Gospel Story Finder

I was living in Helaman Halls as a new freshman, and as finals approached, it seemed like everyone was getting sick or stressed out. One good brother in our hallway asked several of us for a priesthood blessing. As a new elder, I was grateful to participate. I felt a sweet spirit in that ordinance and returned to my room and knelt in prayer to offer thanks to my Heavenly Father. As I prayed, a thought came that there might be others who needed a blessing. So, I asked. I received an immediate strong impression, “Yes,” someone did need a blessing. But who? I wondered if I was being overly dramatic, but the Spirit and the impression remained.

As I pondered who might need a blessing, I thought of my cousin, Julia, who was living nearby. So, I gave her a call. This was clear back in ancient times when we had landline phones. Julia’s roommate answered the phone. I’ll call her Emily. I barely knew Emily; we had met briefly once or twice. I asked her if Julia was there and she said that she wasn’t, but it sounded from her voice like Emily was upset, and I had just had an answer to my prayer! So, I simply asked, “Emily, would you like a priesthood blessing?” There was a long pause. “Yes,” she replied. I was stunned. I told her I’d grab someone and be over soon. I put my tie back on, got another brother to come with me, and off we went.

As I recall, we found a little utility closet and, without saying much, Emily sat in a chair and I began to give her a blessing. I initially thought she might be stressed out from finals, but impressions came to my mind and heart that there was more. I blessed her as I felt impressed by the Holy Ghost, and I felt the power of the Lord’s love for Emily in the trials she was facing. When I concluded, Emily was weeping with her face buried in her hands. Through her tears, she said, “How did you know?” I could only honestly reply, “I didn’t. The Lord knew.” I felt I was on sacred ground in that little closet. We walked away and I felt this was a miracle, the kind that comes to those who are in the service of Jesus Christ.

I have to tell you that I hesitated to share this story. Having steadfastness in Christ isn’t about having marvelous manifestations. It’s about consistent, everyday discipleship. Yet, when we follow the Spirit and consistently look to the Savior, there are times when the Lord manifests Himself in power and when we are blessed to partake of His love.

Many of Samoa’s early Saints were exiled, persecuted and even executed for their faith. In 1904, prophet and President of the Church, Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918), directed the purchase of 800 fertile acres up in the green hills of rural Upolu. This land would provide a refuge for members of the Church.
The people praised the Lord for His kindness and dedicated the 800 acres with a prayer that it might “become a choice land and a fit place for Saints to gather and become a choice people of the Lord.” They then voted to call this place: “Sauniatu,” which means “prepare to go forth.”
Starting over wasn’t easy but the early villagers moved forward in faith, planting crops, building homes and chapels, and founding a school for their children.

Jeremy’s latest endeavor will help thousands see. For his recently completed Eagle service project, Jeremy was responsible for collecting over 2,000 pairs of used glasses to send to an optometry school, which would then catalog them and send them to Central and South America.

But just as Jeremy helped many people with his Eagle project, many helped Jeremy complete it. Jeremy created over 3,000 flyers, which the Scouts in his troop helped deliver. Soon both local and national papers picked up the story, and Jeremy was receiving glasses from all over the country. The Los Angeles Temple sent a box of glasses left by patrons over the years, and a car rental company sent a crateful of glasses that had been left in their cars. Encouraging letters accompanied many of the offerings.

“It was so great hearing from all those people,” Jeremy says. “I can’t believe so many would respond. Every time the doorbell rang, Dad would look at me and say, ‘More glasses!’”

1 England was a busy place in the early 1800s, but John Taylor liked the hustle and bustle of the country where his family had their farm.
2 John worked many hours on the farm, and he also learned the skill of wood turning.
3 When he was twenty-four years old, John had the opportunity to migrate to Canada to join his family, who had moved there two years before.
4 Before John’s ship left the English Channel, however, there was a horrible storm. Many people on the ship got sick as the storm tossed the ship from side to side.
5 Ships all around John’s were being destroyed by the storm, and the officers and crew of his ship prepared for the worst.
6 But John wasn’t worried. He even walked calmly around the deck at midnight during the raging storm! He knew that he had a work to do in Canada, and he trusted Heavenly Father to protect him so that he could do that work.
7 After John reached Toronto, Canada, he located the Methodist Church, where he became a member and a preacher. In May of 1836, Parley P. Pratt taught him the gospel of Jesus Christ, and John was baptized into the Church.
8 John Taylor continued to trust in the Lord, and he became the third President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

When they joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, my friend and her husband joyfully learned family relationships need not be “until death do you part.” In the house of the Lord, families can be united eternally (sealed).

But my friend did not want to be sealed to her father. “He was not a nice husband to my mother. He was not a nice dad to his children,” she said. “My dad will have to wait. I do not have any desire to do his temple work and be sealed with him in eternity.”

For a year, she fasted, prayed, spoke a lot with the Lord about her father. Finally, she was ready. Her father’s temple work was completed. Later, she said, “In my sleep my dad appeared to me in a dream, all dressed in white. He had changed. He said, ‘Look at me. I am all clean. Thank you for doing the work for me in the temple.’” Her father added, “Get up and go back to the temple; your brother is waiting to be baptized.”

My friend says, “My ancestors and those that have passed on are eagerly waiting for their work to be done.”

