Gospel Story Finder

President Thomas S. Monson has counseled us to never postpone a prompting. “We watch. We wait. We listen for that still, small voice,” he said in general conference. “When it speaks, wise men and women obey. We do not postpone following promptings of the Spirit.”
President Monson then shared an experience about a friend named Stan, whose illness had left him partially paralyzed. Despite the finest medical care and the prayers of family and friends, Stan remained confined to a bed and began to despair.
“Late one afternoon I was swimming at the Deseret Gym, gazing at the ceiling while backstroking width after width,” President Monson recalled. “Silently, but ever so clearly, there came to my mind the thought: ‘Here you swim almost effortlessly, while your friend Stan languishes in his hospital bed, unable to move.’ I felt the prompting: ‘Get to the hospital and give him a blessing.’
“I ceased my swimming, dressed, and hurried to Stan’s room at the hospital. His bed was empty. A nurse said he was in his wheelchair at the swimming pool, preparing for therapy. I hurried to the area, and there was Stan, all alone, at the edge of the deeper portion of the pool. We greeted one another and returned to his room, where a priesthood blessing was provided.”
Stan eventually regained strength and movement in his legs and learned to walk again. President Monson continued: “To some [Stan] reveals the dark thoughts of depression which engulfed him that afternoon as he sat in his wheelchair at the edge of the pool, sentenced, it seemed, to a life of despair. He tells how he pondered the alternative. It would be so easy to propel the hated wheelchair into the silent water of the deep pool. Life would then be over. But at that precise moment he saw me, his friend. That day Stan learned literally that we do not walk alone. I, too, learned a lesson that day: Never, never, never postpone following a prompting.”7

Part of the power for the participants seems to come from the hill itself, like the mythological tale of the giant Anteaus who received all of his strength only while he was touching the earth. One could not help but be humbled while selling a copy of the Book of Mormon on the very hill from which the records in it were uncovered years before. I myself was caught up in the zeal of it and put myself to the test several times.
For instance, there was the man who helped me out on the freeway when I ran out of gas. In payment for the gas I thought I might as well give him the gospel—it was the least I could do. By the end of an hour he had enthusiastically agreed to see the missionaries. Among the audience, my favorite tracting trick was to claim I was a representative from a magazine (which I was) that was interested in nonmember opinions of Mormons. If they had no opinions to give, then I offered to inform them about the religion and get their opinions along the way. It worked great! At no time, though, did I do anything extraordinary except try to be an instrument of the Lord.

I learned an interesting little lesson about this one day. It was a number of years ago and four-wheel-drive pickups were just starting to be the thing to have. Before that they had been mostly army vehicles and some heavy construction-type vehicles. But in the mid- to late 70s they started to be sought after, and wanted, and available.

I convinced myself that because I wanted one, I needed one. I went to my sweet wife Estella and said, “I need a four-wheel-drive truck.” And she said, “You don’t either.” And I said, “I do too!” She said, “We’ve lived all this time without one. Why do we need one now?” And I said: “Well, I’ll just explain that to you. What if we had a terrible blizzard and I needed to go down to the store and get milk for our children and the only way I could get through would be with a four-wheel-drive pickup? How about that?” And she said, “Well, then go get you a four-wheel-drive pickup and it won’t matter because we won’t have any money to buy milk for the kids, even if you can get to the grocery store!” Well, being of a cautious nature and wanting to provide for my family, I went and got a four-wheel-drive pickup. And then I couldn’t wait to see where it could go.

I next felt that I needed to get us some firewood stored away. So I went to the mountains; it had already snowed. At the lower end of the mountain road, it was a skiff; but the further I went, the deeper it got. I knew it was becoming risky, but how could I stop? This wonderful piece of equipment had all the power and all the traction—and I could just go and go.

So I went too far. I pulled off where I could get a load of wood; and as soon as I stopped, I was stuck. All the wheels spun. All four of them spun in the snow. I was rather embarrassed. I was a little frightened and worried, and I was very humble. I did not know what to do; but I thought, “As long as I don’t know what to do, I might as well cut some wood and load this truck.” And so I did. I loaded it high and full and heavy. And then because I did not know what else to do, I decided to try it one more time. As I put it in gear and applied power, I could feel it moving out of the snow and back onto the road. I was free to go home.

I have thought so many times it was the load that freed me. It was the load that gave me mobility. It was the load that carried me forward.

