Gospel Story Finder

In 1816 the family moved again, this time to Palmyra, New York. Joseph’s father had gone ahead to find a place for them to live. When Lucy Mack Smith and the eight children went to join him, a man named Caleb Howard was hired to drive the wagon with their things. Ten-year-old Joseph had not fully recovered from his leg operation yet, making it painful for him to walk. Nevertheless, Mr. Howard made him walk miles at a time.

At Utica, New York, still many miles from Palmyra, Mr. Howard unloaded the Smith’s household goods and was about to leave with the wagon and horses. Joseph’s mother demanded that he leave them, then reloaded the wagon and drove the rest of the way herself.

For several months the next summer, we stayed at our summer home in the mountains. Bimbo loved to go with us so he could run through the woods and chase chipmunks. One day he returned to the cabin with his tail between his legs. His entire face was filled with something that looked like long whiskers; they were porcupine quills. The quills were even inside his mouth. We lovingly wrapped him in a blanket and carried him to a neighboring cabin, where a doctor who treats people was staying. He carefully removed the quills. Again I prayed that our pet would recover without ill effects. We thought Bimbo had learned his lesson, but the very next day he found the porcupine again, and a second trip was made to our good neighbor, the doctor. After that, Bimbo stayed away from porcupines.

Two years later one of my brother’s friends invited my sister to go to the LDS Church, and I went along with her. I was excited to finally find out what they were doing inside that church.
When we got there, we saw some members playing a simple game. They looked so happy, and that got my attention. “Why are they so happy?” I wondered.
I found out when I took the missionary discussions and was baptized. Happiness comes from inside. My conversion changed my life, the life of my children, and generations ahead and behind.

Missionary service has ever called for courage. One who responded to this call was Randall Ellsworth. While serving in Guatemala as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Randall Ellsworth survived a devastating earthquake that hurled a beam down on his back, paralyzing his legs and severely damaging his kidneys. He was the only American injured in the quake, which claimed the lives of some eighteen thousand persons.
After receiving emergency medical treatment, he was flown to a large hospital near his home in Rockville, Maryland. While Randall was confined there, a newscaster conducted with him an interview that I witnessed through the miracle of television. The reporter asked, “Can you walk?”
The answer: “Not yet, but I will.”
“Do you think you will be able to complete your mission?”
Came the reply: “Others think not, but I will. With the president of my church praying for me, and through the prayers of my family, my friends, and my missionary companions, I will walk, and I will return again to Guatemala. The Lord wants me to preach the gospel there for two years, and that’s what I intend to do.”
There followed a lengthy period of therapy, punctuated by heroic yet silent courage. Little by little, feeling began to return to the almost lifeless limbs. More therapy, more courage, more prayer.
At last, Randall Ellsworth walked aboard the plane that carried him back to the mission to which he had been called—back to the people whom he loved. Behind he left a trail of skeptics and a host of doubters, but also hundreds amazed at the power of God, the miracle of faith, and the example of courage.
On his return to Guatemala, Randall Ellsworth supported himself with the help of two canes. His walk was slow and deliberate. Then one day, as he stood before his mission president, Elder Ellsworth heard these almost unbelievable words spoken: “You have been the recipient of a miracle,” said the mission president. “Your faith has been rewarded. If you have the necessary confidence, if you have abiding faith, if you have supreme courage, place those two canes on my desk and walk.”
After a long pause, first one cane and then the other was placed on the desk, and a missionary walked. It was halting, it was painful—but he walked, never again to need the canes.
This spring I thought once more of the courage demonstrated by Randall Ellsworth. Years had passed since his ordeal. He was now a husband and a father. An engraved announcement arrived at my office. It read: “The President and Directors of Georgetown University announce commencement exercises of Georgetown University School of Medicine.” Randall Ellsworth received his Doctor of Medicine degree. More effort, more study, more faith, more sacrifice, more courage had been required. The price was paid, the victory won.

A few weeks later, our two youngest children got lost in a large department store where we had gone to get new eyeglasses for the older children. After waiting a while, they got bored and decided to go off on their own, looking for the toy section. The consequence was that they got separated from us.

What did they do when they realized that they were lost? They went to a secluded spot in the store and offered a faithful prayer that they would be reunited with us. Then they stepped out of that spot, with great faith that they would be found. At that same time, their older brother saw them as he was looking for them in that area.

It was in the home that I learned principles of provident living and the dignity of work. I can still visualize my mother spending numerous nights at home, using a foot treadle sewing machine to stitch shoes for a local shoe factory. This was not to enable her to purchase anything for herself but to help to provide financial support so that my brother and I could attend college. She later expressed how this act of service was a source of satisfaction for her.

