Gospel Story Finder

I continued my services in the parish, but my preaching was mixed with the new words of the book. The members of my congregation were so interested that they became dissatisfied with my colleagues’ sermons. When members began leaving the chapel during their sermons and remained when I occupied the pulpit, my colleagues became angry with me.
The beginning of real discord began Christmas Eve, 1910. In my sermon that evening, I told the story of the birth and mission of Jesus Christ as given in my new book. When I had finished, some of my colleagues publicly contradicted all I had said. They denounced me and turned me over to the Committee of Censure for disciplinary action.
When I appeared before this committee, the members gave what they supposed to be fatherly advice. They counseled me to burn the book, which they said was of the devil, since it had caused so much trouble and had destroyed the harmony of the pastoral brothers. I replied, “I will not burn the book because of the fear of God. I have asked him if it were true, and my prayer was answered affirmatively and absolutely, which I feel again in my soul as I defend his cause now.” I felt then that the day would come when the source of the book would be known to me and I would be able to enjoy the effects of the faith that led me to solemnly resist the Committee of Censure.
Not until 1914 was I once again brought before the council. A church official spoke in a friendly way, suggesting that the sharp words at the previous hearing may have provoked me, which was regrettable, since they all loved me. However, he said, I must remember that obedience is the rule and that I must burn the book.
I could not deny the words of the book nor burn it, since in so doing I would offend God. I said that I looked forward with joy to the time when the church to which the book belonged would be made known to me and I could become part of it. “Enough! Enough!” the official cried. He then read the decision, of the council:
I was to lose my position as a pastor of the church and of every right and privilege I had previously enjoyed.
In November 1914, I was back in my native Italy, and called to serve in the Italian army and fought in France. Once I told some men in my company the story of the people of Ammon—how they had refused to shed the blood of their brothers and had buried their weapons rather than be guilty of such great crimes. The chaplain reported me to the commanding officer, and the next day I was escorted to his office. He asked me to tell him the story I had told. Then he asked how I had come into possession of the book. I received as punishment a ten-day sentence of bread and water, with the order that I was to speak no more of the book.
After the end of the war, I returned to New York, where I met an old friend, a pastor of my former church. He interceded for me with the synod, and I was finally admitted to the congregation as a lay member. As an experiment, it was agreed that I should accompany one of the pastors on a mission to New Zealand and Australia.
In Australia, we met some Italian immigrants who asked questions about the errors in some Bible translations. They were not satisfied with my companion’s answers. When they asked me about it, I once again told the story of Christ’s appearance to the people of America. When they asked me where I had learned such teachings, I told them of the book I had found. The story was good to them but bad for my colleague. He reported me to the synod, and once again they cut me off from the church.
I returned to Italy shortly after. Then, in May 1930, while looking in a French dictionary for some information, I suddenly saw the entry “Mormon.” I read the words carefully and found that a Mormon Church had been established in 1830 and that this church operated a university at Provo [Brigham Young University, Utah]. I wrote to the university president, asking for information about the book and its missing pages. I received an answer two weeks later telling me that my letter had been passed on to the president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
On June 16, 1930, President Heber J. Grant answered my letter and sent a copy of the Book of Mormon in Italian. He informed me that he would also give my request to Elder John A. Widtsoe, president of the European Mission, with headquarters in Liverpool, England. A few days later, Elder Widtsoe wrote to me, sending me a pamphlet that contained the story of the Prophet Joseph Smith, the gold plates, and the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. Finally, I had learned the rest of the story of the torn book I had found on top of a barrel of ashes.
On June 5, 1932, Elder Widtsoe came to Naples to baptize me, but a revolution had started in Sicily, and the police at Palermo refused to let me leave the island. The following year, Elder Widtsoe asked me to translate the Joseph Smith pamphlet into Italian and to have 1,000 copies published. I took my translation to a printer, Joseph Gussio, who took the material to a Catholic bishop. The bishop ordered the printer to destroy the material. I sued the printer, but all I received from the court was an order to him to return the original booklet.
When Elder Widtsoe was released as president of the mission in 1934, I started correspondence with Elder Joseph F. Merrill, who succeeded him. He arranged to send me the Millennial Star, which I received until 1940 when World War II interrupted the subscription.
In January 1937, Elder Richard R. Lyman, successor to President Merrill, wrote that he and Elder Hugh B. Brown would be in Rome on a certain day. I could meet them there and be baptized. However, the letter was delayed because of war conditions, and I did not receive it in time.
From then until 1949, I was cut off from all news of the Church, but I remained a faithful follower and preached the gospel of the dispensation of the fulness of times. I had copies of the standard works, and I translated chapters into Italian and sent them to acquaintances with the greeting, “Good day. The morning breaks—Jehovah speaks!”
On February 13, 1949, I sent a letter to Elder Widtsoe at Church headquarters in Salt Lake City. Elder Widtsoe answered my letter on October 3, 1950, explaining that he had been in Norway. I sent him a long letter in reply in which I asked him to help me to be quickly baptized, because I felt that I had proven myself to be a faithful son and servant of God, observing the laws and commandments of his kingdom. Elder Widtsoe asked President Samuel E. Bringhurst of the Swiss-Austrian Mission to go to Sicily to baptize me.
On January 18, 1951, President Bringhurst arrived on the island and baptized me at Imerese. Apparently, this was the first baptism performed in Sicily. Then, on April 28, 1956, I entered the temple at Bern, Switzerland, and received my endowment. At last, to be in the presence of my Heavenly Father! I felt that God’s promise had been fully fulfilled—the day had come indeed when the source of the book was known to me and I was able to enjoy the effects of my faith.

