Gospel Story Finder

Instinctively Danny fled to his favorite fishing spot to hide. How strange it looked, all icy and frozen over. The forest and winding creek were beautiful in spring and summer when trees were leafed out and wild flowers bloomed along the steep clay banks.
He swept snow off a log and sat down, remembering happier days. I’ll bet Gramps and I have taken over a hundred pounds of big catfish and perch from this spot over the last four years, Danny reminisced. He threw a pebble and watched it skid across the ice and splash into open water where a swift current had kept ice from forming.
When fish weren’t biting, he and his grandfather often selected flat stones and skillfully skipped them across the surface of the water. Danny’s never skipped as many times as Gramps’ before sinking. His grandfather always said it was because he didn’t bend down low enough before throwing. “I don’t do lots of other things right, either,” Danny muttered unhappily.
He clasped his knees for added warmth and rested his chin on them. How desolate everything looked, even with a sparkling mantle of snow. The scene matched his mood. I’m letting everyone down by hiding here, he admitted. There was a lump in his throat as he wondered if he could ever be happy again.
He wasn’t sorry that he had rescued the Clark children when the family’s trailer burned, of course, but being a hero was about the worst thing that had ever happened to him or so he felt now. He had enjoyed all the fuss at first—too much—he remembered, flushing. He hadn’t been modest enough for the honor, so his unhappiness was mostly his own fault. He had boasted and made such a fool of himself that his friends started avoiding him. Even worse, now that the nightmares and guilt had struck, he knew he wasn’t a real hero at all!
Feeling as he did, there was no way he could attend the dinner being given in his honor or accept the medal his boss Mr. Edmonds was supposed to present to him. And the reward money! He felt that accepting it would be just like stealing.
Danny started at the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow, and looked up to see his grandfather walking toward him, gasping from exertion in the frigid air.
“Thought I’d find you here,” the gray-haired man drawled as he sat down beside his grandson. “We’ve looked everywhere else, and your parents are worried and churned up about you taking off like this. What’s ailing you, boy? This should be one of the happiest days of your life. Those folks at the trailer court have worked hard preparing a big dinner for you. They’ve invited lots of people, even the mayor and city council members will be there, to see you get that medal and the $1,000 check they’ve collected for you. Surely you aren’t planning on letting them down, are you?”
“I’m sorry about letting them down, but I’m not going, Gramps,” Danny whispered, looking out across the creek. “I don’t deserve the medal or the money. I’m not a hero. I just happened to be delivering a newspaper to the Clarks when I noticed a trailer on fire. Mrs. Clark came out of the trailer next door with some sugar she’d borrowed and started screaming that her babies were inside their burning trailer. I didn’t even think about what I was doing. I just ran in through the smoke and felt around in the cribs until I found the baby and little girl and crawled outside with them. If I hadn’t done it, someone else probably would have. I—I’m really ashamed of strutting around like some big war hero or movie star,” he added miserably.
“I’m glad you admitted that last part, Danny,” his grandfather said quietly. “You did have a swelled head for awhile, after the newspaper stories and after being on the evening news, but I knew you’d get over it. I guess it’s only natural when you’re suddenly plunged into the limelight to enjoy getting attention, but now you’re going too far the other way. Suppose someone else hadn’t done what you did in those few critical seconds—”
“You don’t understand what I mean, Gramps. Nobody does,” Danny interrupted. “That’s not all that’s bothering me. The treatments for smoke inhalation, being in the hospital with my eyes bandaged, and my burned arms and hands really scared me but I didn’t realize then that smoke is so deadly even without flames. But it isn’t that or the pain I had that’s bothering me. Now I keep having nightmares about being trapped and burning to death! Gramps,” Danny whispered desperately, “if I had it to do over, I’m not sure I’d go in after those little kids! I’m not a hero … I’m just the biggest coward in the world!” He buried his face in his arms, not wanting to see shame and disappointment in his grandfather’s eyes.
The elderly man put his hand on the boy’s arm. “I doubt that there’s ever been a hero who wasn’t scared witless later when he realized the full danger of his act. And there probably wouldn’t be any heroes at all if they stopped to think about the risks.”
Gramps was silent for a few moments, thinking back on his own life. Then he went on. “You’ve seen the medal I received for grabbing up a live hand grenade tossed by an arsonist when I was a city fireman. I threw it just before it exploded and was the only one injured. What I never did tell you is that once it was over, I shook and trembled so bad that I fainted. I’ve had my nightmares, too, son, and feelings of guilt. Did I do it to save myself or the seven other firemen who stood staring at it for those few deadly seconds? Well, I still don’t know the answer. Don’t reckon I ever will. But, regardless, eight of us lived, and I got a medal for heroic action. I’m mighty proud of it, and I hope you will be, too, when you show it to your grandchildren someday. But I hope you’ll leave out the part about me being so scared and fainting.” Gramps grinned and reached over and tousled Danny’s hair.
Danny felt the heavy load lift from his shoulders. Gramps did understand his mixed emotions. He had been through it too. Danny arose and smiled as he helped his grandfather to his feet. “I guess we’d better hurry so we don’t disappoint all those people who are waiting. I’ll accept the medal, but I’m going to give the money to Mrs. Clark and her children. They really need it to get settled in another home. And right now I’m promising that my friends will never again have to listen to my big hero story!”
Gramps chuckled and laid his arm across Danny’s shoulders as they walked back to his car. “As one reluctant hero to another, son, I’m proud of you!”

