Gospel Story Finder

The spring of 1898 was not a happy one for Sonora Louise Smart. Her mother died in March, leaving her and five younger brothers motherless. Sonora must have wondered how they would manage with no mother to look after them, but she had no need to worry.

Billy Smart, her father, believed that fatherhood was a lifelong responsibility, and he didn’t take that responsibility lightly. After his wife’s funeral, Billy quickly assumed the duties of both father and mother to his six children. Sonora in later years described him as a “good home person” and a “Golden Rule type of father.” Billy Smart was a strict man, but he was also a loving father, who kept his children happy and together.

Sonora loved her father and recognized and admired his sacrifices to raise her and her brothers by himself. Her love and appreciation for her father inspired a tribute to him that eventually became a national holiday to honor all fathers.

Eleven years after her mother’s death, Sonora (now married to John Bruce Dodd) sat in church listening to a Mother’s Day message. It was a wonderful talk about the role of mothers, but she noticed that the word father was never mentioned. When Sonora thought of the sacrifices that her father had made, she felt that it was only fair that fathers be recognized in a like manner. After the meeting she approached the speaker and asked, “Don’t you think that fathers should have a special day of recognition too?” With that question, Sonora Dodd began gaining support for her Father’s Day idea.

The following year Sonora, supported by local church leaders, submitted a petition to the Spokane City Council. As a result, the mayor declared that the third Sunday in June would be observed as Father’s Day. Following Spokane’s lead, the governor of Washington made it a state holiday, and June 19, 1910, it became the first official Father’s Day in history.

Even though a day to recognize fathers had been declared, Sonora Dodd did not feel that her work was done. That first Father’s Day she and her infant son, Jack, traveled by carriage to deliver gifts to shut-in fathers in Spokane.

Mrs. Dodd next sought support from national politicians for recognition of Father’s Day. She wanted a designated day when people across the nation would be reminded of a father’s proper role in the training of children, in the safeguarding of the marriage tie, and in the protection of womanhood and childhood. And while her efforts to honor fathers were successful and Father’s Day was celebrated in many areas in the United States, it wasn’t until 1972 that the holiday was established by a congressional resolution.

Sonora Dodd devoted her life to honoring fathers, and her strong feelings about fatherhood were passed to her son, Jack. In 1952 one of Sonora Dodd’s proudest moments came when Jack was named “Father of the Year.” Nineteen years later, an even prouder moment came. Sonora Louise Dodd, the woman known as “the mother of Father’s Day,” became the first and only woman ever to be named “Father of the Year!”

In 1978 Sonora died just a few weeks before the sixty-ninth Father’s Day. This June 15, on the seventy-sixth anniversary of Father’s Day, her name will seldom be mentioned in connection with the day. But that’s the way she wanted it. She never wanted acclaim for her contribution toward the establishment of Father’s Day. As she often said, “Father’s Day is to glorify fatherhood and not to glorify me.”

Shortly after my sweetheart, Devonna, and I were married, she shared with me a story about how she learned in her youth this important doctrine that we are free to choose but that we are not free to choose the consequences of our actions. With the help of my daughter Shelly, I would like to relate Sister Arnold’s experience:
“When I was 15 years old, I often felt that there were too many rules and commandments. I wasn’t sure that a normal, fun-loving teenager could enjoy life with so many restrictions. Furthermore, the many hours spent working on my father’s ranch were seriously dipping into my time with my friends.
“This particular summer, one of my jobs was to ensure that the cows grazing on the mountain pasture did not break through the fence and get into the wheat field. A cow grazing on the growing wheat can bloat, causing suffocation and death. One cow in particular was always trying to stick her head through the fence. One morning, as I was riding my horse along the fence line checking on the cattle, I found that the cow had broken through the fence and gotten into the wheat field. To my dismay, I realized that she had been eating wheat for quite some time, because she was already bloated and looked much like a balloon. I thought, ‘You stupid cow! That fence was there to protect you, yet you broke through it and you have eaten so much wheat that your life is in danger.’
“I raced back to the farmhouse to get my dad. However, when we returned, I found her lying dead on the ground. I was saddened by the loss of that cow. We had provided her with a beautiful mountain pasture to graze in and a fence to keep her away from the dangerous wheat, yet she foolishly broke through the fence and caused her own death.
“As I thought about the role of the fence, I realized that it was a protection, just as the commandments and my parents’ rules were a protection. The commandments and rules were for my own good. I realized that obedience to the commandments could save me from physical and spiritual death. That enlightenment was a pivotal point in my life.”
Sister Arnold learned that our kind, wise, and loving Heavenly Father has given us commandments not to restrict us, as the adversary would have us believe, but to bless our lives and to protect our good name and our legacy for future generations—just as they had for Lehi and Nephi. Just like the cow that received the consequences of her choice, each one of us must learn that the grass is never greener on the other side of the fence—nor will it ever be, for “wickedness never was happiness.” Each one of us will receive the consequences of our choices when this life is over. The commandments are clear, they are protective—they are not restrictive—and the wonderful blessings of obedience are numberless!

