Gospel Story Finder

I was just starting my junior year of high school. The homecoming dance was approaching and I was so excited to get asked. There were several people I wanted to go with, and I couldn’t wait to be asked by a cute, fun guy.
One day, I was about to walk into my English class when a senior boy, Chris, stopped me. “Meagan, will you go to homecoming with me?”
Chris has Asperger’s syndrome, a form of autism that makes social interaction difficult, and he was constantly bullied and teased. I was about to turn him down, but then something stopped me—a sentence I remembered from my patriarchal blessing. As I looked into Chris’s hopeful eyes, I said, “I’ll let you know, Chris.”
I soon realized how selfish I sounded. God had not given me a trial. He had given me an opportunity to serve Chris. When I told Chris yes, I watched joy come over his face.
As the dance neared, I began to worry because I thought our date might be awkward. The day of the dance came, and as I picked up Chris to meet our group, he met me at his door with flowers. These were the first flowers anyone had ever given me. He ran to open my car door, and he was a true gentleman.
As we arrived at the restaurant, we were a little early, and I had the opportunity to talk with Chris. I learned that Chris had been through a lot of hard trials. I felt guilty for all the times I’d laughed when others teased him. The group arrived, we ate, and then we went ice blocking. Every time I went down the hill, Chris ran down, carried the ice block up the hill for me, fixed the towel, and set it up for me to go down again. I’d never been treated like such a princess!
Later, as we entered the dance, I watched as a group of guys gathered around Chris and began to shove him, mock him, and dance around him. “Stop!” I yelled as I began to cry. I thought this was going to end in disaster. Then several guys from our group stepped in and moved the crowd away from Chris.
As the guys left, Chris came over to me and asked if I was OK. I’d stood here watching him get teased and mocked, and he wanted to know if I was OK! Who was this guy?
After the dance, I took Chris home. While we were driving, I felt truly humbled. I’d gone on this date thinking I would be helping Chris, when he’d really been helping me. Going to the dance with Chris taught me how wrong we are when we judge others unrighteously. God loves Chris just as much as He loves everyone else. I’d been so busy looking at the outside that I’d looked past the wonderful inside attributes Chris possessed. I believe all of God’s children have attributes like that. No matter how different people may appear to be, they still have feelings and God loves them just the same. I thank Heavenly Father for the opportunity I had to go to the dance with Chris. It has forever changed my outlook on life.

Athena Dayley, a senior at the American High School, is often the translator for the Young Women. She finds it challenging but fun. “It is so neat to be able to talk to someone in another language,” Athena says, “but translating at church is really hard, and I get flustered at times and can’t remember what is being said or comprehend the meaning of what I’m translating. All I’m doing is parroting words.”
But the youth have discovered that sometimes spiritual moments transcend the language barrier.
“I seldom cry at movies,” Athena says, “but at girls’ camp the Spirit was so strong that even if I couldn’t understand the words, I couldn’t help but have tears in my eyes.”

The Burley Theatre in Burley, Idaho, is a single-screen theater. While I was a young child and preteen, Clayton Bryan, “Mr. Bryan” to us kids, was the manager, and he appeared a somewhat fearsome man. It seemed to my young mind that he would just as soon kick you out of the theater as look at you—at least if you were misbehaving. As a 16-year-old, I got a job as a projectionist at the Burley Theatre. Through working for him, I learned that Mr. Bryan was not the fearsome man of my childhood.

The Harris Theatre, another single-screen movie theater about a block and a half from the Burley Theatre, was owned by the same man and was managed by Mr. Bryan’s wife, Kathryn. Given the proximity of the two theaters to each other and the half-hour difference in starting times of the movies shown at each, it was possible for me to be the projectionist at both of them. After starting the movie at the Burley Theatre and taking a few minutes to make sure all was running well, I would walk to the Harris Theatre and start the movie there.

The days of the dual-projector booth that allowed movies to be shown by alternating the reels between the projectors were over. The Burley Theatre had implemented a platter-projection system. All reels of the movie were spliced together and wound around a removable metal spool in the center of a platter. To play the movie, the metal spool would be removed and placed on an empty platter. The film would be pulled from the center of the full platter, threaded through the control mechanism of the platter, which was called the payout unit, then over a series of rollers to the projector, through the projector and sound head, and finally over another series of rollers to the empty platter, where it would be secured to the metal spool, around which it would be wound to be ready for the next showing of the movie.

As the movie played, the payout unit controlled the rotation speed of the platter system to ensure that as the movie was pulled off of the full platter and wound onto the empty platter, it maintained an even tension, thereby preventing the film from breaking. To keep centrifugal force from spinning the end of the film off the full platter at the outer edge, a suction cup attached to a small metal plate was affixed to the full platter to hold the end of the film in place.

One night I started the movie at the Burley and then, as usual, went to the Harris to start the movie there. When I got back to the projection booth at the Burley, I was horrified to see that I had failed to securely fix the suction cup to the full platter. As a result, the cup, its attached plate, and the loose film end had been spun off the platter. While I had been away, close to a reel of film had been pulled off the platter and tied in a huge knot.

With scissors I cut the film closest to the edge of the full platter, stopped the platter long enough to really secure the suction cup, and then set to work fixing the mess. Quickly abandoning my attempt to untie the knot, I made several dozen cuts in the film until I had flat lengths of film to work with. Then I began matching up ends and splicing them back together until I finally had a single complete length. With Mr. Bryan’s help, I was able to splice this repaired section to the film still on the platter and then let it wind back on, all without stopping the movie. To this day I don’t remember how we managed that feat.

