Gospel Story Finder

When I was very young I read Black Beauty and Beautiful Joe and other animal stories, and these inspired me with a desire to be kind to animals. I read books that stimulated my imagination, adventure stories. I was still very young when the “Last Days of Pompeii” come into my possession and it so stimulated my interest that I was never satisfied until I visited the buried city of Pompeii in 1937 and with my own eyes saw the devastation wrought by old Vesuvius volcano.

In my own lifetime I have been a witness to the miracle of the restored gospel. When I was a young girl my family moved to São Paulo, Brazil, where my father had been called to preside over the Brazilian Mission. It was an exciting time for me and a great place to grow up. A favorite game for my brothers and me was to dress up and pretend to be missionaries. We spent hours scribbling our own missionary pamphlets and “preaching” and “transferring” all over the yard. For five years the nightly conversations around our dinner table centered on missionary work, and I listened intently to stories of faith told by missionaries. Even at that age I knew I was part of a great work.
There were only about 3,000 members of the Church in Brazil when we arrived there. I remember being in a very small Primary with a few other children, singing the same five songs every week, as those were the only ones translated into Portuguese. Two of my favorite songs were “A Luz Divina,” or “The Light Divine” (Hymns, no. 305), and something about a bunny in the middle of the woods (see “The Little Rabbit,” Children’s Friend, June 1955, 257).
In many ways our experience was similar to the early pioneers. We had no hymnbooks or pictures or lesson manuals sent from the headquarters of the Church. Everything that was needed to teach the gospel in Portuguese was written and printed in our mission home. All of us, even the children, were pressed into service to help assemble mission newsletters and lessons. No one shipped the Church to us. The prophet did not send us stake presidents or bishops. He did not send Relief Society presidents or youth programs. The Church in Brazil was made from the same material that the pioneers started with. The material to build the Church was in the people.
During our years in Brazil, we saw great growth come to the Church. Thousands became Latter-day Saints. Soon the mission was divided, districts and branches were organized, and new chapels were built. The new members were enthusiastic, and they grew in faith and became more experienced in the manner of the gospel.
A lot of years passed, and then last year I returned to Brazil to attend the rededication of the São Paulo temple. At that time I learned that there were 187 stakes in Brazil. There are now 26 missions, 4 temples, and almost 1 million members. Imagine my surprise when I walked into a stadium filled with over 60,000 members who had gathered to hear President Gordon B. Hinckley and celebrate the temple dedication. To me it was a miracle to see thousands of youth dancing and singing together. As I watched that joyful celebration, I kept saying to myself, “This is amazing! This is a miracle! How did this miracle happen?”
I marveled all that night at what I had seen. Then, the next morning at the temple dedication, I had a reunion with my Primary teacher, Sister Gloria Silveira. That was when I knew how the miracle had come about. As a new convert with no prior Church experience, Sister Silveira had come to Primary prepared to share her simple testimony and teach me the Articles of Faith in Portuguese. She and her husband, Humberto, are still faithful. They have served in many Church callings over the years, and they are still serving. When I saw Sister Silveira, I realized that the Church in Brazil had grown because of her and thousands like her. She and Brother Silveira represent people everywhere who have faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and His gospel. They have grown in knowledge and skill, and they have served in the Church (see D&C 88:80). They have shared the gospel with friends (see D&C 30:5). They work in the temple (see D&C 138:48). They taught their five children correct principles (see D&C 68:28). Of their 43 descendants, 15 have served full-time missions. Their grandchildren are now marrying in the temple, and their great-grandchildren are the fourth generation of Silveiras who are part of the marvelous work that was started by Joseph Smith. Because of them, faith has increased in the earth. They are an example of the miracle the Lord spoke about when He said that His gospel would be proclaimed by the weak and the simple (see D&C 1:23) and that by small and simple means great things are brought to pass (see 1 Nephi 16:29).

The Provo Utah Sharon East Stake often goes camping or holds outdoor activities for part of its youth conference. But last year, the youth stayed in town and helped in the revitalization project of one of the pioneer neighborhoods in Provo.