On the day of my baptism, I felt clean, pure, and truly perfect. I loved the feeling so much that I made a goal to stay perfect forever. I will never sin again, I told myself.
Fast-forward one day.
I wanted to play with my big sister’s new Barbie doll, but she wouldn’t let me, no matter how hard I tried to convince her. So, in a rage that made me forget my goal to remain sin-free, I grabbed a pair of scissors while she wasn’t looking and cut off all her doll’s hair.
Admittedly, I was somehow under the impression that the doll’s hair would grow back. But as I sat looking at all the synthetic hairs piled in my lap, I felt the sting of having ruined my newly perfected life.
When my sister found out, she was furious. My parents explained to me that the doll’s hair would not grow back. Guilt and regret overwhelmed me as I watched my sister cry at the sight of her forever-bald doll.
With a little time and a lot of apologizing on my part, my sister forgave me. But I still never forgot how disappointed I felt for having given up my perfect life all too quickly.
As painful as it was as an eight-year-old to realize I made a mistake the day after my baptism, Heavenly Father provided a way for me to repent. Through the Savior’s perfect example and sacrifice, we can overcome our sins and make good choices that bring us blessings.

“Did I tell you enough times how much I love you, my son?” I silently wondered. As my husband and I sat in the intensive-care unit at the hospital, we prayed for the life of our eldest child, Joel. I held his thin, cold hand in mine, listening to machines keeping him alive and weeping at the thought that perhaps I hadn’t done enough to let him know of my love. Most of all, I wanted to tell him once more, “I love you.”
I don’t know how many times I have expressed my love for Joel since his life was spared. Our family members now show love for one another more often and more easily—both in word and in deed. We try not to miss a chance to express our affection.
Joel’s brush with death reminded us that life is short and that we can’t let any opportunity pass to show our children how much we love them—especially given the great joy and security children experience in knowing they are loved.

“Hey, come on! The missionaries are waiting for you,” my friend called. The discussion went along smoothly, as most of the others had, and then one of the sisters said, “As you come to know the message we share with you is true, we invite you to be baptized.
I told them that I had already been baptized, and they explained that there was a proper method of baptism, which was complete immersion. I liked their message, but I couldn’t accept their challenge when I had already been baptized.
While I was walking home, the word baptism kept ringing in my ears. I asked myself, “Why do they ask me to be baptized again?” Before going to sleep, I opened the Book of Mormon and began reading the assignments the missionaries had given me. While I was reading I came across 2 Nephi 31:13:
“Wherefore, my beloved brethren, I know that if ye shall follow the Son, with full purpose of heart, acting no hypocrisy and no deception before God, but with real intent, repenting of your sins, witnessing unto the Father that ye are willing to take upon you the name of Christ, by baptism—yea, by following your Lord and your Savior down into the water, according to his word, behold, then shall ye receive the Holy Ghost; … and then can ye speak with the tongue of angels, and shout praises unto the Holy One of Israel.” [2 Ne. 31:13]
The Spirit was so strong that tears rolled down my cheeks. I knew that I had to be baptized again, this time by immersion, I cried to the Lord for forgiveness, and from that time I repented of my sins. The day I was baptized is still fresh in my memory. How great was my joy that day when I began to follow the Savior.