Even though I had learned that he was really a kind man, the fearsome Mr. Bryan of my childhood was in my mind as I repaired the film. For my carelessness, I expected a tongue lashing at the very least. But instead of condemning me, he calmly and frankly forgave me while also admonishing me to learn from the mistake and to be certain that it didn’t happen again. That night Clayton Bryan gave me the gospel gift of compassion.

In the town of Nahualá, Guatemala, a miracle is taking place among a circle of attentive Indian sisters gathered in Relief Society: They are hearing the lesson in their native language of Quiché. The teacher, an Indian sister dressed in traditional Mayan corte and huipil (a heavily embroidered handwoven skirt and blouse), translates from Spanish into Quiché as she teaches.
In an area where opportunities for schooling are limited, particularly for women, this teacher learned to read through her own study and devotion. And she has also begun teaching another sister to read. Because of her hours of personal study, the spirit of learning pervades the whole Relief Society group. Together, the sisters of Nahualá are “feasting upon the word of Christ” (2 Ne. 31:20).

Sometimes compassionate listening can lead to action. Sister Lois Porter, a Relief Society president in Salt Lake City, was visiting an elderly woman in the hospital. “I asked what I could do for her, and she answered, ‘Nothing.’ But when I asked her what was worrying her, she told me she was worrying about her lawn and her cat. I would never have known that, but I was then able to water her lawn and feed her cat for her.”

After his brother had fallen asleep and their candle had burned out, Gaelin lay awake. The room was black, except where the moon shone through the window. He was trying to remember something so that he could forget how dark it was and how the shadows looked like wicked giants on the wall.
Only that morning, Gaelin had held the big stallion’s reins as he watched his father, Sir Gareth, swing into the saddle. Equipped with shield and sword, Sir Gareth had smiled at Gaelin through kindly eyes and said, “Now, my little knight, take good care of your brothers and sisters while I’m gone. And remember, Son, that true courage is fear that has said its prayers.” Then he had turned his charger and joined others of King Arthur’s knights as they assembled for a journey.
The next morning Gaelin arose early, dressed quickly, and ran down the stairs. He didn’t think about Sir Gareth’s words again until it was dark. Shivering more because of the eerie shadows than the cold, he went to his room.
That evening about eleven o’clock, a storm blew in from the ocean. The thunder and lightning were the worst part. Loud thunderclaps shook the stone walls of the castle. Gaelin and his little brother shivered under their wolfskins until they fell asleep.
It was past midnight when Gaelin’s mother came into the room and found the boys asleep. She whispered Gaelin’s name, and he awoke with a start. “What’s wrong, Mother?” he asked.
“Your littlest sister is very sick,” she replied. “Get up and dress quickly! The stableboy is saddling your pony. You must ride to the village and fetch old Grimbauld. She can save Leonora if anyone can!”
“The village?” Gaelin stared at his mother in horror. “But it’s five miles away … and it’s thundering and raining so hard!” He bit his lip, terrified of riding in the storm. Then he looked at his mother’s anxious face and whispered, “I’ll go.”
In a few minutes he was on his way, with the wind tugging at his cloak and teasing his pony’s tail. Brennet, his pony, lowered his head and drove himself into the rain while Gaelin held up the lantern his mother had given him. The boy squinted into the wind and bumped the pony’s sides with his heels.
Gaelin was soaking wet and cold even before he reached the forest. Five miles of forest, he worried. It’s dark and howling with wind and full of bears and dragons! Can I make it? His tiny lantern threatened to go out at any moment, and then he would certainly become lost!
The trail through the forest was well worn, and Gaelin urged Brennet into a gallop. The best way is to do it quickly, he decided. Then there won’t be time to be frightened. But the lantern swung wildly, and its moving shadows looked like dark giants bounding from behind old twisted trees to carry him away!
Brennet was strong-winded and had been ridden often, so Gaelin kept him running until he steamed beneath the saddlecloth and his breath came hard. Surely I’m almost to the village, Gaelin thought.
They stopped only once, when there was an explosion and a blinding flash ahead. The pony reared up on his hind legs, snorting. Gaelin didn’t fall, but he felt his heart pounding in his throat. Even so, he encouraged Brennet on.
As they rounded a bend, Gaelin saw the tree. Blackened and still smoking from the lightning, it had fallen across the path. He swallowed hard, gripped the pony’s sides tightly with his knees, and urged him to jump. But Brennet was too tired. He couldn’t spring high enough from the muddy earth, and his front hooves didn’t clear the branches. The pony tumbled headlong on the other side, pitching Gaelin from his saddle so that he struck the ground with the arm that held the lantern.
When Gaelin sat up, he was surrounded by blackness. The lantern was smashed! He couldn’t see the trees, his pony, or even the puddle he’d landed in. Fighting back tears because it was unknightly to cry, he suddenly remembered Sir Gareth’s words: Remember that courage is fear that has said its prayers.
With the storm crashing overhead, Gaelin knelt and prayed: “Please, dear God, don’t let me be frightened anymore! My little sister is very sick, and I must get help. Help me to find the way and not be scared! In the name of Christ our Lord, amen.”
Brennet was snuffling at the boy’s shoulder. Gaelin found the reins, swung up onto the pony, and started off once more. The moon was beginning to show its round face between the clouds, and the storm was moving up the countryside.
In front of old Grimbauld’s cottage, Gaelin tumbled off his exhausted mount and pounded on the heavy door with a hand that no longer shook. The kind peasant woman, wrapped in a thick shawl, brought him in to sit beside her little fire. With a dry sheepskin around him, he delivered his message.
Gaelin was warm by the time she’d gathered her herbs and other things and bridled her mule. She paused in the doorway and looked at him kindly. “You came all that way through the storm, boy? Weren’t you frightened? You must have the courage of a knight!”
Gaelin only smiled as he went out to take care of faithful Brennet. He wasn’t frightened anymore, and he knew that little Leonora would soon be well.

