Gospel Story Finder

Examples of the enabling power are not found only in the scriptures. Daniel W. Jones was born in 1830 in Missouri, and he joined the Church in California in 1851. In 1856 he participated in the rescue of handcart companies that were stranded in Wyoming by severe storms. After the rescue party found the suffering Saints, provided what immediate comfort they could, and made arrangements for the sick and the feeble to be transported to Salt Lake City, Daniel and several other young men volunteered to remain with and safeguard the company’s possessions. The food and supplies left with Daniel and his colleagues were, to say the least, meager and were rapidly expended. I will now quote from Daniel Jones’ personal journal and his description of the events that followed:

“Game soon became so scarce that we could kill nothing. We ate all the poor meat; one would get hungry eating it. Finally that was all gone, nothing now but hides were left. We made a trial of them. A lot was cooked and eaten without any seasoning and it made the whole company sick. Many were so turned against the stuff that it made them sick to think of it. . . .

“Things looked dark, for nothing remained but the poor raw hides taken from starved cattle. We asked the Lord to direct us what to do. The brethren did not murmur, but felt to trust in God. We had cooked the hide, after soaking and scraping the hair off until it was soft and then ate it, glue and all. This made it rather inclined to stay with us longer than we desired. Finally I was impressed how to fix the stuff and gave the company advice, telling them how to cook it; for them to scorch and scrape the hair off; this had a tendency to kill and purify the bad taste that scalding gave it. After scraping, boil one hour in plenty of water, throwing the water away which had extracted all the glue, then wash and scrape the hide thoroughly, washing in cold water, then boil to a jelly and let it get cold, and then eat with a little sugar sprinkled on it. This was considerable trouble, but we had little else to do and it was better than starving” (Daniel W. Jones,Forty Years Among the Indians [Salt Lake City: Juvenile Instructor Office, 1890], 81).

All that I have read thus far is a preparation for the next line from Daniel W. Jones’ journal. It illustrates how those pioneer Saints may have known something about the enabling power of the Atonement that we, in our prosperity and ease, are not as quick to understand: “We asked the Lord to bless our stomachs and adapt them to this food” (Jones, Forty Years, 81; emphasis added). My dear brothers and sisters, I know what I would have prayed for in those circumstances. I would have prayed for something else to eat. “Heavenly Father, please send me a quail or a buffalo.” It never would have occurred to me to pray that my stomach would be strengthened and adapted to what we already had. What did Daniel W. Jones know? He knew about the enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. He did not pray that his circumstances would be changed. He prayed that he would be strengthened to deal with his circumstances. Just as Nephi, Amulek, and Alma and his people were strengthened, Daniel W. Jones had the spiritual insight to know what to ask for in that prayer. “We hadn’t the faith to ask him to bless the raw-hide, for it was ‘hard stock.’ On eating now all seemed to relish the feast. We were three days without eating before this second attempt was made. We enjoyed this sumptuous fare for about six weeks” (Jones, Forty Years, 81–82).

When Metoyera was eight years old, his Latter-day Saint neighbors, the Porters, invited the Harper family to come to church with them. Their Hyde Park Ward meets in a former apartment building in a pleasant city neighborhood. Shortly after that first visit, the Harpers listened to the missionaries explain the teachings of the Church. Metoyera and his family decided to be baptized.
Because the building where the ward meets was not originally designed as a church, there is no built-in baptismal font. So, ward members built a large wooden box, lined it with plastic, and used it for baptisms. Metoyera was baptized in that big box.

