Gospel Story Finder

In 2011, while I was serving with my husband as mission leaders in beautiful Curitiba, Brazil, my phone rang during a meeting. Rushing to silence it, I noticed the call was from my father. I quickly left the meeting to answer: “Hi, Dad!”

Unexpectedly, his voice was filled with emotion: “Hi, Bonnie. I need to tell you something. I’ve been diagnosed with ALS.”

My mind swirled with confusion, “Wait! What is ALS?”

Dad was already explaining, “My mind will stay alert while my body slowly shuts down.”

I felt my whole world shift as I began to wrestle with the implications of this grievous news. But on that unforgettable day, it was his last sentence that found a permanent place in my heart. My dear father said with urgency, “Bonnie, never give up an opportunity to testify of Christ.”

I have pondered and prayed over Dad’s counsel. I have often asked myself if I fully know what it means to never give up an opportunity to testify of Jesus Christ.

Yet this plea felt more personal! It seemed as though he was saying, “Bonnie, don’t let the world overtake you! Stay true to your covenants with the Savior. Seek to experience His blessings every day, and be able to testify through the Holy Ghost of His power and presence in your life!”

My father has been gone for over 11 years now, but his words are alive in me. “Bonnie, never give up an opportunity to testify of Christ.” I invite you to join me in accepting his invitation. Look for Christ everywhere?I promise He is there! True joy rests on our willingness to come closer to Christ and witness for ourselves.

The summer after Mother came home was wonderful. Primary was grand! We had Primary on weekday mornings. One week we made little dolls out of stockings. Then we made them little leather dresses. We cut fringe into the bottom of the dresses and added beading. Then we braided their hair. We also embroidered faces for them. We made them little beds out of cardboard and yarn.
Primary was the beginning of my testimony. I learned the gospel there and felt the Spirit through good music. I remember the leaders who taught us the songs with so much energy. Singing was fun! I don’t remember anybody telling me what I was feeling, but it was the Spirit. That’s the kind of power that good music has.

Young Tommy Monson had always wanted a pony. He often admired his friend Henry’s Shetland pony. Wouldn’t he love to have one too!
One December, right before Christmas, Tommy’s mother took him to the toy department of a store in Salt Lake City. The store was going to give away a Shetland pony! To enter the contest, children had to write a note telling why they wanted the pony for Christmas. Tommy carefully wrote his note and placed it in the large box right next to the live pony in the toy department.
Finally the day came when the winner of the pony was going to be announced. Tommy and his mother waited in the excited crowd. Tommy was sure he would win the pony. He had already made a home for it in his sister’s playhouse in the backyard and stacked a pile of hay nearby. But when the name was chosen out of the box, it wasn’t Tommy’s name. Another child took the pony home, and Tommy was heartbroken.
As they left the store, Tommy and his mother walked past a man ringing a bell beside a small kettle to collect money for the poor. Tommy’s mother stopped and dropped in a big silver coin. Then she asked, “Tommy, do you have any money you would like to give to the poor for Christmas?” Tommy reached in his pocket, pulled out two nickels, and dropped them into the kettle, one after the other. It was all the money he had.
President Monson still remembers that day. “I didn’t win the pony,” he recalls. “But I received a far greater gift, even ‘the smile of God’s approval.’” It was a good Christmas after all.

A friend of ours was hospitalized following an accident. A neighbor remarked, “I’ve got to bake something for Sally’s family,” but she didn’t. Then she said, “I’ve got to visit Sally while she is still in bed.” But she didn’t. On another occasion she told us, “I’ve just got to get a card off to Sally,” but she never did. These are examples of wanting to be a good neighbor but kind of faking it, though there probably were extenuating circumstances and good excuses.

Frequently a prospect can get employment and save his money until he has a reasonable amount. Let me tell you of one young man in the central West I interviewed for a mission. I asked him about his finances; he said, “Oh, the elders quorum is going to take care of it.”

And I said, “Oh, no, the elders quorum isn’t going to take care of it. Who is going to take care of your finances?”

And he said, “Oh, the elders quorum. They said they would.”

I said, “No, we send no missionaries totally supported by anyone else. They must make a contribution themselves.”