It was an early morning in 2008 when my mother woke me up to go to school. I was really happy that morning, but I didn’t know that it would turn into the worst day of my life or the last time I would be with her. I didn’t finish all my classes that day because a friend of our family picked me up and told me that my mom had killed herself. I was only 12 years old.
I thought, “How can I live without my mother?” She was my best friend.
I cried for months. I didn’t like going to school because the other children treated me differently and felt sorry for me. I had no clue what I was supposed to do; I only knew I had to be strong for everyone else.
One day, five or six months after my mom’s death, I was alone in my room by the window, crying, trying to understand what I was here for. Suddenly I heard a voice in my head: “You are my daughter; I won’t let you suffer.” I knew it was God. But it surprised me because I didn’t believe in Him anymore, especially since I felt that it was God who had taken my mother from me. Even though I didn’t know what He meant, I felt safe.
Three years later I went to Rome, Italy, to visit my uncle. He kept telling me about this church he went to. One Sunday, he took me with him. I will always remember walking toward the church’s doors for the first time and feeling the love of Heavenly Father when I went in. It felt like home.
I started going to church every single Sunday and to every activity during the week. I loved being with the youth of the Church. They made me happier. They thought and believed in the same things that I did. Then, after three months, my summer holiday finished and I had to go back to Albania.
When I returned home, I told my dad about the feelings I’d had and how happy I’d felt during those three months going to Church activities. He didn’t like it. He told me he wouldn’t allow me to continue to go to church. So I would have to be patient for the next three years until I turned 18 years old. Then I could decide for myself and be baptized.
During this time I was blessed with so many people who would tell me about what they learned each Sunday at church. One of those people was Stephanie. She’d been living in Italy when my uncle joined the Church, but she had returned to her home in the United States. My uncle thought it would be good for us to write to each other, so I added her as a friend on Facebook.
Even though we’d never met in person, I will always be grateful to her for helping me build my faith and learn more about the gospel of Jesus Christ. She wrote to me almost every Sunday and told me everything she learned in church and then would answer my questions. She was a great friend to me.
Finally, after years of being patient, I was baptized just two days after my 18th birthday. And soon I will share with my mother the happiness I felt that day, because I will be baptized for her. I know she will be proud of the life I have chosen.
I feel blessed by Heavenly Father because He was with me during my entire journey in so many ways. I just had to wait and be patient because He had a plan for me. He’s the one who gave me strength to go through all the challenges I faced. He was always there, helping me be happier.