Carrie settled down on the floor in front of a display case full of Christmas jewelry. She waved to her big brother, and he grinned. He was standing on the risers with other members of the children’s choir waiting to begin their Christmas concert at the mall. She thought he looked very handsome in his choir uniform. The boys in the choir were all dressed alike in white shirts with red-striped ties. The girls all wore blue dresses with lacy white collars and a red rose. They looked very dressed-up.
Carrie thought back to earlier in the day, when the choir had given a concert in a local church. The church had very tall stained-glass windows that reflected a softly-colored rainbow of light across the children’s faces as they sang. Their beautiful voices rose to the high rafters of the church. Mom had said that they sounded just like angels. Like the angels that announced the birth of Jesus Christ to the shepherds long ago, Carrie hoped.
Now the choir was giving the same concert at the shopping mall, but things felt different here. Carrie looked around. She was impatient for the concert to begin, but not if it was going to be this noisy. A nearby cash register was making loud beeps as a store clerk rang up sales. There was a person in a teddy-bear costume entertaining some giggling children. People were talking loudly around a large Christmas tree decorated with gifts that could be bought at the different stores in the mall.
Finally the concert began. A boy in the choir stepped forward and began to sing a solo with a violin accompaniment. When Carrie had heard this song in the church, it made her feel joyful. At the church, everyone had listened quietly. She had even noticed tears in the eyes of some of those in the audience. As she looked around the shopping mall now, few people were listening. Most were busy shopping or chatting or eating. She didn’t see reverent tears in anyone’s eyes.
When the concert was over, she was sad that hardly anyone had really listened to the beautiful music. Taking her mother’s hand, she walked out of the mall to meet her brother.
“Did the shepherds listen to the angels, Mom?” she asked. “Or were they too busy tending the sheep?”
Mom smiled. “They listened, Carrie. That’s how they knew where to find Baby Jesus.”
“Did the angels sing for anyone besides the shepherds?”
“I don’t know. The scriptures don’t tell us about anyone else.”
“What about all the people staying near the stable? You told me that there were so many people in Bethlehem that there wasn’t any room in the inns for Mary and Joseph.”
“The city was very crowded that night. But I suppose those people were too tired to listen to angels after their long journey to Bethlehem. Or maybe they were busy finding a place to sleep, preparing food, or thinking about the taxes they’d have to pay.”
Carrie thought about that for a few minutes, then sighed. “Mom, I hope that no matter what I’m doing, I’ll always be able to hear the angels sing.”
“Me, too.” Mom gave Carrie a hug. “Me, too.”

“Run, Jillian, run!” Dad shouted. Jillian’s dad was the coach of her football team. They were practicing extra hard to get ready for the championship game. The sun was hot, but Jillian kept running.

At last Dad blew the whistle. “OK, let’s have a break.”

Jillian grabbed her water bottle and sat on the bench with the boys. She was the only girl on the team, but she didn’t mind. They all worked together and helped each other get better. Even though she was tired and sweaty, she felt happy to play with her team.

“Dad, how did we do today?” she asked.

Dad smiled. “Great! I think the team is ready for the game.”

Jillian smiled back. All their hard work was worth it!

A few days later it was finally time for the big football game. Jillian asked the team to say a prayer before the game. Then it was time to play. Jillian ran as fast as she could. She worked with her team to get the ball and score goals. Her team won the game!

That night as she lay in bed, Jillian thought about Mei and her football team. She was happy to be part of a team, just like she was happy to be part of Primary. They all helped each other. Jillian was glad she could help her friends, whether it was at church or on the field.

“My grandparents were converts to the Church and became totally committed to the gospel. Dad recalls many times when as a child he witnessed the power of the priesthood in his home. One night when his younger sister was very ill with whooping cough, she couldn’t breathe and they thought she might die. Dad remembers Grandpa laying his hands on her head and blessing her that she would be able to breathe and live. She soon became better. Such experiences left a lasting impression on him.”

Jacob ran into the kitchen with Wyatt and Lucy. “Let’s get ready for general conference!” Daddy said. Mommy cracked eggs into a bowl. Wyatt scooped in flour. Lucy poured in milk. Daddy sprinkled in sugar. Jacob stirred everything with a big spoon. Daddy poured batter into a hot pan. The pan sizzled and popped! Jacob watched the pancakes cook. Daddy put the pancakes onto plates. Everyone carried a plate to the table. After the pancakes were all gone, Mommy turned on the TV. “There’s the prophet!” Jacob said. He loved General Conference Pancake Breakfast!

Our stake president extended an inspired challenge. He told the members of the stake that if we wanted to have the influence of the gospel present in all of our homes, especially the homes of less-active members, we needed to read the Liahona (Spanish) magazine.
He encouraged each family to get their own subscription. Once the active members had subscriptions, they prayed for guidance to find other families to help. Each family found a less-active family to buy a gift subscription for. Now some of the wards have 100 percent of the families subscribing.
The wonderful part of this challenge is the blessing the Liahona has been in reactivating less-active members. The spirit in our meetings has also increased. When we share what we have with everyone around us, we all receive the blessing of being more sensitive to the Spirit. Thank you for a testimony-building magazine.
William MimbelaLima Peru Central StakeLima, Peru

A General Authority whose personal influence was felt far and wide was the late President Spencer W. Kimball. He really made a difference in the lives of countless individuals.

