Gospel Story Finder

Before I left on that mission, President Anthon H. Lund, who was then a counselor in the First Presidency of the Church, talked to us missionaries, and he said, “The people will love you. … They will love you because of what you bring to them.” I did not understand that then, but before I left Holland, I went around saying good-bye to the Saints and the converts whom I had brought into the Church, and I shed a thousand tears, as compared to what I shed when I told my loved ones good-bye.

For instance, in Amsterdam I went into a home where I had been the first missionary there, and the mother, looking up into my face with tears rolling down her cheeks, said, “Brother Richards, it was hard to see my daughter leave for Zion a few months ago, but it’s much harder to see you go.” Then I thought I could understand what President Lund meant when he said, “They will love you.”

I went to tell a man good-bye. He stood erect in the uniform of his country. He got down on his knees and took my hand in his and hugged it and kissed it and bathed it with his tears. And then I thought I could understand what President Lund meant.

Now I have labored so much with the missionaries. I have been on four missions, and presided over two, and I have toured many missions. I love to hear those young men bear their testimonies. For instance, a young man in Oregon in our testimony meeting said there wasn’t a company in this world that could pay him a large enough salary to get him to leave his missionary work.

I received a letter here from a missionary from Idaho. He wrote this:
“There is no greater work than that of missionary work. … My life is dedicated to serving the Lord. My heart is overflowing as are the tears of joy that are now coming from my eyes. There is nothing so wonderful—nothing—as tasting the joy and success of missionary labors.”

After all the missionary service I have had, I wouldn’t want to raise a boy and not have him go on a mission, for his good and because I think we owe it to the world to share with them the truths of the gospel.

“Why have these great missionaries and others like them been willing to sacrifice … to answer the call to serve? It’s because they have a testimony of Jesus Christ. … And because they are faithful to their callings, thousands will revere their names throughout the eternities” (Ensign, Nov. 1995, 42).
—Elder Harold G. Hillamof the Quorum of the Seventy

My grandmother always used to say, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”
When I was really little, I didn’t know what that meant. When I got a little older, she explained it to me: If you don’t keep busy, you’re likely to get into some kind of trouble. Mischief she sometimes called it.
Last summer, right after I turned ten, I went to stay with her in Missouri for two weeks. She has a neat old farm, but when Grandpa died eight years ago, she sold almost all the animals and stopped farming the land. Now she rents most of the land to someone else, who grows corn on it. She does have a nice, big garden. She also has some chickens, one milking cow named Elizabeth, two dogs, three cats, and a giraffe. The giraffe is really just a plywood cutout painted to look like a giraffe that stands in the front yard. Mom says it was Grandpa’s idea of a joke, and Grandma hasn’t had the heart to take it down.
My dad says Grandma is the workingest woman in the world, and it’s true. She gets up early, goes to bed late, and never stops in between. The problem is, when I’m there, she expects the same of me—except for the going to bed late part, which is the part I would like best.
I don’t really mind work, and last summer I learned a lot about how to feed chickens, gather eggs, and pull weeds. But every time I’d stop to play, Grandma would say, “Come on, Kimberley, you know that idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” And then she’d hand me a rag to clean the windows or a broom to sweep the porch or some gloves to do more weeding. She must have said those words to me at least ten times a day the first week I was there.
You’d think that she’d want to sit out on her big front porch and watch the sun go down. She has a perfect view, and the sunsets in Missouri can be extra beautiful. But when I’d ask her about it, she’d always say, “I haven’t time for that.” Instead, she’d get busy tidying up the place and then maybe do some mending or baking. Sometimes it seemed as though she was just looking for something to do in order to stay busy. I used to wonder if she believed that she would get into mischief if she stopped. Surely Grandma wouldn’t get into mischief.
Then one evening after we’d eaten and washed the dishes, she handed me some white fabric in an embroidery hoop and some bright-colored embroidery thread. I was happy that at least I was going to get to do something that I liked.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, as I settled down to embroidering.
“I have mending,” she said, picking up her sewing basket and heading for her favorite chair.
Suddenly I had an idea. “Grandma, can we go out and do our sewing on the front porch? The sun will be going down soon, and the sky is so beautiful here.”
“Same sky as any place else,” she said, sounding almost crabby. “There’s not enough light out there, anyway.” She headed for her chair.
I almost gave up, but something inside told me not to, at least not yet. “Please, Grandma. We can come in when it gets too dark. And we could move your big lamp so that it shines through the front window, where your porch chair is. Please?”
For a minute I didn’t think she’d give in. Then, with a sad-sounding sigh, she nodded. “All right, but only till it gets too dark to see.”
There was a warm breeze blowing that evening, and the sky looked as if it was getting ready for a really colorful sunset, but Grandma didn’t seem to notice. I liked the way the wind blew my hair against my face and wondered how it felt to Grandma, but she was so busy with her sewing that she probably didn’t even feel the little gray wisps of her own hair tickling her face.
I embroidered for a while, but then the sky started to turn all pink and purple with gold streaks shooting through it, and I set my sewing in my lap and just watched it. At last the sun seemed to perch, like a bright pink ball, right on the edge of the world. When I couldn’t keep my happiness to myself any longer, I said, “Grandma, look!”
She looked up from her mending as if she didn’t really plan to look at all. But then she stopped, and for a second her face seemed frozen in surprise as she stared at the purpling sky.
The whole world seemed frozen just then. I didn’t even breathe. I knew something very important was happening.
At last Grandma whispered, almost to herself, “I’d forgotten it could be so.” Her hands seemed to settle in her lap, and she relaxed back into her chair, never taking her eyes off the sky.
When the ball of sun had finally disappeared, leaving only color, Grandma didn’t say a word about going in, even though it was then too dark to sew. I didn’t want to go in, but since she’d kept her part of the bargain by coming out, I thought I should keep my part.
“Don’t you want to go in now—to finish our work?” I asked.
“The work can wait.” Grandma’s words surprised me. I’d never heard her say such a thing.
“But Grandma, you always say—”
“I know—‘Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.’ But here’s another saying, one my mother used to favor: ‘Take time to smell the flowers.’ I’ve forgotten to do that. Or maybe I’ve just made myself forget. Keeping busy all the time is a wonderful way to forget all kinds of things.”
“Forget what?” I asked. Then I noticed tears glistening on her cheeks. “Grandma, what’s the matter?” I hadn’t meant to make her cry.
She smiled. “Kimberley, believe it or not, there was a time when your grandpa and I used to sit out here every night and watch the sun go down. We took long walks in the mornings. We even used to play checkers. Oh, not that we weren’t busy, but we found time. We made time.”
I was starting to get the idea. “But after Grandpa died, …”
She nodded. “I guess I was afraid to face the sunsets alone. So I stopped looking, stopped taking time to think and remember, because I was afraid it would hurt too much.” She paused a moment, then looked at me. “But thanks to you, my little chick, I found out something tonight.”
“What, Grandma?”
“That it doesn’t hurt nearly as much to look at the sunset as it has hurt trying not to see it all these years. I felt closer to your Grandpa just now than I have since the day he died.”
Then she asked me to come sit on her lap, and even though I’m a little big for that now, I still did it. She put her arms around me, and we sat there for the longest time, just watching it get dark.