Wilford Woodruff’s family suffered along with the others. In October, while Wilford cut timber, a falling tree struck him and broke some of his ribs. Soon after, his little son Joseph caught a severe cold. Wilford and Phebe attended to the boy constantly, but nothing they did helped, and soon they buried his body in the settlement’s newly plotted cemetery.
Some weeks after Joseph’s death, Phebe delivered a baby prematurely, and the child died two days later. One evening, Wilford came home and found Phebe distraught, looking at a portrait of herself holding Joseph. Losing the children pained them both, and Wilford longed for when the Saints would find a home, live in peace, and enjoy the blessings and safety of Zion.
“I pray my Heavenly Father to lengthen out my days,” he wrote in his journal, “to behold the house of God stand upon the tops of the mountains and to see the standard of liberty reared up as an ensign to the nations.”27

It was a happy, carefree time in my young life until on such a day, sorrow and tragedy brought me closer to God in humble, sincere prayer. In the summer of my thirteenth year, on a July night, I eagerly joined some neighborhood friends to light fireworks. Five of us took turns igniting the colorful assortment of Roman candles and rockets and firecrackers. Each was a new surprise with its burst of sights and sounds through the evening sky.
Not all of our fireworks worked as they should have. Most, in fact, were what we called duds. They sputtered momentarily, and then died. We set the duds aside until we had tried to light all of the fireworks. We had so many defective ones remaining, we wondered what to do. We couldn’t just throw them away. What if we emptied the powder from all of them into the cardboard box? We could toss in a match and have one gigantic blast!
Fortunately for us, our idea failed—at first. The match was tossed; we quickly ran away and waited. Nothing happened. Pressing our luck, we tried a second time, using a makeshift fuse of rolled-up newspaper. Again we anxiously waited at a distance. Again, to our good, nothing happened. That is when we should have quit. Foolishly, we gave it one more try; this time my friend Mark and I huddled around the box to keep the flame from being extinguished by the evening breeze.
Then it happened! The “gigantic blast” we thought we wanted exploded with fury into our faces. The force of the explosion knocked us off our feet, and flames from the ignited powder burned us severely. It was a tragic scene. Responding quickly to the screams and cries of the injured youth in her driveway, our friend’s mother gathered us into her home. “First we will pray,” she said, “and then we will call the doctor.”
That was the first of many prayers I remember being offered for us. Soon after, I felt my face, hands, and arms being wrapped in bandages. I heard the voices of my father and my doctor administering a priesthood blessing to me. I heard my mother’s voice many times, pleading with Heavenly Father to please let her son see again.
I had been taught very early in my life to pray. Mother and Father had made prayer an important part of our family life. Not until that day, however, did it become so meaningful to me. In those frightening moments I found peace and comfort through prayer.
Following the incident when I was badly burned, I had felt with a surety that I would be healed. From the moment that first prayer was offered in my friend’s home, I felt a comforting peace. While the doctor treated my burns, I hummed a hymn, finding comfort in these words:
When sore trials came upon you,
Did you think to pray? …
Oh, how praying rests the weary!
Prayer will change the night to day.
So, when life gets dark and dreary,
Don’t forget to pray.
[“Did You Think to Pray?” Hymns, 1985, no. 140]
Each day when the doctor changed my bandages, my mother would ask, “Can he see?” For many days the answer was the same: “No, not yet.” Finally, when all the bandages were permanently removed, my eyesight began to return. I had anticipated that time with anxious expectation. The peace and comfort I had earlier felt gave me assurance that all would be well. However, when my vision cleared enough for me to see my hands and face, I was shocked, unprepared for what I saw. To my terrible disappointment, I found that all was not well. Seeing my scarred and disfigured skin brought great fear and doubt into my mind. I can remember thinking, Nothing can help this skin to be healed—not even the Lord.
Gratefully, as my prayers and the prayers of others continued, I felt the gifts of faith and of peace restored, and then, in time, my eyesight and my skin were healed. My friends who were injured were also blessed with complete recovery.