“As for me,” she says, “the temple is a place of healing, learning, and acknowledging the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”

I hadn’t meant to do it. But everything happened so fast, and I was suddenly in the worst mess that I’ve ever been in, in my whole life.
It all started while I was playing ball in the parking lot by the church. I was minding my own business, just practicing my batting. I’d throw the ball up, watch carefully, and when it dropped to just the right spot, I’d swing. I was perfectly happy to be hitting two out of every three tosses. Then Brian showed up.
Brian is huge and strong, with pale eyes and big teeth that he sneers through. Mom says that I should try to be friends with him, but he scares me. Some of the kids in the ward say that I’m a chicken, and I guess that it’s true. I try to be brave, but then my heart starts pounding, and my lungs start gasping, and my legs run.
Well, Brian came over and grabbed the bat out of my hands. “Let me show you how to do it right,” he said.
He hit the ball clear out of the parking lot into the grassy field beyond it. Then he threw down the bat and smirked. “That’s how you hit a ball!”
I watched him leave, then started looking for the ball. Fifteen minutes later I found it in a clump of dandelions near the sidewalk. I grabbed the ball and stomped back to the parking lot. I was really boiling. Clutching the bat, I threw the ball high, squinted at it with both eyes, gritted my teeth, and swung with all my might.
Craaack! The ball flew hard and fast—straight as an arrow—through a classroom window in the meetinghouse. I sneaked home quickly and quietly.
We had fried chicken for dinner. Chicken’s my favorite, but that night it seemed dry, and I couldn’t get it down. Dad came in late from a meeting at the church. After he’d started eating, he told about the church window being broken and about how the bishop suspected that maybe some of the neighborhood children had done it. I sank lower and lower in my chair and finally asked Mom if I could leave the table. She looked at me strangely and took so long answering that I thought she might say no, but she didn’t.
Brian wasn’t at church on Sunday. Since he was the only one who had seen me in the parking lot, I thought that I was safe. Then about halfway through the class period, the bishop started calling the boys into his office. I hoped that class would end before it was my turn, but when Brother Lyons came in and said, “Jason, you’re next,” I knew that there was no hope of escape.
I sat in the black leather chair across from Bishop Williams. His blue eyes were clear and steady. “Well, Jason?” he said.
I swallowed hard and studied the floor. I could see the bishop’s black, polished shoes under his desk, and they moved every time he spoke.
“Do you know anything about the window, Jason?”
I opened my mouth to say no, but nothing came out. My stomach felt as though I had swallowed a handful of jumping beans. Bishop Williams was studying my face, and he looked like he was set to wait all day for my answer.
A picture of President Benson is on the wall behind the bishop’s desk, and as I looked from it to him and back again, I knew that I couldn’t lie. Lying to the bishop would be the very same thing as lying to Heavenly Father. And no matter what, I couldn’t lie to Heavenly Father.
“I broke it,” I said, almost choking on the words. After I said it, I felt worse than I had ever felt in my whole life, not because I had to pay for the window but because I had been too much of a coward to admit that I had broken the window in the first place—and because the others would keep calling me chicken.
I didn’t want to go to church the next week, but Mom and Dad made me go. Our family was late for fast and testimony meeting, so there was nowhere to sit but on the front row. I sat between Mom and Dad and tried not to look up.
When Bishop Williams stood at the pulpit to bear his testimony, he talked about having the courage to do what is right. He talked about paying tithing when we’re poor, keeping the Word of Wisdom when we’re tempted, and attending the temple even though we don’t seem to have the time. His eyes traveled slowly across the congregation until they came to rest on me. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edges of the pulpit, and studied me really hard. Then the bishop spoke again, very clearly and slowly: “I want you to know that it also takes a lot of courage to tell the truth.”
And I knew that he was talking right to me.

Another young person, William Hamilton, met Joseph and Hyrum when, on their first night in Carthage, they stayed at his father’s inn. They arrived at the Hamilton House hotel five minutes before midnight on June 24. Early the next morning, the Smith brothers voluntarily surrendered to a constable. After a court hearing during the day, they met with Governor Ford. During the interview a justice of the peace appeared with a paper from a judge authorizing the jailing of Joseph and Hyrum Smith until they could be tried for treason—which was a change from the original charge of rioting.

Despite protests from their attorneys, Joseph and Hyrum were hurried off to Carthage jail, only a few blocks away. Several friends and associates were allowed to stay with the Prophet and the patriarch that evening. On the next day, June 26, the treason hearing was held. No witnesses appeared, so Joseph and Hyrum were required to stay in jail until another hearing could be held, this one scheduled for June 29. But the conspiracy to murder the Prophet and his brother was already in motion.

On June 27, 1844, William stood as lookout on the roof of the county courthouse. It was hot and humid. Sometime near five o’clock, William noticed a group of about 100 men with blackened faces going toward the jail. He hurried to report the movement, but it was already too late. The soldiers assigned to protect the prisoners were outnumbered by the mob. They stormed the jail, rushed up the stairs, and fired shot after shot after shot. Then a yell that the Mormons were coming caught everyone’s attention, and the mob fled.

William went into the jail, where he saw the body of Hyrum Smith. Outside the jail, the Prophet Joseph also lay dead in a pool of blood. John Taylor was severely wounded. Willard Richards was only grazed on his ear by a bullet.2