And so I started to go to make my next appointment, and he said, “Wait a minute, Brother Kimball. I’ve got a collection of guns that are very valuable. And I could get hundreds of dollars for them. I’ll sell them.” And he said, “I’ve got some musical instruments. I won’t need them while I’m on my mission, and I can sell them. And I can make quite a sizable contribution toward my mission.” A few weeks later, I met him in Salt Lake on his way to his mission.

Francine walked slowly through the deep green alfalfa field, the soft, cool plants brushing her bare legs pleasantly. The summer sun felt warm on her head and shoulders, and bees darted here and there among the blossoms. It had been only a month since Francine’s family loaded all their belongings onto the wagon behind her father’s workhorse and had moved up from town to this beautiful valley. She still liked to walk through the fields and just look at everything. But she would like it even better if she had a horse.
Looking out across the field, she saw a man riding a horse up the lane that separated her family’s fields from the neighbor’s fields. The man turned the horse into his alfalfa field and rode to the top of it where the irrigation ditch ran. Francine was startled to see him suddenly tumble off the horse into the alfalfa. Maybe he’s sick, she thought. She ran quickly to the fence, ducked under it, and raced across the field. She could see water splashing where the man had fallen and great drops flying into the air, catching the sunlight. He must have fallen into the ditch, Francine surmised. She ran as fast as she could over the rough ground.
“I’m coming!” she shouted, hoping he wouldn’t give up till she got there. At that moment the man raised his head and looked at her calmly. Francine stopped abruptly, her face hot from running and her breath coming in gasps. She could see that he was not in the ditch at all but beside it. He held the board for damming the ditch in his hands.
“What are you shouting about?” he asked gruffly. His streaked gray hair stood up wildly, and his blue eyes were piercing under his shaggy eyebrows.
“I thought you needed help,” she replied, “and that you had fallen into the ditch.” She suddenly felt awkward and embarrassed and looked at the ground. Only then did she see that the man had no legs. His pants were cut off at the middle of his thighs and pinned securely. Both his pants and flannel shirt were quite wet.
“I definitely don’t need help from a little girl,” he rasped. He turned away from her and began pushing the stopper board into the cement headgate, but it jammed in the slots. Then he pulled himself closer, oblivious of the water spilling around him.
“Could I help you get the board in?” Francine asked, moving closer.
He turned to her, his face red with exertion and anger. “Can’t a man do his irrigating without pesky little girls coming around?” he stormed. “Now go play!”
Francine turned away quickly and found herself face-to-face with the man’s horse. It was a rather short, strongly built horse with a gleaming reddish brown coat and a shiny black mane. Francine looked into the animal’s face and thought it had the kindest, most intelligent eyes she had ever seen. The horse lowered its head to her, sniffed briefly, and then stepped back as though to let her pass. How Francine would love a horse like that for her own.
“You have a beautiful horse,” she said, looking back again at the man. He was just pushing the board securely into its place when he glanced at Francine. She thought she saw the barest flicker of gentleness in his eyes before he said gruffly again, “Go and play, little girl.”
Francine walked past the horse and back across the field to the canal, where large shady cottonwoods grew along the bank. Sitting down in the cool, prickly grass, she watched the man from a distance. She wondered why she wasn’t more afraid of him. He’s been mean to me, she thought. Maybe its because of the odd way he had to get off the horse. She watched as he worked himself away from the ditch. The horse took a few steps toward him, then stood still and stiff, its head lowered while the man grasped the horse’s leg and pulled himself upright. Then he reached up and knotted his hand into its mane. In a quick motion he was on the horse’s back. He rode back through the field and down the lane as Francine watched, fascinated.
That night at dinner she told her family about the experience.
“I’ve heard about our neighbor, Mr. Lewis,” her father said. “He runs his whole farm without any help except from his wife.”
“He certainly didn’t want any help from me,” Francine said.
“They say he’s very proud,” her mother added as she passed the food around. “He won’t let anyone help him.”
“I’ve heard he’s very mean and grouchy,” her little brother, Stephen, put in, looking up from his potatoes.
“I don’t think he’s really mean, just grouchy,” Francine said, remembering how his eyes had softened a little when she mentioned the horse.
“Doesn’t he have a wheelchair or something?” Stephen asked.
“I don’t know, but I think he finds his horse the most help for getting around his farm,” his father said.
Francine’s eyes lit up. “His horse is wonderful, Daddy. You should have seen the way it stood so still while he climbed onto it. And it was beautiful, all shiny in the sun.”