A youth activity on a chilly night in January 2017 changed the Sorenson family forever. Terry and Jenilyn’s son Tanner was 14 years old. The combined activity was wrapping up. A leader was offering the last of the refreshments. Tanner, who was allergic to peanuts, grabbed a cookie and bit into it. He shouldn’t have. It was a peanut butter cookie.

“He was usually so careful,” Terry says.

Tanner managed to get home—his house was just down the street from their meetinghouse. But he lost consciousness quickly after. He stopped breathing. Paramedics and emergency room staff fought valiantly for him. But unfortunately their efforts were not successful.

Tanner passed away that night because of his food allergy.

Tanner’s family has felt many miracles, large and small, since losing their son. They hope increased awareness of food allergies is one of them.

“It’s not that these kids with allergies are irresponsible. It’s not that they aren’t paying attention. But they are kids,” says Tanner’s father, Terry. “It just takes one second of letting your guard down.”

When l was a youngster, my parents moved our family into a tough city-edge neighborhood. It was during the dark days of World War II, and with little housing available, we took what we could get near my father’s defense effort job. We had lived in the country among friendly folks, and now among strangers, I didn’t know what to expect on my first day at school.
My worst fears were realized. Many of the students and teachers were strangers in the transient conditions of the war. Not only did disagreement abound, but physical fighting broke out among my 12-year-old peers. There seemed to be no particular issues involved, just an effort by everyone to determine who was the “toughest.”
Later that year, in an effort to curb this unwanted practice in which so many young people were getting hurt, several faculty members managed to gain some control over it by putting boxing gloves on the combatants. Tournaments were held during lunch hour, and the nice thing was that a person could choose to compete or watch, as he preferred. I wanted no particular part in it. I already felt sufficiently challenged physically by the time school began just in walking three miles one way to class. Much energy was spent in work at home and getting up early to run through orchards and leap canals just to reach school.
However, there were obviously many students with pent-up energies who participated in these noon-hour boxing matches. Besides, I was content to believe that some of these kids who claimed to be “fourth toughest” or “second toughest,” or whatever, really were what they bragged to be. I was also a little dismayed, however, that they put so much ego—at times a little oppressive and unbearable for the others—into being physically tough. And if no one challenged them, under the arrangement, they could continue to claim whatever title they wished without even tying on the boxing gloves.
I was therefore somewhat pleased, but mostly aghast one day when a newfound friend of mine, a slightly built young man by the name of Terrance, told me he was going to challenge Phillip. Phillip had declared himself “Number Four.”
“Don’t do it!” I tried to persuade him. “Phillip will kill you!”
“We’ll see about that,” Terrance answered gamely. “How do we know unless I meet him in the ring?” Then, quietly, Terrance continued: “I think Phillip is talking too much about it. Frankly, I think he’s bluffing.”
I watched the first round with my hands over my eyes. But the round was no sooner over than Phillip stated he did not want to continue. That made Terrance Number Four. Suddenly, it was like in the cowboy movies. When they saw how easily he had wrested the title from Phillip, everyone wanted to challenge Terrance. And if Terrance didn’t want to “lose face” he had to participate.
As we were walking the three miles up the long a hill toward our homes in the government housings project, past monotonous rows of look-alike houses, Terrance confided something to me. “I know that fighting doesn’t really resolve anything. And personally, I never did like to fight. Where did it get either Phillip or me? I just wanted to humble him, but now I wonder if he’s better off than me. I don’t know. Maybe I can defeat Number One, but I know that wouldn’t prove anything, would it? I just wish there were some way out of this.”
Yet, Terrance acknowledged that he probably had already gone too far and there was no way out, except to finish what he had started. He trudged into his house, recognizable by the number over the door, and parted with: “Well, no use beating around the bush. Tomorrow, I’ll skip Number Two and Three and go right to Tracy, Number One.”
The next day word got around quickly that freckle-faced little Terrance was going to do battle with the much larger and stone-faced Tracy. Everyone ate lunch quickly and settled down to watch the proceedings. The boxing ring was in the basement of the school next to the boiler room. It was fine for a few dozen spectators, but on that particular day hundreds of kids packed into the concrete window abutments and stood on chairs to peer over heating pipes. I got there early and had a pretty good seat next to the custodian’s closet.
The two sparred for several rounds without either gaining much advantage. In the fifth round, several of the crowd said they thought that it should be over fairly soon, that Tracy was “just beginning to warm up.” However, as I looked at both of their faces, they appeared equally tired. When the round was over, Tracy walked over to Terrance. I could barely hear what Tracy was saying: “Why don’t we just declare it a truce and call ourselves co-champions? I’m not sure going on any further would prove either one of us better than the other.”
Terrance agreed. They put their arms around each other and the crowd cheered both as winners.
That by no means ended the daily boxing tournaments. But somehow, they were never the same after that. Deciding who was toughest just didn’t matter as much anymore. The two toughest kids in school had decided it wasn’t important.