When I was a bishop, the telephone rang one day, and the caller identified himself as Elder Spencer W. Kimball. He said, “Bishop Monson, in your ward is a trailer court, and in a little trailer in that court—the smallest trailer of all—is a sweet Navajo widow, Margaret Bird. Would you have your Relief Society president visit her and invite her to come to Relief Society and to participate with the sisters?” We did. Margaret Bird came and found a warm welcome.
Elder Kimball called on another occasion. “Bishop Monson,” he said, “I have learned that there are two Samoan boys living in a downtown hotel. They’re going to get in trouble. Will you make them members of your ward?”
I found these two boys at midnight sitting on the steps of the hotel playing ukuleles and singing. They became members of our ward. Eventually each of them married in the temple and served valiantly. Their influence for good was widespread.
When I was first called as a bishop, I discovered that our record for subscriptions to the Relief Society Magazine in the Sixth-Seventh Ward had been at a low ebb. Prayerfully we analyzed the names of individuals whom we could call to be magazine representative. The inspiration dictated that Elizabeth Keachie should be given the assignment. As her bishop, I approached her with the task. She responded, “Bishop Monson, I’ll do it.”
Elizabeth Keachie was of Scottish descent, and when she replied, “I’ll do it,” one knew she indeed would. She and her sister-in-law, Helen Ivory—neither more than five feet tall—commenced to walk the ward, house by house, street by street, and block by block. The result was phenomenal. We had more subscriptions to the Relief Society Magazine than had been recorded by all the other units of the stake combined.
I congratulated Elizabeth Keachie one Sunday evening and said to her, “Your task is done.”
She replied, “Not yet, Bishop. There are two square blocks we have not yet covered.”
When she told me which blocks they were, I said, “Oh, Sister Keachie, no one lives on those blocks. They are totally industrial.”
“Just the same,” she said, “I’ll feel better if Nell and I go and check them ourselves.”
On a rainy day she and Nell covered those final two blocks. On the first one she found no home, nor did she on the second. She and Sister Ivory paused, however, at a driveway which was muddy from a recent storm. Sister Keachie gazed about 100 feet (30 m) down the driveway, which was adjacent to a machine shop, and there noticed a garage. This was not a normal garage, however, in that there was a curtain at the window.
She turned to her companion and said, “Nell, shall we go and investigate?”
The two sweet sisters then walked down the muddy driveway 40 feet (12 m) to a point where the entire view of the garage could be seen. Now they noticed a door which had been cut into the side of the garage, which door was unseen from the street. They also noticed that there was a chimney with smoke rising from it.
Elizabeth Keachie knocked at the door. A man 68 years of age, William Ringwood, answered. They then presented their story concerning the need of every home having the Relief Society Magazine. William Ringwood replied, “You’d better ask my father.”
Ninety-four-year-old Charles W. Ringwood then came to the door and also listened to the message. He subscribed.
Elizabeth Keachie reported to me the presence of these two men in our ward. When I requested their membership certificates from Church headquarters, I received a call from the Membership Department at the Presiding Bishopric’s Office. The clerk said, “Are you sure you have living in your ward Charles W. Ringwood?”
I replied that I did, whereupon she reported that the membership certificate for him had remained in the “lost and unknown” file of the Presiding Bishopric’s Office for the previous 16 years.
On Sunday morning Elizabeth Keachie and Nell Ivory brought to our priesthood meeting Charles and William Ringwood. This was the first time they had been inside a chapel for many years. Charles Ringwood was the oldest deacon I had ever met. His son was the oldest male member holding no priesthood I had ever met.
It became my opportunity to ordain Brother Charles Ringwood a teacher and then a priest and finally an elder. I shall never forget his interview with respect to seeking a temple recommend. He handed me a silver dollar, which he took from an old, worn leather coin purse, and said, “This is my fast offering.”
I said, “Brother Ringwood, you owe no fast offering. You need it yourself.”
“I want to receive the blessings, not retain the money,” he responded.
It was my opportunity to take Charles Ringwood to the Salt Lake Temple and to attend with him the endowment session.
Within a few months, Charles W. Ringwood passed away. At his funeral service I noticed his family sitting on the front rows in the mortuary chapel, but I noticed also two sweet women sitting near the rear of the chapel, Elizabeth Keachie and Helen Ivory.
As I gazed upon those two faithful and dedicated women and contemplated their personal influence for good, the promise of the Lord filled my very soul: “I, the Lord, am merciful and gracious unto those who fear me, and delight to honor those who serve me in righteousness and in truth unto the end. Great shall be their reward and eternal shall be their glory.”