It would never happen, you might say, but Kelli Pay of Glendale, Arizona, knows better. When she was on her mission in Ecuador, she really did have only five minutes to get ready to give a sacrament meeting talk.
“My heart pounded and my mind raced, but I was calmed with the fact that I had done this before,” says Kelli.
Remember Kelli and Brook? Kelli excelled in the public speaking competition—something that came in handy on her mission.

Three of the interns had already told me that I was well enough to leave the next day—the day before Christmas—and then come back to the hospital after a short holiday respite. I was sure that I would get final confirmation of this pleasant news from Dr. Sherman, department chief of staff, when he made his usual rounds later in the day. He finally appeared and stopped at my bedside. His examination was routine; in fact, it was too routine.
“You’re doing fine, just fine,” he assured me, and turned to leave the room. But he had nothing to say about me leaving the hospital for Christmas.
I gulped down my alarm and asked, “I’ll be leaving tomorrow for a few days, won’t I?”
The only indication of his surprise was the way his gray eyebrows lifted themselves a little higher on his forehead. He slowly answered, “I’m sorry, son, but you’re not going anywhere for at least two more weeks.”
His voice was kind, but it was also firm and definite. I lay there speechless as he left the room. The one thing I had been holding to for the last few days was gone. My one firm hope had just been stepped on, had just been crushed.
It wasn’t fair—none of it was fair! I had been on my mission for over a year when it happened. I was happy in my calling; teaching the gospel in New York City was challenging and exciting. And lately it had begun to be productive—our labors were being blessed with success. And I had been blessed with good health—at least I had been healthy until two weeks earlier when my right arm suddenly became paralyzed for a few minutes and my speech left me for more than two hours.
No one knew what had happened to me, so I had been brought to this hospital in the Bronx to find out. No one at the hospital seemed to know for sure just what had happened to me either. I had overheard whispered conversations about strokes, seizures, tumors, and syndromes. Dozens of inconclusive tests had left me exhausted and more ill than when I had entered the hospital. It just wasn’t fair for me to be wasting my time in the hospital when there were investigators to be taught; it wasn’t fair that the mysterious affliction had appeared in the first place.
I called my folks in Utah almost every night, assuring them that I was all right and that there was nothing to worry about. My mother wanted to fly out and be with me, but I knew that they couldn’t afford it and that I would feel even more self-conscious about my hospital stay if she were to come. So I joked about my mysterious malady over the phone and carefully acted the role of nonchalant victim so they would not worry about me so much.
The small hospital in the Bronx, famous for its work with neurological problems, had to be the most desolate and cheerless place on earth; I was sure of it after spending just one night in the place. As the days became weeks, my hopes of leaving for the Christmas holidays had made my suffering bearable. Thoughts of Yuletide excitement and activity alleviated the boredom and discomfort.
“You’re not going anywhere for at least two more weeks.” Dr. Sherman’s pronouncement lodged in my mind and filled it with a sense of nostalgia and finality. As a child, I would dream of Christmas for months ahead. As a young man, I found that my childish pleasures had been only partially replaced with a deeper appreciation of friends, family—and Jesus Christ.
I lay unmoving in the hospital bed for at least 15 minutes before I shifted position enough to reach the radio and turn it on; it had been my only pleasure and diversion in my lonely room since coming to the hospital. But even listening to it made my mood darken. My disappointment had been replaced with resentment and anger; I was totally miserable. I felt it within me, discoloring my personality from some corrupt inner well.
Still, I stubbornly listened to the radio, preferring it to the routine sounds from the corridor and the nearby kitchen. Every station seemed to be blasting me with Christmas carols. Happy voices proclaimed joy to the world. Singers reminded me again and again that “there’s no place like home for the holidays.”
I wasn’t full of joy. I wasn’t home. I wouldn’t even be going home to my missionary and member friends here in New York. For me there would be no Christmas this year.
December 23 slowly passed and became December 24. Then it was Christmas Eve. The hospital was hushed and quiet. Many of the patients had been allowed to go home for Christmas. But not me. I was alone. I was lonely, small, and unimportant.
I glumly lay in bed, listening to the radio carols, mocking them in my mind, and fervently wishing that the night would quickly pass. Around 8:00 there was a knock at the door, and Ed Cazakoff, one of the recent converts I had helped teach, walked into the room. His arms were full of packages, and his face was covered with a big grin. He greeted me with a cheery “Merry Christmas,” put down the packages, and warmly shook my hand.
It was astonishing to see him away from his family tonight. This was not just Christmas Eve—it was Hannukah, a special family time in Judaism. There had been much family difficulty because of Ed’s conversion to Christianity and the restored gospel, and he spent as much time as possible with his family to reassure them of his continued love and loyalty.
Ed’s face was radiant as he talked with me that evening. His warmth and enthusiasm and vulnerability made him seem younger than his 24 years. He smiled continually as he talked about his Church work, his delight in the gospel, and his concern and love for our mutual friends and for his family. For several hours we talked, listened to the radio carols, and opened the gifts he had brought with him. Some were from him; others had been gathered and sent by other friends.
After he left, I thought about the hours he would now spend waiting for the subway and traveling home this wintry night. I looked around at the once bleak room. Holiday paper tumbled from the waste basket, a small stack of opened gifts graced the solitary chair, and a row of red and white candy canes paraded around the sides of my bed. But more than the room, I must have looked vastly different. My heart had been touched; his happiness and radiance had warmed my soul. I had been wallowing in momentary concerns when I should have been thanking God for the rich blessings I could enjoy forever.
This had been Ed’s first Christmas Eve, and he had given it to me. His sincerity and loving concern exemplified true Christianity. He had sacrificed for me—he had cared. He had been deeply aware of the significance of Christmas—I had been ignoring it. The pleasures I had lamented missing weren’t really important at all. They were, by themselves, artificial and shallow.
For the next several hours, I lay there in the darkness and listened to the radio carols with a humble awareness of their meaning. I thought of a night many years before in a land across the sea; I delighted in the life of the Child born that night and thrilled at the spirit of the approaching day. I peacefully fell asleep, grateful for the Christmas presents I had been given by two of my brothers.