My initial feeling of peace stayed with me for another week and a half. I was sitting in a wheelchair watching fireworks through the hospital window on the Fourth of July when it hit me—my mom was gone. She wouldn’t be at my high school graduation. She wouldn’t be there when I received my endowment in the temple. She wouldn’t be at my wedding. She was gone.
That’s when things started getting really hard. The pain in my leg was terrible, and I had no appetite. I watched TV without seeing it, and I mostly just slept. My family worried about me because I wasn’t crying very much.
The tears came a lot more when we finally went home to Oregon to an empty house. I suddenly had to take over some of my mom’s responsibilities, and my siblings often looked to me for comfort. I tried to be strong for them. But it wasn’t easy.
Going back to school was tough. Everyone had heard about the accident, and if they hadn’t, they heard about it when my teachers introduced me as the girl who was in the accident. I felt isolated.
It was especially hard when my dad remarried nine months after my mom died. I knew that my stepmom would be good for our family and that we needed her, but it was hard to adjust.
Not everything was dark during this time though. I felt a lot of love from my Father in Heaven, my family, and my Church leaders. What helped me heal and move forward after the accident was doing simple things that strengthened my faith. Every day I spent an hour before going to bed reading the scriptures, praying, and writing in my journal in my closet. In the privacy of my closet, I didn’t have to be strong for my siblings. I could cry as much as I needed and pour out my heart to God. I told Him exactly what I was feeling and how much I missed my mom. I know He heard me because of the many tender mercies I felt. That closet space became sacred to me.
Doing those simple things helped me stay connected to God instead of pushing Him away and becoming bitter. I didn’t see the accident as God hurting my family. I felt more power to be patient and submit to His will and keep moving forward through my hard days. And there were some really hard days.
After my dad remarried, I wanted to set a good example for my siblings, and I definitely didn’t want to have bad feelings toward my stepmom, so I continued to put my trust in God. One activity in my Personal Progress book focused on making my home life better by strengthening my relationship with a family member for two weeks. Basically the goal was to try to be Christlike and show love through actions. I decided to try it and serve my stepmom.
With our combined families, there were a lot of dishes. So that’s where I started. As I served her over the next two weeks, I felt enabled to love my stepmom and be patient even though I wasn’t necessarily happy about the situation. Simply focusing on serving her helped me get through hard times because I felt the Spirit with me.
I still don’t understand everything about why the accident happened to my family, and there are still hard days. But like the pioneers, I have put my trust in God and been given the power to persevere.

Hermann Mössner was nervous as he walked into the chapel. He and his friends from the English prison camp were still in their uniforms, marked with the letters “P.O.W.” Everyone knew those letters stood for “prisoner of war.” What would the members of the branch think? Would they see him as their enemy?
Hermann was from Germany. After being forced to fight in World War II, he had been captured by British soldiers and sent to the prison camp. This was the first time he’d been allowed to go to church since being captured.
Hermann took a deep breath as he sat down on one of the benches. He could see the branch president, George Camm, sitting at the front. President Camm was Hermann’s friend. Seeing him smile made Hermann feel better.
Several months ago, President Camm came to visit Hermann at camp after hearing that he was the only member of the Church there. At first Hermann was a little worried. Would President Camm hate him? Their countries had fought against each other in the war, after all.
But when Hermann and President Camm met, they smiled and shook hands. Then they prayed together. They sang songs and talked about the gospel. They even took the sacrament together.
“I love you, my brother,” Hermann said when President Camm had to leave. He saw tears in President Camm’s eyes as he waved goodbye.
After that, President Camm visited Hermann every Saturday. During the rest of the week, Hermann did his best to live the gospel. He shared his testimony with the other prisoners while they worked in the fields. He answered their questions while they carved wood after a long day’s work. Sometimes he prayed with them.
“Hey, Hermann,” one of the prisoners had said one night. “Could I join you and Mr. Camm on Saturday?”
Hermann looked up from the block of wood he was carving. He smiled. “Of course!”
“May I too?” another prisoner asked.
Hermann and President Camm were very excited to teach more of the prisoners. Soon some of them even wanted to be baptized!
And now, as Hermann looked around the chapel at the families waiting for church to start, he felt peace. Some members were nervous around Hermann at first. But soon everyone came to trust him. The other prisoners who wanted to learn about the gospel got permission to leave camp to go to church with Hermann on Sundays. Later, Hermann was even called to be the branch Sunday School president.
Time passed, and Christmas got closer. Hermann wanted to do something to thank the members who had been so kind to him. Then he had an idea! It was almost time for the branch Christmas party. Hermann gathered more blocks of wood and started carving. One by one, he turned the blocks into little cars, elephants, planes, trains, and horses.
Finally the day of the party arrived. Everyone ate food and sang Christmas songs together. Hermann and his friends from camp sang Christmas songs in German.
Then Hermann pulled out a big bag. Inside were 40 wooden toys! Hermann gave one to each Primary child. It was a Christmas they would never forget.
After three years in the prison camp, Hermann returned to his family in Germany. Years later, Hermann visited the same chapel in Leeds, England, he attended as a prisoner of war. Some of the grownups there told him they still had the wooden toys he had carved for them when they were children!
See Come, Follow Me for Moroni 7–9 and Christmas.