Not long after becoming President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, President McKay announced his plan to establish the Church College in Hawaii. In 1954, he selected Reuben D. Law, the Dean of Education at BYU in Provo, to be the first president of the future Church College of Hawaii. Law organized and brought a committee to Hawaii to assess and plan the beginnings of this college. Shortly thereafter, President Law ambitiously confirmed to President McKay that classes could start in September of 1956, less than two years away. To president Law’s surprise, David O. McKay instead insisted they begin classes in September 1955, less than one year away.
President Law needed the right help to execute a Prophet’s ambitious charge.

One of his first hires was a native Hawaiian woman named Ethel Helani Whitford Almodova. Her role as the Director of registrars and admissions was critical because the school needed students fast!

In 1954 Ethel was a recent graduate from BYU in Provo and only 23 years old. However, president Law offered her a full-time faculty position to run registrars and admissions for the future La‘ie college.

Although her new job in Hawaii was exciting, David O. McKay’s ambitious mandate to start classes seven months after plunging a shovel in the ground at the dedication in February 1955 did make things challenging for Ethel’s first two months on the job. Since new student admission and enrollment needed to take place well before classes started, Ethel had to find an entire student body for the college in about two months. How could she recruit so many students in so little time to a college that only existed in concept? She got straight to it.

“On several occasions, Birdie and I flew to the neighbor islands to recruit students for school. We flew to the Big Island and landed in Kamuela where Sister Thelma Lindsey met us and took us to her home in Waimea. This was in July and we nearly froze. It was so cold there. From Waimea we went to Hilo and spent time there with the Saints. We stayed at the Mission Home. Then we were off to Puna and Kona before we flew back to Oahu. We were gone for several days. Another weekend we went to Maui, returned, and then were gone to Kauai... During our trips, we recruited several students and they joined us in Laie when the college commenced in September.”

In a short amount of time, Ethel successfully recruited over 150 students from the Hawaiian islands. These Students were so anxious and blessed to enroll in a college that was affordable, close by, and most importantly tailored specifically for them by a Prophet of God.
The College began with an opening assembly in the chapel of the Laie First Ward because that was the largest facility they had to accommodate everyone.

“True to prophetic vision, the college was now a reality and the official opening an important event in history. We were pioneers and it was exciting to be involved with The Church College. The faculty and staff were very compatible and the students were wonderful. We had 153 students that first historic year and it has continued to grow.”