Her father looked at her kindly. “You’d really like a horse, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, Yes!” Francine said. “And I have five dollars saved for one. How much is it going to take?”
“I don’t know,” her father replied. “It depends on what you’re willing to settle for. You might find an old retired workhorse for ten dollars or so. It would give you something to ride around on.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I want a good horse … like Mr. Lewis’s.”
“Then you’ll have to wait quite a while, because we don’t have the money for it,” her father said.
“I know that, and I’ll wait.” Francine ate her potatoes resolutely, seeing in her mind Mr. Lewis’s shining red horse standing still and strong in the sunlight.
The next afternoon Francine wandered through the fields again. She came to the top of the small hill that looked down on the Lewis farm. Their house was white and neat, with roses in front and various sheds and coops sprawled out behind it. Francine hesitated and then walked down the hill, skirted around the house, and slipped quietly into the barnyard. She walked past the chicken coops where white hens cackled and pecked behind the wire, and then she saw the horse standing outside a cinder-block milking barn. He was not tied but stood quietly waiting, the reins over his mane. Francine approached very slowly and silently. The horse turned its head and regarded her calmly, so she put out her hand and stroked its neck. The warm coat twitched deliciously under her hand.
She could hear the clanging of milk pails in the barn. The double doors stood open, and she could see the backsides of the large holstein cows, their tails switching and flicking at the files. After petting the horse and talking to it for a few minutes, she stepped quietly through the door so as not to startle the cows.
Mr. Lewis sat on a small wooden platform mounted on what looked to Francine like roller skate wheels. He leaned his head against the cow’s flank as the milk squirted rhythmically into the bucket. When the bucket was full, he put it beside him on the cart and took two thick rubber rings from his pockets with which he pushed himself so that his hands did not touch the floor. As he approached the milk can, he saw Francine standing in the doorway.
“You again,” he said. He raised the bucket of milk above his head and poured it into the can.
“I came to see your horse,” she said.
He peered at her from under his shaggy eyebrows as he placed the empty bucket beside him. “Her name is Pilar,” he said.
“I’m saving my money to buy a horse,” she said. “I have five dollars.”
“That won’t buy much of a horse,” Mr. Lewis snorted.
“I know,” Francine said, a little hurt that he would think her so stupid about what a horse cost. “I’ll have to save a lot more before I can get one.”
“Well, Missy …”
“My name is Francine.”
“Well, Francine, as you can see, I have work to do, so you’d better run along.”
“I could help you,” Francine said. “I could curry Pilar for you.”
Mr. Lewis sighed. “All right,” he said. “The currycomb is there on the wall.” He turned back toward his cows.
Francine got the currycomb quickly. She curried the horse until her coat glistened in the late afternoon sunlight. At first Pilar looked suspiciously at the girl, but then she appeared to relax and enjoy the brushing. Through the open door Francine saw Mr. Lewis return several times to the milk can and lift the bucket to pour the warm milk in.
When she had finished with Pilar, she went back into the dim barn and watched him. “I could do that for you,” she said as he returned again to the milk can. “It would save you a lot of time.”
“Look,” he said impatiently, “I have managed quite well here for five years without your help.” He turned away from her and said gruffly over his shoulder. “You’re a busybody.”
Francine felt crushed. She knew she should go home, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She liked Mr. Lewis somehow, and she liked Pilar even more.
When he came back again, she said, “How about if you paid me so I could save for my horse—say five cents a night? I’d empty all the milk buckets, too, and help you clean up the barn.”
Mr. Lewis looked up at her, and the warmth she had seen before crept into his eyes.
“Francine,” he said, “we have very little cash. We just barely make it on this farm. I don’t think I could afford to pay you even that small amount.”
“I’d really be glad to do it without pay if I could see Pilar … maybe even ride her sometime.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not,” he said.
Francine turned and went outside. She stopped by Pilar and stroked the horse’s neck again and then started through the barnyard.
“Francine!”
She turned and saw Mr. Lewis framed in the doorway of the barn.
“Come back here a second.” When she reached him he looked at her a minute. “I do get pretty tired emptying those buckets.” He smiled slightly. “Pilar is going to foal in a couple of months. If you turned out to be worth anything as a worker, I might consider her colt as payment.”
Francine’s heart leaped at the thought! “I’d come for morning milking too,” she said.
“You’ll have to ask your folks,” Mr. Lewis said. “And I’ll expect you to go on working after the colt is born.”
“Oh, I will!” Francine promised.
“Well, don’t just stand around, girl,” he directed. “Get the bucket emptied.” Then his face creased into a big smile as Francine rushed past him into the barn.