“I’m trying to be like Jesus; I’m following in his ways,” Ella sang as she hopped up the front steps and came in the door.
“Today in Primary we learned that we should be like Jesus,” Ella said to Mom. “I promised Sister Hansen I’d try to be like Jesus all week! I’m going to start right now.”
As the rest of her family came in, Ella told each of them her plan to be like Jesus. She smiled a giant smile.
Ella ran to her room and carefully hung her Sunday dress in the closet. She returned to the kitchen and helped carry the plates to the table.
The next morning, Ella got up as soon as Mom called her. She ate all her breakfast and didn’t complain, even though her scrambled eggs were too squishy.
The rest of the week Ella tried to be like Jesus, but every day her smile got a little smaller.
When Sunday came again, Ella wasn’t smiling at all.
As Mom brushed Ella’s long hair, big tears ran down Ella’s cheeks.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Mom said. “Did I pull your hair?”
“No,” Ella said. “I just didn’t do what I was supposed to do. I wasn’t like Jesus all week. It’s a lot easier to sing about being like Jesus than it is to really be like Him. Sister Hansen is going to be disappointed.”
Mom wiped Ella’s tears away. “Ella, how did you want to be like Jesus?”
Ella sniffed. “I knew I couldn’t do big miracles like Jesus did, but I thought I could do something important.”
Mom smiled. “You did lots of things to be like Jesus. You helped me find my keys when they fell under the couch. You helped Rosie and Libby practice their song for choir. You helped Gabe make a poster for his book report.”
“Those are just normal things,” Ella said. “I wanted to be like Jesus and do something big.”
Mom gave Ella a hug. “The biggest thing that Jesus did was helping us be able to return to Heavenly Father. I think helping is the biggest thing you can do too.”
Later at church, Ella was quiet as sacrament meeting started. In front of her, Sister Simmons was holding her new baby and her two little girls were wiggly and unhappy. It was hard for Ella to think about being like Jesus. One of the girls looked at her sadly.
Ella reached into her scripture bag and pulled out a pencil and a paper. She quickly drew a picture of the little girl and handed it to her. The little girl smiled as she showed the paper to her mom. Ella drew a picture of the other little girl too.
Sister Simmons smiled back at Ella. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Ella looked at Mom. “I guess helping people is being like Jesus. Helping people is the best thing I can do!”

“After making the decision to serve a full-time mission—and as I was waiting for my mission call—I received an opportunity from a well-known coach who wanted to send me a plane ticket and a visa so I could go play in Iran. I took three long days to think about the coach’s offer; but on the first day, I knew I already had the answer to my prayer—and that answer was to serve the Lord.
“I can truthfully say that I believe in my future and that serving a mission will help me make the dream come true.”

Like most boys from Whitney, “T” had a desire to share the gospel himself. As a child, he had sat in Sunday School listening to returned missionaries tell about the “happiest two years” of their lives. Even when they reported persecutions it only fed the missionary flame within his young heart. Later, he went to the stake patriarch for a blessing. “Brother Dalley very slowly pronounced a blessing upon my head, which included an answer to a boy’s prayer. I was promised, if faithful of course, that I would go on a mission to the nations of the earth and would raise my voice in testimony and that many would rise up and bless my name because of my influence in helping to bring them into the Church.

“I went home walking on air, I was so happy. I had no doubt but what I would someday go on a mission.”

The Young Men, Young Women, and youth leaders of the Rigby Second Ward, Rigby East Idaho Stake, managed to read the entire Book of Mormon in 45 minutes during an activity night!
Well, they did divide it up a bit. Each one took the responsibility for reading several chapters. Everyone took a colored leaf with a reading assignment on it, and on the back they wrote what they had learned from it. The leaves were then put together to make a tree representing the one in Lehi’s dream.
Comments included things like “God will show you miracles after you show him your faith” and “I learned the righteous are blessed and helped by the Lord.”