Tom had traded his bicycle for a rabbit, and that’s why he was walking the 1.6 kilometer home from Primary. His younger brothers, Ivan and Brent, had ridden ahead on their own bikes. They didn’t approve of Tom’s trade. But it was a magnificent rabbit, a New Zealand Red doe, half grown. He could breed her with Jone’s New Zealand buck and earn enough money to buy another bicycle, a shiny new one. It was a good deal all right, he decided.
Tom unlatched the white picket gate to the yard and detoured around the house to where his rabbit hutches stood under the big willow tree out back. He was trying to think of a good name for the new doe, something elegant. Suddenly he stopped, and his heart seemed to drop into his stomach. The hutch door was open, and the red rabbit was gone!
Tom whirled toward the house when something else caught his eye. Leaning against the hutch was the green bicycle he had given Lester Simpson in exchange for the rabbit. Tom picked up the bicycle and looked at it more closely. It looked as if a car had run over it. He dropped the bicycle and ran for the house.
As he burst into the bright living room, Brent and Ivan jumped up from the couch. Tom could see by their faces that they already knew. “What happened?” he demanded.
“Lester brought the bicycle back and took the rabbit,” Ivan said.
“I can see that!” Tom said angrily. “If you were here, why didn’t you stop him?”
“I tried to keep him from opening the door,” Ivan said, “but he pushed me against the hutch.” Then he pulled the neck of his striped shirt down and showed Tom the scrape on his shoulder.
“He told us the bike was no good so he was taking the rabbit back,” Brent reported. “And he said if you try to get it back again, he’s got four boys waiting to beat you up.”
“Lester said he gave you a prize rabbit and got a bad bicycle in return,” Ivan explained. “You’re going to fight him, aren’t you? We’ll help you. We can probably get the Jenkins boys to help too.”
At that moment their dad came through the front door. “What’s going on?” he asked, looking at the three serious faces.
Tom told his dad what had happened. “It was a good bicycle when I traded it to him,” he explained. “I think it was worth as much as the doe.”
“More,” Ivan put in.
“His dad probably ran over it with a tractor or something,” Brent said.
“So what are you going to do about it?” his father asked, sinking into the big rocker.
Mother stepped in from the kitchen. “I don’t want any fights,” she cautioned.
“What do you think I should do, Dad?” Tom asked.
“In a situation like this it’s best to ask yourself what the Savior would do.”
“Did people do awful things to Him, Dad?”
“They were always trying to confuse Him or trick Him into saying something they could condemn Him for.”
“He didn’t fight them, did He?” Brent asked.
“Not with fists. He fought with His mind and always came up with the right answer.”
Dad looked at him kindly and said, “Lester Simpson will be ordained a deacon next month. Usually he’s not such a bad boy. Maybe you can think of some way to make him realize what he’s done.” His father stood up and said, “Let’s eat; I’m very hungry.”
After dinner Tom went outside to look at his rabbit hutches. All his rabbits were just regular white rabbits. They furnished his family with meat, and any extra he sold to the neighbors. I finally had a real purebred rabbit, he thought. Now it’s gone. Tom’s fingers could still remember the incredibly thick, soft fur and the sturdy little body beneath it. Lester must have taken good care of it. I really wanted that rabbit!
Suddenly the solution seemed obvious and simple. He would just have to buy the rabbit. Most of the money he earned from his rabbits had to go for school clothes and other necessities, but he did have seven or eight dollars saved. After all, it is an investment.
Tom thought about Lester and his tough friends waiting there when he went to buy the rabbit. They’d probably call him a coward and “stupid” for not fighting, for buying a rabbit that had already been fairly traded. He guessed he could endure that. His brothers might think the same thing, though, especially Ivan, who was always ready to fight when necessary. Tom’s solution did not seem very clever or tricky but it seemed right, and he went to bed feeling fairly easy in his mind.
At breakfast the next morning, Tom told his family of his decision and asked Dad for the loan.
“I think that’s a courageous decision,” Dad said, smiling. Tom felt a lot better.
“I’ll go over right after school,” Tom said, “so I’ll be a little late getting home.”
Tom saw Lester around school that day, but he did not speak to him nor look at him.
After school, Tom and his brothers went in the direction of Lester’s house. Tom could see Lester up ahead with some friends. From time to time they looked back nervously. At the last corner, Tom told Ivan and Brent to go home. He watched with regret as they rode away on their bicycles. The boys up ahead looked back and, seeing Tom alone, laughed and ran toward Lester’s house.
When Tom unlatched the gate, he could see Lester and his four companions standing by the rabbit hutches. Without looking at the others, Tom walked straight up to Lester. “I’ve come to buy that red rabbit,” he said.
Lester looked at his friends in surprise. “Do you have another bad bicycle to trade me?” He looked at his friends again, and they all laughed.
“No, I have the cash—fifteen dollars. I think that’s a fair price.” Tom looked directly into Lester’s eyes. Lester didn’t laugh this time, but looked down at the ground and scuffed his shoe around in the dirt. “It is a deal?” Tom pressed.
“Well, yes … I guess so,” Lester finally replied.
Tom handed him the money, but Lester still wouldn’t look at him. His friends began to snigger quietly. “He is really dumb!” one whispered.
Tom walked over to the hutch and opened it. He pulled out the New Zealand Red and tucked it up under his shirt. It snuggled against his skin, and Tom felt happy again. There was nothing they could say that would bother him.
Then they started taunting him, “I guess he was afraid to fight.”
“He always was a coward. His dumb little brothers are too.”
“His daddy gave him the money so he wouldn’t have to fight.”
But now their laughter sounded forced. Lester said nothing, and he didn’t laugh. Tom walked out the gate and started walking along the road, feeling calm and happy, the rabbit held securely against him.
He was about halfway home when he heard someone running behind him. He turned around and saw Lester coming up the road. Tom stopped and waited and when Lester reached him, they walked along silently together. Finally, Lester spoke, “Why didn’t you fight? Your brothers would have helped you. You could have gotten some other boys to help too.”
Tom smiled at Lester. “I did fight, Les. I won. I got me this fine rabbit.” He patted his shirt. “What did you get?”
They walked in silence for a few more minutes. Then Lester reached into his pocket and pulled out the money. He handed it to Tom. “I guess I didn’t get anything. Here’s your money.” Tom stuffed it into his pants pocket. “My dad ran over the bicycle with his cattle truck,” Lester explained.
“I guessed something like that happened. I’m sorry it happened,” Tom said.
“Yes, well, that’s the way it goes sometimes.”
“This is a fine rabbit, Les. You must have taken good care of her. I’d like to get more rabbits from you when I can,” Tom said.
“Sure,” Lester smiled. “Anytime I’ve got something you want. I had better get home. Mom’ll have dinner ready,” he slapped Tom lightly on the back, turned around, and started back to his house.
Tom tucked the rabbit up higher and walked home, smiling in the shadowy autumn afternoon.

About four years later, he set out to enroll at Oberlin College, Ohio, in hopes of furthering his military ambitions. On the way, he met and traveled with David W. Patten, a Mormon apostle.
Subsequently, Lorenzo went to Kirtland, Ohio, where his sister Eliza, who had joined the Church, had gone to live. He became closely associated with the Prophet and, after a time of investigation and study, was baptized in June 1836.