During the first month in Svalbard we worked in teams of two as we examined the rocks and collected samples. The Norwegians who had transported us to the island had left us a radio with instructions to contact them each week at a certain time. They warned us to be on the lookout for polar bears (and for seals, the polar bears’ main food). They explained that almost every year someone in Spitsbergen was killed and eaten by a bear. The previous year a family of parents, children, and a bachelor uncle had disembarked from a tourist cruise to camp a few nights. The ship was to return for them in a few days. (Tourists were not supposed to be off their ships camping, but some did it anyway.) While the family was camping, the uncle, thinking he recognized the children playing outside his tent door, stuck his head out. But it was not the children. The moment he put his head out, a polar bear ripped it off with one good swat and then dragged him just out of camp and ate him while the rest watched in horror. Fortunately the boat returned before the bear became hungry again.

As you can imagine, after hearing stories like this one, we were always looking out over the ocean and over the landscape to see if a bear was approaching. We were particularly cautious when seals came into the bay. We carried with us rifles and 45-Magnum revolvers wherever we went. We slept with the guns at our sides. There was no place to run or hide if a bear decided that we would be its next meal.

About midway through the field season, Dr. Craddock was picked up by helicopter and returned home to Wisconsin. This left three of us—myself, another graduate student named Ernie, and one undergraduate student named Jerry—to work for another month on our own. The problem was that Ernie needed to work in an area that was about 25 kilometers from our base camp. I also had work to do away from base camp, but closer. The decision was made that Ernie and Jerry would pack out together to work for two weeks in the more distant area and leave me by myself.

I don’t know how many of you have ever been truly alone for an extended period of time, but for me it was a new experience. I had, of course, hiked alone before in the mountains of Utah, but I had never camped alone and certainly had never been alone for two weeks. I was doing pretty well and feeling that this “being alone stuff” wasn’t all that bad—only talking to myself occasionally—when one evening the fog rolled in off the ocean. Of course, when I say “evening” I mean it would have been evening in Wisconsin or Utah, but in the Arctic, where we were, it was light 24 hours a day. The fog, however, was particularly thick, and I was almost unable to see my hand when held out at arm’s length.

I ate and then retired to my tent, placing my rifle on one side of the bed and the pistol on the other. As I lay in bed, the sounds of the ocean, which were usually so pleasant and comforting, were now muffled by the fog and seemed different. My mind began to interpret them differently. I was sure I heard something moving along the beach and knew it could not be my companions, who were 20 to 30 kilometers away. Fear slowly crept into my heart and soul. It was fear like I had never known before—the kind that makes a person think and behave in irrational ways. I was sure the sounds were the padding of a polar bear coming along the beach and it would not be long until I was discovered. I imagined my companions returning to camp finding a few mangled remains left from the polar bear’s meal.

I sat up with the rifle in one hand and the pistol in the other in a state of panic, waiting for the inevitable to happen. It was then that I remembered I was not alone. I bowed my head and prayed fervently to my Father in Heaven to calm me and protect me. And He did. His Spirit engulfed me, the fear was gone, and I lay down and fell into a peaceful slumber. Once again the test had worked. Once again all I had been required to do was to open the door, and He had entered.

Our ward held a neighborhood pioneer parade on the 24th of July. We decorated bicycles, toy wagons, and strollers, then dressed up like pioneers and marched through the neighborhood. My family decorated a baby stroller to look like a covered wagon. Three-year-old Skyler wore pretend horns and was our “ox.” The parade made me feel like a real pioneer for a little while. My parents say that I really will be a pioneer to my children and grandchildren and that if I live the gospel, I will blaze a good trail for them to follow.