A couple of months ago, I was going through a rough time and felt that my life was falling apart. I’d been told many times that our trials make us stronger, but remembering that didn’t take away my pain. After one particularly rough day at high school and a stressful evening, I felt alone. I was in the midst of despair, and I couldn’t see a way to overcome what I was feeling. Then I had an overwhelming desire to pray. I resisted at first—that solution seemed too easy to bring the peace I was seeking—but then I changed my mind. I prayed for comfort and for the strength to rise above my trials. As I did so, my pain and grief were taken away and were replaced by an overwhelming, all-encompassing feeling of peace and joy.
I rarely cry, but that day I wept. That was the moment I really understood that I am a child of God and felt how much I matter to Him. Now, every time I feel alone or am in pain, I pray. Sometimes the relief doesn’t come instantly, but it always comes. Prayer is how I withstand the teasing, temptations, and other hard things that sometimes come into my life. I’m so grateful to have the gospel in my life and to be a child of God.

I remember well the adjustments we had to make when we went to live in Utah. My first call in our ward was to serve as a Relief Society teacher. I watched the other teachers very closely and was deeply impressed with their striving for perfection in their teaching. Even their hairdos and immaculate dress showed their striving for perfection. I admired how fluent and articulate they were in the English language. How could I, with my poor English, compete with them and be their teacher? I was eager to learn and was so glad to hear that there was a stake preparation class for Relief Society teachers.

When I attended the training meeting for the first time, I was full of high hopes. I was not prepared for the question I was asked about what kind of centerpiece I would use when I gave my lesson. How incompetent I felt! I had no idea what a centerpiece was or what its purpose in the presentation of a lesson could be. Negative feelings about myself began to undermine my confidence. …

I continued to feel inferior as I watched the sisters in my ward and saw them planting gardens and canning the produce. They exercised daily by jogging. They sewed and bargain-shopped. … They took dinners to new mothers and the sick in their neighborhoods. They took care of an aged parent, sometimes two. … They were faithful in doing temple work, and they worried about catching up on their journals.

Intimidated by examples of perfection all around me, I increased my efforts to be like my sisters, and I felt disappointed in myself and even guilty when I didn’t run every morning, bake all my own bread, sew my own clothes, or go to the university. I felt that I needed to be like the women among whom I was living, and I felt that I was a failure because I was not able to adapt myself easily to their lifestyles.

I could have benefited at this time from the story of a six-year-old who, when asked by a relative, “What do you want to be?” replied, “I think I’ll just be myself. I have tried to be like someone else. I have failed each time!” Like this child, after repeated failure to be someone else, I finally learned that I should be myself. That is often not easy, however, because our desires to fit in, to compete and impress, or even simply to be approved of lead us to imitate others and devalue our own backgrounds, our own talents, and our own burdens and challenges. … I had to learn to overcome my anxious feeling that if I didn’t conform, I simply did not measure up.

… When I tried to copy my wonderful sisters as I taught my class with a special centerpiece and other teaching techniques that were unfamiliar to me, I failed because the Spirit still talks to me in German, not in English. But when I got on my knees to ask for help, I learned to depend on the Spirit to guide me, secure in the knowledge that I am a daughter of God. I had to learn and believe that I did not need to compete with others to be loved and accepted by my Heavenly Father. …

During the late winter, 13-year-old Travis Hurst, a deacon from Indianapolis, Indiana, and his dad, Kent, came up with a plan. Because several of their ancestors had made the trek west to Utah, they decided they would build a handcart and participate in a re-enactment of the pioneers’ journey through Iowa. Lots of people were coming from many locations to walk for a day or two, or even a week during the event, but Travis and his dad decided to go the whole way, so they could really understand what their ancestors had gone through. They would walk from Montrose, Iowa, to Winter Quarters, covering the entire state from east to west. It’s a long walk—about 300 miles—which takes about three weeks to complete, but Travis felt that it would be a good experience and a lot of fun. His older brother wasn’t so sure.

“At first I thought it was kind of a crazy idea,” says Travis’s 17-year-old brother, Taylor. “But I watched Travis and my dad build the handcart, and Travis kept telling me what an awesome vacation it was going to be. He was right.”