Mark Stringham, 16, was on the youth planning committee. They were tossing around the idea of doing a service-oriented project. One of their leaders is involved in city government. He said there was a neighborhood that needed some help. Mark said, “The minute he said it, everybody’s mind just went, Boom. That’s what we need to do.”

The teens worked with an organization already involved in helping the residents improve their land and keep their homes in good repair. To make the project even more enjoyable, the stake invited the teens who live in the neighborhood to come to their youth conference. The young people didn’t know each other because they attended different high schools, so giving service together also became a time to gain new friends.

Brendan Wright, 17, said, “The theme of our youth conference was by helping others you can raise yourself. When you get here, it just explodes. It’s fun. You get to know people. You take pride in what you’re doing. This is my little section of the house. I’m going to paint it the best I can.”

The group not only painted houses, they helped cut down the high, dry weeds running along the railroad tracks. One spark from a passing train could start a fire, and the growth was so tall and dry, it could have caused major problems if it spread to nearby homes. Looking a little like they had been rolling in haystacks, because of the bits of dry grass sticking to their clothes and hair, one group had the weedeaters going full blast. Then passing motorists began to stop and tell them it looked good and how much they appreciated them helping out. The word was spreading with the good works.

Giving service is like dropping stones in a pond of water. From one small act, the ripples start to spread. One act of service creates ripples of hope and encouragement that spread through neighborhoods, communities, and towns.

The ripples are not just on the outside. The teens who made themselves get up early and participate found out that being of service did something for them as well. There is satisfaction in working hard, in joining your friends involved in good works, in making something better. Now if it were only a little easier to get out of bed.

Call the mayor’s office or city government. Ask if there is a person who coordinates volunteer efforts, and set up a meeting with them to come up with ideas.
Create a planning committee. Include both young people and leaders.
Identify everyone that needs to be contacted and what permissions will be required.
Select a day and time. Make sure there are no major conflicts with other church or school activities. Make sure everyone receives notification of the event at least two or three weeks in advance.
Plan in some fun breaks in the work schedule.
Make realistic plans. Make sure you can finish what you start.
Enjoy the good feelings that go with being of service.

The Other Side of the Door It’s 1910, your name is Dora, you are literally tongue-tied and can’t go to school, so you are called Dumb Dora. This story tells about your trials, successes, and exciting times as your family moves from Holladay, Utah, to Clovis, New Mexico. One of the exciting times is when Indians ride up. It’s a very good thing that Papa’s father served a mission among that very tribe—Papa’s plan results in a VIP (Very Important Present).

Many years ago a couple of fellow airline captains and I decided to fulfill a boyhood dream of restoring an antique airplane. Together we purchased a worn-down 1938 Piper Cub and started the work of returning it to its original form. The project was a labor of love. It had special meaning for me because I had learned to fly in a similar airplane when I was a young man.
This airplane was first built only 35 years after the Wright brothers made their famous first flight. Just thinking of that makes me feel very old.
The engine did not have an electric starter; as you were priming the engine from the cockpit, someone else on the ground would grab hold of the propeller and hurl it with might until the engine would run on its own. Each engine start was a moment of excitement and bravery.
Once the plane was airborne, it became clear the Piper Cub was not built for speed. As a matter of fact, when there was a strong headwind, it seemed as though we were not moving at all. I remember flying together with my teenage son, Guido, above the autobahn in Germany, and sure enough, the cars below passed us comfortably!
But, oh, how I loved this little plane! It was the perfect way to experience the wonder and beauty of flight. You could hear, feel, smell, taste, and see what flying was all about. The Wright brothers expressed it this way: “There is [nothing] equal to that which aviators enjoy while being carried through the air on great white wings.”1
In contrast, earlier this year I had the privilege to fly in a sophisticated F-18 fighter jet with the world-famous Blue Angels, the United States Navy’s flight demonstration team. It was like taking a flight above and along memory lane because exactly 50 years before, almost to the day, I had completed my training as an air force fighter pilot.
The F-18 flight experience, of course, was totally different from the one in the Piper Cub. It showed me a more dynamic beauty of flying. It was like applying the existing laws of aerodynamics in a more perfect way. However, flying with the Blue Angels also quickly reminded me that being a jet fighter pilot is a young man’s game. To quote the Wright brothers again, “More than anything else the sensation [of flying] is one of perfect peace, mingled with an excitement that strains every nerve to the utmost.”2 In addition, flying with the Blue Angels suggested a totally different way of having “angels” round about you and bearing you up.