Faith in Sage’s future wasn’t easy. During those first terrible days, Michael and Denise faced the agonizing possibility that Sage would die. “We mourned for the Sage we had known,” they say, “and then we faced the challenge of accepting the new Sage. Spiritually and emotionally, we were healed as she was healed.”
The support from fellow Saints and neighbors was a vital part of that healing. Ruth DeBuck stayed with Denise those first few nights in the hospital. They lay on separate beds pulled together, their heads touching, holding hands.
“We talked through the night, working through the nightmare,” Ruth says. “We talked about what it would mean if Sage died, and what it would mean if she lived. All a mother feels and wants for her daughter had been suddenly ripped away, and Denise had to deal with that loss. Those first few days, we had to let the old dreams go, then dream new dreams.”
Ruth has seen those dreams blossom. “We see Sage some time in the future being married in the temple,” she says. “Some young man, kind and pure, who can see through the physical to her spiritual beauty, is with her. We see her with children of her own, living a life in the gospel, taking the joy offered, living beyong the burn.”

We expect a lot from our Aaronic Priesthood brethren, and, properly trained, they seldom disappoint us. I remember when Dr. Harold Hulme served as bishopric adviser to a deacons quorum. They were invited to tour a hospital. As he introduced his quorum to the nurses, one of them said, “How unusual. The deacons in our church are older men.” Dr. Hulme replied, “Well, our deacons are outstanding young men. They can handle it when they are twelve years old!”

One time, I was annoying my sisters. My mom sent me to time-out in my bedroom. That made me so angry that I threw a terrible fit.
While I was in my room, I decided to pray. I started thinking of my blessings and thanking Heavenly Father for them. As I did this, I started to feel peace in my heart. The angry feelings I had toward Mom went away. I know that the Holy Ghost helped me feel that way, and I have a testimony of prayer.
Jonah Leavitt, age 6West Linn, Oregon

Please travel back with me to the evening before the announcement was made that Ricks College would become Brigham Young University-Idaho. Earlier that afternoon, President Bednar was informed that President Hinckley planned to announce the change the next morning at a press conference in Salt Lake City. There was not much time to pull loose ends together, and members of the President’s Council and a few other administrators were at the office late that night making last-minute preparations. It was close to 11:30 when things were finally wrapping up and winding down. I was at the copy machine; President Bednar was leaving the building. I said to him, “President, does any of this scare you? Do you feel a bit sick to your stomach?” I will never forget his response. Without even a hint of a hesitation, he said: “If I thought I had to do this by myself, I would be scared to death. But I know who is in charge.”

When I was a young boy, two Primary teachers had a great influence on me. The first was Sister Wedtstein. She remained interested in us and our activities long after we left her class. As long as we were in the same stake, she stayed in touch.
The second was Sister Baker. Besides spending time in the classroom, we had a lot of activities. We went on hikes, had campfires, and roasted hot dogs. Her husband owned an airplane, and we often went to the airport to watch him take off. I still have pictures of those times, and they always bring back wonderful memories.
As I think about Sister Wedtstein and Sister Baker, I don’t remember in detail what they taught us. But I remember the deep love they had for us and the great respect we had for them in return.

Ariel shares a similar experience: “One day I was rushing to school, and I don’t know why, but something told me to take my scriptures with me. So I quickly put them in my bag and went to school.” She goes on to say, “It just so happened that I had a really bad day. I think I was in the last class of the day, and I was looking in my bag and saw my scriptures there. Just seeing them made me happy and brought the Spirit to me, and I knew that this bad day wasn’t so bad and that everything would be okay.”

Years ago, when I was a single mother, overwhelmed with the care and support of my four children, a generous gift from my mother and brother allowed me to return to college. During my drive to school, I would think about my hopes and dreams for my children. I was a convert to the Church. My fondest desire was that they would have the opportunity to teach the gospel to others and bring them the happiness I felt.