On a bright, crisp winter afternoon we pointed our van toward the mission home in Bordeaux, France. It was December 24, 1990, and we were on our way home for Christmas.
My wife, Kathy, and I, along with our four children—Camey, age 14, Brandt, 13, Kristen, 10, and Derek, 8—had just experienced a week to remember. Because of the distances involved in our mission, we had not brought the missionaries together for a Christmas celebration. Rather, we had traveled as a family to every city in the mission, bringing a feeling of family togetherness, involving the children in sharing a special Christmas program. Our family had rejoiced with each of the missionaries in the great privilege of sharing the restored gospel of Christ at this glorious time of year.
On our final day we had been joined by four wonderful missionaries. The large blue van, now full, was filled as well with the Christmas spirit, and Christmas carols and favorite stories made the travel time pass quickly. Kristen and Derek were becoming more excited with each hour as they anticipated the surprises Christmas morning would bring. We could almost smell the turkey dinner being prepared at the mission home by a wonderful missionary couple awaiting our return. The feeling of Christmas was in the air.
It was not until late in the afternoon that we realized there might be a problem. For much of the morning we had experienced some difficulty in shifting our van from one gear to another. We had stopped to check the level of the transmission fluid, but all seemed to be in order. Now, with darkness setting in and our van still two hours from Bordeaux, third, fourth, and fifth gears stopped functioning altogether.
We limped along the tree-lined country road in second gear. It would be impossible to drive to Bordeaux in this condition, and we looked for possible help. Our first hope was a convenience store just preparing to close. I asked about possible rental-car locations or train stations nearby. We were far from any city of any size, however, and my questions brought little response.
I returned to the van. The concern and disappointment showed on the faces of our younger children. Would they not be home for Christmas Eve? Would they spend this most special night of the year in a crowded mission van? After they had brought happiness and cheer to missionaries far from home, would their Christmas come alongside a forgotten French country road far from their own home?
Kristen knew to whom we could appeal, and she immediately suggested a prayer. Many times as a family we had prayed for those in need—for the missionaries, the investigators, the Church members, our leaders, the French people, our own family. We bowed in prayer and humbly asked for help.
By now it was dark. The van crept forward, moving at a jogger’s pace through the pine forest. We were hoping to reach a little town just three miles (5 km) ahead. Soon our lights caught a small sign with an arrow directing us to Villeneuve-de-Marsan.
We had driven the two-lane road from Pau to Bordeaux many times, but never had we journeyed off the highway to the little town of Villeneuve-de-Marsan. As we hobbled into the town, the scene was like many small French villages. Homes and small shops were attached one to another, crowding the narrow road leading into town. People had closed their window shutters early, and the streets were dark and deserted. The lights in the ancient Catholic church in the center of town showed the one sign of life as they glowed in preparation for the traditional midnight mass. We rolled past the church, and the van hesitated and then stopped. Fortunately, we found ourselves in front of a lovely country inn. The lights were on, and we determined that this was our last chance for help.
To avoid overwhelming those in the inn, Kathy, Camey, and the missionaries stayed in the van while I took the three younger children inside. I explained our situation to the young woman at the front desk. She could see the beleaguered faces of my children, and she kindly asked us to wait while she called the innkeeper, Mr. Francis Darroze.
Camey came in to see how we were doing. As we waited for Mr. Darroze to arrive, I silently said a prayer of thanksgiving. We might not make it back to Bordeaux for the night, but how good of our Father in Heaven to lead us to a clean hotel! I shuddered as I realized how easily we could have spent the night in the van in a remote area of France. I could see a restaurant in the next room, and I was amazed to see it open on Christmas Eve. We would have a good meal, a hot shower, and a comfortable sleep.
Mr. Darroze arrived in the clothing of a traditional French chef, with his double-breasted chef’s coat buttoned all the way up to his chin. He was the owner of the hotel, a man of importance in the community. His warm eyes and quick smile communicated that he was a gentleman as well.
I told him of our dilemma, of the 10 of us in the van, and of our destination in Bordeaux. As he noticed my accent, I added that we were Americans and in one sentence told him why we were in France.
He instantly sought to help us. About 10 miles (16 km) away was a medium-sized city with an active train schedule. He called to ask about the next train to Bordeaux but found that it would not leave until 10:15 Christmas morning. All rental-car companies in that larger city were closed.
The disappointment was evident in the faces of my young children. I asked Mr. Darroze if he would have room in the inn for our family and the four missionaries to spend the night. Although we wouldn’t make it home, at least it was a great blessing to have found such suitable accommodations.
Mr. Darroze looked at the children. He had known us only a few minutes, but his heart was touched with the brotherhood that crosses all oceans and makes us one family. The spirit of Christmas giving filled his soul. “Mr. Andersen,” he said, “of course I have rooms here that you can rent. But you do not want to spend Christmas Eve here in the inn. Children should be home as they await the excitement of Christmas morning. I will lend you my car, and you can go to Bordeaux tonight.”
I was amazed at his thoughtfulness. Most people would view strangers, especially foreigners like us, with caution. I thanked him but explained that there were 10 of us and a small French car would never be sufficient.
He hesitated momentarily, but his hesitation was not to diminish the gift but to expand it.
“At my farm about 10 miles from here I have an old van. It is used for farming and has only the two seats in front. It will travel at only about 45 miles per hour (70 kph), and I am not certain the heater works well. But if you want it, I will drive you the 10 miles to my farm to get it.”
The children jumped for joy. I reached into my pocket for my cash or credit cards. He quickly shook his head and his finger in disapproval.
“No,” he said, “I will take nothing. You can bring my van back to me when you get time after Christmas. It is Christmas Eve. Take your family home.”
Sometime shortly after midnight the lights of Bordeaux came into view. The children and the missionaries had fallen asleep in the back of the innkeeper’s van. As we drove the familiar streets leading to our home, Kathy and I thanked our kind Heavenly Father for our own Christmas miracle. At a time when only He could bring us home, He had heard our prayers.
We were home on Christmas Eve, even though in Villeneuve-de-Marsan there was room in the inn.

