifton family grew so short of supplies that their children “were kept in bed to conserve their strength” (p. 263).

As the individual and collective misery of the Saints increased, murmuring began to emerge from their ranks. Some of the brethren asked for a meeting with Brother Rich to discuss the possibility of abandoning the settlement for a more hospitable environment elsewhere. Elder Rich, sensing their concerns even before they were expressed, rose to his feet and addressed those in attendance:

Brethren—in the fall of 1863 President Young called me into his office and said, “Brother Rich, I want you to go up to Bear Lake Valley and see if it can be opened for settlement; and if it can, I want that you should take a company there and settle it.”
That was all I needed. It was a call. I came up here, with a few brethren; we looked over the valley; and, although the altitude was high, the snows heavy, and the frosts severe, there was plenty of water for irrigation purposes and plenty of fish in the lake and streams. So, with a company, I came here and settled with my family.
There have been many hardships. That I admit . . . and these we have shared together. But if you want to go somewhere else, that is your right, and I do not want to deprive you of it. If you are of a mind to leave here, my blessing will go with you. But I must stay here, even if I stay alone. President Young called me here, and here I will remain till he releases me and gives me leave to go. [Arrington, Charles C. Rich, p. 264]

Elder Charles C. Rich, Mormon general, Western frontiersman, apostle of the Lord, and prisoner of Jesus Christ, died nineteen years later in the Bear Lake Valley at Paris, Idaho, on November 17, 1883. He claimed the blessings of the Book of Mormon promised to those who yield “their hearts unto God” (Helaman 3:35).

Mandy trudged through the crusty snow toward her grandparents’ cottage. Her knitting bag, a birthday gift from Grandma Birke, swung from her shoulder.
Inside the cottage, Grandpa Birke was putting another log on the fire. “There,” he said, rubbing his hands vigorously before the blaze. “It’s good and warm now. No cold fingers for our little Mandy.”
Grandma Birke was gazing out the front window. “Here she comes!”
They watched Mandy’s red boots rise and fall as she marched through the snow. “She’s wearing the blue hat and scarf you made,” Grandpa Birke observed.
Grandma Birke nodded and smiled. “After today’s lesson, she’ll have a hat made with her own hands.” She paused. “I hope she enjoys these knitting lessons as much as I do.”
“Sure she does,” Grandpa Birke said.
Mandy crunched through the snow, looking down at her red boots. With every step, she asked herself the same question: “Why” crunch “me?” Crunch. “Why” crunch “me?” Crunch. “Nobody knits anymore.” Crunch. “It’s so old-fashioned!”
Suddenly she remembered her mother’s words: “Learning to knit is a tradition in Grandma Birke’s family. It’s a legacy of love that she’s passing on to you.”
OK, Mandy thought. I’ll learn—but I won’t like it. Looking up, she saw her grandparents coming outside to greet her with open arms. Her face flushed a deep red—and not from the cold.
“How’s my little sweetie?” Grandpa asked, giving her a bear hug. Mandy felt his soft flannel shirt against her face and smelled the fragrance of freshly chopped wood.
Grandma ushered them inside. “Hurry in before we all freeze,” she scolded playfully. “Grandpa’s made a big fire—and I made an even bigger apple pie.”
Grandpa sat in his favorite chair by the hearth and patted his stomach. “A big, old-fashioned apple pie,” he added with a smile. Mandy’s cheeks flushed an even deeper scarlet.
“Why, look how red your face is!” Grandma exclaimed while Mandy hung her hat, coat, and scarf on a wooden peg next to the door. “Come sit over here by the fire and warm up those cheeks and hands.” As Mandy sat down on the small sofa and took out her knitting, Grandma leaned toward her and announced, “Today’s the big day!”
“It is?” Mandy forced a half-smile.
“Why, yes. Today you take your hat off the needles and weave the sides together. You’re almost finished!” She was beaming.
“Neat, Grandma,” was all Mandy could get out.
For the next hour, Grandma’s patient hands guided Mandy’s through the weaving process. “Grandma,” Mandy asked as they locked in the last stitch, “you’ve been knitting ever since you were my age, right?”
“Yes, Mandy, when I was just a little older than you, my friends called me ‘the girl who loves to knit.’ You’ll be called that too—sooner than you think.”
Mandy looked down to avoid her grandmother’s eyes.
“In fact,” Grandma reminisced, “I knitted hats and scarves for everyone.”
She sighed at the pleasant memory, but Mandy’s frustration finally broke loose. “Why, Grandma? Why didn’t you just buy them?” Then she added, apologetically, “I mean, it takes so long.” Mandy ran her fingers over the hat in her lap. “And you always make things for other people—never for yourself.”
Before Grandma could respond, they were startled by a knock at the door.
Grandpa, who had fallen asleep, jerked up. Grandma chuckled. “Don’t bother, dear, I’ll get it.” She opened the door.
The voice of a young man said, “Ma’am I’m Jeff Goodwin, and this is my wife, Diane.” He sounded tense. “I’m afraid we hit a slick spot on the road—”
Grandpa was out of his chair in a heartbeat. “Anyone hurt?” he asked as the couple stepped inside.
The young man looked embarrassed.
“No, sir, but I think we’ll need a tow truck to pull our car out of the ditch. May I use your phone?”
“Why, sure,” Grandpa said.
Grandma gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat, Diane,” she said, “while I get us some pie.”
As Mandy gathered up the yarn to make room, Diane picked up Mandy’s new hat and exclaimed, “Oh, that’s beautiful! Did you make this?” Mandy nodded. “I never learned to knit,” Diane went on wistfully. “I’m all thumbs. Besides, some people are just born to knit, don’t you think?”
Mandy didn’t know what to say.
“Just look at this!” Diane praised the hat. “Feel it. You can’t buy this kind of old-fashioned quality.”
Mandy sat in stunned silence.
Grandma came out of the kitchen and placed a pie-laden tray on the small table near the hearth. She smiled tenderly at her granddaughter. As she returned Grandma’s smile, Mandy began to understand, at last, the value of her grandmother’s lessons—and she knew exactly what to say. “It’s yours,” she told Diane.
The young woman’s eyes grew large. “Oh, no,” she stammered. “I couldn’t … You don’t mean it. …”
“Yes, I do.” Mandy spoke with firm resolution. She put the hat on Diane’s head. “It matches your eyes.”
“Thank you,” Diane said. “But I can’t believe you’re giving this beautiful hat to a complete stranger!” She lowered her voice. “You must love to knit. You must really love to knit.”
“I do,” Mandy said. At least, she told herself honestly, I do now. She looked gratefully at her grandmother. “I really do.”