As a 12-year-old boy, I had the privilege to serve as the secretary of my deacons quorum. I recall with joy the many assignments we members of that quorum had the opportunity to fill. Passing the sacred sacrament, collecting the monthly fast offerings, and looking after one another come readily to mind. The most frightening one, however, happened at the leadership session of our ward conference. The member of our stake presidency presiding was William F. Perschon. He called on a number of the ward officers to speak. Then, without the slightest warning, President Perschon stood and said, “We will now hear from Thomas S. Monson, secretary of the deacons quorum, to give us an accounting of his service and bear his testimony.” I don’t recall a thing I said, but I have never forgotten the experience.

Elder Stephen Sargent of the Uruguay Montevideo Mission doesn’t expect any stories like the one above. He is well accustomed to seeing his name in print, however. As an athletic star at Davis High School in Kaysville, Utah, he filled a whole scrapbook.

“Sparked by senior quarterback Steve Sargent, the Darts went to the pass and came away with 236 yards through the air as Sargent silenced any critics of his passing ability with 13 completions in 20 attempts. That’s 65 percent. Not bad for a running quarterback.”

This scrapbook clipping chronicles Steve’s greatest athletic thrill. The 1984 Davis Dart football team was undefeated. As quarterback, Steve had led the complex double wing attack skillfully, but he was seldom called on to pass. True, he had scored his share of points on the ground, but a quarterback likes to put it up sometimes too. Finally, in the semifinals of the state championships, the potent ground attack faltered. The coach reluctantly went to the air, and Steve flew high for the victory.

A week later, the Darts lost the championship game, but Steve was already firmly established as one of the great stars in Utah high school history. He played on both sides of the ball and was named an all-state defensive back. In basketball he was equally skilled. As a 6-3 forward playing against 6-7 opponents, he notched a 16.5 point per game average. He was named second-team all-state. In the spring he played tennis on his school’s number one doubles team.

Steve Sargent had the kind of high school career most of us can only dream about. In addition to his athletic accomplishments, he also maintained an A average in academics and earned his Eagle Scout Award.

Before you decide that Steve is somebody you could learn to dislike, you should know that he worked hard for all his achievements. He spent hours practicing basketball and football on his own, endlessly repeating the same monotonous drills. He carried around a slip of paper which said, “Remember whenever you’re not practicing, that somewhere somebody else is, and when the two of you meet, he’s going to beat you.” He came home every night after school and disappeared until his studies were done. He paid the price, and he reaped the rewards.

So when Steve Sargent failed to receive an athletic scholarship, his life came apart, right? Wrong. He had another dream beyond that of athletic stardom. He wanted to serve the Lord on a mission. He had already completed four years of seminary. He had read the scriptures, maintained his personal worthiness, and tried to save some money. Now he was ready to fine tune himself before the big event.

Attending BYU on an academic scholarship, he took a missionary preparation class. His parents recall, “When he wrote home from the Y he would say, ‘I can hardly wait to get out. I wish I were in the mission field!’ That was six months ahead of time. When they extended missionary service from 18 months to two years, we thought he might be a little disappointed, but he just said, ‘Boy that’s great!’ There was also a lot of hard personal prayer. And a lot of discussion with his roommates and others who were preparing for missions.”

Finally, his papers came. He went shopping, visited the doctor and dentist, spoke at a marvelous farewell, hugged his hugs, and said his goodbyes.

The MTC was wonderful, all except for getting up at 6:30, but Steve mastered that as he had mastered the spiral pass and the jump shot. Then came the mission field and the realization that missionary work is tough. As tough as football or basketball.

“I’d say it’s harder,” Elder Sargent insists. “Maybe not physically, although physically it wears you down sometimes too. But mentally it’s a lot tougher. You need to put out more effort to be a good missionary than to be a good quarterback.

“Everybody says in their homecoming talk how great it was, so I always expected to spend 24 hours a day on a spiritual high. I soon found out that it isn’t like that. There’s a lot of hard work involved, but when you see the results it’s worth it.”

And then, there was always the language barrier. “The first two weeks I thought they were speaking Chinese.” But his ear soon adjusted, and his tongue got used to its new assignment. “I feel that the Lord’s really helped me a lot in picking up the language.”

The initial hard times brought Steve closer to his family. His dad says, “You suffer with him when he’s down, and you just want to be there and put your arms around him and say, ‘It’s okay.’ We’ve drawn closer to Steve through the hard times than through the good. We know that he has to go through the refiner’s fire in order to learn. We want him to learn to struggle and sacrifice, but at the same time, we pray that the Lord is gentle with him so that it’s a positive struggle after all is said and done, so that he progresses in his testimony and understanding of people and love and commitment to them.”

Brother Sargent’s prayers have been answered. Steve found that every sacrifice was more than matched by a blessing. If the mission field was harder than he expected, it was more rewarding too. The letters he writes home make glad reading for his parents. “I’m really feeling a lot more love for my Father in Heaven and for Jesus Christ. I set a goal to focus my thoughts on Christ when I’m down and thinking about other things. I know that I will grow to love him even more as my mission goes on. When I think about it, I just get warm all over and feel great. There are still plenty of rough times, but I know whom I can always rely on.”

But after all is said and done, there still aren’t any newspaper clippings. Isn’t missionary work a little boring after athletic stardom? “Missionary work is awesome! The rewards are far greater than the rewards of athletics. A touchdown is thrilling, but it doesn’t compare to a baptism.”