“Halver,” Mother called as I sat on our adobe steps pulling cockleburs from my pants. “Run to the corral and open the gate for your father. He’s coming with the horses.”
Glancing toward the field, I saw our two workhorses, Button and Clipper, coming through the tall grass, their harnesses jangling as they walked. Father trudged behind them, holding the reins. He had left the plow in the field. I raced to the corral, jerked back on the wooden latch, and yanked the gate open.
Button and Clipper looked ragged and tired as they clomped slowly into the corral, their heads drooping, their sweating sides heaving, and their hooves knocking up puffs of dust as they walked. I felt sorry for them. They had been working hard all week, pulling the metal plow through the dark, damp dirt.
“It sure looks like they’re tired,” I said as I closed the gate.
“They’re worn out,” Father agreed. He pulled the harness off Clipper and slapped her on the rump, sending her toward the manger where some hay remained from the morning feeding. “At one time these two could have plowed that section of the field before noon. Now it takes all day. They’re getting too old for this kind of work.”
“Does this mean we’ll get a new team of horses?” I asked excitedly.
Father pulled Button’s harness off and hung it on the fence next to Clipper’s. “We can hardly put food on the table to feed ourselves,” he mumbled. “We can’t afford to buy another team. We’ll just have to make do with Clipper and Button.”
My shoulders sagged. Ever since we had moved back to Pacheco, Mexico, life had been tough. Pacheco was in the Sierra Madre Mountains and had been settled by members of the Church 30 years earlier. When the Mexican Revolution started in 1912, we Latter-day Saints had abandoned our ranches, farms, and homes to escape bandits and fighting armies. After the Revolution ended, some were able to return to their old houses, but most of us had to start all over again.
Father sighed as he studied Button and Clipper standing in the corral. “They need a good rest, Halver. How would you like to ride up to Strawberry Canyon with me tomorrow? There’s some good grazing there. Button and Clipper need to take it easy for a week or so, fatten up on that mountain grass, and catch their breath before we do the planting.”
Even though I was only seven, I was the oldest boy in the family and mighty proud that Father had invited me to help. We got up early the next day, put halters and lead ropes on Button and Clipper, and started through the trees.
A trail wound up to the mouth of the canyon, but Father didn’t want to take it. “I’m afraid if we take the horses up the trail, they’ll just wander back to the barn before nightfall,” he explained. “We’ll have to trick them.”
“How do you figure you’ll trick old Button and Clipper?” I asked.
“Strawberry is a long canyon, and the walls are pretty high and rugged. We’ll take Button and Clipper up along the top of the canyon to the far end; then we’ll climb down into the canyon from above. If we take them down that way, they won’t want to climb back out, and they won’t realize that they can just follow the canyon down to our place.”
Father’s plan sounded good, so we turned off the regular trail and rode along the mountain ridge running parallel to Strawberry Canyon. At first it wasn’t too hard, but then it got rocky and steep. The brush was thicker, and there wasn’t a regular trail to follow. Father walked ahead leading Clipper, while I followed riding Button bareback.
I started feeling nervous as Clipper and Button struggled to keep climbing. They were breathing hard, and sometimes Button stumbled over a rock or a root.
“We’re coming to some Johnny-jump-up,” Father called over his shoulder, “so keep your legs as high as you can.” Johnny-jump-up was a thorny bush that grew all along the mountain. It was mean and prickly.
Suddenly I got a dark, frightened feeling inside. I knew I should climb off Button and walk, even if I had to tromp through the prickly bushes. “Father, can I just walk behind Clipper and lead Button?” I asked hesitantly.
Not hearing me, Father kept walking. “Am I just scared?” I asked myself. I pressed my lips together. I wanted to be brave. I looked away from the canyon below and kept my eyes on Button’s long, pointed ears. But the feeling came again, this time even stronger. I didn’t hear a voice, but something told me to get off my horse and walk.
“Father, I want to get off Button and walk,” I called out. My voice sounded strange.
He stopped and looked back at me. “I was just thinking the same thing, Son.” He looked puzzled. “Slide off, but be careful.”
Slowly I slid off Button’s back, keeping him between me and the edge of the canyon. Once my feet reached the ground, I crept in front of the horse, took hold of the lead rope, and followed Clipper and Father. The thick Johnny-jump-up scratched my skin, but the bad feeling inside me went away.
We hadn’t walked more than a few feet when we came to another really steep spot. Just as we were starting to cross it, Button stumbled to the side. He scrambled to keep his balance, but the soft ground gave way. I tugged on the lead rope, trying to help him, but he was already sliding down the steep slope.
“Halver, let go of the rope!” Father called out.
I held on for a moment longer before letting go. As I did, Button’s back legs slipped out from under him and he fell on his hindquarters; then he tumbled and slid toward the canyon’s rocky ledge.
My eyes widened as I stared at poor Button slipping away from me. I hoped he would get his feet under him and steady himself so he could lunge to where Father, Clipper, and I waited. But it didn’t happen. He slid down further and rolled over the ledge, disappearing from sight.
I looked at Father, who still clutched Clipper’s lead rope. His face was white as he stared at the dreadful spot where we had last seen Button.
“I couldn’t hold him,” I rasped, trying desperately to explain.
“I didn’t expect you to hold him,” Father said gently. “That’s why I told you to let go of the rope.”
“Do you think he’s dead?” I croaked.
Father nodded slowly. He came back to where I stood and put his arm around my shoulders.
“How will we do the planting?” I worried out loud.
“We’ll figure that out later. But right now you’re safe—that’s what’s important. If you had stayed on him, you would have gone over the ledge, too.”
“I just knew I had to get off.” I pressed my hand to my chest. “I didn’t hear anything, but I knew in here that I had to get off.”
Father nodded. “I felt it, too. Someone was watching over us today, Halver. The Spirit whispered a warning, and I am thankful we listened.”
Father and I were sad about Button, but as we returned home, I felt warm inside. I knew that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ watched over me and that the Spirit would protect and guide me if I listened to His whispered warnings.