Cammie’s mouth watered as she watched Leanne pass out her birthday treat—cupcakes trimmed with candies. She watched Leanne place one with purple candies on Josh’s desk, a huge one with pink candies on Shelly’s desk, and another one with chocolate candies on Nick’s desk. Cammie could hardly wait to see which one Leanne would give her. As she approached Cammie, Leanne frowned at her. “I know we’re not good friends, but she’ll still give me a good cupcake,” Cammie thought.
Leanne looked over the few cupcakes left in the box and selected a tiny squashed cupcake with only one candy on it. Looking down at the floor, she plopped that one onto Cammie’s desk. All the kids in Cammie’s row looked at her and whispered to each other. Cammie’s eyes burned with unshed tears. “I won’t cry,” she told herself. “Leanne’s just a snob. She won’t play with anyone but her own group of friends.” Cammie bit her lip and stared straight ahead.
After class, on the playground, Cammie talked to her best friend, Becky, about what had happened. “Just wait until my birthday next week,” Cammie said. “I’ll have something really special for my treat and I won’t give her any, or I’ll give her a really ugly one. Then she can see how it feels.”
That evening Cammie and her mom planned the treat Cammie would take to school the following week. Since Cammie loved chocolate, they decided on chocolate chip cookies.
“Mom, can we decorate them with lots of chocolate candies?” Cammie asked.
“Sure, that would look nice,” her mom answered. “You can put them on yourself, if you’d like.”
“Oh, I’ll put them on all right,” Cammie thought. “I’ll make Leanne’s really special.”
The following week, Cammie nibbled on chocolate candies as she helped her mom bake the cookies. “Don’t eat them all before you decorate the cookies.” Mom laughed.
Cammie grinned and pushed the bowl of candies away. She spent the next hour carefully placing candies on each cookie as it came out hot and gooey from the oven. She put a variety of colors on some cookies and only blue and red or yellow and brown on some. She made a special one for Becky. Soon there were only a few cookies left to decorate.
“Now, for the one to give Leanne,” Cammie thought. She found a small, lopsided cookie and squished it in the middle, leaving a dent. Then she picked a misshapen chocolate candy and plunked it down on top of the small, crooked cookie. “That will serve her right,” Cammie thought.
After she said her prayers that night, Cammie lay awake thinking about how awful Leanne would feel the next morning. Thinking about it made Cammie feel bad all over again. “Should I do it? Am I doing the right thing?” she wondered. Finally she fell asleep, undecided.
At school the next day, Cammie’s class looked excitedly at the giant cookies with their bright trimmings. Cammie made a special effort to show them to Leanne. Leanne just sniffed and said, “They’re OK.” Then she sneaked another peek at the cookies. Cammie smiled to herself.
“All right, children, we have another birthday treat today,” the teacher announced. “Cammie, would you pass out your treat? My, it looks delicious.”
Cammie started passing out the cookies, not paying much attention to who got each one. “That way no one feels bad,” she thought. “No one but Leanne.” Leanne slid down in her seat with an uneasy look on her face.
Soon Cammie had passed out all but the last three cookies. Only two students remained: Leanne and Jody. Cammie gave a huge one to Jody, then turned to look right into Leanne’s eyes. When she saw how unhappy Leanne looked, she remembered what she had been thinking about the night before. Cammie knew how Leanne felt. She took a step forward and moved her hand toward the ugly little cookie. She froze as she saw a pleading look and tears in Leanne’s eyes.
“She did the same thing to me first,” a little voice inside her said. “But you know how it feels. Do you want to make someone else feel that way, too?” she thought. Suddenly the words, “‘Love your enemies’” and “‘do good to them that hate you,’”* came into her mind. Would she really feel better by making Leanne feel bad?
“Are you almost finished, Cammie?” her teacher asked as Cammie hesitated.
Cammie slowly picked up the bigger cookie, one with many colored candies on it, and placed it carefully on Leanne’s desk. “I made this one especially for you,” she said. Leanne’s mouth dropped open as she stared up at Cammie. Then Cammie returned to her desk and ate the squished little cookie herself. She had never tasted a better cookie.