One morning, as I was driving down to school, I thought about my two oldest sons, who were 22 months apart. If they served, the oldest would finish his mission just as his brother started his. I agonized over this and wondered how I would ever be able to help them pay for their missions. I wasn’t sure I could find funds to send the first, let alone the second.

This turmoil continued for four days, while I prayed for an answer. On the fifth day the answer came: “Raise worthy sons. Money is easy to find; worthy sons are not.”

Peace flooded my heart. The answer was so far from my monetary concerns that I was startled. My job was to raise worthy children. I could hold family home evening, attend church, get my children to seminary, and help my sons with Young Men activities. I could make prayer, fasting, and scripture reading part of our family life. I knew that if I did my part, my children might have an opportunity to serve missions.

In addition to our routine, we had an incredible home teacher who loved our family. He and his wife came faithfully each month. He taught my children lessons, gave them blessings, and attended their sports events. Friends took my sons to stake priesthood meetings and overnight campouts. There were stake members who gave them opportunities to work and earn money, neighbors who were like an extra set of parents, and school teachers who taught them discipline and consistency through academics, music, and sports.

When my oldest son turned 19, the funds were there for his mission. As it turned out, the funds were there for all four children to serve. They served in Mexico and Brazil and in South Carolina and Virginia, USA. The youngest two even served at the same time!

That experience has often made me think of the Lord’s words in Isaiah: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways” (Isaiah 55:8).

Prayers are answered when we follow the counsel we receive, and blessings often follow. I know the service my children gave to the Lord changed their lives and the lives of those they taught. Their service has blessed our home and will continue to do so for generations.

Some time ago, my husband and I subscribed to A Liahona (Portuguese). After receiving several issues, I still hadn’t read a single one. It was hard to find time to read because I work away from home, and when I get home I have many chores to do.
I finally found a way to make time to read A Liahona. I carry it with me when I go to work and read it at the bus stop, on the bus, and when I have breaks at work.
I feel the Spirit of the Lord much closer to me now. This marvelous compass has done much good in my life.
Renilce A. C. L. de Moraes,Araucaria Ward, Curitiba Brazil Novo Mundo Stake

Once you turn 16, group dating is a great way to build friendships. You’ll want to keep in mind a few things. Follow the example below to see what outcomes your decisions may have.
Start
You worked up the nerve to ask someone out. Great job. Your date asks, “Who else is coming?” You answer:
John and Suzy. (Go to #2.)
No one. (Go to #3.)
Good answer. Group dating is important in your teenage years. What do you have planned for the date?
Go to a movie. (Go to #4.)
Go on a hike. (Go to #5.)
It’s time to rethink this one (see For the Strength of Youth [2011], 4). Your date says she won’t go without a group. What do you do?
Make it a group date instead. (Go to #2.)
Stay home.
A nice idea, but maybe not the best option. You enjoyed the show, but you sat next to each other for two hours without saying a word. What do you do next?
Go home; you’re tired. (Go to #6.)
Make a dessert. (Go to #7.)
Sounds fun! And it will give you lots of opportunities to get to know one another. Did you tell your date what the plan is?
Of course! (Go to #8.)
Whoops! (Go to #9.)
You take your date home, and she thanks you for the nice time. It’s too bad you didn’t really get to know her better instead of just watching a movie.
The group gets ice cream at someone’s home. The dessert is good, and you enjoy talking with everyone. It’s almost curfew. What do you do?
Take your date home. (Go to #10.)
Stay a little longer—you’re having fun. (Go to #11.)
You enjoyed the hike and really got to know everyone in the group. What now?
Make a dessert. (Go to #7.)
Take your date home. (Go to #10.)
Your date wasn’t prepared for hiking, so you wait inside the door for a few minutes while she changes. You’re a little late in meeting up with the group, so the hike ends up shorter than you’d planned, but it’s still fun. What now?
Make a dessert. (Go to #7.)
Take your date home. (Go to #10.)
Your date says she had a great time, thanks you for the evening, and says, “We should do that again sometime!” You smile all the way home.
When you return home after curfew, you and your date both get grounded. Even though you had fun, your date’s dad won’t let you go out again.