I'm sure we can all think of people that we know that have demonstrated these gifts. One person in particular that I remember was Judy White. I became acquainted with her while we lived in Arizona. Both of us were employees for the electric utilities that sponsored the Washington Youth Tour. She and others helped me to organize our annual trip to Washington, D.C. She lived in a small home in a very small rural town in Duncan, Arizona. Although she was older and never married, she had a remarkable influence in her community.
She was an avid fan of all the local high school sports teams. She attended almost every sporting event and provided encouragement to all of the students involved. Although she had no children of her own, she treated nearly every student at that small school as if he or she was her very own. She volunteered her time for many school and civic projects. She gave freely of her time with the students for many years and became their dear friend.
She served faithfully in the callings she was given in the Church. She gave her best efforts to her employer at the local electric utility. When she attended several of our meetings in her employment capacity, it was if a breeze of fresh air entered into the room. She was always genuine, happy, friendly and humorous with everyone who was there. I was amazed at how she remembered not only the names of the people in our group, but she remembered the names of each group member's family and even the names of their pets. I was astonished at times by the way she simply loved and really cared about other people. She was like a magnet that drew people in around her.
She was never afraid to express her opinions even when they differed from others. Many people admired and respected her for that.
It was a sad day, when we learned that Judy passed away of a sudden heart attack. I remember attending her funeral at the Duncan Stake Center. When I walked in I was stunned by the throngs of people that were there. Every seat was filled. The overflow area and the cultural hall were filled to capacity. Although she had few family members, I said to myself, "Look at the impact just one woman had on her community."
Regarding gifts given to people, the Lord said, "To some is given one, and to some is given another, that all may be profited thereby."[8] Here was a woman who was given a gift and many were certainly "profited thereby." There are many gifts and we are commanded to seek earnestly the best gifts, "always remembering for what they are given."[9] The variety of gifts bestowed upon us are essential for God to do his great work in bringing to pass the immortality and eternal life of man.

Recently my wife and I attended a sacrament meeting away from our home ward. Just before the meeting started, a young man approached me and asked if I would help pass the sacrament. I said, “I’d be happy to.”
I took my seat with the other deacons and asked one who was sitting next to me, “What is my assignment?” He told me I was to start passing at the back of the chapel in the middle section and that he would be on the other side of the same section, and together we would work our way to the front.
I said, “I haven’t done this for a long time.”
He replied, “That’s OK. You’ll be fine. I felt the same way when I started.”
Later the youngest deacon in the quorum, ordained only weeks earlier, gave a talk in sacrament meeting. After the meeting, the other deacons rallied around him to tell him how proud they were of their fellow quorum member.
As I visited with them that day, I found out that each week, members of all the Aaronic Priesthood quorums in that ward reach out to other young men and invite them to be part of their quorums.
These young men were all great leaders. And they clearly had some wonderful behind-the-scenes Melchizedek Priesthood holders, parents, and others who mentored them in their duties. Caring adults like these see young men not just as they are but as they can become. When they talk to or about the young men, they do not dwell on their shortcomings. Instead, they emphasize the great leadership qualities they are demonstrating.

As our sons grew up, I was able to fulfill my dream to do home teaching with each of them. What an experience that was. One day, when Mahonri was about 17 years old, he came to me and asked my opinion about the Branch President's interview with him and the call that he would receive as Young Men's President. I told him that that was not a common practice in the Church to call a young man to be a Young Men's President. However, the Branch President is entitled to revelation for his members. He finally was called as Young Men's President. We continued to be home teaching companions.