Sitting on a bench in New York City’s Central Park, Lynda Gunther takes small stitches in a quilt block while her children climb and slide and swing and run. For nearly 20 years she has been bringing her children to the park and stitching memories and values into bits of fabric.
“When Paul and I first moved to the city we had three small children,” Lynda explains. “Very few members of the Church had attempted to rear families in this city, and most people advised us not to try it. I thought of the small town where I grew up, of the independent and self-reliant women and men, and I wondered if I could bring those values into this new environment. I also wanted my children to be able to spend lots of time outside running and playing—so I began to bring them to the park. Sewing became a way for me to keep busy when I wasn’t playing with the children and also to deal with my uncertainties about living in the city.”
Lynda tried to incorporate the values of the people she admired into her new life in creative ways. Preserving food became for her a symbol of self-sufficiency, so when she couldn’t get fresh fruits and vegetables in the city, she made a list of all the things she remembered her mother and grandmothers putting into bottles and made quilt blocks representing many of those things. As she stitched, Lynda created a tribute to her pioneer ancestors and a family history for her children to enjoy. She also taught her family independence, hard work, self-reliance, the law of the harvest, and self-confidence in a new environment.
When the bottle quilt was completed, Lynda began working on a quilt featuring family stories. Other quilts have followed, including a memory quilt for each of her children. The tradition began when Lynda’s oldest child, Janelle, was seven years old. Lynda and Janelle collected Janelle’s best childhood drawings, special notes, and even a math problem and transferred them to blocks of white fabric. Lynda then assembled the blocks and quilted them on her kitchen table. By the time Janelle was baptized, her childhood was preserved in a quilt. Six other quilts, each unique and reflective of the child who helped create it, have followed. Lynda and her youngest daughter, Jesse, are now assembling the artwork for the eighth quilt.
The Gunther family-tree quilt is truly a linking of generations. Paul and Lynda, pictured in the ovals, were married in the Salt Lake Temple (top right) in 1966. Their eight children’s names wrap around the trunk of the tree. The acorns contain the signatures of Lynda and Paul’s siblings and their spouses. The branches of the tree represent the Gunthers’ ancestors. Lynda quilted their ancestors’ signatures onto the quilt, or if signatures were not available, she printed their names. The houses bordering the tree are representations of the places Lynda and Paul have lived.
Lynda encouraged the children to include pictures they imagine their own children would like to see. They have included drawings of family homes; self-portraits; and pictures of family members, favorite classrooms, playgrounds, and even the bus stop. The quilts are displayed on special occasions such as birthdays and other holidays.
“I would like to be able to write,” Lynda muses, “but that requires a cloistered environment, and I certainly don’t have that living in an apartment with a husband and eight children! I can work on these quilts at the park and at home and still be with my family. I was not trained as an artist, so when I began, I didn’t know what I couldn’t do—I was free to experiment and make my own creations. Some have not been as successful as others, but I like fabrics, and I like to work with them and make beautiful things with them.”
Lynda, surrounded by the fabric, the family, and the city she loves, explains, “This is the way I have recorded my own personal history and the history of my family.”

I am so grateful I followed this counsel, for as a student at Ricks College I received several impressions from the Spirit that I chose to follow that have been anchors in my life.