And so, when the trek started, Taylor was right next to Travis and Brother Hurst, taking his turn pushing their handcart. Janell Seely, a Mia Maid from Castle Dale, Utah, was pushing a handcart the whole way with some of her family members, too. And Danny Wilkins, a deacon from Willcox, Arizona, was just up ahead with his dad, Dean, driving a wagon.

“Some people think Iowa is flat,” says Janell. “But they’re wrong! It’s all hills.”

And hills weren’t the only challenge. Just like the pioneers 150 years ago, the trekkers encountered searing heat, fierce wind, and pouring rain.

“When we left from Keokuk, it was very rainy and wet,” says Travis. “We were supposed to travel across a bridge, but it had been washed out, so we crossed through the stream. It did feel good, though, to get our feet wet.”

Unfortunately, not long after that stream crossing, Travis was unable to continue because of illness. He went home to Indiana to recover, leaving Taylor and his dad to finish the trek alone.

“I feel bad that my little brother didn’t get to continue,” Taylor says. “Without him, I wouldn’t even be here. Lots of pioneers didn’t make it to the end of the trek because of illness, but they didn’t get to go home. It makes you feel grateful for medicine and all the other blessings we enjoy.”

Air conditioning, soft beds, and their mom’s cooking are some other blessings Danny, Taylor, and Janell all say they missed. But despite the spartan conditions, all of them said they see real advantages to living a pioneer lifestyle.

“It seems like there’s more time to talk out here,” says Danny. “Day after day, I just sit here talkin’ with my dad and the other people riding in the wagon, and it’s been fun. I feel like I know my dad better now.”

Janell agrees. “Sometimes I am walking along, and I think about how the pioneers were in this very same place so long ago. It’s pretty quiet, and I can really feel the Spirit. This is an experience I won’t ever forget.”

As a young boy, I went on a family outing to a park where an entrance fee was required for each person in the car. The amount of the fee was dependent on the age of each occupant. I was about 13 years old. I noticed that if I said I was 12, then my father could pay less for a ticket. So, I said something like, “Dad, why don’t you tell them that I am 12?” thinking I was doing him a favor. His response is one I have never forgotten as he said, “Why would I do that? You are 13!” The message was clear. In no way would my father call into question his honesty or integrity by saying something that was not true to save money. I am grateful for that example of my father shown to me 52 years ago. It is one that I will never forget.

A short time after her baptism, Kirsten Edsberg got cancer. As the disease progressed, Soren and his sister became disturbed. Their mother’s patriarchal blessing promised that she would live to fulfill her life’s mission. But she had not yet had her children sealed to her, nor had she had opportunities for church service.
When at last the doctors felt that she would die within days and had withdrawn all medicine except for pain killers, the elder Brother Edsberg called on Soren to give his mother another blessing. After several days of fasting and praying, says Soren, “I felt I had permission to tell the disease to obey the priesthood and to leave so my mother would be able to complete her mission in this life.” Kirsten Edsberg recovered and was able to go to the Swiss Temple to be sealed to her family. She was also able to serve as a Primary teacher. Then, a year after her healing, she became ill again and passed away.

Early in 2003, just two years into our quinoa research project, I visited traditional quinoa production fields in the Bolivian Altiplano. There, highly diverse quinoa fields were partly infested with the local weedy goosefoot, and the two often cross-pollinated. Impoverished subsistence farmers who lacked mechanization would walk through the fields and separately harvest the black-seeded weedy quinoa, which they often consumed in popped form. Later, in early November 2003, I broke away for a day from a scientific conference in Denver to see what quinoa production looked like in the United States, visiting the main growing region around Alamosa in southern Colorado. The discouraged Colorado grower I met with complained that every three years they had suffered near-total yield losses due to pressure from insect pests and excessive heat. From those two experiences, my colleagues and I started thinking that maybe the solution to failed quinoa production in the United States was to cross it with lowland-adapted strains of goosefoot.

The next year, in 2004, we started collecting seeds from weedy populations, mostly in Utah and Arizona. Since then, our collection has expanded to include samples from hundreds of goosefoot populations growing in environments as diverse as the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts, the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the Great Plains, California, and even as far east as the coast of New England. We are now crossing elite quinoas with these exotic goosefoot strains and producing breeding populations that we share with quinoa breeders in a dozen countries on four continents.