The first time I remember feeling that Christ knew me and was actively involved in my life was when I was eight years old. My parents were recently divorced and I moved with part of our family to a new city. I can assure you I felt confused, lonely, and scared. On one particular morning, my mother went to work, my older siblings left for school, and I was home alone waiting for the time for me to walk to school. At the height of my fear, loneliness, and hopelessness, I remember feeling a distinct desire to read the Book of Mormon. So as an eight-year old, I read the first two chapters before school that day. I then knelt at the chair in my living room and poured out my heart to a loving Heavenly Father. This became a pivotal moment in my life. My circumstances did not change, however when I got up from that prayer and had received an enabling power above my own to go through that day. Since that day, I have never questioned the presence of the Savior. That day I knew Christ was aware of me, and would come to my aid.
If the Savior could provide peace and comfort to an eight year-old boy, he can provide peace and comfort to you. If He could heal my wounds, He can heal your wounds.

This story took place in Germany.
“Mathis! Emilian!” Mama called. “It’s time to light the candles on the wreath.”
Mathis put down his book and ran to the living room. His little brother, Emilian, followed him.
There were lots of things Mathis liked about Christmas. He liked to make lebkuchen cookies. He liked to decorate the tree. But his favorite part was lighting candles to get ready for Christmas.
They called this the Advent wreath. The wreath had four red candles that sat on green branches. In Germany, people lit the candles each Sunday in the month before Christmas Eve. The first week, they lit one candle. The next week, they lit two. The third, they lit three. And the Sunday before Christmas Eve, they lit all four.
Mathis watched Papa help Emilian light two candles. The bright flames looked cheerful.
“Mama, what does advent mean?” Mathis asked.
“Advent is the time before Christmas,” Mama said. “The candles help us count down the days. And so do our Advent calendars!”
Mama reached for the beautiful wooden house on top of the bookshelf. She put it on the table. Mathis got excited just seeing it.
They had two Advent calendars this year. They weren’t regular kinds of calendars. They were special kinds, just for Christmas! The first one was the little wooden house with 24 doors—one for each day before Christmas.
“It’s your turn to open a door!” Mama said.
Mathis grinned and opened the door for today. There were two small candies inside! He gave one to Emilian.
“You know,” Papa said, “advent also means the coming of someone or something important. Do you remember whose coming we celebrate on Christmas?”
“Jesus!” Mathis and Emilian said together.
Mama nodded. “People waited thousands of years for Jesus Christ to come. We celebrate His birth at Christmas. And someday, He will come to earth again.”
Mathis imagined what it would be like when Jesus came again. It made him feel warm inside.
“Open the other calendar, Mathis!” Emilian said.
“OK!” Mathis reached for the second calendar. Oma (Grandma) made it just for them. It was a hanger with 24 long ribbons hanging from it. Each ribbon had a folded piece of paper with a scripture about Jesus Christ tied to it. Every day before Christmas they got to read a new scripture about Jesus.
Mathis pulled the next paper off the ribbon. “Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people,” he read. “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”*
Mathis felt peaceful as he and his family watched the candles glow. In two weeks, they would light all four candles, and the wait for Christmas would be over! But Mathis knew that Christmas wasn’t the only thing they were waiting for. They were waiting for Jesus Christ to come.
Illustrations by Violet Lemay

I recall an experience from pilot training in World War II. Air cadets were posted to colleges for ground training. We were assigned to Washington State University at Pullman. Eight of us who had never met were assigned to the same room. The first evening we introduced ourselves.
The first to speak was from a wealthy family in the East. He described the private schools he had attended. He said that each summer their family had “gone on the Continent.” I had no way of knowing that meant they had traveled to Europe.
The father of the next had been governor of Ohio and at that time was in the president’s cabinet.
And so it went. I was younger than most, and it was my first time away from home. Each had attended college, I had not. In fact, there was nothing to distinguish me at all.
When finally I got the courage to speak, I said, “I come from a little town in Utah that you have never heard of. I come from a large family, eleven children. My father is a mechanic and runs a little garage.”
I said that my great-grandfather had joined the Church and come west with the pioneers.
To my surprise and relief, I was accepted. My faith and my obscurity were not a penalty.
From then until now I have never felt uncomfortable among people of wealth or achievement, of high station or of low. Nor have I been ashamed of my heritage or of the Church, or felt the need to apologize for any of its doctrines, even those I could not defend to the satisfaction of everyone who might ask.