The second prompting was strange to me. I had my class schedule completed and was in the first week of classes at Ricks, but I just knew I was missing a class. Later in the day, the impression came to take a social dance class. I thought, “Wow, that is out of my comfort zone!” I was raised on a dairy farm in Oregon and hadn’t spent much time on a dance floor. However, with my brother’s encouragement, who happened to teach in the math department at Ricks, I found myself registering for the only social dance class that fit my schedule. To my surprise, the first day of class, in a round dance where you change partners often, a beautiful blonde girl became my partner, and I had the witness that I should get to know this young lady. Now, I thought of every reason under the sun why she would never go out with a red-headed, freckle-faced, farmer-tanned, skinny farm boy. Well, a couple of weeks later as we left the dance class, I found myself behind her on the way to devotional. I’m sure it was accidental. Catching up to her, I asked if I could sit with her during devotional. How original was that? To make a long story short, we still enjoy devotionals together.

I will be eternally grateful for being worthy to receive those promptings. Obeying these prompting has made all the difference in my life, brought me such happiness and joy, and will continue to do so through the eternities.

Long ago I worked for one of our railroads whose tracks threaded the passes through these western mountains. I frequently rode the trains. It was in the days when there were steam locomotives. Those great monsters of the rails were huge and fast and dangerous. I often wondered how the engineer dared the long journey through the night. Then I came to realize that it was not one long journey, but rather a constant continuation of a short journey. The engine had a powerful headlight that made bright the way for a distance of 400 or 500 yards. The engineer saw only that distance, and that was enough, because it was constantly before him all through the night into the dawn of the new day.

Several years ago there was an inspiring story in a popular sports magazine about a professional football player named Deion Branch. He was a wide receiver for the New England Patriots for eleven years, and during that time he played in three Super Bowls.

The article pointed out that many professional football players go out drinking and get “hammered” in the days leading up to the Super Bowl. They find various ways to deal with the stress, and many of these ways are not praiseworthy.

But Deion Branch had a different way of preparing himself for the big game in 2005. He picked up his phone and called every coach he had ever had. He called his junior college coaches. He called his high school coaches. He even sought out the phone numbers of his Pee Wee coaches and reached out to them. He made thirteen phone calls in all.

He called these men to say thank you: “Thank you for caring about me [enough to teach me]. Thank you for making me run stairs. Thank you for believing I could do this.” He thanked his college coach for not giving up on him when his grades were bad. Deion stood only five feet nine inches tall, so he thanked his high school coach for never saying that he was too small to play football.

These phone conversations were very meaningful to his coaches, but they also invigorated Deion Branch. He felt so motivated that he played his very best, leading his team to victory. He was named the Most Valuable Player of the Super Bowl in 2005.

Moving was a challenge for Mary, too, but she met it with independence and tenacity. Once when they moved, “I took her to Germany, dropped her off in Frankfurt with the two boys, and then I had to fly on to Berlin for a temporary assignment,” says Elder Hales. “Mary got the boys into school, learned to find her way around the busy autobahn, and eventually learned to speak German. This was typical. She has always made it work.”

My Young Women president challenged all of the young women in my ward to read Jesus the Christ in just five months. As I sat down to read it, I was disappointed at first. I had expected the heavens to open and light to pour down, instantly filling me with the Spirit. However, that did not happen. Instead, I struggled to get through even the first chapter without my mind wandering off. I put the book down, frustrated at the seeming lack of divine inspiration.
I decided I needed to change my approach to reading. The next evening I knelt by my bed and asked Heavenly Father to allow me to have the Holy Spirit accompany me, that I might better understand and be able to read this book about His Son and my Savior. After that prayer, I felt a subtle wave of peace come into my room as I settled down to read. I understood the book better and enjoyed it more.
Every night after that, I made sure I started and ended my reading sessions with a prayer, in which I thanked my Heavenly Father and invited the Spirit to guide me as I learned more of the Savior.
I struggled at times and became discouraged that I couldn’t just zip through this 800-page book. But I continued on with my reading and even felt sad as I turned to the last page, knowing the book was ending. The Spirit that was present as I read Jesus the Christ was so indescribably sweet and comforting, and I came to know my Savior on a deeper level. My testimony of the Savior and of the Atonement grew so much from the simple act of reading a book for a few minutes every night.