Two years ago, while revisiting the Colorado quinoa region, this time during the growing season, we noticed that the production fields had native goosefoot plants growing around their margins. In addition, the quinoa fields contained many plants showing intermediate characteristics between quinoa and the weedy form—just like we were accustomed to seeing in Andean quinoa fields in Bolivia and Peru. The next year we sampled fifteen plants showing varying degrees of goosefoot characteristics, and after DNA sequence analysis by one of my students, Jake Taylor, and Drs. Maughan and Jarvis, we confirmed the extensive introgression of goosefoot genes into this population. Interestingly, many years after the quinoa disaster of 2003, the problem was no longer failure to set seed; it was now a problem of heterogeneity due to the natural outcrossing process, which was converting quinoa into an adapted crop through genetic mixing with its weedy but native cousin. In other words, weedy goosefoot genes had literally saved the Colorado quinoa industry.

Sister Patricia Parkinson was born with normal eyesight, but at age seven she began to go blind. At age nine, Pat began attending the Utah Schools for the Deaf and Blind in Ogden, Utah, some 90 miles (145 km) from her home, necessitating her boarding at the school—which included all of the homesickness that a nine-year-old could possibly experience.
By age 11, she had completely lost her eyesight. Pat returned home permanently at age 15 to attend her local high school. She went on to college and graduated with an undergraduate degree in communication disorders and psychology, and after a heroic struggle against doubting university admissions officials, she entered graduate school and completed a master’s degree in speech language pathology. Pat now works with 53 elementary school students and supervises four speech-language technicians in her school district. She owns her own home and her own automobile, which friends and family members drive when Pat needs transportation.
At age 10, Pat was scheduled to have yet another medical procedure to address her diminishing eyesight. Her parents had always told her exactly what was going to happen in terms of her medical care, but for some reason they didn’t tell her about this particular procedure. When her parents did tell her that the procedure had been scheduled, Pat, in the words of her mother, “was a mess.” Pat ran to the other room but came back later and said to her parents with some indignation, “Let me tell you what. I know it, God knows it, and you might as well know it too. I am going to be blind the rest of my life!”
Several years ago, Pat traveled to California to visit family members who were living there. While she was outside with her three-year-old nephew, he said to her, “Aunt Pat, why don’t you just ask Heavenly Father to give you new eyes? Because if you ask Heavenly Father, He will give you whatever you want. You just have to ask Him.”
Pat said she was taken aback by the question but responded, “Well, sometimes Heavenly Father doesn’t work like that. Sometimes He needs you to learn something, and so He doesn’t give you everything you want. Sometimes you have to wait. Heavenly Father and the Savior know best what is good for us and what we need. So They aren’t going to grant you everything you want in the moment you want it.”
I’ve known Pat for many years and recently told her that I admired the fact that she is always positive and happy. She responded, “Well, you have not been at home with me, have you? I have my moments. I’ve had rather severe bouts of depression, and I’ve cried a lot.” However, she added, “From the time I started losing my sight, it was strange, but I knew that Heavenly Father and the Savior were with my family and me. We handled it the best way we could, and in my opinion, we handled it the right way. I have ended up being a successful enough person, and generally I have been a happy person. I remember His hand being in everything. To those who ask me if I am angry because I am blind, I respond, ‘Who would I be angry with? Heavenly Father is in this with me; I am not alone. He is with me all the time.’”
In this case, Pat’s desire to regain her sight will not be granted in this life. But her motto, learned from her father, is “This too shall pass.”

Some years ago I had a dream that changed my life. It also changed the way I treat my wife and children. In the dream, I was driving a car on a dark night. It was a two-lane road in a rather quiet countryside. I saw a car coming from the opposite direction at high speed; suddenly it swerved into my lane. I did my best to avoid the car, but the other driver increased his speed. I knew we were going to crash and found myself praying hard: “Heavenly Father, please help me. I cannot die yet. I have a sweet wife and [at that time] four lovely children. Please, please …” I felt the impact and was thrown out of the car.
When I hit the ground, I immediately woke up and found it was just a dream. “Oh, what a relief!” I thought. Then I asked myself, “Have I been a good husband and father? Can I say I have been the best husband I could be? What would I leave my children if I died?”
I could not go back to sleep that night. I recommitted myself to the Lord and decided to love my wife and children more. So that my family would have my testimony recorded, I wrote down 42 statements expressing my belief in doctrines and principles of the gospel, the things I would most want to leave my children if I were to die.