I will now share the story of my struggle to read the scriptures every day.
In 1980, we again went through a tough time in business. Interest rates sky-rocketed to 22%. Sales went down. We were in trouble. But we accepted a request from our Stake President as a family to go to Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico for LDS Leadership training in Scouting. I debated whether we should leave the business at such a critical time. But we put the Lord first and went on faith. It was a great experience for all the family. But a significant thing happened to me during a small priesthood meeting that Sunday. A Stake President in his testimony told us of how he and his wife had made a commitment to read the scriptures every day as a couple and how that had changed their lives.

When he shared that testimony, I felt like Joseph Smith. Never did any story of scripture reading come with more power to the heart of man than this did at this time to mine.
I had been slack in my daily scripture reading. I had explained it away. I was too busy. I had too many responsibilities, I was still living a good life, on and on. But at that very moment, my life changed. I promised, I made a covenant with Heavenly Father that I would never again be slothful in daily scripture reading.
I repented. I kept my scriptures right on the light table next to my bed. I started reading them every night before my prayers. It didn't matter what time I got to bed. The spirit said, "don't neglect your scriptures." What a blessing that has been. Myreel will attest. I have been a better person, a better husband, a better father, and better servant of the Lord. Everything has gone better, because I made a covenant and have kept that covenant.

Not long ago we invited two sister missionaries over for lunch. After we finished eating, we asked them to leave a spiritual thought with us. They were well prepared and introduced a scripture reading and marking exercise to us. They had brought a fresh copy of the Book of Mormon and a set of colored pencils. We accepted the invitation of the missionaries. Since then, our daily Book of Mormon family scripture reading has changed. In every chapter we mark with different colors the passages related to Jesus Christ as we discover them. Every time, this little exercise reminds us of our missionaries.
When the missionaries presented this, we immediately recognized it as a scripture study exercise suggested in Preach My Gospel. As a family, we are so thankful for this great and powerful missionary tool.

Erin’s grandmother lived in the country in an old-fashioned house. When Erin spent the night there, her bed was covered with fluffy fat quilts, and she could look out the window at millions of tiny twinkling stars. A big grandfather clock always ticked off the minutes and bonged out the hours.
In the mornings Grandma made warm slices of bread all buttered and sprinkled with sugar for Erin. Then Grandma always hugged her and said, “Bless your heart.”
One morning Erin’s mother told her that Grandma was going to move.
“Move!” Erin said, not understanding how Grandma could do that.
“Yes. She’s moving to an apartment in the city,” Mother explained. “Won’t that be nice?”
Erin didn’t say anything. She didn’t think it was nice at all. She was sure an apartment would not have hiding places under the stairs or a big pantry full of fruit smells or a table that could open up so big that twenty people could sit around it or a dark mysterious broom closet.
Erin went to her room to think, and the more she thought about it, the more she didn’t want Grandma to move.
A few days later Erin’s mother said, “We’re going to Grandma’s for dinner. You can wear your new dress.”
Erin didn’t want to wear her new dress. She wanted to wear the old faded jeans she always wore to Grandma’s so she could ride on the rocking horse in Grandma’s basement. She wanted everything to be just as it always had been.
Erin was unhappy all morning. When she climbed into the car and her father headed in the opposite direction to Grandma’s farm, Erin could hardly hold back the tears. She was afraid Grandma would be as different as her new house.
Father drove the car through the big city and stopped in front of a tall building and parked his car. When Erin got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk, she looked up. The tops of the buildings were hidden in the clouds. Looking up made her dizzy.
When they went inside the big building, Father pressed a button on the wall and suddenly Erin heard Grandma’s voice coming out of a little box.
“Hello,” she said.
Father answered by telling Grandma they had arrived.
“Come right up,” Grandma’s voice replied.
Erin and Mother and Father stepped into an elevator that went so fast Erin’s stomach felt quivery. The elevator stopped on the twenty-ninth floor. They stepped out onto a carpet so thick that Erin’s feet didn’t make any noise at all as they walked down a long hall.
Erin’s father pushed a button by the door. When Grandma opened the door, she hugged Erin, pulled her inside, and showed her all around the apartment.
“It’s very nice, Grandma,” Erin said politely. But she felt lost and sad. Nothing was the same as it used to be.
Suddenly there was a loud buzz and Grandma said, “When people are downstairs, I can talk to them from way up here. Do you want me to show you?”
She brought a stool for Erin to stand on and showed her how to press the button to talk. A delivery man downstairs had some flowers for Grandma. When he got off the elevator on the twenty-ninth floor, Erin looked at him through a little peephole in Grandma’s door.
“You can see out,” Grandma explained, “but he can’t see in.”
Erin liked the mysterious hole in the door until she thought about Grandma’s door in the country with its stiff scratchy lace curtains and a big china knob. Erin missed that door.
Soon Grandma said it was time to wash for dinner. Erin went into the bathroom and switched on the light. It was the brightest light she had ever seen and it seemed to warm the whole room.
I’d like to take a bath and then stand under that light, Erin thought. It would make me feel good.
After dinner Grandma said, “Now you must let Erin stay with me tonight. I have everything ready for her in the extra bedroom.”
After Erin’s parents left, she watched television for a while, answered the door buzzer twice, and helped Grandma put the dishes in the dishwasher. Then Erin lay on Grandma’s soft deep living room rug and listened to the chrrg-ssh, chrrg-ssh of the dishwasher. Grandma sat in her same old rocker and knitted.
Before long Grandma said it was time to go to bed. She filled the bathtub full of warm water and put in some sweet-smelling bath salts. The warm light felt good as Erin got ready to take a bath and even better afterward as she stood under it and dried herself with a big fluffy towel.
Erin was happy when she went into Grandma’s extra bedroom. There was the same old bed from Grandma’s other house, with creaking springs and the same big fluffy fat quilts on top. She crawled under the covers and snuggled down in the familiar bed. Through the window Erin could see thousands of tiny twinkling stars in the sky.
Soon the door opened and Grandma came in. She leaned over the bed and gave Erin a big hug.
Erin heard the grandfather clock bong nine times, and when Grandma kissed her goodnight and said, “Bless your heart,” Erin knew her Grandma was just the same as she had always been.