Sam was tired of sitting. He tugged on his mom’s sleeve. “How long is stake conference?” he whispered.
His mom leaned toward him. “Two hours, Sam. Look at the clock. When both hands are on the 12, it will be done. Now, let’s listen to the speakers.”
Sam fidgeted. He crossed his left leg over his right. He crossed his right leg over his left. He pulled out the hymnbook and flipped a few pages. He was in first grade, and he could read many of the words.
He put the hymnbook back. This meeting was going to last forever.
Now that he was old enough to read and write, Mom and Dad said he didn’t need treats or toys in church meetings. Before the meeting started, they gave him a notebook and a pen. They said he could draw pictures, as long as he would sit still and try to listen.
Sam tried to listen. He really did. But the speakers were grown-ups, and they mostly talked about grown-up things. It was hard to pay attention to what they said. Sam opened his notebook and began to draw. After a while, he asked Mom again when the meeting would be over. She said there was still a whole hour left! He had already drawn a robot, a space monster, a dinosaur, and his family. He was tired of drawing.
Sam sighed loudly. Mom put her finger on her lips and frowned. He kicked the bench in front of him. Dad put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and frowned. Sam crossed his left leg over his right leg. He crossed his right leg over his left leg.
Just then, he heard the speaker say “Jesus Christ.” Sam knew how to spell that. He opened his notebook and wrote Jesus Christ.
“I wonder if the speaker will say that again,” Sam thought. He listened. Sure enough, the speaker did, and Sam wrote it down. He wondered how many times the speaker would say “Jesus Christ.” He decided to count. The speaker said His name six more times. Sam wrote down each one.
When the next speaker stood up, Sam listened for “Jesus” again. But this speaker talked more about the Holy Ghost. Sam tried to spell Holy Ghost, but it was a little tricky. He thought maybe he hadn’t gotten it quite right, but it was fun to try. He listened to see if the speaker would say any other special words.
When the speaker sat down, Sam looked at his notebook. He had written Jesus Christ, Holy Ghost, Heavenly Father, and comfort. He had also written pray, listen, and obey. He had a whole page of special words.
Looking at the page made Sam feel good inside. He didn’t need toys or treats after all. All he needed were his notebook and pen—and his ears to listen for special words.

A translator in the Philippines discovered another problem. He completed his translation of the Gospel of John, printed it, and gave some copies to the tribe he was with. Nobody liked it, and nobody read it. After some investigation, he found that the native language had two forms for stories, one for fiction and one for true stories. In his translation, he had used the fictional form. He redid the translation in the other form, and the new version was a success.

It was the day before my high school graduation. The seminary building was packed with students, most of them graduating seniors full of anticipation of the next day’s big event.
It had been a great year for me, and now my high school years were coming to an end. I was standing in a large group of noisy, excited seniors signing yearbooks when a girl I didn’t know asked me if she could sign my book. I thought it was a little unusual, but I shrugged and handed it over. She gave me a big smile and hurried off to a desk in one of the classrooms.
That night as I was looking through my yearbook and smiling at all the things my friends had written, I came to a small paragraph that began, "You don’t know me, but I have been watching you all year."
I was shocked. I read that sentence over and over. I hadn’t been living my life as if someone might be watching me. I had only been thinking of what a good time I was having. I read on. This girl who had asked to sign my yearbook also wrote that she had noticed how active I was in seminary and that she was determined to be just like me.
While I was proud she had chosen me to admire, what I mostly felt at that moment was a profound sense of relief that I had not unknowingly led her down the wrong path by my actions. Not once during that last year of high school had I considered myself a role model to younger students. But that night when I said my prayers, I thanked Heavenly Father for righteous parents, inspiring teachers, and good friends who had made it easy for me to choose the right.
I never saw that girl again. But I have always remembered the moment she changed my life by asking to sign my yearbook. I have tried since that day to live each minute as though someone is watching—because someone usually is.

Recently, a woman told me of an experience that she had as she was completing an endowment session. She said that as many times as she had been to the temple before and repeated the words given her at the end of the endowment, this time as she spoke, the words pierced her heart, and she realized those promises would be hers and those she loved. Whether in this life single or married, childless or with children, the promises of God were unequivocally sure, and she would, in a future day, realize each one of the blessings she righteously hoped and prayed for, for herself and for those she loved. These thoughts were impressed upon her heart in a new and enlightened way. Her sadness and sorrow and suffering were, in that moment before entering the celestial room, replaced with a bright hope for her future and faith in God’s eternal promises.