There has been personal growth too. Some of it Steve probably can’t even see because he’s too close to himself. Some of it he can. “I can see life a lot clearer. I know why we’re here. I can see the plan that our Father in Heaven has given us in order to be able to live with him again and become like him. It’s neat to finally see that plan come into focus and really understand what he has done for us.

“I’m a much different person than I was just a few months ago. If I hadn’t come on a mission I’d still be thinking sports were the most important thing in life. I might have learned this in time anyway, but it comes a lot faster on a mission.”

Of course Steve still loves sports too. “I’m sure they’ll have athletics in the next life,” he says.

Steve’s love has grown along with his understanding. He wrote home: “This last week I actually started to enjoy my mission. It happened after I got the tape from home. And I’d been praying quite a bit. I really realized how much my family means to me. I’m just overjoyed to be alive. Our family is so special, and I love you all so much. I realize that the love I feel for you is the thing I need to share with these people.”

As an athlete, Steve prepared carefully for each game, and afterward he would evaluate his preparation so he could do better next time. How does he evaluate his mission preparation? “I think we should prepare when we’re younger. I thought I was pretty well prepared, but our preparation can never be equal to the importance of the task. I wish I had saved more money too, because I feel that I could have placed less of a burden on my parents. I especially wish I’d studied the scriptures more. They are so great.”

Steve has expressed the bottom line on mission preparation. It’s impossible to prepare as well as the calling deserves. Still, mission president Eduardo Ayala is pretty pleased with Elder Sargent just as he is. “He’s one of the most impressive missionaries I’ve ever seen. He is always enthusiastic. He is an excellent companion. He works very hard. Nothing discourages him. And furthermore he lives the law of consecration in every sense. It’s a pleasure to work with him.”

Nice words, but don’t look for them in the newspaper. Don’t look for any of Steve’s hard, wonderful mission in the newspaper. Look for it in the smiling faces of those to whom he brings the gospel. Look for it in the person he becomes. Look for it in all the good he does throughout his whole life and beyond. Look for it when the sports clippings have all turned to dust, and you will find it. Because it will be written in the hearts of people, and people last forever.

I can understand in some small part how joyful the Lord must be when His servants obey without murmuring. Recently, my dear wife and I participated in a meeting during which our responsibilities were to be explained. We had no idea, at that time, what our assignment would be or where we would be serving. I was privately advised that we would be called to serve in West Africa. I was surprised and delighted with the assignment, but there passed through my mind the thoughts that would inevitably arise in the mind of my companion of almost 39 years. How would she receive this assignment? I knew she would agree to go. In all our years together, she has never refused a call from the Lord. But what would be the feelings of her heart?
As I sat next to her, she discerned in my eyes that I knew our assignment. She said, “Well, where is it?” I simply said, “Africa.” Her eyes brightened, and she said with cheerful heart, “Isn’t that great!” My joy was full.

Let me share another example of what it means to be a doer of the word and not a hearer only. Several years ago, I attended a stake conference in New Orleans, Louisiana. This was the weekend of the Super Bowl. There was great excitement about what was anticipated as a great football weekend. In my remarks in the Saturday conference meetings, I told of some experiences young people had had in determining what it meant to keep the Sabbath day holy. Of course, the football game was to be played on Sunday afternoon.
After the Sunday morning session, one of the brethren handed me a regular donation envelope, indicating there was a note inside that would explain an experience he wanted to share. A little later I opened the envelope and read:
“I was going to take my son to the Super Bowl game today. He has been looking forward to this for quite some time. After your talk to the young people and to the older people, we want you to take our tickets and keep them. This is our thanks to you for sharing with us.”
I learned from the stake president that the boy and the father had made the decision not to attend the Sunday game spontaneously, together. Not only did they not use the tickets, which had cost them $30 each, but they did not sell them, which they could have done for as much as $300 each. This was not only being doers of the letter of the word but also keeping the spirit of the word. Those two tickets are permanently placed in my scrapbook as a reminder of a father and his son who together, yet independent of each other’s thinking, decided they were going to keep the Sabbath day holy.

In 1970 my mother was diagnosed with a chronic illness that was shutting down the arteries that fed her brain. She was a particularly bright, elegant, and engaging woman with sparkling eyes. But over the next 13 years, her condition declined. It was like losing a good friend piece by piece.
Dad stepped in to become her primary caregiver. At first he made small sacrifices to make her comfortable and cheerful. He prepared her meals, sang her songs, and held her hand. As time went on, however, caring for my mother became more difficult and more physical. It must have been trying for Dad.
As Mother’s condition worsened, my dad’s own health became a concern. I was there when his doctor told him that Mother needed full-time care in a skilled nursing facility. He would likely die if he continued to give the level of care she required, and then she would have no one to take care of her.
For the last 13 months of my mother’s life, Dad visited her in the nursing facility every day that he was not away on a Church assignment. She didn’t recognize him, but that made no difference to him. He spoke with her as though everything was all right. I would see him return from visiting a stake conference in some far-off place. He would be exhausted. But the first thing he would do when he arrived was go see Mother, to bring what cheer he could.
My father could not have taken better care of my mother. I learned much about sacrifice from watching him take care of her.

The greatest challenge came in 1983, when we moved. We lived outside of a city, and I commuted an hour each way to work. This meant that I had to leave home every morning before the children woke up.
We solved the problem by switching our scripture reading to evenings, just before bedtime. Reading then required much more discipline. Busy schedules, homework, television, and even Church activities competed for our time. But after a few weeks the routine was established, and we continued on our way.