As I was learning from my own true-life experience, I stood alone in my bedroom a few days after the operation, preparing to go to church. I held a tie in my hand and thought, Now what am I going to do with this silly tie? I thought about having my mother help me but soon rejected the idea, knowing she couldn’t go on my mission to tie my ties and otherwise care for me. I simply had to fend for myself. With patience, I tied my tie, and although I used my teeth a little, I learned I could do it and do it well. That day a window was opened to my mind, and I could clearly see that with patience, faith, and determination, I would be able to handle almost any challenge I would face.

Several years ago a friend of mine had a young daughter die in a tragic accident. Hopes and dreams were shattered. My friend felt unbearable sorrow. He began to question what he had been taught and what he had taught as a missionary. The mother of my friend wrote me a letter and asked if I would give him a blessing. As I laid my hands upon his head, I felt to tell him something that I had not thought about in exactly the same way before. The impression that came to me was: Faith is not only a feeling; it is a decision. He would need to choose faith.
My friend did not know everything, but he knew enough. He chose the road of faith and obedience. He got on his knees. His spiritual balance returned.
Some years after the blessing to my friend, I received a letter from his son who was serving a mission. It was full of conviction and testimony. As I read his beautiful letter, I saw how a father’s choice of faith in a very difficult time had deeply blessed the next generation.

I met Bill Forrest and Debbie Hutchings when we were students at Brigham Young University. Bill had returned from his mission. He and Debbie fell in love and were married in the Oakland California Temple. They established their home in Mesa, Arizona, and were blessed with five sons and two daughters. Bill and Debbie taught their children to love the Lord Jesus Christ as they loved Him. Their son, Elder Daniel Forrest, currently serving in the Mexico Oaxaca Mission, said, “Every morning without fail we were there at the table before school reading and discussing the scriptures.”

Their daughter Kara, now married with two children of her own, still vividly remembers her father driving her to early morning activities in high school. She said, “My dad enjoyed committing quotes, scriptures, and poems to memory, [and during those early morning drives] we would practice reciting them.” One of his favorite scriptures was “Remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, … [he] shall have no power over you to drag you down … , because of the rock upon which ye are built.”

On the Friday before Easter Sunday in the year 2000, exactly 10 years ago, Bill Forrest was serving as bishop of the Estate Groves Ward in Arizona. On his drive to work, only a mile (1.6 km) from home, his car was struck by a large gravel truck. Debbie and the children left home shortly after Bill and unexpectedly came upon the tragic scene. Bill had not survived the accident. The immortal spirit of this beloved husband and father had suddenly been taken home to Him who overcame death, the Son of God, whose glorious Resurrection they were to have celebrated together that Easter Sunday.

How did Debbie and her seven children (the youngest only 5) find the strength they needed? Kara, 15 at the time of her father’s accident, recently told me: “I am grateful to my [mother and father] for the ways that they taught me [about the Savior]. They opened the scriptures with me, prayed with me, and were examples of [the Savior’s] charity, love, and patience. … Easter [is] a tender time in my life each year as I reflect on the life, mission, and Resurrection of our Savior and am reminded of the life of my earthly father.”

Elder Daniel Forrest said: “I was 10 years old when my father passed away. It was a tough time. … My mother has always been an example of the Savior’s teachings. I carry with me my father’s name badge from his mission to Spain. [Two] of my favorite quotes from my father [are]: ‘Two men can do anything as long as one of them is the Lord’ and ‘The Savior must be our foundation. Without that we flounder.’”

Faith in Jesus Christ has filled the hearts of the Forrest children. On this Easter weekend, 10 years since their father’s passing, they miss him deeply, but the sting of his death is “swallowed up in Christ.” They know, because of the incalculable gift of the Savior, they can be with their earthly father and their Heavenly Father again.

The prayers of one missionary’s parents were answered by the personal ministry of another. A missionary arrived in a foreign mission and was struggling with discouragement. He said he couldn’t take it and wanted to come home. His parents and others tried to encourage him but to no avail. At a reception during a training session, this distraught father mentioned his son’s struggle to a priesthood leader.
The following week an envelope arrived at the parents’ home. Inside was a copy of a letter that had been sent to their son. The letter had been typed on a typewriter and very tenderly addressed to the discouraged elder. It was several pages long, full of encouragement and the writer’s own missionary experiences about faith and sticking to it. The letter was warm, loving, thoughtful, personal, and signed, “Sincerely, your brother, President Gordon B. Hinckley.” Shortly after this, the elder wrote his parents to say he was staying. He became a mighty power for good among the people of his mission.