I grew up in Nicaragua. When I was little, I did everything with my older brother. We walked to school together. We went to the store together. We had all sorts of adventures in our backyard. We were happy.
Then, when I was nine, something very sad happened. My brother died in an earthquake. At first it didn’t feel real that he was gone. I used to imagine that he would knock on our front door. He would tell us he had just been away somewhere. I used to stare at the door, wishing for it to happen. I wanted so much to see him again.
Over time, it got a little easier. I still missed my brother, but I was able to feel happy again.
Back then, I wasn’t a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. But when I grew up, I learned about the Church and got baptized. One day I was washing my dishes. It was Easter time. I was thinking of the Resurrection and thought of my brother.
Suddenly a good feeling came over me. I remembered the daydream I had about my brother. I realized that it wasn’t silly at all! It came from the Holy Ghost, to comfort me and guide me. Someday my brother really will be resurrected. And I really will see him again.

I attended a seminary graduation in Omaha, Nebraska. The speaker, again a young man, described this experience.
“Each morning I awoke to the sweet voice of my mother calling out, ‘John, John, time to get ready for seminary!’ The year rolled on and the mornings grew cold and wet and dark; still the happy voice of Mother would sing out, ‘John, John, time to get up for seminary!’” Then he added, “I learned to hate that sound!”
But then, choking back the tears, he thanked his mother for what she had given him. And I think only later did he realize that she had to be up first every morning.

Another lesson was learned from President Kimball as we visited a prison together.
One day a few years ago President Kimball said, “Marvin, I’d like you to take me to visit the Utah State Prison.” He remembered that when I was in charge of the Social Services programs for the Church I had had the responsibility for prisoners.
I said, “President Kimball, I don’t want you to go to the prison. I am afraid for your safety. There are some men confined there who would do anything to attract attention by embarrassing, injuring, or insulting you. I just don’t want you to go.”
That was once when I felt I couldn’t grant his request. He took my advice, and we didn’t go.
However, about two months later, D. Arthur Haycock, President Kimball’s personal secretary, phoned me and said, “Elder Ashton, President Kimball wants you to go to the Utah State Prison with him.” The next day we went. My delaying tactic had lasted only a few weeks.
I called Warden Morris and said, “May we come and visit you? We do not want anyone to know of our visit. Could we just meet in your office and not go through the minimum, medium, or maximum security places? Perhaps you could invite two inmates with whom President Kimball could visit in your office. Later we could look around the grounds and talk with others.” He agreeably made the arrangements.
We traveled to the institution, where about a thousand people are incarcerated. Soon into the warden’s office came two prisoners. I was impressed with how hard the convicts looked—how mean, how sullen. After they were introduced and sat down, I broke the silence by saying to President Kimball, “Would you like to say a few words to these two men?”
He said, “Yes.”
They both looked steadily down at the floor. President Kimball waited, and finally when one raised his head up a little, President Kimball looked directly into his eyes.
Let me just pause for a minute and set the stage. One prisoner had been convicted for murder and the other for manslaughter. Here is a prophet. Here were two hardened criminals. What do you say? What do you do? Do you say, “Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? What a waste for you to be in such a place as this”? Those are things that might cross your mind and mine.
As I mentioned, as President Kimball caught the eye of one of them, he looked at him with a penetrating stare and said, “Tell me about your mother.”
This inmate looked up and told him about his mother. Tears came to his eyes as he talked in detail about his mother.
When that was over, President Kimball looked at the other one, who was now paying strict attention. He said, “Young man, tell me what your father does for a living.”
The prisoner said, “I do not know where my father is. I never hear from him.” And he went on and on talking openly about his family.
I won’t tell you the details, but what a lesson in counseling, interviewing, and kindness was being taught by this great prophet. I learned more about interviewing in those fifteen minutes than in any similar period in my life. No condemnation. No judging. Only displaying a real interest in the person and his circumstances.
Before our interview was over, somehow the press found out that President Kimball was there. They were at the door and wanted to get into the warden’s office for an interview and a picture. I remember one of the inmates said, “Mr. Kimball, could I have my picture taken with you?”
President Kimball responded with “Why don’t I stand between the two of you, and we will take all three of us at once.”
I did not feel very comfortable with President Kimball standing between those two men in this setting. I had the responsibility for his safety. I had tried to talk him out of it. But he is a disciple of Christ and holds on to the words of God: “I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: … Naked, and ye clothed me: … I was in prison, and ye came unto me.” (Matt. 25:35–36.)
After the pictures were taken, President Kimball looked at one prisoner and then at the other and said, “Thank you for letting me have my picture taken with you.” Is there any doubt we love him? He loves everyone. He teaches us the real meaning of Matthew 22:37–40:
“Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.
“This is the first and great commandment.
“And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
“On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”