“Get him, Banner, get him!” The words sent little chills through my body, and I felt my muscles tense and my mouth get just a little dry because I knew the him referred to in the command was me. Banner was a tall and lanky German shepherd police dog assigned to a member of the Salt Lake City Police Department K–9 Corps. He wasn’t one of the heaviest dogs—he weighed only about 85 pounds—but oh, could he bite. My sweating hand tightened inside the heavy burlap covered sleeve which would protect me from injury of the dog’s attack, and then he was there. He hit hard and bit harder. I worked my arm up and down, giving the dog a good battle, until, after what seemed like an eternity, I heard the welcome command, “Out, Banner.” The dog released his grip and trotted back to his handler where he received his reward of pats and praise for a job well done.
All the officers in the corps had to take their turn being the quarry for the dogs. It was dangerous and sometimes tiring, but when your own dog was the attacker, it was the highlight of long tedious hours of patient training. Each dog was carefully selected and trained to be very obedient to his handler before being used on the street. Each could be controlled while on or off leash with only hand signals, voice command, or both. They were taught to attack to protect their handler under all conditions, even in the face of gunfire if necessary. The training took a long time, but the work of the dog with his police officer partner made it worth the investment. After spending such long hours in preparation, it was only natural that every officer looked forward to the time when he could send his dog after a fleeing burglar or use his training in other ways to do “real police work.” I was no exception.
My big chance came late one Saturday night. It had been fairly quiet and I had been spending time checking back alleys when suddenly the silence was broken by the breathless voice of an excited officer calling for help. “Fifth West and Second South … gang fight … 9-1.” Nine-one is the code meaning emergency aid is needed, and every officer able to help responded.
I was nearly the first car to arrive. There were hundreds of people completely blocking the street, and many were fighting. The officers quickly identified those who seemed to be the ring leaders of the disturbance and systematically started making arrests. As the first few were isolated and hand-cuffed, most of the crowd seemed to vanish into the alleys and doorways. Soon there were only the police cars, lights flashing in the darkness, a few officers, and those who had been arrested.
As the crowd disbursed, most officers left the scene, and I was also preparing to leave for the jail with the prisoner I had handcuffed and placed in the front seat of my K–9 truck. My dog was still in the back, since I didn’t feel it was wise to use him with such a large crowd. I approached the driver’s door and had just opened it, when suddenly I was engulfed from behind in the tightest, biggest bear hug I had ever felt. I struggled and fought futilely. This big man was trying to rescue his friend whom I had arrested, and it looked like he might make it.
Now was the time to use my dog. His name was Dusty, and I struggled to reach the small release handle on the side of the vehicle. It would free the back door to the cage and allow the dog to get out. With a lunge I jerked the handle, my arms still pinned to my sides, and the door swung open. “Get him, Dusty,” I shouted. Dusty hit the street running, skidded as he turned back toward me and my captor, and then to my amazement he ran right past me and around the truck. I continued to shout for him to “get him,” but without response. Around and around he went, once, twice, then with sudden purpose he turned from his path and ran to the gutter where fresh water was running and paused for a drink. Thank goodness by this time another police officer came to my rescue.
I spent about another year in the K–9 Corps after that incident, but it was spent with a different dog. In spite of his fine performance in training, Dusty had proven that in real life he couldn’t be trusted.

A remarkable example of President Monson’s kindness occurred in 2012. As the beautiful Brigham City Utah Temple was nearing completion, I met with the First Presidency to discuss plans for its dedication. With Brigham City being only one hour north of Salt Lake City, it would have been very easy for President Monson to travel there for the dedication.
Instead, President Monson said, “Brigham City is the hometown of President Boyd K. Packer, this great Apostle who has sat beside me for so many years in the Twelve. I want him to have the honor and blessing of dedicating the temple in his hometown. I will stay away, and I’ll assign President Packer to dedicate the Brigham City Temple. I want it to be his day.”
It was a wonderful day for President Packer and for Sister Packer, who also grew up in Brigham City. I was very touched by President Monson’s kind and magnanimous gesture to his fellow Apostle. We can all be that way. We can share and be kind and think more of those around us.

I know a little girl who is the last child in a large family in which the other children are all boys. I guess the shock of being a girl in this big family of boys has made her keenly aware of the fact that she is different from the other children. Her mother has wisely taught her that the boys wear trousers and that she wears dresses. Now you cannot get her to wear anything else but a modest dress. I am certain she will have no problem adjusting to Church dress standards anytime in her life because there will be no need for change. This is something she has been taught from the very beginning of her life. How easy it will be for her to accept the proper dress standard as she moves from child to youth to adult.