Whenever a 15-year-old is asked to be ward organist, it’s a fairly remarkable thing. When it happened to Kuha‘o C. of Hawaii, it was even more remarkable for two reasons: (1) he had been playing piano for under three years and (2) he is blind.
Beginning a few years ago, Kuha‘o would sit and play the piano during his regular visits to his grandparents. He didn’t have a piano at home, so it seemed like something fun to try. Soon, however, Kuha‘o moved far beyond just playing around with the keys; he was really playing—and playing well. Though he took a few lessons after that, he has been mostly self-taught.
Kuha‘o was baptized in December 2009, and around that time he started playing the organ at the ward meetinghouse, usually on Saturdays while his grandfather fulfilled his building maintenance assignment. He even started waking up at 5:30 a.m. on Sundays to hear Music and the Spoken Word with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir so that he could listen to the organ. It wasn’t long before he was asked to accompany his congregation.
One day Kuha‘o’s friend Andy Thunell heard him playing and was impressed with his ability to play by ear. Andy wanted to document this feat, so he made a video recording of Kuha‘o listening to a song for the first time and then playing it right afterward. Andy posted this video on the Internet, and people were amazed. Since then, many people have taken notice of Kuha‘o, and he has started quite a career, including more online videos, performances, recordings, trips, and competitions, including one in which he won a $10,000 first prize—which he donated to the Hawaii Association of the Blind.
As a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, Kuha‘o enjoys fulfilling his priesthood duties and serving others. “I like to serve people,” he says, “because that’s what it says in the scriptures—to be kind to others, to love thy neighbor as thyself, and to serve.”
Like other young Latter-day Saints, Kuha‘o loves to read the scriptures (in Braille), especially the Book of Mormon, because the scriptures bring the Spirit. And when it comes right down to it, that’s also why he enjoys music.
“Music helps me feel the Spirit,” he says. “If I were to play something, I would hope you can feel the Spirit inside you, that the Spirit would give you a gentle touch. I feel an excitement when I play something on either the piano or organ like ‘Now Let Us Rejoice’ [Hymns, no. 3], for example. To feel the love of Heavenly Father and that I’m really touched by the Spirit and that others are touched—this is what it’s about.”
Kuha‘o understands that Heavenly Father has given him a gift, a fact that is reinforced by something he carries with him all the time—his name. “My names [Kuha‘o Makana] in Hawaiian mean ‘extraordinary gift,’” he explains. With his musical gift he wants to serve others, bear testimony, and help people feel close to their Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.
His grandmother, Iwalani C., says that after Kuha‘o performs, “people tell him, ‘You touched my heart,’ or, ‘You touched my spirit,’ or, ‘You made me cry,’ because they feel the Spirit when he plays. And I feel the Spirit when he plays.”
As he embarks on a career in music—a field in which he is still quite new—Kuha‘o continues to learn and grow in the gospel. And, of course, he plays in church on Sundays. Through it all, he relies on another gift from Heavenly Father—his testimony of the gospel—to both guide and ground him.
“I am touched by the Savior, Jesus Christ,” he says. “I love Him so much. I want to stay close to Him, and I want the Lord to be with me. I know that the gospel is true and that President Thomas S. Monson is our prophet and leads us in the path of righteousness.”
Despite his challenges, Kuha‘o knows he has been blessed with gifts from God. He also knows that one way to show gratitude for these gifts is to use them to bless others.

My parents did not belong to a church when I was a boy, and they didn’t talk much with me about Jesus Christ. But even as a little child, I always said my prayers. I slept in an upstairs loft on a couple of mattresses. I climbed the stairs, knelt beside the mattresses, and talked with Heavenly Father. Then I rolled into bed. I’m sure I didn’t use hallowed language, but I learned to feel comfortable praying, so that when I heard the missionaries as a teenager, it was an easy thing for me to pray about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, and to ask Heavenly Father if the Church was true.

For three and one-half years after the First Vision, Joseph Smith continued the routine of life as a New York farm worker. At times, he later explained, he associated with jovial company and allowed his youthful exuberance to express itself with levity. Though not guilty of any act except the mischievousness which his native cheery temperament led him into, he began to feel that he had not acted consistent with the solemn counsel received in the vision.

With that concern uppermost in his mind, Joseph Smith, now seventeen, retired to his room, on September 21, 1823, and began to pray. Suddenly the room filled with light and he was visited by a heavenly messenger. The messenger who proclaimed himself to be an angel of God introduced himself as Moroni, the last record keeper of the Nephites, a people who had lived on the American continent fourteen hundred years earlier. Moroni’s message stirred Joseph to a realization of his mission, for he was told that in a nearby hill were buried sacred plates containing a record of the ancient inhabitants of the Americas and of the Savior’s teachings among them. Moroni repeated the message in two additional visits that night and again the following morning. Joseph was instructed to visit the Hill Cumorah each year to receive instructions to prepare him for his mission. Finally, on September 22, 1827, he was entrusted with the plates.

An elderly widow shared a similar sweet experience with me. She opened her front door one wintry day to find a handwritten note left on the doorstep. The note read:

I just wanted to drop you a note to tell you how much I admire you in all the roles you have played—as a mother, teacher, wife, and example of a daughter of God. Thank you for being you. From a friend and admirer.

The anonymous note from a thoughtful neighbor took only a few minutes to write, but the message will lift that faithful widow for months to come.