We visited an inactive family for many years. There were two inactive young men in the family. When we made our visit, Mahonri came with two roles, a home teacher and a Young Men's President. As Young Men's President he told his inactive friend that he would come to his house and pick him up on his motor bike for Church. I saw one Sunday he and his friend on his motor bike coming to Church for the first time. It didn't take long until his friend decided to come by himself because actually our house and his are quite distant. Now this young man has completed his mission, almost at the same time Mahonri completed his.

Through rigorous effort to look to and for Jesus Christ in my every thought and deed, my eyes were enlightened and my understanding quickened to recognize that Jesus Christ was calling for me to “come unto” Him. From this early season of discipleship in my youth, I can recall an invitation extended to me by the missionaries to join them as they taught the gospel to a group of young girls about my age. One evening, as we were seated in the family home of one of these young women, their tender question of why I believe pricked my heart and allowed me to testify to them with deepened understanding of the Lord’s vision about the spiritual motivations of my discipleship and has refined my testimony going forward.

Why do I say that? Here’s one reason: I knew a boy who faced an unexpected and challenging decision. He faced it at the end of the summer in the year he turned fifteen. He had just returned home after working all summer on his uncle’s farm in another part of the state.
It was the first sacrament meeting he had attended since returning home. For some reason, he was detained a few minutes after the meeting. When he found his friends, they were standing in a group just outside the church building. As he approached, he noticed that they were concluding some kind of agreement. When he joined them, he was met with a seemingly innocent question: “Are you going in with us on it or not?”
“On what?” was his reply.
“On a half gallon of beer.”
That answer really shook him. He was not ready for it. His group had always been good kids. This question was completely out of character, he thought. But things were not as he remembered them. He had spent his summer away from his pals, and this had kept him more or less as he was. Something, however, had happened to change his friends. They seemed more grown up and worldly. This surprise made him falter before answering their question. It’s strange how many things can go through your mind in a flash: These were his friends. They were not enemies. He knew each one well. He had sat in Primary and Sunday School classes with them. They had sung songs together. Some of them had been ordained deacons the same Sunday. They had passed the sacrament together scores of times. Their school activities had brought them close. With some of them he had built toy airplanes and scooters and played rubber guns. They had hiked and worked and played together. Why should this simple question threaten this choice association?
Pressure from friends and acquaintances our own age is tremendously powerful! There is a desire to want to be “one” with friends. Besides, who wants to be a sissy, afraid to join in the fun. What’s more, if he didn’t join them, he would be one against the crowd.
But even with all of these ideas running through his head, another idea impressed itself even harder on his mind. There was one reason that stood out against all that seemed so appealing: It was not right. From somewhere within him came the courage to say, “No, I don’t think I will.”
The group turned away and strode across the street toward the beer hall, intent on carrying out their plan. My friend was left standing—alone. I’m sure he did not think of the Lord’s statement, “It is not good for man to be alone,” but he certainly understood its meaning in a new and personal way. He came to understand the truth of that statement in the days that followed and to see why all of us need true and loyal friends who believe and live as they should.
Even though he was fifteen—going on sixteen—tears came to his eyes as he walked home. His mother, sensing that something was wrong, asked, “What has happened?”
He blurted out the short experience.
“You’ve done right, my son” she reassured him.
“I wish I were as sure as you are,” he answered.
“You made the right decision,” she repeated, “and you’ll see. You will be blessed.”
The days that followed this incident were not especially happy ones. It took readjustments to establish his equilibrium. There followed a process of establishing new friendships. There was the inevitable heartache at school when conversations would grind to a stop as he joined his former group. There were moments of loneliness as he walked between the high school and the adjacent industrial arts building. What was formerly spontaneous fun and youthful sport changed to a subdued good humor. There were some obvious moments in basketball practice, too, when he would be in the clear and call for the pass, only to be ignored while another person was sought out to receive the ball.
But that all passed as everyone knows it will. Time is the great eraser. It dulls the former sad moments. It smooths hurts and salves wounds.
It was not long until former friendships were reestablished, although on a different basis than before. In a little more than a year, this young man was elected seminary studentbody president. The next year he was elected high school studentbody president by his friends. Two years later he entered the mission field, the only one of his class to do so. One classmate went on a mission the following year, but his other friends never did.
This young man has since fulfilled many calls to service and responsibility in the Church. Other tests of his integrity and moral standards have come into his life—as they come into the lives of us all. But few such tests have been so well-remembered or have made so lasting an impression on his life.
In a rather undramatic situation, he chose the right. And his mother was right, as mothers generally are. Her promise was literally fulfilled: “You’ll see. You will be blessed.”