Although my father had been almost completely out of my thoughts up to this point in my life, soon after my marriage a desire to do genealogical work for my ancestors made me think of him more and more. My patriarchal blessing told me that the time would come for me to do the work for my ancestors through genealogy and temple ordinances and that “means and opportunities” would be provided for me to accomplish that work.
After I had joined the Church, my brother, who had moved by then to France, had informed me that my father had accumulated facts, names, and dates on the Ainsa family. I resolved to write to my father, hoping to gain the necessary information to tie my genealogy from my grandparents to my paternal great-grandparents. I sent him a letter asking for details.
His reply consisted of a letter with only general information—and a request that I not bother him again. I felt resentful and angry, but I continued to pray that the “means and opportunities” necessary to do my family history work would be provided.
Sometime in March 1986, while we were living in Arizona, my father wrote again during a family crisis in which my mother was losing her sight. I was comforted by the care and concern that my mother’s second husband showed her and was again offended at my father’s critical letter. I sent it back to him and indicated that if I couldn’t receive pleasant letters instead of criticism, I would rather not communicate at all. Within three weeks, my father answered the letter, telling me, “Your brother will inform you of my death when it occurs. I don’t intend to write to you again.”
Nine months passed after I received the letter. Again I prayed about the admonition in my patriarchal blessing. The answer came unmistakably from the Spirit—I felt I should apologize to my father. I consequently composed a five-page letter to him that detailed the events of the year and that included an apology for my erratic behavior in my previous letter. When I mailed the letter, I prayed that the Lord would soften my father’s heart.
More than two months went by with no answer. Then one day a registered letter arrived. In it, my father asked, “Would you spare ten to twelve days during your upcoming summer vacation to visit me? If you accept, I will send you the money to help meet the cost of your expenses.”
I called my brother in Paris, France, who suggested that I wait a year, since my father had waited thirty-five years to try to see me. But as I prayed with my wife, Angie, we both thought of my patriarchal blessing and knew that my ancestors had waited long enough. I would go this year. My mother’s husband offered to pay for Angie’s trip, as we couldn’t afford it ourselves. My mother-in-law offered to care for our four children in her home in California.
Everything went according to schedule—everything, that is, except for feelings of apprehension. I started worrying that my father might criticize my mother, my wife, or me. He had done it before. How would I handle it this time?
Only when two dedicated home teachers—to whom I will be eternally grateful—came to our home a few days before our departure and gave us a priesthood blessing, did I feel at peace. They blessed my wife that she would be a source of inspiration to me, and they blessed me that I would be receptive to the promptings of the Spirit and would know what to say. I then knew that everything would be all right.
When we arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay, I nervously looked for my father and saw him standing with his wife. He waved his cane at me in recognition. I waved back. Finally, the customs officer told me to proceed. As I walked through the customs door, my father eagerly came toward me. We embraced and kissed each other. As we left the airport terminal, the Spirit told me that the man walking beside me was a different person than I had imagined.
We spent the next few days getting acquainted with one another, laughing together, discovering what we had in common, and becoming friends. Angie and I asked him to record on tape his experiences in his youth and in courting my mother, and we discovered many things about his past. Then, one morning, Angie and I prayed that we would be blessed that day with the right words in asking my father to share with us the Ainsa genealogy and history.
It was my father’s eighty-first birthday. After opening presents at breakfast, he excused himself and came back with an object hidden underneath a towel. He handed me a box and said, “This is the least I can do after all these years. Somehow I feel that I have to make it up to you.” Inside the box was a beautiful watch.
Thirty minutes later, as we were upstairs sitting around my father’s oak desk, I inserted a blank tape into the cassette recorder and asked him to tell me about my ancestors. He talked for a few minutes, then stopped. “It’s a waste,” he said.
I panicked. “Lord, please help me,” I prayed. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.” Then I asked my father, “Why do you say it is a waste?”
“Because I have it in print,” he replied. My heart began to beat faster as he reached for a drawer in his desk, opened it, pulled out a folder, and handed me a sheet of paper with a list of names on it. “These are your ancestors on my father’s side,” he said, “and you’re welcome to this list.” I glanced quickly through it; it contained the names of his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, as well as those of distant relatives.
“What about your mother? Have you compiled a list on her side of the family?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Your grandmother’s lineage is not important,” he muttered, brushing aside my inquiry. I replied that were it not for my grandmother, he wouldn’t be here, to which my father said, “Well, if it is that important to you, you can have it.” With that, he gave me an envelope containing names scribbled on several sheets of paper and said, “As a matter of fact, you might as well have everything.” He placed the folder in my hand.
I opened it and, as tears began to blur my vision, I read through several lists of names of distant relatives. Inside were pictures of my grandmother, my grandfather, and others. I wept openly. During the past twenty-one years, I had prayed on many occasions for this day. The Lord had heard my requests and had answered them at the appropriate time.
“Why are you crying?” my father asked.
“Because I am happy to be here,” I said.
At that moment, he, too, began to cry. He leaned his head on my shoulder and took my hand between his. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am sorry for what I did. I was wrong. I was never a father to you. During all those years, I never bothered to find out who you were. Will you ever forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you—it is forgiven and forgotten,” I uttered between sobs. As I embraced him, the Spirit whispered softly, “I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men” (D&C 64:10). We were at peace. All the years of separation, loneliness, and turmoil melted away. He knew who I was. He had found a son. And I had finally found my father.