“Is Dad coming home tonight?” Benjamin asked. Dad worked as a sailor off the coast near their home in Denmark.
“No,” Mom said, “he will be home in four days.”
Dad had promised Benjamin that they could play football when he returned. Benjamin missed Dad.
“Before I go to bed tonight, I’ll pray that he will come home safely,” Benjamin thought.
* * *
Benjamin’s dad stood on the ship in the freezing rain, hurrying to finish his work before the evening meal. Feeling tired and cold, he thought of his family back at home.
Suddenly, an enormous wave rocked the ship. Supplies clattered to the floor as sailors shouted in confusion. The captain peered out into the darkness and couldn’t see Benjamin’s dad on the deck anymore.
“Man overboard!” he shouted.
* * *
Later that evening Benjamin watched Mom pile the dinner dishes in the sink. As she scrubbed she looked out the window into the garden. Trees swayed in the fierce wind. Benjamin saw the worried look on his mother’s face and felt worried too. Would Dad be all right out in this storm?
* * *
Benjamin’s dad could hear the ship’s alarm ringing, but the sound grew quieter as the strong waves pushed him farther away from the ship. Sailors tossed life preservers into the water, hoping to save him, but they couldn’t see him in the stormy darkness.
He tried to stay calm and keep his head above water. He found the flashlight clipped to his life jacket and pointed it toward the ship so the sailors could see where he was—but the light didn’t work.
On board the ship, the captain radioed for help. Soon a helicopter hovered over the ocean, shining a spotlight down onto the huge waves.
“We can’t find him,” the helicopter pilot radioed to the captain. The captain fought back tears, fearing the worst for his friend. “But we’ll try again,” the pilot decided. He was afraid the helicopter would run out of fuel, but he knew he was the lost sailor’s last hope.
Benjamin’s dad was getting colder and colder. His teeth rattled as he clutched the broken flashlight in his numb fingers.
* * *
Back home it was Benjamin’s bedtime. Mom listened as, kneeling by his bed, he prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, please protect Dad and bring him home safely to Mom and me.”
* * *
Benjamin’s dad saw a helicopter flying low. He tried to wave his arm, but he was so tired and cold he could hardly move it.
Then a voice in his mind said, “Turn on the light.”
“But it doesn’t work,” he thought.
“Turn on the light,” the voice said again.
“Why should I?” he mumbled as his stiff fingers fumbled with the switch. “Either the lightbulb is burned out or the batteries are dead.”
The helicopter came closer and closer. When it was almost directly overhead, Benjamin’s dad pointed the flashlight toward the sky and flipped the switch.
Just then the pilot saw a flicker of light in the water below. “We’ve found him!” he cried into the radio. The sailors aboard the ship cheered. Within minutes Benjamin’s dad was hoisted up into the warmth and safety of the helicopter. Wrapped in a blanket, he listened to the engine vibrate, imagining it singing, “Home to Benjamin, home to Benjamin!”
After the helicopter landed and an ambulance took Benjamin’s dad to the hospital, the helicopter pilot walked back to where Benjamin’s dad had been resting. There on the floor lay the flashlight. Curious, he picked it up and opened it. Two very old, rusty batteries fell out.
“These batteries can’t work,” he thought. “But if I didn’t see this light out on the ocean, what did I see?”
“God must have watched over this sailor,” he said out loud to his copilot, who was standing beside him. They both nodded in silence.
* * *
Benjamin’s mom suddenly felt happy. The worried feeling went away.
Opening Benjamin’s door a crack, she peeked into his room and saw that he was sleeping soundly.
Benjamin lay dreaming about the football game Dad had promised him. A warm feeling had assured him that Heavenly Father would answer his prayer and that Dad would be home soon.

The teens from the different wards in the Ipswich stake enjoy being around each other. They really like going to youth conferences—or conventions as they are sometimes called—where something as simple as singing together can bring the Spirit. Rebecca Fagg remembers attending her first youth convention as a 14-year-old. “I was struggling a bit and finding attending church to be quite a lot of effort. Then I went to the youth convention. The power of all the youth together made me realize how great it is to be able to go to meetings like that. When we sang, I was overwhelmed by the Spirit. I just burst into tears.”

My mother sent me out on my first job: shoveling the sidewalk of two elderly sisters who lived together. And that sidewalk was long. My mother was very smart. She said, “Do it anonymously so that they won’t know you did it.” I don’t know how many times my brothers and I went, but we did it without their knowing. We had to do it early in the morning so we wouldn’t be caught. I remember how good I felt. The next time it snowed, my mother didn’t have to tell me to go shovel their walk; the Holy Ghost prompted me to go back again.
My brothers and I kept shoveling their sidewalk, and one day they caught us. They became our friends. They even took us to see a semiprofessional baseball team in Idaho Falls. It wasn’t much of a trip, maybe 25 miles, but for us it was a big deal. We probably wouldn’t have been able to go to a ball game without them.
The Holy Ghost became real to me with that experience. It changed my life. My mother encouraged me to do one good thing, and then the Holy Ghost testified that it was good to keep doing it.

Subhash and Roselyn Dass and their sons, Amit and Anand, wanted to travel to the temple to be sealed, but they couldn’t seem to save enough money. When Brother Dass was called as a bishop, he felt strongly that he needed to receive the endowment. The family had enough money for one plane ticket to Tonga, so Sister Dass encouraged her husband to go alone. “No,” he said. “We must all go together. The Lord will provide a way.”
The family fasted for the next two Sundays. At the end of the second week, Bishop Dass’ employer offered to lend him the money for all four plane tickets. “Going to the temple was the most beautiful experience we’ve had,” says Bishop Dass. “We know now that if we seek the kingdom of God first, the Lord will do the rest.”