At the time of the cholera epidemic, Thomas Barnardo was training at the London Hospital to become a medical missionary to China. He was also a good Christian and, after a busy day at the hospital, he would spend his evenings telling people in the streets of East London about the teachings of Jesus.
One evening he came across an old tumbledown donkey shed. With the help of a few friends he patched it up and opened it as a “ragged school” (the name given to schools for poor children in those days) and taught an ever-increasing number of East End children there every evening. Besides hearing lessons, the children had a place where they could be warm and sheltered for a few hours.
One night, after lessons were over and Dr. Barnardo was turning out the gas jets, he noticed that a boy called Jim remained behind. Jim pleaded to be allowed to stay as he had no home, no parents, and nowhere to go. The previous night he had slept in a hay cart. This shocked Dr. Barnardo. He knew there must be many other children in London who were homeless and hungry.
Dr. Barnardo took Jim back to his own lodgings, gave him a good meal, and then asked him if he knew of other children in the East End who also needed shelter.
Jim offered to show Dr. Barnardo lots of “lays” where boys and girls who had no homes were sleeping. Late that night the boy led Thomas down dark alleyways and into all sorts of unpleasant corners where children in tattered rags were sleeping, often with no cover over them.
A few days later Dr. Barnardo spoke at a meeting and told those who attended about the shameful condition of children in the city’s slum areas—children for whom no one cared.
The newspapers reported Dr. Barnardo’s words and many wealthy and important people accused him of making statements that were either untrue or greatly exaggerated. No one seemed interested in helping to change this sad situation. At a time when the doctor was most discouraged, the Earl of Shaftesbury, who was a great lover of children, came to his aid. Someone finally believed Dr. Barnardo!
The Earl organized a private dinner party and invited many of the people who had disputed Dr. Barnardo’s words. At the end of the meal the Earl arranged it so that Dr. Barnardo could take his critics by lantern light on a night tour of the lays and prove his claims.
At the very first lay visited, in Billingsgate Fish Market, were seventy-three homeless, hungry, and uncared-for boys huddled together under tarpaulins stretched over piles of fish boxes. Many more were sleeping in empty barrels. Long before the tour was over Dr. Barnardo had convinced the doubters.
Shortly after this experience, the Earl of Shaftesbury suggested that Dr. Barnardo give up the idea of becoming a medical missionary in China and help the slum children instead. It was a difficult decision for the doctor to make and he prayed for guidance.
Shortly afterward he received a letter from a wealthy Member of Parliament offering to provide £ 1,000 (about $2,000) toward a home for destitute children if, instead of going to China, Dr. Barnardo would remain in London to run it.
He believed this to be an answer to prayer, and opened his first home for boys in Stepney Causeway. Three years later he married and used a wedding gift of a large house to set up a home for girls. His work was blessed and other homes followed.
Today the Barnardo homes house the largest family in the world. At least 8,000 children are being cared for in 100 homes. During the past 100 years, more than 200,000 children have been given a temporary home.
One day, shortly after the first Barnardo Home was opened, a pale and ragged boy asked Dr. Barnardo to take him in. Regretfully, Barnardo had to refuse, for the house was already full. He gave the lad, known as Carrots, some money and asked him to come back later. Carrots never returned, for during that week he died from cold and hunger.
Barnardo vowed that he would never let such a thing happen again. Without delay he had erected over the door of the home a signboard that read, “No Destitute Child Ever Refused Admission.” From that day to this, no matter what the hour of day or night, that pledge has been honored.
Barnardo’s doors are always open and no deserving child is ever turned away.
“Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not …” (Luke 18:16.)

The first missionaries sent to black Africa were Rendell and Rachel Mabey and Ted and Janath Cannon. They arrived in Nigeria just five months after the revelation. Their first baptism was Anthony Obinna, who had waited and pleaded for membership for thirteen years. In 1965 Brother Obinna had a dream that he did not understand but which impressed him deeply. He said: "One night I was sleeping and a tall man came to me and took me to one of the most beautiful buildings and showed me all the rooms. Then in 1970 I found [a] Reader's Digest article titled, "The March of the Mormons," with a picture of the Salt Lake Temple. It was exactly the same building that I had seen in my dreams." Immediately Brother Obinna wrote to Church headquarters requesting literature and baptism. He received literature, organized a congregation and continued writing letters requesting baptism. Finally, after years of pleading, he wrote directly to the Council of Twelve saying: "Your long silence about the establishment of the Church in Nigeria is very embarrassing. Did Christ not say, 'Go ye and teach all nations?" It is not often that the Brethren are chastised by nonmembers for not baptizing converts? However, when Brother Obinna learned that the revelation had been received he wrote the following to President Kimball: "We are happy for the many hours in the Upper Room of the Temple you spent supplicating the Lord to bring us into the fold. We thank our Heavenly Father for hearing your prayers and ours and by revelation has confirmed the long promised day to receive every blessing of the gospel." On the day Brother Obinna was baptized he was ordained to the Priesthood and set apart as the first black African branch president and Sister Obinna became the first Relief Society president. Soon after his baptism, Brother Obinna prophesied: "The seed of the gospel will grow into a giant tree. The Church in Nigeria will surprise the world in its growth."