I was a 13-year-old Latter-day Saint young woman living in Gilbert, Arizona, and each year our stake held its yearly girls’ camp in the mountains of Prescott, Arizona.
That year, at the beginning of camp, our leaders gave us each a small spiral notebook. On the inside cover of each was written our name, the name of the camp, and “Summer of ’76.” On the first page of the notebook was the heading, “I hope, I wish, I dream.”
We were instructed to write in this notebook our hopes, our wishes, and our dreams for the future. We were also told to put our notebooks somewhere safe. Our leaders hoped that when we were grown up, we would take our notebooks out and see what our dreams had been and if we had achieved them.
I took our leaders’ words to heart. I filled page after page with my hopes for the future. When I came home from camp that year, I unpacked my suitcase and took out the little spiral notebook and set it carefully inside my hope chest.
Years went by, and I gave little thought to the notebook. Over the next 20 years, I went through many moves. I transferred the contents of my hope chest to a cardboard box, which I labeled “Mementos,” and that box followed me wherever I went.
One day, 20 years from the day that I wrote in that notebook at camp, I walked into my garage and saw the box labeled “Mementos.” I decided to get it down and see what was inside. I began pulling out items. Then I came across the little spiral notebook. I opened it to the first page and read, “I hope, I wish, I dream.”
I began to read and ponder what I had written—of my desire to be married to a good man in the temple and my desire to have a big family and a happy home. I had written of my desire to keep the commandments. I continued reading about how important it was for me to not compromise my principles and to keep the light of the gospel in my life.
I paused for a moment from my reading and thought about how my life had turned out. I had not compromised my principles. I had married a good man in the temple. We had three children at that time. We were a happy family, and we taught our children the gospel. All that I had read had come true or was coming true.
I then went on to read of a more specific dream I had. The last sentence I had written was, “I want to write a book.”
After reading this, I found myself standing perfectly still, in awe. Then my heart began pounding, and I smiled as my entire being was filled with a warm tingly feeling. I closed the little notebook and held it close to me. A publishing company had just accepted my manuscript for publication.
I received a strong testimony that day of the power of goal setting. I received a testimony that our Heavenly Father loves us and will help us in achieving our hopes, our wishes, and our dreams. I believe that when I was 13, I knew what I wanted to do in my life, and I knew what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. I believe in the importance of setting righteous goals now and not compromising your principles. If you do set righteous goals, they will become reality.

Betty was born on 4 January 1932 in Kadina, on the Yorke Peninsula of South Australia. It was during the Great Depression and her father, one of many looking for employment, moved his family to Whyalla to work at the newly opened shipyard.
They lived in a tent on the beach until Betty’s father could build a cabin for them. She remembers, “As far as you could see, the beach was lined with families living in tents.” Children loved living there and going for a swim anytime they wanted.

“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.