Running my hand over the tight, even stitches of Anna’s crocheted blankets still brings back those unhurried afternoons of my youth spent in her sparsely furnished apartment. Over 20 years have passed, but whenever I wrap one of Anna’s afghans around me, I am once again enveloped in the warmth of her friendship.
My relationship with Anna began when I was a Mia Maid. My father, a member of the bishopric, went out of his way every Sunday to greet the widows in our ward by shaking their hands as they came into the chapel. He exhibited a special love for the elderly and taught me, through his example, to notice and nurture them.
One day my father introduced me to Anna, a widow in her 70s. At the prompting of my parents, I began to sit with her at church. At first, I felt awkward and unsure. What could we possibly talk about? What could we possibly have in common? Making friends with an elderly woman was new to me, but I felt that reaching out to Anna was what the Savior wanted me to do.
With time I became more comfortable approaching Anna at church. She would always listen attentively as I told her about my school and family activities. Seeing her face light up when I spoke to her made me realize how much she appreciated having someone care about her. In return, I looked forward to the grandmotherly affection she never failed to shower upon me. At times I slipped my hand into her wrinkled palm and she would squeeze it tenderly. Eventually I began to visit her weekly, bringing cookies or other things I thought she might enjoy.
One afternoon I asked Anna about the multi-colored afghans draped over the back of her couch. With her ailing knees, crocheting was one of the few activities she could engage in during her hours of solitude. Her gnarled, arthritic hands were always busy making cheerful blankets for family, friends, or ward members. When I asked Anna if she would be willing to teach me her unique pattern, she was surprised that I would even show interest in her hobby. Week after week my mother would drop me off at Anna’s apartment where the two of us would sit together, talking and crocheting.
Over the span of many years our friendship developed. What began as a Personal Progress goal evolved into a remarkable friendship. My nonjudgmental friend always offered me a warm heart and a listening ear. Our weekly visits gave Anna something to look forward to and broke up the monotony of her isolation and solitude. But visiting Anna did something for me, too. For one hour each week, the world didn’t revolve around me. Anna gave me the opportunity to focus on someone else’s needs, and she helped me to see that no matter what our age or circumstances, we are all children of our Heavenly Father.
This concept of fellowshipping and serving one another is expressed in Colossians 2:2, where it describes how “[our] hearts might be comforted, being knit together in love, and unto all riches of the full assurance of understanding.” I learned about those riches during the years of adolescence because Anna loved, accepted, and understood me. Our hearts were “knit together in love” through a process that only the Spirit could orchestrate. Although Anna’s blankets were lovingly crocheted so long ago, they continue to remind me of the gentle and humble woman who made them and the lessons she taught me.

When I was three, my Uncle Jim was serving a mission. Uncle Jim was impressive to me. He was two meters tall and a good man. I wanted to be just like him.
I decided I would serve a mission so I could be like Uncle Jim. There was never a question in my mind about serving a mission after that. And that single decision had a great impact on my life. Once I knew the direction I was headed in, I took advantage of opportunities that came along to help me prepare myself. With a future mission in mind, I had a greater desire to learn the gospel throughout my Primary years and my youth, and I enjoyed many experiences that helped me prepare.
My grandfathers served missions at a time in Church history when not all young men were urged to do so. That has always impressed me and made me proud of my heritage. My whole family was interested in missionary work. When I was very young, my parents helped instill in me a desire to serve a mission, and other people helped me toward that goal as I grew up.
However, as a young teenager, I began to question whether I would be allowed to serve a mission. World War II had kept my father from serving as a missionary, which he had badly wanted to do. In my case, the Vietnam War was raging; only two young men from each ward in the United States were given exemptions from military duty to serve missions. The rest had to hope for high draft lottery numbers in order to serve missions. I worried and wondered if I would actually be able to fulfill my childhood dream.
A few years before I was old enough to serve a mission, I attended a stake conference in which Elder Thomas S. Monson was the visiting General Authority. After one session, my mother and I went to meet him. I shook his hand, and we talked. I don’t remember any of the conversation except for one sentence. He looked right into my eyes and said, “You will be going on a mission.” I never worried after that; all my doubts were removed.
Throughout my teenage years, I prepared for my mission. When a loving priests quorum adviser, David Poulsen, offered to teach any of the priests the missionary discussions, a few of us took him up on his offer. We faithfully attended 7:00 A.M. classes each Sunday.
We studied the missionary discussions, and I had most of them memorized before I ever entered the mission home. We even went out a few times and taught ward members who pretended to be investigators. Most of them were a lot tougher than any real investigators with whom I worked! In 1971 I was thrilled to accept a call to serve in the Argentina North Mission.