Mindy liked to help her mother. After her sisters and brothers left for school, Mindy and Mother made their beds.
First they made Mindy’s bed. They pulled the sheet and blankets back and put the pillow on a chair. Then they billowed the sheet and blankets over the bed.
Mindy patted the places where ripples appeared. And she helped pull the covers tight. She punched and plumped her pillow into a marshmallow shape. Then she plunked it over the folded-down sheet and bedspread.
Quickly Mindy and Mother slid the bedspread over the pillow and ironed any wrinkles flat with their hands.
Then they made Mother and Dad’s bed the way they had made Mindy’s bed. It was so big and bouncy that Mindy wished she could jump on the bed.
One morning just after they had lifted Mindy’s bedcovers into place, Mother hurried into the kitchen to answer the telephone. When she came back, she couldn’t see Mindy. But she did see an enormous mountainy wrinkle in the covers.
“Oh, oh,” said Mother, pretending to be surprised. “I see a great big wrinkle. I’d better smooth it out.” So she patted the wrinkle, and it twitched.
“My, my,” said Mother, “this wrinkle is hard to get out. I’ll have to poke it a little bit.” So she poked the big wrinkle with her finger, and it began to giggle and wriggle.
“Goodness, gracious,” said Mother playfully, “this wrinkle giggles and wriggles. I guess I’ll have to see what’s under the blankets.” So she threw the covers back. There was Mindy, laughing and kicking her legs and flapping her arms in the middle of the bed.
“Oh, Mommy, I fooled you,” laughed Mindy.
“So you were the wrinkle in the blankets!” exclaimed Mother in mock surprise.
“Now, Mommy, I’ll help you make my bed without a single wrinkle,” said Mindy, scrambling out of bed.

I want to share with you one precious experience that has affected my life and opened the eyes of my understanding. As a businessman I was responsible for the sales of a group of clients, and I was constantly challenged to maintain a good relationship for selling in spite of not participating in popular habits like drinking alcohol, smoking, or telling improper jokes, things which the Spirit did not allow me to do. One day while I was working in my office in. Dortmund, Germany, I received a telephone call from one of my clients. He was calling me from Paris, France. His company had an exhibition there, and he invited me to come and visit him and talk about more business. I was immediately warned and alarmed by the Spirit that his real reason for inviting me to Paris, besides talking about business, was to find someone who would pay his pleasure bills in that expensive city. I was honored by the opportunity for more business, but scared by the expectation of the uneasy decisions that lay ahead of me. I knew that I had to go because this was my obligation as a salesman. I took the night train to Paris, traveling with a serious, constant prayer in my heart, a prayer that I would have the power to be successful without compromising my standards.
My friend picked me up in the early afternoon at the train station in Paris. I immediately discovered that he was not in the mood to talk about business, but that he wanted to show the city and its amusements to me, a total stranger unable to speak French. I intensified my prayer to my Father in Heaven, and he gave me a spirit of comfort, and even happiness and joy. I told my friend how happy I was to see him, and that I had to take the early night train back in order to meet some important responsibilities at home. He looked at me, smiling, and said, “No, no, you will stay with me until tomorrow. We have many important matters to discuss, and I will show you the city in privacy. No one will see you, and I will not tell anybody. Today we will enjoy life.”
I knew that his understanding of the enjoyment of life was totally different from mine, yet I also knew that his company’s business was vital for the survival of our company. So I prayed harder, pleading for help. Finally he invited me to a nice little restaurant, wanting to show me the places that only the knowing know. The Spirit said that there was nothing wrong with having dinner with him, so I agreed, and we started one of those long-lasting, expensive French meals. He ordered for both of us because he spoke fluent French, and he ordered two bottles of wine in spite of my strong protest that he not order wine for me.
The conversation was good, his bottle was emptied; mine remained untouched. Finally he became aware of this, took the bottle and filled my glass and his glass. He took his glass in his right hand, looked into my eyes, and said, “My dear friend, you know how much I enjoy your company and the standard you keep, but now you will drink this one glass to my health. If you don’t you will not receive one more piece of business from me.”
I felt my blood freeze inside of me. It came to my mind, “Brother Busche, now you have to make a decision!” All kinds of rationalizations came creeping into my heart. But before I could say anything, I was overtaken by a power that filled me with great joy and light. To my surprise, I found myself putting my right arm around him. This Spirit made me say something that I would never have been able to think of myself, something that changed the situation totally. I heard myself say, “Mr. So-and-so, you know that I know you better than that. I know that you would never make a logical business decision and have it based on such illogical conditions.” I gave him a big hug, and smiled in his eyes with a deep feeling of love and friendship. This surprised him for a moment, and he was unable to speak. Then his eyes began to fill with tears. He hugged me back, and began to speak. They were words of apology. He wept and said, “I want you to forgive me. If you had drunk this glass of wine, I would have made a fool out of you tonight. I wanted to destroy you, but now you will be my friend forever. Don’t worry anymore. Right after this meal I will take you personally to the station so that you can get your train on time. You will also receive all the business from me that you want and are capable of handling.”
And so it went. When I was in the little sleeping compartment on the night train back home, I cried for joy and happiness and praised the Lord for his help at the right time and in the right way.