Once upon a time in a small village there lived an old tailor and his three sons, Judah, Yarin, and Isaac. One day the old man called his boys together. “My sons,” he said. “I have worked hard. Now I wish to spend my days resting in the shade of the olive trees. I am giving the shop to you.”
Judah stepped forward. “Thank you, Papa. We hope that we can live up to your teachings.”
The old man smiled. “How splendid it will be to see my sons working together.”
Yarin picked up some cloth. “I can design the garments,” he said enthusiastically.
“I will cut the patterns,” added Isaac happily.
“And I will sew the pieces of cloth together,” said Judah eagerly.
“Good!” said the old man, beaming. “You have made my heart sing.”
A moment later, there was a knock on the door. Judah opened it. A messenger handed him a letter for his father. “It is news from the Rabbi’s wife,” he said. Then he bowed and left.
Judah gave the letter to his father. The old man quickly opened it and read aloud:
On the first day of next week my daughter will marry Ganseh the gabbai [synagogue trustee], cousin of the hazan’s [cantor’s] daughter. A prize of fifty shekels will go to the tailor who makes the most beautiful dress in Jerusalem before sunset this Friday. The Rebbetzin.
“Our fortune will be made!” said Yarin.
“We will become known throughout the Holy Land!” exclaimed Isaac.
“Everyone will buy our finery!” rejoiced Judah. “Let’s get busy and make the dress. We have only two days’ time.”
The old man stepped forward. “I am going to the marketplace to buy more cloth. I will return tomorrow. Good luck, my sons. I know you will do well together.”
And he left.
As Yarin picked up some paper and a quill, he thought, I should win the prize because I will make the pattern. He quickly drew some sketches.
“Show us what you have drawn,” said Judah.
Yarin hid the paper behind his back. “No,” he replied. “Not unless you both agree that the prize shall be mine!”
“That’s not fair!” cried Isaac. “If anyone should have a prize, I should, because I shall cut the pattern with great precision.”
“Wait!” protested Judah. “I shall sew the fine white linen with delicate stitches, so the prize should be mine!”
The brothers argued all day and night and into the next morning. When the old man returned, he heard their angry voices and hurried inside. “What is the trouble?” he asked them.
Enraged, the sons told him that each of them felt that he deserved the prize. The old man sadly shook his head. “As of this moment, I do not even see the beginning of a dress, yet you all expect to be rewarded.”
The old man fetched a broom from the doorway and removed three twigs. “Yarin,” he asked, “can you break this twig?’
“Of course, Papa,” he said, and he did.
“What about you, Judah?” asked the old man. “Can you break a twig too?”
“Easily,” replied Judah, and he did.
“Can you do the same, Isaac?” asked the old man.
“Certainly,” replied Isaac as he snapped the twig in two, “but what does this prove?”
The old man smiled and picked up the broom. “Now,” he said, “break the twigs that are bound together.”
Each son took a turn, but not one of them could do it.
The old man held the three broken twigs in his hand.
“Surely you can see that there seems to be more glory and riches in standing alone,” he said, kindly. “But like these bound twigs, working together brings strength.”
The sons looked at each other shamefacedly.
“We have wasted precious time being greedy,” said Isaac. “Now it’s too late, Papa.”
“Nonsense!” countered the old man. “Yarin, place the pattern on the table so that Isaac can cut the cloth so that Judah can sew it. Together you will make a fine gown.”
The brothers worked together all night and most of the next day to finish the gown before the Friday deadline.
When the rabbi’s wife saw the dress, she was very pleased with it. However, she liked another gown better, and she awarded the fifty shekels to someone else.
On their way home, the sons remained silent.
“I know that you are disappointed,” said the old man, “but together you made a very fine gown. Because it is so fine, others will buy the garments you make.”
The next day, many people came to the tailor shop.
One of them was the hazan’s daughter.
“Oh,” she said, admiring the dress, “what a beautiful design! Such delicate stitches! And it is cut so beautifully that I’m sure it will fit me.”
She was so delighted with the dress that she bought it and ordered several more. So did her friends and others, until the three brothers had earned fifty shekels many times over.