And so it has.

This story from a Utah rural area: “Twenty-four years ago, as a young man, I was called to teach a Sunday School class of thirteen- and fourteen-year olds. I thought my first lesson was pretty good, but I didn’t have enough material to last through the class period. During my second lesson, again I was out of material. I resolved it would never happen again, but it did the next Sunday. I gave the books back to the Sunday School superintendent. All of these years I have carried a feeling that I was a failure as a teacher, yet I still wanted to teach.
“Now I have taken the basic course. I know what a teacher should be. I know how to prepare. I know how to involve my class, and now I am teaching and fulfilling my lifelong desire. I have developed a foundation for teaching.”

When my mother was sixteen, one Sunday her Sunday School teacher taught about the concept of love. She invited all the youth in the class to go home and tell their parents that they loved them.
My mother listened and laid hold upon the words of her teacher. After the class ended, she waited for her classmates to leave and then said to her teacher, “I can’t do what you asked me to do. I can’t tell my father I love him.”
You see, at the time her father was a mechanic on an army base. He wasn’t active in the Church. And he was often rough, gruff, and mean, just as you might expect from an army mechanic. At that time, “I love you” was not something they said to each other in their family.
“Well,” the teacher said, “you have to do it. Your father—especially your father—needs to hear those words from you. He deserves your unconditional love.”
So my mom went home. All week the words of her teacher stayed with her. Finally, on Saturday night, knowing she would be facing her teacher the next day, my mom found her courage.
Her father had just walked into the kitchen to put out his cigarette. My mom got up her courage and blurted out the words “Dad, I have something to tell you. I love you.”
With those words, her father turned around with his back toward my mom and leaned against the fridge with his head bowed down. My mom thought he was angry. He just stood there, back turned and head down.
Then my big, burly grandfather turned around, and he was weeping. My mom hesitated, and then she stepped over to him. He wrapped his arms around her and said, “I love you.”
As long as she could remember, this was the first time that he had hugged her and said those words to her.
It was then, with those words, that my grandfather’s heart began to soften. Years later, when I would visit my grandfather, the first thing he would do was hug me and tell me he loved me. When I knew him, he was a faithful member of the Church. I wonder what would have happened if my mother had not laid hold upon the words of her Sunday School teacher.
When my mother laid hold upon the word and acted on it, my grandfather did the same: he laid hold upon her words. And that opened the door for other significant blessings in their life.

Sarah watched in horror as milk raced across her place mat. Just before the white liquid reached the edge of the table, she grabbed the tablecloth and lifted it up. “Mommy, help!” she shouted. Sarah’s anxious tug stopped the milk from pouring off her side of the table, but it tipped her own bowl, sending milk and cereal flowing off the other side.
Mom came running into the kitchen. “Oh, Sarah! Why can’t you be more careful?”
Sarah began to cry. “It wasn’t my fault,” she sobbed. “Adam did it.”
Mom looked at little Adam, who was sitting on the floor, playing with a toy truck. He looked up and smiled.
“You expect me to believe that Adam crawled up onto the chair, dumped your glass and bowl on the table, then crawled down before I got here?” Mom asked angrily. “I know that accidents can happen, but lying about this only makes it worse. Go to your room. I’ll be in to talk to you when I have everything cleaned up. And I want you to think about how you would feel if someone told a lie about you.”
Sarah climbed down. “I didn’t lie!” She muttered as she walked to her room.
Mom looked down at Adam. “Oh, Adam, what do you think I should do?” Smiling a big toothless grin, Adam stretched his arms toward Mom, signaling that he wanted her to pick him up.
“Just a minute, little one.” As Mom started to clear the table, the tablecloth swayed back and forth. Adam was fascinated by it. Reaching up, he grabbed it and pulled. Sarah’s spoon fell to the floor.
“Oh dear,” Mom said, picking up the spoon. “I think I made a big mistake. It was your fault, wasn’t it?”
She picked Adam up and hurried to Sarah’s room. Sarah was on her bed, her face buried in the pillow.
Setting Adam on the floor, Mom sat down beside her daughter and gently stroked her hair. “I think I owe you an apology.”
Sarah sat up.
“Did Adam pull on the tablecloth?” Mom asked.
Sarah nodded. “I tried to stop the milk, but I couldn’t, and it went everywhere. But it wasn’t my fault, honest.”
Mom put her arm around Sarah. “I’m sorry. I should have let you explain. And I shouldn’t have accused you of lying to me. Will you forgive me?”
Sarah nodded again.
Mom reached over to Sarah’s dresser and picked up the picture of Jesus with the Articles of Faith on the back. Turning it over, she asked, “Remember the article of faith that says ‘We believe that men will be punished for their own sins, and not for Adam’s transgression?’”
“That’s the second one,” Sarah announced proudly.
“You’re right. It means that we are responsible only for the things that we do. I scolded you for something the baby did. I was punishing you for Adam’s transgression!”
They both laughed. Hearing his name, Adam looked up and laughed too.