The blessings of the priesthood were never greater in my life than three years ago when my husband, Dave, lay critically ill in a hospital. Medical examinations had revealed a massive, cancerous tumor that could not be operated on. The doctors explained that modern methods could extend life perhaps many years; some people were even being totally cured of cancer. So we were full of hope, confident that Dave would be one of the lucky ones.
He was recovering well when he began to have severe chest pains. He had developed pneumonia and blood clots in his lungs. For the next three weeks our concern over the cancer became secondary as the doctors battled to save his lungs and life. Finally, he underwent major chest surgery and was once more on the road to recovery.
We breathed a sigh of relief. One problem at a time was enough for me. Now we could think about the cancer again. I was feeling optimistic when I asked the doctor about Dave’s outlook for the future. He answered that if the treatment of chemical injections worked, we might expect a slowing of the cancerous growth for as long as two years.
I was stunned. I thought he’d speak in terms of fifteen or twenty years; now he was telling me that it would be marvelous if my husband survived for two. I gave myself up to grief; it couldn’t have been worse if Dave had actually died. For three days and nights I thought I would perish myself from the anguish I suffered. On Sunday evening I attended sacrament meeting, and several people, including our bishop and home teachers, asked what they might do to help. I desperately needed a priesthood blessing, but was afraid that if I spoke I would lose all composure. So I nodded that everything was all right and left the building.
A few minutes later, on my way to the hospital, I was angry at myself for not letting them help me. I knew I couldn’t survive much longer in my present state. “What am I going to do now?” I asked myself. Then suddenly the answer came: “Dave has the priesthood. He could give me a blessing.”
It did seem a bit strange that he should do it; after all he was the one who had been receiving one blessing after another in efforts to save his own life. It would be like asking the “sick” to bless the “well.” But I had nowhere else to turn.
I’ll never forget how my husband looked standing before me that evening as I sat on his bed. Wearing a hospital robe, gaunt and pale with pain and so weak he could hardly stand, he finally lifted his left arm to my shoulder, and with his right hand on my head proceeded to give me a priesthood blessing.
Oh, the magnificence of the priesthood of God exercised by a righteous man! My husband spoke with strength, power, and authority, asking the Lord to remove the sorrow from my heart. Immediately I felt great relief from my pain; it was though the Lord had reached into my heart and removed the sadness.
My grief never returned, though many difficult days lay ahead.
Dave’s struggle against cancer has been painful and hard the past three years, but he lives—and his doctor tells us that he now has a good chance of total cure. We’re convinced the reason he is alive today is because of the power of the priesthood.
I have learned without reservation that, as the hymn says, “Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.” (“Come, Ye Disconsolate,” Hymns, no. 18.) I thank our Father in heaven daily for the blessings I have received through the priesthood; but never had the priesthood been so dear to me as it was that night—filling a room with power under the hands of a courageous man in a hospital robe.

What if it isn’t pleasant? What if it’s more difficult than you or the children counted on? I’m not sure that Stan and Barbara Shakespeare are in the room, but I close with this from their daughter, Suzanne, age 16:

Of all the ugly words conceived, chemotherapy must be the very worst. How I hated to see the number four person coming, knowing that after he was finished with his part, mine would begin: Nausea so violent I couldn’t keep anything on my stomach, lips so cracked and raw it was like I’d been beaten every morning, my hair began falling [and to any girl nine or ninety, that’s a blow to pride only we can understand].
How I hated to be thin and pale and have people look at me like I was going to disappear before their very eyes. My parents prayed for a miracle. I prayed that it was a bad dream and that it wasn’t really happening to me. I knew prayers were answered, and I wanted mine answered right now. Five long, painful learning years (I can see now) later the miracle had happened. I was alive. I was fourteen, and life was beginning all over again. I still remember the day the doctors told me I wouldn’t have any more medicine and I was free of the disease. It’s true I had a limp and one leg was several times smaller than the other, but I had a beautiful head of my own hair and life. Could anything stand in my way now?

Well, life was wonderful. She went back to school and prepared to rejoin her friends. She began to be interested in boys and to think of driving a car, and in the midst of all of that, the hurt came again, same leg, same place, new examination, increased inflammation, pain that wouldn’t go away, and now another type of cancer.

Ridiculous. I was cured. September 13, 1978, I lost my left leg about 4 inches above the knee and with it many of the dreams only a sixteen-year-old has. I couldn’t decide whether to pray for recovery or for complete oblivion. My world had shattered and I wanted to stop right now—stop because my leg was gone. Stop because I was facing chemotherapy again. Stop because I was once again going to lose my crowning glory. What was left? The Lord blessed me with two very special parents. How hard they must have prayed for me and pleaded that I would have the strength to forge ahead and learn to accept this happening as an opportunity and challenge. I didn’t want to get out of bed, but my parents made me. I didn’t want to face my friend, but my parents invited them in. I didn’t want to go to school. You can imagine how I felt going that first day with my pant leg flapping, but my parents left me at the door and told me I could do it, and I did. Me, Suzanne Shakespeare, who thought my friends wouldn’t like me now and that I wouldn’t be able to do anything. I learned something those first few days that is more precious than all my material possessions. I wasn’t really different at all. I was still the same girl—the one who joined the clubs and had friends and loved to study. The only thing that had really changed was my capacity to understand and appreciate. What wonderful things to have learned. And guess what. I’ve had one date and I’m learning to drive and I’m going to try out for the school musical. I’m getting my new leg soon and I know there will be many hard adjustments ahead. I have had chemotherapy and I’ve been sick, but I’m alive, and the Lord must have something wonderful ahead just for me. And you know what? I’m going to find it. Signed Suzanne Shakespeare, age 16.

Epilogue: Suzanne continued having chemotherapy until January 1979. On a routine visit to the Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City, a chest x-ray revealed widespread cancer cells in the lungs. There was nothing more medical science could do. Her mother is writing:

How do you tell a sixteen-year-old girl she is going to die? Straightforwardly, with tears, with love and determination to continue as normally as possible. That’s how. Time? Maybe two months.

Soon after she returned home, Suzanne went on a family trip to Disneyland, her favorite place. She attended a four-day forensic meet in Salt Lake, she auditioned and received a part in the high school musical, she asked a young man to the sweetheart ball and danced all evening without crutches on a newly acquired artificial leg. She carried a full load at school and, despite a record winter for snow and ice, rarely missed a day. There began to be shoulder pains, shortness of breath, then loss of appetite, but Suzanne would take nothing but aspirin because pain pills might interfere with her school activities. On 15 March she began a three-week tour of the South with her grandmother. The pace of the tour and her increasing loss of strength made her extremely tired. Breathing became so difficult it was impossible for her to lie down. But still it was only aspirin and determination to see the trip through to Disneyworld. On 27 March her father flew to Miami Beach to bring her home. Her condition was critical. They arrived home early in the morning on the 28th. She had her first pain pill that afternoon and passed away in her sleep that night. On 29 March the rest of the group reached Disneyworld.