1838 My brother Don Carlos and my cousin George A. Smith returned [from missions through Kentucky and Tennessee], having traveled fifteen hundred miles—nine hundred on foot, and the remainder by steamboat and otherwise. They visited several branches, and would have accomplished the object of their mission had it not been for the troubles at Far West.
When nearly home they were known and pursued by the mob, which compelled them to travel one hundred miles in two days and nights. The ground at the time was slippery, and a severe northwest wind was blowing in their faces; they had but little to eat and narrowly escaped freezing both nights.

Of course, paying fast offerings is not always easy. Like other financial contributions to the Church, it can be a test of our faithfulness. One brother related the following experience:
“I was a student at Oxford University in England and was preparing to fly home to the United States. I only had a little money and needed to do three things: pay my fast offering and budget, buy a trunk for my things, and pay for transportation to the airport. I only had enough money for two of these. I had decided to wait and pay fast offerings and budget later, but while I was in church I felt inspired to go ahead and pay them—which I did. Afterwards I was left with enough money for either the trunk or transportation to the airport, but not both. Later, as I was walking down the street, I noticed a man carrying a trunk. I asked him about it, and he told me he was about to throw it away. After we talked for a minute he gave me the trunk—my problem was solved. To me, that was a direct blessing for paying my fast offerings and budget.”

Every year the eighth graders in my middle school get to choose what their graduation colors, flowers, and theme will be. They also get to decide what the basic style of the girls’ and boys’ outfits will be so that pictures will look nice and consistent.
My year, when all the girls got together to discuss what style their dresses would be, I was a little nervous. I was concerned about how I could make the other girls understand that I’d chosen not to wear short skirts or spaghetti straps, even if that was the style chosen. I didn’t want to ruin the pictures, but I also wouldn’t choose to be immodest.
Then something amazing happened. Before I had an opportunity to express my concerns, a girl in my class shouted, “It has to have sleeves and go at least to our knees because Abby needs to dress that way.” Before I could blink, everyone decided on short-sleeved, knee-length dresses. I could hardly believe what had happened. I’m so thankful that I’ve always lived the standards and set a positive example for those around me. Because I chose to dress modestly, others noticed and were respectful of my decision.
Abby H., California, USA

The YSA Gathering Place: My New Family, by Ganiyat Gbolahan
My first time at a YSA gathering as a nonmember was a memorable one. It was filled with endless teasing, fun, love, and laughter. I had no idea then that these incredible young people would become such a huge part of my life. After joining the Church, I began to feel truly blessed to have the YSAs around me. Their friendship became deeper, their love more sincere, and their support more constant.
This year, I experienced a very difficult moment, a major surgery that left me scared and vulnerable. But the YSAs showed up in the most powerful way. They prayed and fasted for me, and through their faith, I received blessings I couldn’t fully explain. My recovery was smoother than expected, and I felt surrounded by a sense of peace. I genuinely believe their prayers made a difference, not just physically but emotionally and spiritually too.
The love and support I felt during that time was unlike anything I had ever known. They stood by me like family, and in their actions, I saw the Savior’s love. I’m forever grateful for the YSA family that God placed in my life.

President Joseph F. Smith was five years old when his father, Hyrum, was killed in Carthage Jail. Later, Joseph crossed the plains with his widowed mother.
At age 15 he was called on a mission to Hawaii. He felt lost and alone and said: “I was very much oppressed. … I felt as if I was so debased in my condition of poverty, lack of intelligence and knowledge, just a boy, that I hardly dared look [anyone] in the face.”
While pondering his plight one night, young Joseph dreamed he was on a journey, rushing as fast as he possibly could. He carried with him a small bundle. Finally, he came to a wonderful mansion, which was his destination. As he approached, he saw a sign which read, “Bath.” He quickly went in and washed himself. He opened his little bundle and found clean white clothing—“a thing,” he said, “I had not seen for a long time.” He put them on and rushed to the door of the mansion.
“I knocked,” he said, “and the door opened, and the man who stood there was the Prophet Joseph Smith. He looked at me a little reprovingly, and the first words he said [were]: ‘Joseph, you are late.’ Yet I took confidence and said:
“‘Yes, but I am clean—I am clean!’”
And so it can be for each of us.