One day some friends began to say chastity is a thing of the past, that today no one obeys this commandment. I quickly said that I obey it and I know plenty of people who obey it. My friends laughed and asked me what I would do when faced with a temptation. I told them about an experience when I said no to someone. When she refused to listen, I left her presence, running. Then I told them we are created in the image of God and our bodies are sacred. Some months later a friend who listened that day was baptized.Jean Fernando da Silva, 20,Planaltina Second Ward, Brasilia Brazil North Stake

Ezra J. Poulsen relates an experience he had as a student at this university. The English professor and poet was the late Alfred Osmond, and the incident, I believe, adequately reflects that which I would like to explain.
In a college English class years ago, we were assigned to write several rhymed couplets in the style of Alexander Pope. The professor required the trembling authors to read their verses aloud for criticism and review.
One of the boys refused to take part. “I’m not a poet,” he said.
The professor, a large man with bushy eyebrows and a voice of thunder, pointed a blunt finger at the student and roared, “Young man, I want you to understand you’re not a finished product. You’re still in the process of being created.”
This dramatic ten-second speech startled the entire class into a state of intense receptivity, and I doubt if anyone present ever forgot it. It was a master stroke of teaching.
Brother Poulsen continues,
For me, this remark has become a fixed belief. I am not a finished product. I am still in the process of creation. In moments of idleness, retreat, or discouragement, I seem to hear the old professor’s challenge in my ears. And I rise to do battle with my daily problems.
Quickly, new avenues of constructive effort seem to open up. Old plateaus of mediocrity are left behind. I find ever-widening horizons, because growth is the natural law of life. [This Week Magazine, 16 September 1962]