Let me share briefly with you a letter. …
“Dear Brother Dunn:
“Since having the chance to visit with you last month, I’ve done a lot of thinking about the things we discussed—the meaning of life, my goals for the future, my homesickness, and my efforts to adjust to being on my own, and I’ve felt impressed to write and tell you some of these things. Here I am hundreds of miles away in a completely new environment, and I’ll admit I’ve been pretty down in the dumps at times, plenty homesick and wondering just what my next step would be. More than once I’d have given almost anything to be back at that kitchen table with the family, finishing off one of Mom’s good meals. I wouldn’t even have minded my folks wanting to know where I was going and when I’d be home—it used to really bug me but somehow now I’m glad they worried. I guess what I’m trying to write is that since being here I’m actually appreciating home and my folks in a different way then ever before. I’m grateful for the time that they’ve taken to worry about the little things, the talks we’ve been able to have about any crazy thing that was on my mind, the freedom I felt to go to them with my problems. It seems like they were always pretty fair about judging me when I made mistakes, too.
“I especially appreciate both Morn and Dad being so careful about living the principles of the gospel that they believed in and helping us to do the same. While there were times when I resented it, somehow it seems much easier now for me to discipline myself, to stick to what I should do in organizing my time, thinking, and life.
“I appreciate, too, the companionship we had as the whole family—the night each week we got together to talk about family problems and what we did about them, the times we went fishing together, prayed together, the get-togethers with cousins—mostly the things I guess I have taken for granted all of my life. Somehow, as ordinary as all of these everyday experiences are, thinking about them actually gives me the faith and courage I need right now when I’ve got so much adjusting to do and so many things to accomplish. I seem to have a new desire to live up to the things my folks have been trying to prepare me for all of these years. In some ways, even though I miss home, thinking out these things makes me feel better than I ever have before. I know I have lots to do, and I want to do it. And realizing that my family is behind me as they always have been gives me the strength I need and didn’t know I had. Unfortunately, I have seen some out here whose home life has not been like mine, and now I understand better the value of the training I’ve had. Thanks for getting me started thinking—I just hope my parents can know how much the stability of our home has meant to me, and how very much I love them.”
There is no question that this kind of boy coming from this type of home is going to give strength to this or any nation.
Paul H. DunnConference ReportOctober 1965, p. 117.

You visit a nonmember family. As is often the case, they prepare a meal for you before you leave. This is common, and you had not taken much note of it before. This time you pay particular attention. The little red rooster that had been crowing when you arrived is now boiling in the pot. The last bunch of bananas is plucked. Enough money is found to buy a can of corned beef. You look around. The house is small, the roof needs patching, there are many children in the family, and they have little clothing. Yet they give you the best they have, and the only reward they hope for from you is your blessing, as a servant of the Lord, upon their family. As you leave there is a lump in your throat and mist in your eyes. You are humbled with the realization that you are charged with teaching the perfect gospel to a people who know and live the principles of true Christianity. You find there is much to be learned from them as you teach them the restored gospel.

But even with this divine help, all of us face times of doubt and weakness. Sometimes we can feel inadequate and even mired in despair. That was true of me 25 years ago, when I was a young father of three children, each of them now BYU-Idaho graduates. As you may have heard me say before, the year 1996 was an emotionally and spiritually challenging time in my life. Frustrated in my professional ambitions, I let distress get the better of me. And I failed to hide that distress, as was manifested in my hair, which fell out from head to toe, including eyelashes and brows.

Blessedly, Sister Eyring came to my spiritual rescue. I asked her to seek Heaven’s guidance in coming out of my spiritual and physiological funk. I expected that she would return with a new career plan for me. However, several days later she privately said, “I have received a clear answer. I was told, ‘Henry should keep a journal.’”

That, of course, wasn’t the message I’d hoped for. I wanted a solution to my professional and personal struggles. But I knew that Kelly was speaking for Heaven when she said, “Henry should keep a journal.”

So, I resigned myself to obey. Here are a few paragraphs of my revived journal, dated July 24, a Pioneer Day:

It has been more than 12 years since I made a journal entry. The last time I wrote was the night before my mission ended; a Friday late in March of 1984. I had made an independent record of every day of the mission.

Kelly is entirely responsible for my beginning again. Yesterday, after Henry Christian and I returned from a night at an aquatic scout camp at Bear Lake, she informed me that inspiration had come to her about my professional and spiritual struggles. The answer, she said almost sheepishly, was journal writing.

Two things made me believe her. One was her tearful look; the wonderful, remarkable one she gets when the Spirit has touched her. The other was the ridiculousness of the suggestion. In my current state of morose malaise, journal writing seems nothing short of repugnant: unpleasant for me to write, unpleasant for others to read.

As it turned out, over many years, journal-writing became my emotional and spiritual salvation. In the beginning, the writing was sporadic and mostly woeful. Yet, if only to avoid digging myself further into a dark emotional hole, I began to recognize signs of hope and even small miracles in my daily activities. Life still seemed to be serving up more challenges and disappointments than victories, but the win-lose ratio began to shift.

Slowly but surely, as I tried to focus on the good experiences rather than the disappointing ones, my perception and attitude improved. I still felt a sense of falling and failing spiritually. However, the rate of falling was slower.