In November of 2015, from the comfort of my warm bed, I watched a video about the devastating refugee crisis going on in Greece. By the time the video was finished, my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. I knew what that familiar feeling meant. I’d had a prompting, and a few short weeks later, I found myself stepping into the eerie heart of the biggest refugee camp on the island of Lesbos.
As Elder Patrick Kearon of the Quorum of the Seventy stated in general conference, “The reality of these situations must be seen to be believed.”1
I can testify that this is true.
After witnessing the unbelievable conditions for myself and upon learning how dangerous it had been for the refugees in the camp to even make it there alive, I asked one Syrian man why he would risk so much to come there. His answer ended my naive bewilderment:
“Either we stay and die, or we go and maybe die.”
My time at the Moria refugee camp was one of the most difficult experiences of my life, but it also quickly became one of the most inspirational. At first I didn’t think that the small tasks I was given were even making a difference for anybody, but I experienced firsthand the true, indisputable power that love really has.
One afternoon I was talking with Ebrahim, a new friend from Iran. He wanted to know how much I got paid to help in the camp. I smiled and told Ebrahim that I was a volunteer. He had never heard of this word, so I explained. He was shocked and then asked how much money my team leader made. I laughed and told him that everyone in that camp was a volunteer.
I guess word got around, because more of my new friends began commenting on it, saying how surprised they were that we would help them for nothing in return. They had never seen anything like it.
After the horrible, inhumane ways they had been treated, they were justified in thinking that no one would help them—especially strangers. Many told me they hadn’t had any idea what would happen to them once they reached European soil. What a great surprise it must have been to be welcomed off the raging sea into open, caring arms and emergency blankets.
It wasn’t long after these conversations about us volunteers had begun circling the camp that I noticed something very interesting. The refugees began to help me with my tasks! They started picking up trash. They asked if they could help make hot drinks and serve them throughout the freezing nights. They helped with folding, sorting, and distributing donated clothes and setting up and taking down tents. And to my amazement, by the end of my service, there were hardly any jobs left for me to do.
I couldn’t carry a heavy water jug without a man offering to carry it for me. I couldn’t wash dishes without refugees happily telling me they would do them. And not only could I not fling open a garbage bag without a herd of boys rushing over to help, the refugees had almost stopped throwing their trash on the ground altogether!
The changes I witnessed inside the camp were undeniable.
When the somber day arrived that I had to leave the people I had grown to love so much, a man recognized me on the ferry. He approached to thank me for what I had done, when he saw that I held only a coach ticket. He insisted that I switch my ticket for his first-class one for the long, 14-hour ride. He told me that seeing the volunteers’ examples changed him. He wanted to help someone else too, and switching his ticket was the best he could do right now.
“Please,” he begged. “Please.”
Tears filled my eyes as I witnessed once again the ripple effect that genuine service and love can cause.
I had been so naive thinking that the little cups of tea I had been serving weren’t really making a difference for anyone.
Thanks to this experience, I’ve realized that these people truly do need us. They need our time, they need our donations, they need our love, and they need our examples. And we also need them.
What a beautiful world it would be if instead of turning our backs or leaving them to navigate their new circumstances alone, we could just embrace them as our Savior would—showing them love, belonging, and gratitude, and instilling in them a desire to serve others when they are able to themselves.
With the ongoing refugee crises around the world and the different beliefs about how to handle them, I am often reminded of the principle in Mosiah 4:19: “For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have, for both food and raiment, and for gold, and for silver, and for all the riches which we have of every kind?”
It is my prayer that we someday come to realize that we are all beggars. We all need assistance in this life, and I now firmly believe that Heavenly Father expects us to learn from the inevitable suffering that happens around us in mortality. We can learn to love and serve those in need.
Experiences like serving at a refugee camp allow us the chance to be humbler, more understanding, and more compassionate humans. And they give us the sacred honor and privilege of extending a hand to our brothers and sisters and developing true, perfect Christlike love for one another.
I already knew that God loves those refugees enough to have sent others to help them. But now I understand that He loves me just as much to allow me to learn from them too.
At the beginning of my service, I felt discouraged and useless and wished so badly I could fix every problem, or at least do more than just serve tea to those deserving people. But I eventually witnessed the much bigger effects of what I was actually doing there. What my calling there actually was—to spread hope, goodness, and light in a darkening world.
We are all children of heavenly parents, and there is much we can do to help one another, wherever we may be.