Amanda stood at the front window of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage and searched the angry white-capped sea again. There was still no sign of her father’s whaleboat. High waves crashed against the rocks, sending white spray high into the air before the wind snatched it away.
If only the storm hadn’t come up, she thought, Father would have been back with the doctor by now.
Baby Jonathan cried fretfully, and Amanda heard Mother’s soft, soothing voice as she comforted him. Then Mother called her name.
Amanda turned and hurried into the bedroom. “Is Jonathan any better?” she asked hopefully.
“His fever is still high,” Mother answered with a worried frown. She looked worn-out from her all-night vigil. Now it was late afternoon. As she replaced the damp cloth on Jonathan’s forehead, he closed his eyes for a moment. “Please bring me a basin of fresh water, Amanda. The cool cloths seem to help.”
Amanda hurried to the kitchen and drew a pan of water from the pump. A sudden gust of wind drove rain against the windowpanes.
The storm is getting worse, Amanda thought. But father is a strong man; he can row for miles without getting tired. And with the doctor’s help, they will make it safely. They just have to!
Amanda carried the basin of water into the bedroom and set it on the low stool beside Jonathan’s bed. “Father will be here soon,” she said, attempting a cheerful tone.
“If only this storm would pass,” Mother said. She wrung out a cloth in the cold water and wiped Jonathan’s flushed face, then laid the cloth on his forehead. A moment later Jonathan closed his eyes and fell into a restless sleep. Amanda tiptoed from the room and closed the door softly.
The cottage seemed extra dark and dismal. Amanda put another log on the fire, to make the room more cheerful. Father and Dr. Benton will be hungry when they get here, she thought. Mother had planned to make stew for supper, so Amanda went into the kitchen and rekindled the fire in the cookstove.
Rain drummed on the roof, and the wind howled around the cottage. Amanda tried not to think about the storm as she prepared the meat and vegetables and put the stew on to simmer. Then she mixed a big batch of corn bread and put it into the oven to bake.
Time passed slowly, but finally the corn bread was out of the oven and cooling, and the stew was thick and rich. The mouth-watering smells made Amanda hungry. It was long past suppertime, and her father still had not come. Amanda lit the lamps and added another log to the fire in the fireplace. She opened the bedroom door quietly and entered with a lighted candle when she heard Jonathan whimpering. “Supper is ready,” she whispered. “Shall I bring you something to eat?”
Mother set the flickering candle on the nightstand and shook her head. “I must have dozed. Is your father back with the doctor yet?” she asked as she bent over the baby.
“No,” Amanda answered. “And it’s almost dark.”
Suddenly Mother put her hand to her face and gasped. “The beacon! Oh, Amanda, how could I have forgotten! The beacon must be lit!”
“Do you want me to stay with Jonathan?” Amanda asked.
Her mother shook her head. “You will have to light the beacon tonight. I can’t leave him.”
Fear tingled down Amanda’s spine at the thought of climbing the circular staircase to the lighthouse tower, more than fifty feet above the ground. When father became lighthouse keeper last spring, she had tried to climb up and watch him light the lamps. But she could never force herself to climb to the top of the tower. “I—I can’t,” Amanda whispered.
“You must!” her mother insisted. “Your father’s life and the lives of many others may depend on that light tonight. Be sure to trim the wicks and polish the reflectors before you fill the reservoirs of the lamps with oil and light them. Go quickly, dear. You must not waste another minute!”
Amanda hurried to the kitchen and got Father’s lantern. Her hand trembled as she lit it. Then she wrapped her shawl tightly around her head and shoulders and stepped out into the storm. The wind tore at her skirt as she started up the long path to the lighthouse. She leaned into the wind and struggled up the hill. When Amanda reached the lighthouse at last, she opened the door and quickly stepped inside. It was a relief to be out of the storm.
Amanda held her lantern high. In the middle of the floor the circular staircase disappeared up into the darkness above. Amanda felt like she was standing at the bottom of a deep well. Her heart beat wildly.
“This time I must climb to the top,” she said as she grasped the handrail and started to climb. Her footsteps echoed hollowly on the iron steps as she went round and round, climbing higher and higher. A wave of dizziness swept over her. Amanda clung tightly to the cold handrail and waited for the feeling to pass. She wanted desperately to run down the steps and back to the warm, cozy cottage.
“You must light the beacon!” she told herself sternly. “Somewhere out there in that awful storm Father may be watching for the light to guide him home.” She tried to force herself to let go of the handrail, but her fingers seemed to be frozen in place.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help me to find the courage to go on,” she prayed. Slowly her fingers loosened their grip. She took a step up, then another.
When she reached the top, Amanda didn’t even take time to breathe a sigh of relief. Quickly she set to work trimming the wicks of the nine lamps and polishing the big shiny reflectors. She found the can of oil for the lamps, then carefully filled and lit each one.
Taking her lantern, Amanda slowly wound her way down the staircase and out into the storm again. When she reached the porch, she stopped and looked back at the long fingers of light reaching out over the raging water. She wondered how far it could be seen in the storm. “The beacon is lit,” she said softly when she reached her mother.
Mother put her arm around Amanda. “You were very brave, dear. I know how much you dread heights. Go and have something to eat now.”
Amanda had finished supper and washed the dishes when she heard footsteps on the back porch. She rushed to open the door. “Father!” she cried. “And Dr. Benton! I’m so glad you’re safe! I was afraid you were lost in the storm.”
“We were until we saw the beacon,” Father said.
The two men took off their oilskins and left them on the porch. They warmed themselves by the fire for just a moment, then hurried in to see Jonathan. Amanda curled up in a chair by the fireplace to wait.
When she opened her eyes again, it was morning and her father was shaking her gently. “I thought you would like to know that you saved three lives last night,” he said. “Jonathan’s fever just broke. Dr. Benton told me he is going to get well.”