I served in the United States Navy toward the end of World War II. I was a seaman, the lowest possible rank in the navy. Then I qualified to be Seaman First Class, after which I qualified to be Yeoman Third Class.
World War II ended, and I was later discharged. But I made a decision that if ever I went back into the military, I wanted to serve as a commissioned officer. I thought, “No more mess kitchens for me, no more scrubbing the decks, if I can avoid it.”
After I was discharged, I joined the United States Naval Reserve. I went to drill every Monday night. I studied hard that I might qualify academically. I took every kind of examination imaginable: mental, physical, and emotional. Finally, there came the beautiful news: “You have been accepted to receive the commission of an ensign in the United States Naval Reserve.”
I gleefully showed it to my wife, Frances, and said, “I made it! I made it!” She hugged me and said, “You’ve worked hard enough to achieve it.”
But then something happened. I was called to be a counselor in my ward bishopric. The bishop’s council meeting was on the same evening as my navy drill meeting. I knew there was a terrible conflict. I knew that I didn’t have the time to pursue the Naval Reserve and my bishopric duties. What was I to do? A decision had to be made.
I prayed about it. Then I went to see the man who was my stake president when I was a boy, Elder Harold B. Lee (1899–1973), then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I sat down across the table from him. I told him how much I valued that commission. In fact, I showed him the copy of the letter of appointment I had received.
Illustration by Paul Mann
After pondering the matter for a moment, he said to me, “Here’s what you should do, Brother Monson. You write a letter to the Bureau of Naval Affairs and tell them that because of your call as a member of the bishopric, you can’t accept that commission in the United States Naval Reserve.”
My heart sank. He added, “Then write to the commandant of the Twelfth Naval District in San Francisco indicating that you would like to be discharged from the reserve.”
I said, “Elder Lee, you don’t understand the military. Of course they will decline to give me that commission if I refuse to accept it, but the Twelfth Naval District isn’t going to let me off. With a war brewing in Korea, a noncommissioned officer will surely be called up. If called back, I would rather go back as a commissioned officer, but I won’t if I don’t accept this commission. Are you sure this is the counsel you want me to receive?”
Elder Lee put his hand on my shoulder and in a fatherly way said, “Brother Monson, have more faith. The military is not for you.”
I went home. I placed a tear-stained commission back in its envelope with its accompanying letter and declined to accept it. Then I wrote a letter to the Twelfth Naval District and requested a discharge from the Naval Reserve.
My discharge from the Naval Reserve was in the last group processed before the outbreak of the Korean War. My headquarters outfit was activated. Six weeks after I was called to be a counselor in the bishopric, I was called to be the bishop of my ward.
I would not hold the position in the Church I hold today had I not followed the counsel of a prophet, had I not prayed about that decision, had I not come to an appreciation of an important truth: the wisdom of God ofttimes appears as foolishness to men.1 But the greatest single lesson we can learn in mortality is that when God speaks and His children obey, they will always be right.

My husband and I had been praying for another baby before we found out we were expecting. “Excited” hardly describes how we felt. Adding to our joy was the news that a friend’s baby was due the day before mine, and my sister-in-law’s baby was due four days later. Almost immediately, we started planning the play dates.
Nine weeks into my pregnancy, however, I started having seizures. Terrified, my husband and I rushed to the hospital for an ultrasound. At my appointment, I eagerly looked to the monitor and asked the technician if my baby was OK. He didn’t respond as he turned the monitor away from me.
I didn’t want to expect the worst, but when the technician left the room, fear seized me. I began to pray in a way I had never realized I could, asking for something—anything—that could give me peace.
Instantly, I was enveloped in a warm embrace and heard the “still small voice” (1 Kings 19:12) reassure me that all would be well. I felt comforted and calm as I waited for the doctor to give me answers.
When the doctor arrived, he gently told my husband and me that our baby had died. Instantly, I again felt the Spirit’s warm embrace. I hurt, but I could not doubt the feeling that comforted me.
As I grieved during the following weeks, I turned to my Heavenly Father in frequent prayer. The calming reassurance of the Holy Ghost never left, and I knew that the Lord was watching over me. I gained a deeper understanding of the Atonement of Jesus Christ as I felt the Savior’s healing balm. On days when I felt I could not function, I could feel angelic hands bearing me up.
My husband and I prayed for continued comfort. We were both still sad, but neither of us doubted that through His Atonement, the Savior could cover our pain and loss.
This experience was incredibly difficult. At times it was almost too great to bear. But I am eternally grateful for the relationship I developed with my Heavenly Father and my Savior through this experience. Prayer can be one of our greatest resources.
I know that Heavenly Father really does care for His children and that He and His Son “will not leave [us] comfortless” (John 14:18).

I couldn’t think of any good reasons why my brother Parry insisted on being a pest. He was almost ten and old enough to begin acting like a human being. Yet he continued to be a source of constant irritation and frustration in my life. He continued to repeat in a high nasal tone every syllable I uttered. He continued knocking things over in my room with his giant leaps. He continued yelling my name constantly: “Janet! Janet! Janet! Listen to this, Janet. Look at this, Janet.” And he continued telling mom and dad the things he thought he had heard me say in my phone conversations.

Sometimes he really did obnoxious things, such as the time he said to Jack Patrick, “Janet likes you second best to Ralph VanBorg, but she’s crazy about him. She’s always doodling his name on everything.”

“Why do you always have to be right around me?” I asked Parry once. “Having a brother like you is like always being plagued by some kind of a giant fly. You’re always buzzing around me, trying to irritate me out of my mind.” That statement proved to be a mistake. After that, Parry made it a point to buzz loudly in my ear every chance he got or to pretend to fly about my room.

I thought I had tried everything to get rid of the pest in Parry. I had shouted, bribed, and even cried, but nothing had helped. Mom and dad certainly never helped. Parry was their joy. He had been a surprise to them when they had given up hope of being able to have more children. “I’ll talk to him,” mom always said, “but I know he just wants your attention. He loves you so.”

“Sure he does,” I would say to myself. Then mom would say, “He’s such a good boy. I don’t know why you two can’t get along better.” My parents were slightly prejudiced. Slightly? They seemed to know a totally different Parry from the one I knew.

Just when I was sure there was no hope and that there was nothing to do but look forward to the day he left for his mission, my friend Susan, who is big on adages, reminded me that “you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

“How does that apply?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. I just thought that maybe if you were sweet to him, no matter what awful things he did, the shock might cause him to change into someone halfway decent.”

“There’s no way I could do that,” I said.