I can’t take it any more!” Mindy said in desperation. Her 11-year-old sister Carrie looked up at her. Carrie stopped playing the guitar.
“I’m not a bad sister,” Mindy continued. “I don’t tell on you when you leave the bathroom messy. I help you with spelling. Carrie, I can’t take that racket any more. Have some mercy.”
Carrie didn’t have to say anything. It was always the same. She got up, carrying her guitar. Fifteen-year-old Mindy heaved a sigh of relief as soon as Carrie had left.
“Hey Carrie,” her 16-year-old brother Mark said, as they passed in the hall. “Off to the basement again?”
Carrie moved by quickly. None of her brothers and sisters could put up with her guitar playing. She was still learning and a very slow learner at that. She always ended up in the basement where no one could hear her.
“Taken a sudden interest in food storage?” her mother asked when she saw Carrie open the door to the basement.
“No,” she said glumly, “I’m going to practice.”
“In the basement?”
Carrie sighed. “Mindy kicked me out of our room. I drive her nuts. Same with Mark, Sarah, and Paul.”
“Come into the kitchen and practice there. I’d love to hear you.”
“I sound horrible.”
“No you don’t. Come on. I’d welcome the company.”
Carrie followed her mother to the kitchen and settled herself on a chair.
“Protect your ears,” Carrie warned.
“I love all music, Carrie,” her mother said.
“This isn’t even music. I play the same stuff over and over again,” Carrie complained. “How come you like music so much?”
“When I was eight I had scarlet fever. I almost died. I couldn’t do anything except lie in bed. I was really scared. Mom would sing hymns while she did the housework. It was her way of letting me know she was there.” She paused long enough to turn the oven on. “Dad bought me a music box. It played ‘Star Dust.’ I played it so much the music box finally broke. I remember not feeling so scared when the music was playing.”
“That’s why you sing so much?”
“And why I want you to play the guitar. Don’t get discouraged. You might be a little slower than your brothers and sisters, but you’ll catch on. The guitar isn’t that easy,” her mother smiled.
“I hate being the baby. Everyone is better than me.”
“They’ve had more time.”
“It ain’t fair!”
“Isn’t fair,” her mother corrected.
“That too,” Carrie huffed. Her mother kissed her forehead.
Later that evening Mindy, Sarah, Mark, and Paul met in the room shared by Mark and Paul. Paul was 17. Sarah was 19, a freshman in college.
“So what’s the deal?” Mindy asked. She then blew a bubble with the gum she was chewing. Mark tried to pop it, but Mindy dodged his finger.
“Mom’s birthday is coming up,” Sarah said.
“It’s over two months away,” Mindy said.
“I thought this should be a really special birthday.”
Carrie came in and sat down on the bed next to Paul. “What’s up?” she asked.
“I think we should give Mom the best birthday ever. I work at the bookstore, Paul at the grocery, Mark as a handyman, and Mindy does a lot of babysitting. I think our presents should be really special. She wants a crock pot.”
“We are talking money here,” Mark said, raising his eyebrows.
“Why not?” Sarah asked.
“What about me?” Carrie chimed in.
“You really don’t make that much from weeding Mr. Duran’s garden,” Sarah said slowly. “Mom will like anything you get her. Don’t worry.” She turned her attention back to the others. “Anyway, what do you say?”
“The best presents money can buy?” Mark said hesitantly.
“Sure,” Mindy piped up. “A birthday she’ll never forget.”
“I’ll just keep telling myself, ‘Honor thy mother and father.’” Paul said.
“It won’t take much of your savings,” Sarah said.
“No,” Mark said, “Mom will see how much she means to us. It might help me budget my finances a little better.”
“Exactly! Now you’re getting the spirit.”
“How about if Mark and I go together on one?” Mindy said. “I bet Mom would like a set of gold leaf scriptures. That is way too steep for my babysitting money.”
“Hey yeah!” Mark said. “I could give her the Bible, and you could give her a triple combination.”
“Sounds good,” Sarah said. “I’m going to try a stab at the crock pot. I need to learn to budget my money too,” she said, echoing Mark’s statement.
“Guess that leaves me,” Paul said. “Any suggestions?”
“I have a few,” Mindy answered, “but not for presents.”
“Mom wants to finish her four-generation sheet,” Carrie said.
“Not that kind of present. Something you can buy,” Sarah expounded.
“Oh,” Carrie mumbled.
“Maybe an antique vase. I was waiting for Fred in his father’s antique store, and I noticed a lot of nice things. I’m sure Fred’s dad would hold something for me while I paid it off. I’m certain I could find something small.” Paul paused. “In size, not price.”
“I can’t think of anything,” Carrie said.
“Mom will like anything you get her, Carrie,” Mindy said. Carrie didn’t care for the way Mindy said anything. Carrie left.
“She’s still at that age when anything is fine,” Paul remarked.
“I’ll show them,” Carrie mumbled. “I’ll buy Mom the biggest, most expensive present.” She went to the bureau in the bedroom she shared with Mindy. She kept her money in the top drawer. She dumped the jar of money on her bed. There were quite a few coins to count. She came up with $4.87. She took some money out of her back pocket. Mr. Duran had paid her that day for the weeding she had done. She had $1.50. After removing the 15 cents for tithing, she added it to the rest. It didn’t seem like very much.
She approached her father. “Is there anything I can do around the house to earn money,” she asked, “like cut the grass?”
“That’s Mark’s job. Anyway you need a little more height for that job.”
“Wash the car?”
“You can do that,” he nodded. “Going into business for yourself?”
“I just need a little extra money.”
“May I ask why?”
Carrie was uncomfortable with the question. “I’m saving for something for someone.”
“Not blackmail,” her father said kidding.
“No.” Carrie hadn’t realized it was a joke.
Her father cracked a smile. “Well, as long as it isn’t blackmail, you can wash the car. Since I’m only paying for labor, two dollars. The soap and water are mine. Sound fair?”
“Yeah, fine.” Carrie set to work. Not only did she wash it, but she vacuumed as well.
“Well, well,” her father said, “If no unclean thing may enter into the kingdom of heaven this car will have no trouble. This is a three-dollar job. Nicely done, Carrie.”
“Dad, what are you getting Mom for her birthday?”
“So that’s what this sudden desire to become Midas is all about. To answer your question, I don’t know.”
“Everyone has more money.”
“It’s not the price of the gift but the thought and love that go into it. I could buy your mother perfume. She’d smile and thank me. On the other hand, I could get her a beat-up old Beethoven music book. That would mean more to her. I would be showing her that I know what she holds dear. So when you buy a gift, it should be with a lot of love.”
“But everything costs money.”
“True. I just don’t want you to try to outdo your brothers and sisters. They have jobs,” he counseled.
“I know.”
“Nice job on the car. Thank you.”
Carrie smiled. She had listened to her father. She still wanted to get her mother a nice gift. She really wanted to show her brothers and sisters.
Carrie began working. She did a lot of work around the house. She went around to the neighbors, and they gave her small jobs to do.
The days passed. The money in the jar increased. Carrie sat on her bed, wondering what to buy her mother. The sound of Mindy playing the piano drifted her way. She heard her mother humming along as she put the laundry away. Carrie looked over at her guitar. She sighed. She and the guitar went to the basement.
Sarah went to get the crock pot. Carrie tagged along to get some ideas for a gift. There was a month until her mother’s birthday. Carrie looked at hats, perfume, records, books, clocks, everything. She knew none of them were right.
She began saying a silent prayer. “This might sound silly, Father, but I need some help. I want to find a nice gift for my mom. Could you help me find one? I know you know what she likes best. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
By the time Sarah found her, Carrie had found a gift for her mother. Sarah asked what it was, but Carrie would not tell her.
Mindy baked a cake. Sarah and Carrie made a special birthday dinner. After dinner the presents were opened.
“My word,” their mother said as she opened the gifts. “The cost.”
“We wanted to get you something really special,” Mindy said.
“But so expensive.”
Their mother gingerly fingered the new set of scriptures. Carefully she turned the pages. Her eyes moved to the vase and crock pot. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Where’s your gift, Carrie?” Paul asked.
“We saw you hoarding all that money,” Mindy said.
Carrie swallowed. “My gift only cost 58 cents, and it’s been used,” she said slowly. They all exchanged looks of puzzlement. Carrie brought out her guitar. She sat down and placed the music to “Star Dust” in front of her. She played carefully. It had been the only piece of music she had played for a month. She had practiced hours every day. With a lot of help and encouragement from her guitar teacher she had learned it pretty well.
The music was yellowed with age. There were spots on the sheets where things had been spilled. No one knew Carrie could sing until then. Her voice was soft and clear. As Carrie sang, her mother mouthed the words. Tears welled up in her eyes. Everyone was watching Carrie.
As the song ended, Carrie looked up doubtfully. She had expected criticism, but all she heard was her mother’s trembling voice saying, “Again, Carrie. Sing it once more.”