“Hello, Sheri! Are you there?” a friendly voice crackled from the shortwave radio. Australia’s School of the Air classes were ready to begin.
Sheri North sat up straight, arranged her school books a little, and adjusted the radio dial labeled squelch.
“I’m here, Mr. Walker,” she told her teacher.
Mr. Walker sat in an almost empty classroom a hundred miles away at Broken Hill in New South Wales, Australia.
Sheri listened attentively while Mr. Walker finished calling the roll. Then she heard a horse whinny and her mind wandered outside to where Jumper, her pinto pony, pawed the parched earth of his pen. She glanced at the calendar above her desk—December 22—two more days and she’d be free for Christmas vacation. Though it was only nine o’clock, the hot, dry air told her the day would be another scorcher.
It’s funny, she thought, how my cousin in the United States always sends Christmas cards showing ice and snow. She’d probably be surprised to know that south of the equator we have summer in December and winter in July.
“Sheri! Sheri North! Come in!” an anxious voice shouted.
Sheri’s daydreams were shattered by Mr. Walker’s call over the radio.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Mr. Walker,” Sheri said as she pressed the microphone switch. “I guess my mind wandered.”
“Thank heavens you’re still there! I thought for a minute that you had disappeared too.”
“What do you mean too?” Sheri asked.
“Do you know Donny Fisher? He lives about ten miles north of you.”
“Sure, he’s a little red-haired boy my cousin sometimes plays with. He’s the only other eight-year-old in the whole neighborhood.”
“Well, he doesn’t answer his radio this morning; and he hasn’t missed a single day of class since we started this term. Do you think your father could drive over and see if the family is having some kind of trouble?”
Sheri tried to stifle her fears for a moment as thoughts of danger flashed through her mind. She knew families living in Australia’s outback (isolated rural countryside) had to be self-sufficient—modern-day pioneers, her father always called them. They were so isolated from each other, they even held church services over the shortwave radio.
Sheri’s father insisted that all his children learn to use a fire extinguisher, for there were no fire engines available. He taught them to shoot a rifle to drive off the dingos (wild dogs) that sometimes frightened the cattle with their wolf-like howling. Even her two-year-old brother was beginning to ride a horse, for horses were the only sure transportation across the parched, dry desert where cars and trucks habitually broke down.
“My father is out with the sheep,” Sheri explained. “He’s been gone three days and we don’t expect him home until tomorrow.”
“What about your mother?” Mr. Walker asked. “Could she go see if they need help?”
“I’ll ask, but I don’t think so. The baby is feverish and my mother can’t leave her when she’s so sick.”
“Then you’ll have to go,” Mr. Walker said in a firm voice. “It’s quite a responsibility, Sheri, but you’re the oldest in your family. People must grow up fast out here if they expect to survive.”
Sheri gulped hard. It wasn’t the ten miles that bothered her so much—she could ride that far in less than two hours—what worried her most was how she could help when she arrived. What if their house has burned down and they’re all dead? What if they’ve been attacked by outlaw aborigines or by a pack of dingos? What could I possibly do to help?
“All right . … I’ll go if my mother says it’s OK,” she hesitantly agreed. “But I want you to know I’m plenty scared! I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there.”
“Look. You just radio me, and if they’re sick or hurt, I’ll send a flying doctor over in a plane to help out. You won’t be alone for long,” Mr. Walker consoled.
“Just one more thing,” Sheri added. “You won’t mark me absent from school, will you?”
“No, I’ll give you full credit,” Mr. Walker chuckled. “Now skedaddle and get moving. Don’t forget to take a canteen, and don’t ride too fast. You can wear out a horse in no time at all in this heat.”
“I’ll be careful,” Sheri assured him.
Within minutes Sheri had saddled and mounted Jumper. Her mother slung a pair of heavy saddlebags behind Jumper’s saddle. Then she smiled and patted Sheri’s knee.
“There’s a first-aid kit in this side,” Mother explained, pointing to one bag. “I’ve packed a lunch in the other one and also a pistol. Don’t use it unless you have to!”
“Don’t worry, Mother, I won’t. I hate the loud bang and the way it kicks,” Sheri said, nudging her horse and trotting away.
“Radio me when you get there so I can stop worrying,” her mother called.
Sheri waved, but didn’t look back. Her mind was on the problems ahead. She rode past scattered dwarf acacia trees, saltbush shrubs, and tough spinifex grass growing in large clumps in the sandy areas.
Suddenly, Jumper pulled up short, rearing on his hind legs so quickly he almost threw Sheri from the saddle.
A large red kangaroo leaped from a bush in front of them. He was followed by another and then two more.
Sheri sighed, then called after them, “G’wan home you crazy wallaroos!”
The sun was high when the Fisher Sheep Station (ranch) appeared on the horizon. Sheri spotted a man on horseback and Jumper broke into a gallop.
Approaching the jackaroo (apprentice sheepherder) and his dog, Sheri was puzzled to see everything appearing pretty much as normal.
“Hold up there, young lady!” the man called. “What’s the big rush?”
“I rode over to help save the Fisher family,” Sheri said.
“Save ’em?” The man looked confused. “Save ’em from what? The ants or the lizards?”
“No! You don’t understand.” Sheri didn’t appreciate his dry sense of humor. “Mr. Walker, my teacher, sent me over to save them when Donny didn’t answer the radio at roll call this morning. I’ve got to help!”
The man burst out laughing, but stopped when he saw a tear run down Sheri’s cheek. “Hey, look, miss, if you really want to help and you don’t mind getting your hands greasy, you can ride over there to the tool repair shop and help Mr. Fisher fix the electric generator. He’s been working on it since late last night, and I’m sure he’d be happy to have all the help he can get.”
“You mean Donny didn’t answer the radio because there’s no electricity?”
“Kind of seems that way, doesn’t it?” the man said, his eyes twinkling. “And you’ve had an unexpected day off from school.”

With all the replays it was starting to look like Monday Night Football. Actually George Washington only crossed the Delaware River once, but don’t tell the young people in the Idaho Falls 35th Ward. They’ve had the Father of the Country crossing more water than t’s.
So successful was their winning roadshow that it turned into a service project by both choice and popular, or rather patriotic, demand. At first the show played for various wards in the Idaho Falls South Stake. After taking top honors in the stake festival, the youth were asked to stage their show for the community’s Bicentennial celebration on Washington’s birthday. More than 2,000 students and adults saw George hit the deck once more. Moving full speed ahead, the young people presented the hit at another Bicentennial program in May.
By then the young people didn’t want to abandon the ship; they decided that the residents at a learning home for the handicapped would enjoy live history. George and his friends even planned a special party for the audience. Not stopping there, the young people steered their enthusiasm and George’s boat into full throttle and prepared to launch their show in rest homes and nursing homes.
The audiences were all supportive and receptive; and the Idaho Falls youth were glad their song-and-dance roadshow had made so many waves—of laughter and cheers!