Nancy climbed up on the hard wagon seat, Papa clucked their aging chestnut mare into motion, and the trip to Gettysburg began. Carefully, Nancy placed the brown parcel on the seat between them, then smoothed the coarse paper with loving strokes. As her fingers touched the package and she thought of its contents, Nancy allowed herself to believe that at last the trip was a reality. She sighed deeply. No, she wasn’t dreaming, but was actually going to Gettysburg to see the president.
Two weeks ago, Papa rode home from the village with news that President Lincoln would come to dedicate the new cemetery on the battlefield where so many soldiers died last July. Nancy’s thirteen-year-old heart pounded in anticipation, and immediately she asked her father if he would take her there.
“It’s twelve miles to Gettysburg,” Papa said. “Take a whole day to go, hear the speeches, and come back, providing nobody talks too long. Don’t know if I can spare the time. But I do need supplies.” When Nancy saw the hard lines of his face soften and the glow that warmed his dark eyes, she knew they would go to Gettysburg.
Nancy had held a dream in her heart for months, turning it first this way in her mind then that, until it sparkled like a newly minted coin. She wanted to make a contribution to the war whose furious sounds had come so close to them last summer. She wasn’t a boy so she couldn’t volunteer as a soldier, but surely she could do something worthwhile. Then she remembered people telling about how President Lincoln worked alone through the night in the cold and drafty White House with only an old threadbare shawl draped over his shoulders for warmth.
It was then her idea took birth and her dream spun a web of hope. As she hoed among the vegetables and fed the clucking brown hens, she pictured herself dressed in a pale gown covered with pink rosebuds, knocking on the White House door and asking to see Mr. Lincoln. When he appeared, she presented him with the most beautiful woolen shawl in the world, one that she had knitted herself. Then the president would no longer look sad and lonely, and he would be warm when he worked through the night. It was a good dream and sometimes, as she stared at the darkened ceiling of her bedroom, she held it close to her, willing it to come true.
Now, bouncing along in the wagon, Nancy remembered how carefully she’d knitted during every free moment to finish the blue shawl so that she’d be prepared to give it to the president at the right moment. And soon now that moment would be here. It was the most important one of her life and she could hardly wait.
Why can’t we go faster? she wondered. She sighed deeply and tried to stop squirming on the wooden seat.
“Patience, Nancy, patience,” her father cautioned.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Look around you. Enjoy the day!”
“I’ll try,” Nancy said with a smile.
Early morning mist swirled in soiled, gray patches along the roadbed covered over with an umbrella of tangled oak and hickory, but the sun warmed clear patches of meadow just beyond, casting an occasional golden shaft of light in their path through the trees.
Could that be a hint of good things waiting to happen? She wondered if Papa’s almanac that told of weather signs and good crop-planting days had anything to say about this day. Grownups often looked for signs in nature to tell them about the future. Now that she was nearly grown up, with vague changes taking place in her body that sometimes mystified her, it was time to take on grown-up ways. Surely this gift she’d made for the president showed that she was growing up and making a contribution to the war. She wished she knew what it felt like to think grown-up thoughts. Then, maybe she’d know for sure.
Hoofbeats slowed to a trot behind them, then came alongside. Nancy turned to see their neighbor, Mr. Brooks, in his fading federal blues. He’d been an officer at Bull Run, his empty left sleeve a silent testimony of his contribution to the war.
“Howdy, Mr. Montgomery. Morning Nancy,” he greeted them. His black moustache curved upward into a bushy smile.
“Mr. Brooks,” Papa said, “You’re alone, then?”
“The child has a fever again so Martha’s home, but this is one trip I had to make.”
“You and Nancy.” Papa turned and smiled at her. “She has some mysterious reason to see the president. Wants to give him something.”
“Well, now, fancy that,” Mr. Brooks said. “I hope she’s going to give him the name of a general who knows how to fight a war and win. That he could surely use.”
“True,” Papa agreed, “although General Grant did himself proud at Vicksburg. Maybe he’ll finally be the one to bring an end to it all.”
Mr. Brooks nodded in agreement and then said, “I’ll be off now. We’ve a rare treat in store for us today and I don’t want to miss a word of Senator Everett’s speech.” He touched his horse’s flanks lightly and disappeared down the road. Nancy yearned for a horse with the speed of Mr. Brooks’ animal.
“Who’s Senator Everett?” she asked.
“He’s a fine speaker, Nancy, and he’s also been a governor and president of Harvard University.”
“All that?” she asked.
“And more,” Papa replied. “You’ll never forget what he says today. Mark my word.”
“But President Lincoln will be there, won’t he?” Nancy was suddenly anxious. “You said so.”
“Oh, yes, he’ll be there,” Papa assured her. “But I don’t know why. After Senator Everett gets through talking, there won’t be much left to say.”
They rode in silence for a few moments, then Nancy asked, “Papa?”
“Yes, Nancy?”
“Do you think I’ll really get to talk to President Lincoln? Can I really get that close?”
“Lots of people have,” Papa said. “They come to see him at the White House and he visits with soldiers in the field. He’ll talk to you too.”
Reassured, Nancy smoothed her dark green skirt, touched her blonde hair, and found that it was curling around her face again in spite of everything she’d done to make it stay back. Oh, well, she thought and leaned forward, eager for her first glimpse of Gettysburg.
Hours later, it seemed, Nancy began to wonder if they’d taken a wrong turn in the road when finally, on the horizon, the town popped into view. She shaded her eyes against the hazy sun and stood up to ease the tension that had held her taut as clean wash hanging outside on a winter’s day.
“The town looks deserted,” Papa said. “I hope we’re not too late.”
“Oh, Papa, hurry,” Nancy pleaded. “We can’t be too late after so many weeks of waiting and dreaming. It wouldn’t be fair.”
They entered town from the north on Harrisburg Road, clippety-clopping through empty streets, past silent wooden houses and churches and deserted brick stores and shops. A solitary figure stood at an intersection ahead.
“You missed the procession,” the hoop-skirted lady called to them.
Papa slowed the wagon. “Where’s the dedication ceremony being held?”
“Straight south,” she answered, “on Cemetery Ridge.”
Nancy dug her fingers into her skirt and twisted the material into a ball. “Can’t you make Dora go any faster?” she urged. She sat forward on the edge of the seat and held onto the rough sideboard of the wagon for support. Now she could see carriages and horses tied to scrub brush along the sides of the road.
Papa halted the mare, jumped down, and tied her fast. “Looks like we’ll have to walk the rest of the way, Nancy,” he said.
Nancy took her parcel and hopped down and started running toward the crowd. “I’ll meet you back here afterwards, Papa,” she called.
She heard Papa shouting to her, but she didn’t stop. No time for anything now but getting there. Hurriedly, Nancy picked her way over wagon ruts and past rail fences, still on the ground where they’d been toppled by advancing confederate troops last July. Out of breath after her hasty climb up the low ridge, Nancy leaned against a tree for support. As her hand touched something cold and metallic, she looked to see what it was. Slowly recognition came and, with it, a tingling revulsion that bunched her stomach into a knot. She jumped back and wiped her hands on her skirt. She’d been touching a bullet, a real bullet, partially imbedded into the tree! Did that bullet kill someone before the tree stopped it? she wondered and shuddered involuntarily. Shaken, she hurried on.
(To be concluded next month.)