One not so blessed with the gift of sight was the blind man who, in an effort to sustain himself, sat day in and day out at his usual place on the edge of a busy sidewalk in one of our large cities. In one hand he held an old felt hat filled with pencils. With his other hand he held out a tin cup. His simple appeal to the passerby was brief and to the point. It had a certain finality to it, almost a tone of despair. The message was contained on the small placard held about his neck by a string. It read, “I am blind.”
Most did not stop to buy his pencils or to place a coin in the tin cup. They were too busy, too occupied by their own problems. That tin cup had never been filled or even half-filled. Then one beautiful spring day a man paused and, with a marking pen, added several new words to the shabby sign. No longer did it read, “I am blind.” Now the message read, “It is springtime and I am blind.” The cup was soon filled to overflowing. Perhaps the busy people were touched by Charles L. O’Donnell’s exclamation, “I have never been able to school my eyes against young April’s blue surprise.” To each, however, the coins were a poor substitute for the desired ability to actually restore sight.

After a few weeks of hard proselyting, my patience was wearing thin and I began to get angry at very small things. During a particularly discouraging day, I briefly scanned the pages of the March 1992 issue of the New Era. My eyes were drawn to the article “Flunked.” After finishing the story, I felt much better. I had been touched by the Spirit and the anger I was feeling was gone. That article has become a source of personal strength for me as I continue to share the gospel daily.
Elder Kevin HillChile Vina del Mar Mission

Fast forward a decade. I was married and had three children when I got ahold of the family candle time binder. I could hardly contain my excitement to recreate the sacred and sweet memories of my childhood. However, the first night of candle time was a disaster. Pillow fights, scuffles over personal space, and bickering among my children resulted in the candle falling over and spilling melted wax on our carpet. This wasn’t how I remembered candle time!
My husband and I reflected on our family situation and talked about ways to help my childhood tradition become our family’s tradition. We learned that a family tradition must be realistic, unique, flexible, and viewed as an opportunity rather than an obligation. Identifying the purpose behind the practice increased our potential for peace and joy. Reframing my view of candle time and letting go of a set ideal helped me claim joy rather than guilt. I now look forward to our candle time, and my children love it as well.

I was born in Port Moresby, Papua, New Guinea, the third child in my family. Ours was a poor family. My childhood was not marked by happy occasions such as Christmas and birthday celebrations that most children remember as they grow up. In fact, it was at these times that we were the most unhappy, knowing and seeing how other children were given gifts and treats.
We were poor for the most part because my father spent his small paycheck drinking on weekends. We were always hungry. When my mother tried to make Father see how we were suffering, he would become violently angry and would strike her until she was hurt and sobbing. How hard she tried to defend us children and care for us.
Christmases came and went. It was always the same for us. There was no money for presents and goodies. My sister and I would wake early on Christmas morning to the shouts of excitement from the neighborhood children who had found Christmas presents waiting for them.
Sometimes we children went off to the city dump to find something we could use or play with to comfort us. I longed for something new and shiny, a special gift just meant for me at Christmas.
Our lives began to change spiritually, but financially we were still poor. My childish longing for a real Christmas with presents meant just for me never materialized.
I am a grown young man now. I am fulfilling a mission for the Church. Now I can look back and realize I have been blessed with some very special gifts—not the ones that children open at Christmastime, but gifts that are forever and can be cherished each day of my life.

During the time of the Korean War, a young man, Rhee Ho Nam, was pressed into a helping role by an American military unit involved in court martials. At the time, being dislocated from his regular way of life looked like a tragedy. Ho Nam, however, made the best of his challenges as did Joseph in ancient Egypt. He developed English as a second language. He carefully observed the things the American soldiers did, especially an LDS lieutenant who was “different” from his fellow soldiers and much admired by Ho Nam. They discussed things often. One day the lieutenant asked Ho Nam what the purpose of life was. Rhee Ho Nam could not answer, saying only that philosophers had struggled in vain with that question for centuries. Thereupon, the officer took out a plain sheet of paper and drew an outline of the plan of salvation. At that very moment, the Lord bore testimony through the power of His Spirit to Rhee Ho Nam’s heart that what the American had told him was true. Ho Nam studied, then joined the Church, keeping that piece of paper for years as a treasured reminder of that special moment.
The Korean War was soon over, but Ho Nam’s life in the Church had just begun. While in his thirties, Rhee Ho Nam became the first stake president of the first stake of the Church on the mainland of Asia. He served with distinction as a mission president in Pusan, Korea, as an outstanding leader among his people. With special conviction, President Rhee taught his missionaries and members to look with hope beyond what is to what may be! Sometimes within difficulty and even seeming tragedy there is opportunity!