I had an experience from which I learned a very important lesson that I should have learned earlier. I relived this experience last week when we were in Japan and concluded that I would talk about it in conference.
During World War II, I was a pilot in the Air Force. After service in the Pacific Islands, I spent a year in Japan with the occupational forces. It was, of course, advisable to learn a few words of Japanese. We needed at least to be able to ask directions, ask for something to eat.
I learned the common greetings and a few of the numbers and the salutations, and like many other members of the Church, I spent all my off-duty hours in missionary work among the Japanese people; and I learned from them those few words of what I thought was a very difficult language.
In July of 1946 the first baptisms took place in Osaka. Brother and Sister Tatsui Sato were baptized. And while they had been taught for the most part by others, I was privileged to baptize Sister Sato.
Though we were not unhappy in Japan, there was really only one thing on our minds, and that was home! I had been away for nearly four years. The war was over, and I wanted to go home.
When that day finally arrived, I supposed never to return to Japan, and I just closed that chapter.
The next years saw me busy getting an education, raising a family. I was not around Japanese people and had no occasion to use those few words that I had learned. They were left in the dim and very distant past, erased by 26 years of forgetting—gone, as I thought, forever. Then came an assignment to Japan.
The morning after my arrival in Tokyo, I was leaving the mission home with President Abo when a Japanese elder spoke to him in Japanese. President Abo said that the matter was urgent and apologized for the delay.
He went through some papers with the elder, discussing them in Japanese. Then he held up one of the letters and, pointing to a sentence, he said, “Korewa …”
And before he could complete the sentence I had completed it in my mind. Korewa nan desuka. I knew what he was saying. I knew what he was asking the elder. Korewa nan desuka means “What is this?” After 26 years, having been back in Japan but overnight, a sentence had come back into my mind—Korewa nan desuka, “What is this?”
I had not used those words in 26 years. I had thought that I should never use them again. But they were not lost.
I spent ten days in Japan and concluded my tour in Fukuoka. The morning I was to leave, we drove to the airport with Brother and Sister Watanabe. I was in the backseat with their children practicing my long-lost words of Japanese on them. They, in delight, were teaching me some new ones.
And then I recalled a little song that I had learned those 26 years before, and I sang it to those children:
Momotaro-san, Momotaro-san
Okoshi ni tsuketa kibi dango
Hitotsu watashi ni kudasai na
I think that may make Brother Ottley restless, but …
Sister Watanabe said, “I know that song.” And so we sang it together to the little children and then she told me the meaning of it, and as she did so, I remembered that also.
It is the story of a Japanese couple who were childless, and they had prayed for a son. One day, in the stone of a large peach, they found a little boy and they named him Momotaro. The song recounts his heroism in saving his people from a terrible enemy.
I had known that song for 26 years, but I didn’t know that I knew it. I had never sung the song to my own children. I had never told them the story of it. It had been smothered under 26 years of attention to other things.
I have thought that a most important experience and realized finally that nothing good is ever lost. Once I got back among the people who spoke the language, all that I possessed came back and it came back very quickly. And I found it easier then to add a few more words to my vocabulary.

Serving a mission can be a financial burden to any missionary and his family, but what do you do when you have three sons all wanting to leave at the same time? The Rozsa family has foreseen this, and the boys have been working since the age of 13 toward their missions. In addition to those icy Boston paper routes, they’ve sold avocados, worked in construction, and held other odd jobs. Last summer all three worked at the same taco stand at the same time, guaranteeing considerable confusion among unsuspecting customers. They report their bank accounts are in good shape for the missions to come.

Siabebe, a young Kuna Indian girl, sits beside her mother on the earthen floor of their palm-leaf hut. Like her mother, she takes a needle, thimble, and scissors and sets to work with brightly colored cloth. For many weeks now, Siabebe has clipped and tucked and stitched. She’s eager to finish her work, yet careful to make perfect stitches she and her mother can be proud of.
In one more week, Siabebe will attend an important celebration with her family and all the people of her village. She and her mother will wear the lovely mola blouses they are making. Siabebe’s is a tutu (flower) mola; her mother’s a yauk (sea turtle) mola.
Two special ceremonies are held for every girl who grows up in a Kuna village: when she officially leaves childhood behind and is declared an adult (usually around the age of twelve) and another time a couple of years later when she is presented as being ready for marriage. Then the village members celebrate with music, dancing, and storytelling. It is during these ceremonies that the finest molas are worn. And it is for Siabebe’s own coming-of-age party that she and her mother have worked so hard to make theirs the loveliest of molas.

Years ago, one of our sons, who was in fourth grade at the time, came home from school and asked me, “Dad, how much money do you make?”

I replied, “That’s a very personal question. Your mom didn’t ask me that until the third date.” (I’m kidding of course. She asked me lots of questions, but not that one.)

I asked him, “Why do you want to know?”

He explained, “At school today, we learned about income. So what is yours?”

I said, “I tell you what. I will give you one guess, and I will tell you if my income is higher or lower than your guess.”

Without hesitation, he quickly responded, “OK, $47,000.”

I responded, “That’s a pretty specific guess. Why did you guess $47,000.”

He said, “Well, we learned that the average income is $45,000 . . . and I thought you were a little above average.”

There are times that I feel I do not even measure up to average, much less a little above average. Most of us experience, at some point, what could be called the Ds of the devil: doubt, discouragement, despair, despondency. If you ever feel those Ds of the devil, go to the temple. In the temple, we can be reminded of who we are, that we are children of a loving God. We are also taught that He has a plan of happiness for us. I find that the temple does not take away my challenges or feelings of inadequacy, but the sweet whisperings of the Spirit felt in the temple remind me that I am not alone and that God is anxious to bless me.

Elder Dallin H. Oaks of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles
“As a 12-year-old deacon, I was pleased to accompany the bishop to deliver Christmas baskets to the widows of our ward in Vernal, Utah. The backseat of his car was filled with baskets of grapefruit and oranges. This was during World War II, when grapefruit and oranges were scarce, so they were quite a treat. He waited in the car while I took a basket to each door and said, ‘The bishop asked me to give you this Christmas basket from the ward.’
“When we had delivered all the baskets but one, the bishop drove me home. There he handed me the last basket and said, ‘This is for your mother.’ Before I could reply, he drove away. [Dallin H. Oaks was 7 when his father passed away in June 1940.]
“I stood in front of our house, snowflakes falling on my face, holding the basket and wondering. We had been delivering baskets to widows, but I had never thought of my mother as a widow. I had never heard her refer to herself as a widow. I wondered why anyone would think my mother was a widow.
“That Christmas experience was formative in my understanding of the eternal family and in my appreciation for the faith of my mother. She always taught us that we had a father and she had a husband and that we would always be a family because of their temple marriage. …
“I am grateful for temple marriage and for the assurance that we can be together as an eternal family.”4