“Anything is worth a try, isn’t it?” Susan herself had been the victim of Parry’s obnoxious behavior whenever she came over to talk. She understood the problem but not the extent of it. I was desperate. I would try anything.

Although I had tried being nice before, it had never lasted for long. Somehow my good will died after 2 1/2 minutes around Parry. But maybe if I persisted … maybe if I mustered every ounce of self-control … It was worth a try.

The next morning I was determined that for one full day I would be nice to my brother. Nothing he did would bother me. Nothing. His teasing would not drive me berserk.

The morning started out with a bang. The room was a blur not only before I put on my glasses but also afterwards.

“Soaped,” I whispered. I was determined that this first test would not be my undoing. I gritted my teeth and walked to the nearest sink. Parry must have been waiting for my groan because he came into my room with a sheepish look on his face. By that time I had cleaned my glasses, washed my face with cool water, and had taken a few deep breaths. I was ready for the challenge.

“Good morning, Parry,” I said with a lilt in my voice.

“Hi,” he mumbled. “Didn’t you find a surprise this morning?”

“Uh huh, and here’s one for you.” I ruffled his hair and planted a big kiss on his forehead.

“Ugh.” Parry fell to the floor. “Ugh, I’m turning into a frog.” He began hopping out of my room. Even though he was croaking in agony, I thought I had seen an underlying look of pleasant surprise on his face.

“This just might work,” I said quietly to myself. “He’s gone. At least for a while.”

At breakfast I pretended not to notice that my egg had sugar on it and my cereal had salt on it. Parry eyed me with curiosity.

“Are you going to ball practice today?” I asked.

“Why? Are you wondering when you’ll be getting rid of me?”

“No, I just wondered. You’ve been pitching really great lately.”

“How do you know? You never go to the games.”

“I’ll have to start going. From what I’ve seen in the backyard, you’re really great.” Parry grunted and tried to hide a pleased smile.

By lunch time Parry couldn’t handle the curiosity. “You’re sure in a good mood today for a change,” he said.

I smiled. “Yes, I am.” He just sat staring at me, and I could tell he was totally confused. I decided that while I had him at a disadvantage, I would double-dose him with so much honey that he wouldn’t know what had happened to him.

I walked down the hall to my room and picked up my phone. Just as I had hoped, Parry followed me and stood outside my door, hitting the wall with the rubber ball he had been carrying around the house with him lately. Today I wouldn’t let the dull thuds bother me, because today I wanted him to eavesdrop.

“Hi, Sue. How did you like that book I loaned you?” I asked the time and temperature man. “Oh, uh huh. Yes, I think so too. No. Yes. Uh huh. Oh, Parry? He’s fine.” At this point I began whispering, but I kept my voice just loud enough for Parry to hear. “I can tell he’s really growing up. He’s grown about three inches this summer, I think. And he’s really athletic.” I swallowed before I continued, winced, then said the words: “I’ve never told him this, but I do love him. I know I don’t act like I do, but I do.”

Parry had stopped hitting the ball against the wall and seemed to be listening intently. I congratulated myself on my great idea. Surprisingly, it really hadn’t hurt that much to say the words. I was convinced that this much honey was bound to smother Parry in stickiness for the rest of his life. But contrary to my calculations, Parry burst into my room and began grabbing at my phone. “Gimme that.”

“What are you doing? Quit it! I’m trying to talk to Susan. See you, Susan,” I said loudly, but it was too late. Parry had the phone close enough to his ear to hear the dial tone.

“I knew it,” Parry said miserably. “What did you do, call the time?”

“None of your business. Why don’t you get out of here and give me my phone,” I shouted, totally losing my cool. “Who do you think you are?”

“I knew there was something funny going on,” Parry said. “You must think I’m pretty dumb with all that phony stuff. Well, I didn’t believe any of it. You think I can’t tell when you’re faking it? I know you hate me, so don’t try to fake it.” Parry slammed the door to my room, and then I heard the ball crash into the entry.

“Oh, oh,” I said aloud. “Mom’s vase.” If Parry had broken my mother’s delft, he was in trouble.

Sure enough, the next thing I heard was my mother’s cry. “Ohhhhhh. Oh, Parry, my best … ohhhhh, I could cry. My only nice … ohhhhh.” The tone of her voice changed for a moment. “That does it, young man. You’re grounded for the week. Ohhhh, it’s ruined.”

Parry must have gone straight to his room because I heard his door close. Then I heard a strange muffled sound coming from behind it. Finally I realized that Parry was sobbing into his pillow. Parry never cried. He was the type to hide his feelings behind some goofy act.

“Oh shoot,” I whispered, feeling rotten. There was no doubt Parry would be mortified if he knew that I could hear him, so I sat still. “Oh shoot,” I whispered again. “Now he’s really done it.” Parry and I both knew that when mom grounded us, she meant it. Very rarely did she change her mind. She could be mighty stubborn. That meant Parry would miss the important game coming up, the game he had been talking about for weeks. “Well, I can’t think about it now, or I’ll get my headache back,” I decided. My stomach ache would do for now. I tried not to think about it for the rest of the day, but I couldn’t help myself, especially when I admitted that I was partially to blame for the predicament Parry was in.

That night was mom and dad’s date night, and I had cooked dinner with the help of the casserole left over from the night before and the spaghetti left over from the night before that. Parry obviously wasn’t planning to speak, and I kept quiet too, not really knowing what to say anyway. But when I brought out the pudding and Parry mumbled, “Oh good!” I warmed up.

“I’m sorry about what happened today,” I said. Parry shrugged. “And I guess it was pretty phony of me to call the time. That part was phony, anyway.”

“It was all pretty phony,” Parry said.

“No, not what I said.” Parry didn’t look up. “Just for the record, sometimes I can’t stand you, you know that. But, well, that doesn’t mean I don’t love you, because I do. What I said on the phone is true.” I paused. “And … I’ll talk to mom about the game you’ve got coming up. I’ll tell her it was my fault and see if I can get her to change her mind. I know that game is important to you.”