Missionary work was also the emphasis in camp. Chris Johnson had been instrumental in introducing the gospel to her best friend and her friend’s family. Chris had yearned for her friend to grow in the gospel until she could bear her testimony to a group. In a small testimony meeting with the Adventurers, Chris said, “I do have a strong testimony. I love the Book of Mormon with all my heart. Missionary work strengthens you so much. “Then Chris heard her friend bear her testimony for the first time. “She told me that she loved me, and she trusted me. She said she knew she is a child of God. I’ve waited so long to hear that.”

I have indicated that he occasionally, deliberately, knowingly, put men to a test, almost as if he could discern the spiritual growth and blessing that would ultimately result. Bishop Edwin D. Woolley was a forbear of President Spencer W. Kimball. He was a stubborn man (he himself said it)—contrary was the word they used in those days. It was said of him, “If he dies by drowning, look for the body upstream.” Edwin D. Woolley had a store in Nauvoo, and one day the Prophet said to him, “Brother Woolley, we want all your goods for the building up of the kingdom of God,” or words to that effect. Brother Woolley did as he was asked, packing his whole stock ready to be moved. Then he went to ask Joseph what he wished him to do about the goods he had received for sale on commission. Was he ready to hand all the other goods over to the Church? the Prophet asked. Brother Woolley said he was. His eyes moist, the Prophet put his hand on the other man’s shoulder and said, “The Lord bless you. Put them back on the shelves.”

A few years ago we were standing in a large crowd of people gathered early in the morning along the waterfront of Apia Harbor in Samoa. It was the occasion of the National Holidays, when hundreds of people came to watch the Fautasi, or long-boat, races that sweep in from the ocean to the calmer waters of the harbor to cross the finish line.
The crowd was restless, and most eyes were turned toward the sea, watching for the first glimpse of the fautasis. Suddenly there was a roar from the crowd as the boats came into sight in the distance. Each of them had a crew of fifty powerful oarsmen dipping and pulling the oars with a rhythm that forced the crafts through the waves and foaming water—a beautiful sight.
The boats and men were soon in full view as they raced toward the finish. Even though these powerful men pulled with their might, the weight of a boat with fifty men moved against a powerful adverse force—the resistance of the water.
The cheering of the crowd reached a crescendo when the first long-boat crossed the finish line. We walked over to the place where the boats docked after the race had concluded. One of the oarsmen explained to us that the prow of the fautasi is so constructed that it cuts through and divides the water to help overcome the resistance that retards the speed of the boat. He further explained that the pulling of the oars against the resistance of the water creates the force that causes the boat to move forward. Resistance creates both the opposition and the forward movement.