Laresa had new shoes. They were not just ordinary new shoes. They were shiny black with gold buckles, but what was special about them was that they made music whenever she walked. “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” they sang out wherever she went.
Laresa smiled and sang “La, la-ti-de, la, la,” as she walked down the sidewalk, up the stairs, and into the library.
Miss Page was sitting at the front desk reading. “Quiet, please!” she whispered, peeking over her horn-rimmed glasses.
Laresa had forgotten to be quiet in the library. She stopped singing and tiptoed over to the picture book shelf. But her shoes kept on singing, “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak.”
Miss Page put down her book and stared. Two freckle-faced boys at the reading table stared. A lady in a green hat peeked around the bookshelf.
Laresa smiled. “It’s my new shoes,” she whispered.
Laresa quickly found a book and hurried to the front desk. “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the shoes sang.
“My, my,” Miss Page sighed, still looking over her glasses, “you really must get those shoes fixed. They are just too noisy.”
“Yes, Miss Page,” Laresa answered. But inside she felt sad that Miss Page could only hear the noise and not the music.
Laresa opened the door and left. “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the shoes sang. “La, la-ti-de, la, la,” Laresa sang all the way home.
“Hello, Mother,” she called out as she entered the kitchen.
“Hello, Laresa,” Mother answered.
“Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the shoes sang as Laresa walked over to the cookie jar.
“My, but your new shoes certainly are noisy,” Mother said.
“It’s not noise; it’s music. Can’t you hear it?” Laresa walked around in a circle singing along with the music of her shoes.
“Singing shoes!” Mother exclaimed. “Well, well!” And she shook her head.
Laresa smiled. “Aren’t they nice?”
“They certainly are, but I think we’d better get them fixed. They are just a wee bit loud.”
Laresa looked at the shiny black shoes. “Do we have to?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Mother answered. “Musical shoes aren’t very good for church and school.”
“And the library!” Laresa sighed.
“I have to do some errands,” Mother told Laresa. “Come with me now and we’ll stop at the shoe repair shop.”
Soon Laresa and Mother were at the shoe repair shop. Mr. Sole was a fat little man with a happy twinkle in his blue eyes. Mother explained the problem to the shoe repair man.
“Walk over to the mirror, Laresa,” Mr. Sole instructed.
Laresa walked as carefully as she could, but the music still rang out loud, “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak.”
“Oh, my,” Mr. Sole said. “In all my years I’ve never heard a pair of musical shoes!”
Laresa smiled. “Can you hear the music too?”
“Of course. La, la-ti-de, la, la,” Mr. Sole sang.
“Oh, yes! That’s it exactly!” Laresa cried.
“But,” Mr. Sole interrupted, “I know what your mother means. Musical shoes just aren’t wanted in some places.”
Sadly Laresa took off the shoes and gave them to Mr. Sole.
“It will only take a minute,” he said.
And that’s all it took. Soon Mr. Sole was back with the shoes in his hand. “Here,” he said. Then leaning down so that only Laresa could hear, he whispered, “I couldn’t ruin such beautiful shoes. I just made their music a little softer.”
Laresa smiled and Mr. Sole winked back. Mother and Laresa left the shop and walked to the car.
“That’s much better,” Mother said.
Laresa smiled and then she listened carefully. The music was very, very, very soft, but she could hear it whenever she wanted to listen.
“Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the singing shoes softly sang all the way to the car. And Laresa happily sang along with them, “La, la-ti-de, la, la.”

We recently hosted in this hall a convention of many officers of a part of the United States military forces. They were holding a conference here in Salt Lake City and wished to hear the Tabernacle Choir.
They came on a beautiful Sunday morning. I was asked to speak to them briefly, and I told them of this Tabernacle and its construction. The choir, accompanied by the 23rd Army Band, then presented a brief concert. As they concluded the concert, the Choir sang with mounting crescendo the “Battle Hymn of the Republic”:
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. …
His truth is marching on.
[Hymns, 1985, no. 60]
I looked about the hall and saw seasoned veterans of war with tears running down their cheeks. For many it was a great, moving experience. This building has a spirit, a quality unique and wonderful.

A simple prayer
Let me begin my story with an answer to simple prayer. In December 1959, I was released as a labor missionary in Tonga and went home to my island of Pangai to be with my family. My parents were on a mission at the time at the big island. While there, I heard the news that the Church called 25 building missionaries to go to Hawaii to build the Polynesian Cultural Center. Oh how I wanted to be one of them. But I was not. There were only two of them called from my island.
Immediately after I heard the news, I went to my room and knelt in prayer, very simply, I said, “Heavenly Father, please send me to Hawaii as a missionary if thou seest that I can be of help.” With all my heart I asked, and I said Amen. During this week President Mendenhall, the chairman of the Church building committee, traveled to New Zealand to call Maori building missionaries to the project in Hawaii. In that meeting, he called 12 Maori men to go to Hawaii. In his talk he announced, “I have called 30 Tongan missionaries to go to Hawaii.” At the end of the meeting my former supervisor from the mission, who was there with him, walked up to President Mendenhall and said, “In your talk you said you called 30 missionaries in Tonga, but you called only 25.” President Mendenhall told him, “when you go back to Tonga, tell the mission president to call 5 more.” And I was one of those 5.
I can tell you that right from that moment, what seemed impossible became possible through God. He answered my simple prayer and through His will I was able to help and play a very big part in that mission in Hawaii. I served three years and nine months.