Even before class started the next day, Rhett was cracking jokes and cutting other students down. Jarom leaned over, smiled wryly, and whispered, “This isn’t the day that’s going to make a difference.” He put his head down.
“It’d make a difference if you did something too. That’s why your mom made you promise,” I retorted warmly.
That day the class was a disaster. Rhett and Randy both sang loudly off key during the devotional hymn. Rhett muttered wisecracks through Cindy Mason’s spiritual thought while Randy snickered his approval. They even laughed in the prayer. It didn’t matter how Sister Batson pleaded and reasoned with them; they wouldn’t cooperate. Halfway through the lesson the two of them started laughing out loud after making a rude comment. I wanted to walk over and slap them both.
“Torbett,” a voice barked, “shut up or get out.” Startled, I turned to see Jarom glowering at Rhett.
Rhett’s laughter faded. “What’s it to you, Wade?” he sneered. “Did we wake you up from your morning nap?”
Slowly Jarom pushed up from his desk and strolled stiffly to where Rhett sat. Rhett stood up, prepared for the challenge while Sister Batson and the rest of us held our breath. “If you don’t want to listen,” Jarom said in a low, cold, cutting voice, “get out so somebody else can.”
“All you do is sleep, Wade. Isn’t that rude? Have you been listening?”
Jarom considered the accusation. “All right, I won’t sleep and you shut up.” They glared at each other. Jarom returned to his desk, sitting up in his chair. The rest of the period was quiet.
“Thanks for what you did back there,” I ventured as we left the church. I bit down on my lower lip. “I’m sorry what I said about your promise.”
He shrugged. “It was true. Rhett was right too.” He grinned. “Now I’ve promised Rhett I’ll stay awake.” He looked at me. “Why do you Mormons have to do this seminary thing so early in the morning?”
“You Mormons?” I asked. “You’re Mormon but don’t know it yet.”
“Fat chance.”
Seminary changed after that. A few days later Rhett started to get out of hand. Jarom grumbled from the back, “I’m still awake, Torbett.”

I'd like to share a story that may help us consider the nature of reflexes.

During my freshman year at BYU in Provo, my roommate and I decided to take a martial arts class together as an elective one semester. We were impressed with our teacher, who was a very skilled martial artist, and he described to us how an expert will practice punches, kicks and forms until they become deeply ingrained in his or her mind and body. Such 'muscle memory' would be useful when called upon in defensive situations where reflexes would need to take over. Our teacher told us of an experience in which he and some other students once gave an exhibition with their instructor, he was a multi-level black belt, and this was to be done during the half-time of a basketball game. The exhibition was choreographed to showcase the various techniques, and defensive moves in a simulated multi-person attack. Our teacher recounted that during the exhibition he found himself slightly out of step with the planned choreography, and consequently found himself in a different position than practiced. As he approached his instructor from behind, the instructor turned and instinctively and reflexively altered his moves and struck our teacher with some force in the nose. Our teacher was stunned, but did his best to continue with the rest of the exhibition. Afterwards he was talking with his instructor about the incident, and the instructor explained to him that he had been out of position, and it was a position that was unplanned and unanticipated. So his instructor naturally reacted based on training and reflexes he had developed over the years. He seemed, almost to react at the exact time a perceived threat was detected.