It’s just a small music box. When you lift the golden needlepoint lid it plays “I Wonder When He Comes Again.” I used to keep it on top of my dresser to house leftover pocket change, broken key chains, and orphan paper clips. I had no idea the tiny box had magical powers—no idea in the world—until Miranda came visiting.
“Uncle Brad, I’m coming to play,” the three-year-old voice called from upstairs. Miranda is the daughter of my oldest brother, who always comes home from California at Christmastime. “Please play.” She had made her way downstairs and now stood framed in my bedroom doorway. “Please.” Her voice was as soft and blonde as her shoulder-length hair.
I knew I needed to take advantage of the short time I had with Miranda, but I also needed to prepare my Sunday School lesson. Brother M. had just called, asking me to combine his class with mine. The following day, I would be responsible for two classes.
“Just give me a little time,” I tried to bargain with my niece. This would be one of the last lessons of the year. I was long since out of manual and creativity. “Go back upstairs and tell Grandma you will help her.”
“But I want to play with you.”
“We will play—in a while.” I began shooing her out my bedroom door. “Your Mom wants you upstairs, I’m sure.”
“But she just told me to come downstairs.” Miranda wouldn’t budge.
“Oh, well.” I couldn’t win. I motioned my nightgowned visitor and her baby doll into the room. “But you have to be quiet. Uncle Brad will be working.”
Miranda proceeded to “quietly” sing three choruses of “That Night in the Stable,” recite the Christmas story complete with a forceful “No room in the inn!” and count all of Dad’s outside Christmas lights. I decided that trying to prepare my lesson would be hopeless unless I could conjure up a plan to distract her.
“Miranda!” I turned toward her dramatically. She was changing her doll’s diaper right on my pillow. “Somewhere in this room is a magic box.” I lifted my eyebrows mysteriously and continued, “Find it, quietly.”
On any ordinary day Miranda probably would not have been interested, but having just gone with me to Cinderella (she called it Sidwayla) that very afternoon, the intriguing challenge was irresistible. The spell was cast.
Miranda began searching the bedroom. Smugly, I patted myself on the back and turned to my lesson pages which were still as unused and dry as the baby doll’s diaper.
“I found it!” Miranda squealed. I spun around in my chair. Her eyes sparkled and glittered like jeweled pixie dust. She tiptoed toward me excitedly. Her arms were extended, and in her cupped hands was my old music box.
“That’s not magic,” I laughed. “That’s just dusty.” I had shelved the gaudy thing years ago.
“It is magic,” Miranda assured. “I know.” She stroked the gold trim and flowered embroidery—major requirements for a magic charm. “Open it, Brad.” She laid her enchanted find on the carpet before me.
Knowing that I shouldn’t until my work was finished, I decided to be firm. “Now, Miranda, we had a bargain.”
“Open it,” she pleaded.
I glanced guiltily at the zero lesson plan on my desk. “Oh, I give up,” I sighed, kneeling on the floor beside Miranda. “Let’s open it together.”
I’ve always been a saver. The junk Miranda and I found in the magic box seemed as endless as the trash on a movie theater floor. There was a miniature pop bottle, an ugly onyx rain god, some flat pennies that had been smashed on a railroad track, a few rubber bands, and some old stamps.
“Are they magic?” Miranda whispered in awe.
“Of course,” I responded seriously, picking up the tiny pop bottle. “Drink this magic potion and you’ll become the fairest maiden in the land.”
She puckered her lips in willing anticipation and then gulped every imaginary drop. At once, Miranda began strutting around the room, finger-stroking her hair, and smiling like Miss Silver Slipper, queen of the ball, herself.
“Look at this one,” I called her back. “Hold this onyx idol and it will make you brave.”
Still as ravishingly beautiful as ever, Miranda clutched the trinket and marched courageously through my bedroom door into the black basement beyond. The farther out she stepped, the farther out she stretched the stone figure in front of her.
“Oh!” Miranda gasped, “I’m glad I have this magic thing or I’d be ‘tehwubly’ scared.”
For at least a half-hour I invented bibbidi-bobbidi-boo powers and enjoyed Miranda as she dramatized each fantasy. What about my lesson? As it turned out, Miranda was planning it for me.
The next day, when the kids came down the corridor of the church, they found my classroom door closed—not because I wasn’t ready for them, but because I was. A large sign taped across the entrance read, “NOTICE: This is a magic cave. Please enter quietly.” I invited them inside.
“This,” I held up the old music box, “this is magic.” As mysteriously as I could, I told Miranda’s story. By the end of the tale the class had unanimously decided my niece must be crazy.
“Why?” I zeroed in on one girl.
“Well,” she summed up the situation, “All that stuff in the box was just fake. She’s nuts.”
“Then aren’t we all?” I asked, pulling out some surprise visual aids. I held up a pair of jeans—the most popular brand; some shirts with all the stylish patches in all the stylish places; a popular magazine, complete with pictures of the latest haircuts, jewelry, and makeup.
“Do these have magical powers to make us beautiful? I thumbed the magazine open before them. “The only power they have is what we give them. Are we crazy?”
I stopped flipping pages at an appealing cigarette ad. “A magic potion to make us brave, right? All you have to do is hold this little roll of tobacco and just like that, you’re cool! You’re tough! You’re in! Right?” The bell hadn’t even rung yet, but my lesson was over. Three-year-old Miranda and I had made our point.
Our real beauty and worth are not dependent on a can of beer, a swear word, the latest fad, a social club, R-rated films, or drugs, any more than Miranda’s were dependent on an old pop bottle inside a showy music box. Courage doesn’t come from a carved idol I swapped 25 cents for in the fifth grade. Our transforming magic potion is in knowing we are God’s children. We did not come to earth to find self-worth. We brought it with us. When we know that, we have all the “magic” any of us needs to feel beautiful, courageous, and acceptable.
I don’t keep the old music box inside my closet anymore. Since Miranda’s visit, it’s right on top of the dresser where it should be. Right out where it can always be reminding me of magic.