The lights were turned low, and the soft strains of Christmas carols filled the room as Grandma Joy fashioned fancy bows for the packages she had just wrapped with gaily colored paper. She smiled just thinking about her children and grandchildren, who would be visiting her tomorrow on Christmas Day. She was looking forward to the sparkling eyes and clapping hands of her grandchildren as they opened their gifts.
Grandma Joy had made each grandchild a pair of soft flannel pajamas with colorful trains, toy soldiers, rag dolls, or kittens on them. Each child would have his own favorite color, and, as a special treat, she had crocheted matching slippers with big, bouncy pom-poms on them.
Finished now with the bows, Grandma Joy relaxed in her recliner rocking chair to enjoy the music and to let her mind wander back over the day to see if she had forgotten anything. The sugar cookies were baked and decorated. The fruitcakes, taken from the oven only an hour ago, were sending their spicy aroma throughout the house as they cooled on racks on the kitchen counter. The family’s traditional salad mold was in the refrigerator, and the homemade fudge and divinity were heaped in fancy dishes about the living room.
The dining room table was covered with her best tablecloth, and in the center rested a bowl of shining red apples, ripe yellow bananas, thick-skinned navel oranges, and clusters of purple and red grapes. And on top of the television was Grandma Joy’s special gift for Tanya.
Tanya was the oldest grandchild. She had a keen, active mind overflowing with questions that Grandma Joy had run out of instant answers to—questions like:
“Grandma Joy, why wasn’t Jesus born in a beautiful home instead of a stable? I’ve been in a barn with cattle, and it’s not a very pleasant place for a human baby to be born.
“Once when I was building a birdhouse, the hammer slipped and hit my finger. It hurt really bad, and my fingernail turned black, and I finally lost it. So how could Jesus let the people crucify Him? How could He stand it when the soldiers drove nails through His hands and feet?
“How could Jesus go forty days and nights without food, when I get so hungry that I eat after school and then can hardly wait until Dad gets home for dinner?
“How could Jesus love all the little children and hold them in His arms? When Jimmy gets dirty and his hands are sticky, I don’t want him near me!
“Why did Jesus just wander around—why didn’t He work at a job like Dad does? I see on TV that when people don’t work, the police sometimes chase them out of parks, and charity groups have to feed them. …”
Tanya must have a good Primary teacher, Grandma Joy mused, one who gets children to think for themselves. Since Tanya left here last Sunday, I’ve needed every minute to prepare the Answer Tree for her.
The little Christmas tree had tiny packages hanging from its green branches. Grandma Joy had spent hours that week studying and reading the Bible and other good books, writing down the answers to Tanya’s questions, and wrapping the little pieces of paper as ornaments for the two-foot tree.
After a lovely Christmas dinner the next day, and after all the other gifts had been exchanged, Grandma Joy and Tanya sat together in the big chair near the little tree. The younger children were napping, and the other adults were visiting quietly together. It was a perfect time for Tanya to open the ornament-packages on the Answer Tree. She picked a blue ball-shaped one first and read:
“‘Jesus loved little children because He knew that they are innocent and trusting and eager to learn. He compared the kingdom of God to a child. Sticky hands or straggly hair or dirty knees aren’t as important as a pure heart. Jesus sees our souls.’
“Oh, Grandma Joy,” Tanya exclaimed, “these are answers to my questions! Thank you!”
Choosing a red package made up to look like a Wise Man, Tanya read the message inside:
“‘Only because He sacrificed Himself for us—and rose again—can we be resurrected after we die. He suffered for our sins so that we can live with Him again if we live righteously here on earth. Jesus let the soldiers nail Him to the cross and endured the pain because He loved us and wants us to be with Him always.’”
Unwrapping a white ornament that looked like an open Bible, Tanya read:
“‘Not much is said directly about why Heavenly Father didn’t arrange for Jesus to be born in a better place than a stable, but maybe one reason was that His humble birth helped to show that He came to save everyone. The Jews were expecting the Savior to be more like a warrior-king who would conquer their enemies, so His birth in a stable might have been a way to indicate His true ministry right from the start of His mortal life. Another reason that He was born in a stable may have been to show that it is one of God’s commandments to obey the laws of the land. Mary and Joseph were doing that when they went to Bethlehem to pay their taxes.’”
Inside a tiny gift box with an orange bow was this message:
“‘Jesus wandered from place to place because He needed to teach as many people as He could before He died. There were no radios or televisions or even loudspeakers for Him to use, so He had to travel from place to place to heal people and to teach them. Until He went to Gethsemane and Calvary, that was His job.’”
Tanya opened a green bell package next and read:
“‘Like Jesus, Moses fasted for forty days. Both of them were with Heavenly Father during that time and were sustained by Him as they received His counsel. Heavenly Father helped them so that they could help us.’”
Finally Tanya took the gold star from the top of the tree. Carefully she opened it, then read this verse from “O Little Town of Bethlehem”:
“‘How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.’
“Oh, Grandma Joy, I’m so glad that I can come to you with my questions,” Tanya said as she snuggled in the big chair with her grandmother once again. “Your Christmas Answer Tree explained things so that I can understand them.”
“Thank you, dear,” Grandma Joy told her. “That’s the best praise anyone can get.”

Because I grew up outside of the Church, the law of chastity was not always something I lived by—it wasn’t something I even knew about. My mom never taught my twin brother or me about keeping any moral standards. We, as well as our younger brother, had been born out of wedlock. Our dad would often move in with a woman the moment they started dating.

As I got older, my conversations with friends were filled with derogatory language. In high school I started dating a guy who also did not live by the standards of the Church, and doing things outside of the law of chastity just felt like a normal “rite of passage” into adulthood.

But when I started taking lessons with the missionaries when I was 18, they taught me about how I should have clean thoughts, good language, and actions that reflected Christ’s teachings. At first, I was crushed. I had been living a life without the law of chastity, and I felt like I was broken—too far gone. It felt like even if I truly repented, I would never be fully forgiven of my sins. I told myself that Christ would continue to hold my mistakes over my head. I was constantly thinking about how I had let Him down—without even knowing it. Not only that, but I also felt as though following the law of chastity wasn’t attainable.