I had been feeling upset after getting into an argument with my mom. Dealing with the divorce of my LDS parents and my mom’s new husband really has hit me hard. One night while watching TV, I decided to read the magazine. Once I opened it to the first page, tears filled my eyes. Real stories and people fill this magazine. I can’t thank you enough for the knowledge, comfort, and the spirit it brought to me.
Name WithheldTexas

It was four days before Christmas, and the excitement in our family was almost tangible. Heidi was busy wrapping her gifts for Mom, while Erin was fascinated by the brightly colored lights twinkling in the window. I was excited because tonight the company John worked for was treating the employees and their wives to dinner and a show.
After dropping the girls off at the baby-sitter’s, John and I were on our way. We used the time as we drove to the company party to reflect on our many blessings.
The party was a huge success. It was well after midnight when we pulled into the driveway. John went ahead to open the door and turn the lights on, while I wrapped our two sleeping girls in blankets to protect them against the wintry night air.
Suddenly, John came running back to me, shouting, “We’ve been robbed!” With Erin in my arms, I felt a chill run through me. After checking the house, we discovered that all our Christmas presents were gone. The thieves had taken everything—even our tithing receipts and patriarchal blessings. We were devastated! What could we do? We felt so helpless.
Instead of enjoying the fun of customary family events connected with the celebration of the birth of our Savior, we struggled with a cold and empty feeling. The gifts could surely be replaced, but the love and care that went into each gift and its wrapping could not.
We held a family council and decided to stay indoors and celebrate Christmas quietly, keeping our focus on a celebration of the Savior’s birth.
That Sunday, news of the robbery spread. Sunday evening, as John and I sat in the living room with the lights out, we heard the sound of car doors slamming. We both jumped, thinking the burglars had come back. Quickly we dashed to the front door. We couldn’t believe what we saw.
Tiny reflections of lighted candles flickered in the frosty air as 25 ward members sang carols to brighten our spirits. It was hard for us to hold back our tears.
As they drove off, we felt joy replace the bitterness in our hearts. When we walked back into the house, the phone was ringing—the first of many phone calls that night from neighbors wondering how they could help us. We turned on Erin’s favorite twinkling lights and decided to have a Christmas celebration, no matter how small.
The following day was Christmas Eve. About 11:00 A.M. it began—visit after visit from Church members with presents and food. One sister was prompted to give us money, and it turned out to be the same amount that had been stolen. Boy Scouts came and made their contribution. Members from a neighboring stake heard of the robbery and sent Santa himself. Heidi could not believe her eyes. This parade of love and aid continued until about midnight.
By the time we went to bed that Christmas Eve, our hearts were filled with gratitude to others. Exemplifying the spirit of Christmas, those who responded to our need had turned a nightmare into a festival of Christlike love.