As a young missionary serving in the Chile Concepción Mission, Sean Douglas began his service in the rural backcountry. His “wonderful first Chilean companion and trainer spoke Spanish at lighting speed.” After three months in the South American country, Elder Douglas still struggled with Spanish.
Discouragement and homesickness plunged him into doubt and drove him to his knees. “I am not doing any good,” he prayed. “I do not seem to be impacting anyone.”
His heart filled with a burning question from above: “Are you here for Me, or are you here for you?”
At this moment he resolved with God to forget himself and keep trying. “That very night I dreamt in Spanish,” he said.
The following day everything was easier. “I could speak a little better. I could understand a little more,” he said. “The mission catalyzed my testimony of the power of prayer and that when you go and do what the Lord commands, He always provides a way for you.”
That philosophy has guided the rest of his life.

With sorrow we have read of young men and those not so young who bravely die, who give their lives upon the altar of freedom. In a hurried moment, one such took in hand a pencil and a scrap of paper and wrote to a worried loved one: “Soon we go into battle. The enemy is well fortified; loss of life will be great. Mom, I hope I live, but I’m not afraid to die, for I’m right with God.”

His mother received the precious note. On the same day another message arrived; “We regret to inform you that your son has been killed in action.”

Friends visited, loved ones comforted, but peace came only from him who called Nazareth his home.

Developing the habit of scripture study is a struggle with many roadblocks. I remember one roadblock that came during my second semester of ninth grade.
My family moved to Omaha, Nebraska, from Dubuque, Iowa.
Omaha schools were far ahead of our small Iowa township, and dreams of staying on the honor roll soon turned to prayers for passing and getting a good grade in seminary.
Just a few days after I had started school, my English teacher announced a new reading-for-credit program. Needing the extra points to make a decent grade, I needed to read a book, but my schedule was already loaded with make-up work and I wasn’t a fast reader.
After asking the Lord for help, an idea came to me.
I approached my English teacher and said, “May I read the Bible instead of a novel for extra-credit points?”
Leaning forward, peering over his half glasses, he asked, “Is this a trick question?”
“No,” I answered, “but it isn’t on your list, and I wasn’t sure how you would feel.”
He then told me that the Bible was one of the greatest literary works ever written. As far as he was concerned, it should be in a class by itself. “Of course you can read it,” he added.
It was the perfect solution to my school and seminary problem, and best of all, I started a steady habit of scripture study that touches my life at every turn.

In January of 2019, I witnessed President Nelson’s visit to Paradise, California, after a devastating fire claimed more than 18,000 structures. The town was reduced to ashes. Yet, just before President Nelson was scheduled to leave for Paradise, his daughter lost her battle with cancer. We were not sure he would make the trip. But after spending time with his family, he and Sister Nelson boarded a plane.

When I had the opportunity to ask him one question during the trip, I simply said, “Why did you come.” President Nelson’s response was beautiful in its simplicity. “We mourn the loss of our second daughter,” he said. “Fathers can’t [lose a child] without feeling a deep sense of grief. And yet there is nothing we would rather do than to try to be of help to others.” [36]

To this day it is hard for me to describe the devotional where he comforted members who lost their homes and businesses and community. They were desperate for hope and President Nelson promised them peace. “Your hope, your joy, and your future will all be shaped by your faith in God and by your faith in the Lord Jesus Christ,” he said.

After his address, as President Nelson walked down the aisle of the stake center, a 12-year-old girl waited to shake his hand. However, just before he reached her, she was jostled out of the way by other eager members. She expressed her lament and her doubt as she cried to her mother a few minutes later in the foyer. “That always happens to me,” she said. The young woman’s family waited outside the meetinghouse with a crowd of other members to wave goodbye to President Nelson. The Prophet walked through the crowd to his car. But — just as he did in Vietnam — he paused, singled her out of the crowd and sent a member of Church security to bring her to him. [37]

It was a miracle. The God who prevails had connected a Prophet mourning his daughter and a daughter eager to be seen.