When my wife, Mary Anne, and I served in the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission, we had a missionary who was an orphan boy. He had no family. The Lord assigned him to be Elder Hawkins’s trainer. I don’t think he was the best trainer, but Elder Hawkins was the best companion for an orphan boy who had become one of the Lord’s missionaries.
Elder Hawkins’s parents wrote to this missionary during his mission and have continued to write to him for the past 15 years. Because of Elder Hawkins and his family, this orphan boy has been loved and cared for and is now happily married, employed, and active in the gospel of Jesus Christ. We all can help change orphan children.

A week passed and he had been able to keep his secret. But now he was in the Lutheran church, last on a bench, seated with others his age. His mother and father were also there, sitting on the front row in the middle of the church, a place of honor reserved for parents on confirmation day. At 14, members of the Lutheran Church are considered ready for full membership. On confirmation day they appear before a congregation and answer questions on the Lutheran catechism asked by the pastor.
The new tunic Christian was wearing, as bright and clean as new snow, felt rough on his skin. His mother had given it to him that morning. There was tightness in his stomach; his heart was pulsing hard and strong, and his tongue was dry and rough in his mouth. Christian knew he couldn’t lie about his beliefs; he had to tell the truth.
At last it was his turn. He stood up from the bench and walked toward the pastor. His father was smiling with pride. Christian’s legs felt weak and his mind clouded with confusion. The church was full, and he felt everyone’s eyes upon him.
The pastor’s voice, high and loud, echoed in the church.
“Do you believe in God?” it chanted.
“Yes,” Christian’s voice was small. He whispered a prayer.
“Can you describe God?” The voice asked.
There was a vast silence in the great building. Christian felt as if the world were watching and listening. Then, a clearness and strength came into him from some unseen deep well. His voice was strong and clear.
“God is not a being without body, parts, or passions; and he does not sit on the top of a topless throne. God is a good, kind, Heavenly Father, who hears and answers prayers, and man is made in the image of God.”
For the first time in the service the pastor looked up, his eyes wide and questioning. Christian turned and looked at his father. He saw a face that was stone hard.
The pastor continued the questioning, and Christian answered according to his new beliefs.
The pastor finished the chanted catechism questions, looked solemnly at Christian, and in a hiss of voice said, “You answer as if you were a Mormon.”
“And if I do, I’m proud of it,” Christian replied.
Christian’s father, Hans Monson, stood, his face red and his eyes fierce under heavy brows. He glared angrily at Christian, slammed the tip of his oak cane heavily against the wood floor, turned, and walked from the building, his cane cracking loudly with each step.
That night Christian received the beating from his father that he had expected for days. After that, with the help of his mother, he was able to avoid his father for several days. Then one evening while he was bringing wood into the house and stacking it near the fireplace, his father came into the room.
Christian felt his heart race and blood flush his cheeks. There was a moment of terrible silence. Hans Monson, a thick-chested man, a woodcutter by trade, suddenly struck at the boy with his cane. Christian avoided most of the blows that followed, but whenever the cane reached him, it caused a painful welt on his flesh.
Out of breath Hans Monson stopped, his muscles tense and his blonde hair wet with perspiration. Christian, feeling faint, stood. His face was pale.
“Father, I know it’s wrong for me to disobey you. I’m sorry for that, but I’m not sorry for what I did. I know it was right, and I’m not afraid to be beaten for the gospel, for truth.”
Breathing heavily Hans grabbed a large piece of wood from the fireplace stack and threw it. He threw wood at Christian until the stack was gone; then he opened the door and told Christian to get out.
“There’s no room here for a Mormon devil,” he shouted as Christian left. The door slammed. That was the last Christian would see of his father.
The night air was biting cold. Christian felt weak, overpowered by pain, confusion, and a terrible sense of loss. He still felt love and respect for his father. He staggered to the barn and fell on a pile of oat straw.
Later in the night Christian felt a soft hand touch his shoulder. His mother sat next to him on the straw.
“Why? Why did you have to do it, Christian?” she asked. Her voice was full of tears.
“I studied it, and I prayed about it. I know it’s true,” he answered, feeling strength in his own words. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. I cannot deny what I know to be true. It would be like denying Christ, our Savior. I could never do that, no matter how much it hurt.”
In the cold, musty darkness of the barn, they talked until the pearl-gray light of dawn came. Christian felt the warmth of a bond between him and his mother tighten stronger than it had ever been; it grew into something he would remember all of his life, a memory that would warm him and give him strength. In the gray, sullen light he saw a bright tear roll down her face. She held him tight and warm knowing she would never see her son again, at least not in this life.