“No school today!” came the magic words from the radio.
Remembering last night’s house-shaking blizzard, Dave thought that a holiday from school was a beautiful bonus.
“I wish Dad weren’t out of town,” said Mother, briskly beating pancake batter. “Something always happens when he’s gone.”
A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows. Dave peered out. He could hardly tell where the road was. It looked like a white river with waves whipped up by the wind.
“Being snowed in isn’t so bad,” he said happily. “Nothing can get through, not even a school bus.”
During breakfast, the radio broadcast several weather-related stories: A forty-mile-an-hour wind had roared all night, blowing three feet of snow into massive drifts. Semitrailers had jackknifed, and cars and buses had slid into ditches. Some snow-plows were still stuck on major highways. “The worst of the storm is over,” the announcer concluded, “but some areas might not be plowed out until tomorrow.”
The phone rang. It was Dave’s best friend, Tim. “Tough about school, huh? Think we can handle it?”
“Maybe if we get together for moral support,” Dave replied.
“Glad to help a buddy out,” Tim said cheerfully. “Be right over.”
Tim lived only two blocks away, but by the time he got to Dave’s house, he was covered with snow. “The Abominable Snowman himself!” he laughed.
“I know a perfect place to build a snow cave-fort,” Dave suggested, pulling on his ski jacket, snow bib, boots, hat, and mittens. He felt as if he was outfitting for a polar expedition.
“Snow’s sticky enough,” agreed Tim.
“Build it where I can see you from the house,” Mother warned. “And be careful.”
“Sure,” the boys said in unison.
Outside, the wind punched them in the face, and snowflakes as thick as feathers swirled around them. Sinking deep into the drifts, they plodded toward the garage, where Dave pointed to a high snowbank.
“It is perfect!” Tim said. The giant snowbank blocked the wind and had plenty of raw material for their cave-fort. They set to work tunneling into the base of the big drift, shoveling out the snow and packing the sides as they dug.
Two houses away their friends Jeff and Brian were piling up snowballs.
“We just have to get our fort done before they start a snowball fight!” Tim exclaimed. They worked all morning, then stopped only for lunch and to change their wet mittens.
“How’s your fort coming along?” Mother asked, dishing up tomato soup and handing them grilled cheese sandwiches.
“It’s the best ever,” bragged Tim. “It’s the biggest and highest—”
“And strongest, I hope,” Mother put in, looking worried.
“We’ll find out in the snowball showdown!” replied Tim, gulping down his soup.
When they went out again, they saw that Jeff and Brian had started to build a fort too. Dave wondered how much ammunition they had stockpiled.
Dave and Tim’s fort was shaping up. They widened the entrance, enlarged the inside, and sloshed water onto the sides to ice them firm. Finally, pushing out a big snow chunk, Dave grunted, “We’re just about done.”
“If you clear the doorway,” said Tim, “I can finish up inside.”
Dave crawled out and started shoveling out the entrance. He looked at the fort looming high above him. It seemed strangely quiet. The wind had died to a whisper. The snow had stopped. Nothing moved. It was like a movie that had stopped, frozen in one frame. He shivered.
Then, without a sound, the snow roof slowly slid inward, collapsing the fort and burying Tim. This can’t be happening! Dave agonized, and he flew at the crumpled white mound with his shovel, flailing away furiously. “Tim! Tim!” he yelled. But there was no sound. “Cave-in!” he shouted to Jeff and Brian, and they came running with shovels. “Tim’s under there!”
Dave’s mother came running out of the house. “I called an ambulance, but nothing can get through. The roads are still blocked!” She frantically started scooping at the snow pile with her bare hands.
Dave’s heart sank. “Please, God,” he murmured desperately, “help Tim.” Shoveling furiously again, he shouted, “Hang on, Tim! We’ll get you out!” Finally, his breath coming in great gasps, Dave stopped shoveling. Looking at the huge pile of snow and at the very little that they had uncovered, a wave of despair swept over him.
Suddenly a story flashed through his mind, one that he’d read long ago. It was about an avalanche, a boy who was buried, and his friend who kept poking a broom handle deep into the drifts until he found him.
Dave tore off his mittens. He wanted to feel with his fingertips. Plunging his arm deep into the snow, he jabbed down in different places, calling, “Tim! We’re coming, Tim!” over and over. Tim had to know that help was on the way, so that he could hold out longer.
I must hurry, Dave told himself. There’s so much snow to cover. Am I reaching deep enough? Again and again he thrust his arms into the snow—reaching, reaching.
Suddenly he thought that he felt something way down deep. Was he imagining it? His arm pushed through the snow again. There was something there! “Dig here!” he yelled.
The diggers scooped out snow with their shovels and then with their hands until they had uncovered Tim’s arm, hanging limp. Quickly they uncovered Tim’s head. His face was ashen, but he opened his eyes and mumbled something. In just minutes he was freed, carried into the house, stripped of his wet clothes, and wrapped in blankets.
It wasn’t until then that Dave was conscious of his own red, throbbing hands. He soaked them in tepid water, but they hurt for a long time afterward. A small price to pay, he thought.
Meanwhile, everything around him was a blur … people coming, Tim’s mother talking to the doctor on the phone: “He just wants to sleep,” she was saying, her voice shaky. Dave’s thoughts focused again when she told him, “The doctor wants us to question Tim. If he makes sense, he’s probably all right.”
Dave went with her into Tim’s bedroom. Tim’s face was still pale, but he was breathing steadily. His eyes were closed. “Tim?” Dave asked softly.
Tim opened his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, trying to smile. “You saved my life.” His eyes closed again.
Dave swallowed hard. “Tim, did you hear me calling your name?”
Tim shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Not even the yelling?” asked Dave.
Tim’s voice was low. “I just kept thinking, ‘Don’t panic. It uses up more oxygen.’” Then he fell asleep.
He makes sense, all right, Dave thought, relieved.
Tim’s mother turned to Dave. “You’re a hero,” she said, her voice soft with tears.
But Dave knew that he couldn’t take all the credit. It was a miracle. It had to be. Why else would he have remembered that long-ago story? Why else was he able to find Tim in time? God was looking out for us, Dave thought. Miracles are never a one-man show.

A few years ago, I became active in the Church again after six months of inactivity. My spiritual thirst was unbelievable, for I was once again on the right path. After just a few months, I felt the desire to serve the Lord as a missionary. I had interviews with my bishop, who helped me prepare. I had to wait to be truly ready, and in the meantime the bishop advised me to tell my parents of my plans.
My parents are members of the Church, but they had been less active for more than nine years. From the day I spoke with them about my desire, the opposition became real. I agreed with my family that if I passed the competitive examination from the school I had been accepted to, they would let me go on a mission in one year.
That year ended up being the most difficult of my life. My mother thought I would forget about my desire to go on a mission. However, after I had attended a few months of school, she realized I was truly preparing for a mission. So she cut off my financial support. It was then that my prayers became great blessings.
My Heavenly Father inspired me to look for a job, which I did. After finding three good openings, I wrote my letters of application and pleaded with the Lord to let me receive at least one positive response, for I had done all that He had commanded me.
A response came only three days later. I was called in for an interview with one of the companies. Following the interview, I got the job that day. The only problem was that I was still not earning enough money to cover all my expenses. After praying to God, I felt inspired to trust Him and not to fear. So I paid my tithing without fear.
A few weeks later my landlord asked to see me. “Most likely to talk about rent,” I thought. What he said was, “You will not need to pay your rent until you finish school!”
I could not believe it. This blessing enabled me to pay for what I needed, and most important, it helped me prepare financially for my mission. Miracles were taking place in my life at just the right time.
I have now completed my mission. I feel such gratitude for the ability to pray to our Father in Heaven. I am so happy to know with a certainty that He lives and He loves His children. If we listen to Him, we will see many miracles in our lives.