I looked at them as they finished their story; their faces shone with happiness. In what I thought would be a closing question, I asked in halting Spanish what they were now doing in the Church. Among them were a bishop, a Sunday School superintendent, another bishop, an executive secretary, and a mission presidency counselor.
I turned to the father, Manuel, and asked what he was doing. He replied that he was serving as a counselor in a bishopric. I was ready to finish with one last item when one of the brothers added that the bishop to whom their father was serving as a counselor was one of their brothers.
Then came one of the choice moments of my interviewing life. Turning to the bishop son, Víctor, I asked, “How does it feel to have your father as your counselor?”
With poignancy, he gently answered, “I have great love for my father. He has always counseled me well in my life. He has been an example to me. He has been my inspiration. When I have had difficulties in my life he has helped me. Who else could I ask to counsel me but my father?”
Tears began to well up in my eyes, and I slowly turned to Manuel: “How do you feel about serving your son as a counselor?”
In the great dignity natural to the Spanish tongue, Manuel Cerda softly, slowly, and in an emotionally quivering voice said, “I have great love for my sons. It is an honor to counsel them. It is an honor to advise others to listen to them. I believe I feel something like God the Father felt when he said, ‘This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased. Hear ye him.’ (Matt. 17:5.) I understand well love between father and son.”
I turned and went around the circle again. “What,” I asked, “brought about this family love?”
The father, Manuel Cerda summed up the answers of the others—“It was the gospel that changed our home. It taught us to see each other as eternal friends. It has taught me affection and love. It has taught me to esteem my children. We fight against anything that seeks to divide us, that affects our esteem for each other. The truth has changed our lives.”

My husband is a furniture maker. Although it has often been difficult to find employment in the Philippines, the Lord has blessed us.
One day when our finances were very low, my husband was working in a furniture shop making tables and chairs. I met him at work and told him we had nothing at home to eat. He told me to meet him at the market that evening when he got off work. He would ask his employer for an advance payment so we could buy some rice for dinner.
When we met that afternoon, he told me he had been advanced 50 pesos, just enough to help us get by. But when we tried to pay for the rice, he could not find the money in his pocket. We went back to the furniture shop to look for it, but nobody had seen the money. As we walked home without food or money, my husband was angry and frustrated. I tried to help him calm down, telling him to trust in the Lord. That night I prayed the Lord would help us find the money.
The next morning as my husband and daughter, Jennilyn, walked out the front door, Jennilyn saw something on the doorstep—it was the 50 pesos. I was overjoyed and grateful to Heavenly Father for making it possible for us to eat. I know if we do our part and then trust in Him, Heavenly Father will be merciful and show compassion to us.