Questions from the adversary flooded my mind, making me second-guess what I was learning about chastity. While taking lessons with the missionaries, I was in a relationship that did not prioritize staying morally clean, and I thought that joining the Church would change the relationship. Maybe The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints wasn’t a good fit for me. I remember thinking, “I have already given up so much. And now this?” It made me question if joining the Church was even worth it.

But I couldn’t deny the truth I had found within the Church. If I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet, then that meant that the law of chastity must be a true commandment from the Lord. It was a nonnegotiable. I knew that my next challenge would be applying the law to my life and striving each day to be better.

It was not going to be something I could change overnight. There were times when I fell short. I felt like it was a never-ending cycle; I would try my hardest to do better and then I would revert to my old ways. When I had finally reached the point where I was obeying the law of chastity and felt like I could look my Maker in the eyes and say, “I’m trying; I’m doing my best with a willing heart,” I still kept remembering all the times I had “messed up.” I had to remind myself that I knew in my heart that the Lord forgives when we truly repent, which I had. But that didn’t really stop me from still feeling like a disappointment.

Since then I have realized that the Lord will forgive us, but we must learn to forgive ourselves as well. Heavenly Father wants us to recognize our mistakes, repent, strive to do better, and move on. Satan, however, wants us to be chained to our sins. Those feelings of failure were Satan telling me, “You can’t do this. You’re crazy for even thinking you can.” But I know the Lord loves me and wants to see me grow in my faith. He wants that for all of His children.

Now, being a member of the Church for just over a year, I have seen the blessings that come from following the law of chastity. I don’t feel broken and confused anymore. Yes, I still sometimes have moments when Satan tempts me with the temporary satisfaction that comes from immorality, but I’ve learned that true satisfaction can come only through Christ. I know that He blesses us when we follow His commandments.

I’ve also learned that you can never be too far gone to receive the blessings of the gospel. Heavenly Father welcomes us back with open arms. Those doubts I had didn’t come from Christ or Heavenly Father. He gave us the law of chastity to protect us and guide us along on the covenant path. Learning about this law has strengthened my testimony of the Savior’s Atonement immensely. The Lord loves each of us. We may mess up, but we also have the opportunity to learn and grow from our mistakes—to repent. He has not given us this commandment to make life tough; He did it because He loves us.1

I am so grateful for the law of chastity and everything it has taught me. I’ve seen how it has blessed my life, and I know it will bless others too.

The family talked of the times when Dad has been home: of camping trips in the Shenandoah Mountains when deer would eat right out of their hands, of water slides and visits to the Cherokee reservation, of playing baseball and football together, of trips to the beach.
“One time, just as we were leaving to pick up Dad, I slipped and cut my chin,” Nathan said. “Dad had been waiting 30 minutes before he found out we were at the emergency room.”

The air in the gym is heavy, thick with the smell of rubber-soled shoes, of basketballs, and of sweat. In one corner, young men stretch and pull. One of them calls out, “Pasame la pelota!”
In unison, the other players repeat, “Pasame la pelota!”
“What does that mean, Kelly?”
“Pass me the ball,” Kelly answers. “Now try this, ‘a la izquierda,’ That means ‘to the left.’”
“A la izquierda!” the group answers.
And so the Spanish drill continues as the basketball players prepare for a scrimmage. You might think this is a scene from a gym class at the MTC, but guess again. It actually took place at the University of New Mexico, where the Lobos were preparing for a game against Brigham Young University. The Lobos were getting a crash course in Spanish from last year’s senior guard Kelly Graves, who served in the Chile Santiago Mission. It just so happens that the majority of the starters for BYU served Spanish-speaking missions, and sometimes they tried to confuse and intimidate the opposing teams by speaking Spanish on the court.
“Those BYU guys can’t fool me,” said Kelly. “I served a Spanish-speaking mission too. During our stretching time, we’ve been going over some Spanish phrases.”

We learn from Church History, that the town of Laie and the Laie Temple both came to be because of a beautiful vision. Around 1864, Elder William R. Cluff, while in Laie, retired to a small grove of trees to pray. According to one account, “During that prayer… Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball appeared to him, telling him that Laie would be a gathering place for the Church and that a temple would be built there.” That vision has come to pass. Laie is now a beautiful LDS Community, on an island, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Furthermore, in 1919, President Heber J. Grant dedicated the Laie Temple. Now we have that majestic building in our midst, which in its early history, was sometimes referred to as the Taj Mahal of Hawaii.