Parry grinned and began slurping his pudding happily. “Glurk! Glurrrrrrrk! That’s a frog sinking into a sea of mud. Glurrrk! Glurk! Glub, glub, glub.”

He’s hopeless, I thought.

After the dishes, I went to my room to read, and I decided to let Parry stay up as late as he wanted to. I didn’t need a hassle with him tonight. I could hear him watching the movie The Ant from Outer Space, and as long as he was watching that, he wouldn’t bother me. But he had only watched it for about a half hour when I heard him click the TV off. I half-expected him to burst into my room as the ant from outer space, making an orgh sound and leaping at me from the doorway. But he didn’t. Instead he paused at my door, knocked, and said, “Goodnight, Janet.” I put down my book when I realized what had happened. Parry had been just plain Parry, a regular, normal, courteous human being. He hadn’t been a fly or a frog, or even an ant. He hadn’t been any pest at all, and he had knocked, showing respect for my privacy. He had knocked! I couldn’t believe it! As far as I was concerned, it was as good as saying “I love you.” I sighed before I turned out my bedside lamp. Then I smiled. There was hope after all.

“I went a little farther that time!” Lewis exclaimed, marking where he had landed with a stick. A new house was being built next door, and six-year-old Lewis loved playing in the big piles of dirt. He especially liked to jump off the top of a pile with his brother and see who could go the farthest. Jumping was the next best thing to flying, and Lewis wanted more than anything to be able to fly. Not just to ride in a plane—he’d done that lots of times with his dad in a little four-seat airplane—he wanted to fly like a bird. He thought about it all the time.
Last Sunday, Lewis had been given a lesson in Primary about faith. Sister Jones had said that if you have enough faith, you can do anything—even move mountains! Lewis didn’t want to move a mountain—he wanted to fly over one. He believed that Heavenly Father could help him do that just as easily. Lewis didn’t hear the rest of the lesson that day because he was dreaming about his first flight. He knew exactly how it would be. He would jump off something very high and dive to the earth. Just before he hit the ground, he would pull out of the fall with his arms spread out and glide above the earth, rising higher and higher. He could almost feel the wind in his hair and see the look of surprise on his brother’s face as he flew effortlessly over his head. Yes, it was going to be truly wonderful!
“Lewis,” Mom called from the house.
“Yes, Mom?” he replied from the top of the dirt pile.
“Grandma is here and wants to see you.”
Lewis jumped one more time, marked the spot where he landed, and rushed to the house. “Hi, Grandma. How was your trip?”
“Oh, it was great fun, Lewis. I brought you something.” She held up a small pair of flight attendant wings that she had received on her flight home.
“Wow! Thanks, Grandma!” He had wings! Now he knew he could fly. He pinned them to his shirt and ran outside to the dirt pile. Sure enough, he seemed to jump a little farther and a little higher. The problem, he thought, is that this hill is too small. If I could find something higher, I’m sure I could pull out before I hit the ground.
The next day, Dad took Lewis with him to a construction show. One of the companies there was producing new playground equipment, and Lewis saw the biggest jungle gym he’d ever seen. He grinned. Today was the day he was going to fly!
While his dad was busy talking to some other builders, Lewis pulled the flight attendant wings out of his pocket and pinned them to his shirt, then raced over to the jungle gym. He climbed to the very top bar—about fifteen feet high—and yelled, “Watch this, Dad!” He jumped off, completely unafraid. On the way down, his leg caught on a bar and he crashed to the ground.
Lewis’s leg was broken, and his body was bruised and scratched.
“Are you feeling better now?” Dad asked on the way home from the hospital.
“Dad,” Lewis sobbed, “I don’t understand. In Primary, my teacher said that if I had enough faith, I could do anything.”
“I see. Lewis, you need to understand something about faith. The scriptures say that faith is things which are hoped for which are true. If I believed with all my heart that the oceans are filled with spaghetti, it still wouldn’t be true. Faith in Jesus Christ is true because He really did come and die for us and He really does love you. Faith in the scriptures is true because the Lord really commanded the prophets to write them so we could read them and learn about Jesus Christ. Heavenly Father obeys natural laws, like gravity. Can you see the difference?”
“I guess so.”
Dad continued, “You will be able to fly, Lewis, but on this earth the way you have to do it is by following the natural laws. When you get a little older, you can take flying lessons and get a pilot’s license of your own. Now let’s go home and let that leg heal.”
Today Lewis is grown-up and flies high in the sky as an airline pilot. But he still dreams that the day will come when he will be able to fly through the clouds on his own.

An experience I had some years ago emphasized this. A young woman approached me in a city far from my home and came under some pressure from her husband. She admitted to me that she had committed adultery. She was a bit hard and unyielding, and finally said: “I know what I have done. I have read the scriptures, and I know the consequences. I know that I am damned and can never be forgiven, and therefore why should I try now to repent?”
My reply to her was: “My dear sister, you do not know the scriptures. You do not know the power of God nor his goodness. You can be forgiven for this terrible sin, but it will take much sincere repentance to accomplish it.”
Then I quoted to her the cry of her Lord:
“Can a woman forget her suckling child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee.” (Isa. 49:15.)
I reminded her of the Lord’s words in our dispensation to the effect that whoever repents and obeys God’s commandments will be forgiven. (See D&C 1:32.) My visitor looked bewildered but seemed to be yearning as though she wanted to believe it. I continued: “For all but the unpardonable sin forgiveness eventually will come to that transgressor who repents sorely enough, long enough, sincerely enough.”
She remonstrated again, though she was beginning to yield. She wanted so much to believe it. She said she had known all her life that adultery was unforgivable. And I turned again to the scriptures and read to her the oft-repeated statement of Jesus:
“All manner of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven unto men.
“And whosoever speaketh a word against the Son of man, it shall be forgiven him: but whosoever speaketh against the Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, neither in the world to come.” (Matt. 12:31–32.)
She had forgotten that scripture. Her eyes lighted up. She reacted joyously to it, and asked, “Is that really true? Can I really be forgiven?”
Realizing that hope is the first requirement, I continued by reading many scriptures to her, to build up the hope that was now awakened within her.
On the occasion I am recalling, this woman, who was basically good, straightened up and looked me in the eye, and in her voice was a new power and resoluteness as she said: “Thank you, thank you! I believe you. I shall really repent and wash my filthy garments in the blood of the Lamb and obtain that forgiveness.”
Not long ago, she returned to my office a new person—bright of eye, light of step, full of hope as she declared to me that, since that memorable day when hope had seen a star and had clung to it, she had never reverted to her sin nor any approaches to it.

Beatrix Potter was born on July 6, 1866, in London. Her parents were strict and had little understanding of children. She had no brothers or sisters until she was six years old. Instead of attending public school, her wealthy parents hired a governess and tutor to teach her. Timid and lonely, Beatrix spent most of her time in the top-floor nursery of her home. Here she created a fantasy world. Rabbits, toads, and frogs were her friends. When her brother, Bertram, was born, he became her playmate.

Beatrix did enjoy the family holidays in Scotland every summer. It was here that her creative ability grew. She loved to see the frogs leaping, rabbits hopping, and little wood mice playing. She would hide in the fields for hours at a time, sitting in tall weeds as she watched and dreamed. The simple cottages where the Scottish families lived appealed to Beatrix. She was amazed at the love and affection Scottish parents showed their children.

Farmers allowed Beatrix to feed their small animals. She gave bread to the ducks, corn to the chickens, lettuce and carrots to the rabbits. It was as though she suddenly lived in a magical world, and Beatrix was spellbound. She and little Bertram sketched everything in sight.

The fantasy world mixed with the real world for Beatrix. In the pictures she drew, rabbits walked upright like humans. They wore clothing and carried umbrellas. Some of the female rabbits wore hats that looked like the girl’s mother’s.

Beatrix enjoyed inventing stories about small animals and drew pictures to illustrate them. She used a paintbrush or pencil like a magic wand. And the many animals that were kept as pets became her models.

While still living at home, Beatrix began sending illustrated letters to Noel, the son of a former governess. He read the letters with such delight that Beatrix decided to make a book. She lengthened the Peter Rabbit story and submitted it to Frederick Warne & Co., a London publisher. Although it was rejected, Miss Potter had faith in her rabbit story. She felt so strongly that children would like it that she had it published privately. The book sold quickly for one shilling and twopence a copy. During the next eighty years, over twenty million copies were sold!

The Tale of Peter Rabbit has been translated into thirteen languages. Sightless children can also enjoy the book in Braille.

After Miss Potter published her own book, she again showed it to Frederick Warne & Co. The editor now saw possibilities in publishing it, and he accepted the Tale of Peter Rabbit. Its success gave Miss Potter encouragement, and in the next eight years she wrote thirteen children’s books. In all, twenty-three were written and published, the last one in 1930. Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit books are enjoyed today just as much as when Noel received his first illustrated letter in 1893.

One morning while serving in the Thailand Bangkok Mission, I woke up lacking the desire to teach the gospel in my new area. My companion and I were having difficulties keeping our spirits up through the intense heat and the disappointment of uninterested investigators. In Thailand, 90 percent of the time it’s at least 90 degrees outside with at least 90 percent humidity. But as bad as the heat was, we felt worse about not being able to find people to teach the discussions to.
I spent the entire morning pumping myself up to teach my Thai brothers and sisters. Through reading my scriptures, studying with my companion, and praying fervently, I was ready and excited to teach again. As I had been on other days of my mission, I was amazed at how quickly studying and praying helped me regain the desire to teach.
The excitement and renewed strength quickly vanished, though, as every appointment we had that morning fell through. We tried street contacting to make up for the lost appointments, but nobody was interested. After yet another Thai brother turned down our offer to teach him, I looked at my companion only to sense in him exactly what I felt. Our sweat-drenched white shirts and tired bodies showed the dejection we had experienced. Our injured spirits wanted to give up, and I even contemplated taking an early lunch. But the Spirit wouldn’t let me.
Not knowing exactly why, I hopped on my bike and started pedaling as fast as I could. My companion, who probably thought I had lost my sanity, struggled to keep up as I sped down a neighborhood street. I pedaled and pedaled, finally coming to a three-way intersection where a man passed us on his bicycle. I slowed down and began to follow him, approaching his side and asking him how he was and where he was going. My companion caught up just in time to hear the man accept an invitation to hear the first discussion.
The man let us in his air-conditioned room where we taught him the first discussion and challenged him to read the Book of Mormon and pray about our message. Within the week, Amnaad Uanphooklaang had felt the Spirit and committed to be baptized later that month. Elder Wengreen, my companion, baptized Amnaad at the small branch where we served. The branch now had a much-needed potential priesthood holder.
Shortly thereafter, Amnaad introduced us to his boss, Chaanchay Srisawad. We taught Chaanchay the six discussions, and a branch member baptized him the next month.
Several months and two areas later, my mission president allowed me to visit that branch to see Chaanchay baptize his wife. As I watched the baptismal service, I thought about the morning we met Amnaad. I thought about how close we were to giving up and taking an early lunch. I still thank my Heavenly Father for allowing the Spirit to press forward for me when I felt unable to do so myself. I had learned, once again, that God guides His work.

On a stopover in Rome, President Hinckley gave Father Leonard Boyle, Prefect of the Vatican Library, a copy of the Encyclopedia of Mormonism. The two men greeted each other like longtime friends. Father Boyle was impressed with President Hinckley’s knowledge of books and the techniques used to deter their aging. At the end of the meeting, the prefect observed in his thick Irish brogue, “President Hinckley is truly a very remarkable man.”