My husband and I wanted to help our family feel the Spirit more in our family scripture study. We had heard Elder Gene R. Cook, then of the Seventy, suggest singing a hymn before family scripture study, so we decided to implement this counsel. Although our teenage sons were somewhat resistant to the idea, they agreed to give it a try.
The following day I played hymns on our stereo about 30 minutes before our scheduled reading time. What happened next changed everything for us. This music had touched our then 13-year-old son (who had been the most resistant to our initial proposal) to the extent that he wanted to sing all the verses of the hymn, and he even wanted to sing more than one hymn! This same son now relies on the hymns when he is discouraged or tempted.
We use the hymns not only for family scripture study but also at family home evening and on Sundays.
Marci Owen, Utah, USA

“You wouldn’t think it was funny if you had to dance with him,” said Lisa in a cross voice.
“I’m sorry, Lisa,” said Stephanie, smothering one last chuckle, “but I couldn’t help laughing because there was a time when I thought you had two left feet. Remember when we were learning to clog after third grade a couple of years ago?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lisa, thinking back. “Was I really that bad?” She thought some more, then admitted, “I guess I was before Tammy took over. She walked me through every step of that dance until I had it just right.”
“And now old Two-Left-Feet Lisa can dance,” said Stephanie with a friendly grin.

I am grateful for righteous ancestors who taught the gospel to their children in the home long before there were formal family home evenings. My maternal grandparents were Ida Jesperson and John A. Whetten. They lived in the small community of Colonia Juárez, Chihuahua, Mexico. The Whetten children were taught by precept and by observing the examples of their parents.
The early 1920s in Mexico were hard times. The violent revolution had just ended. There was little cash circulating, and most of it was in silver coins. People often conducted their business through barter, or exchange of goods and services.
One day toward the end of summer, Grandpa John came home, having completed a trade and having received as part of the deal 100 pesos in silver coins. He gave the money to Ida with instructions it was to be used to cover the upcoming school expenses of the children.
Ida was grateful for the money but reminded John that they had not paid any tithing all summer long. They had had no cash income, but Ida reminded him that the animals had provided meat, eggs, and milk. Their garden had provided an abundance of fruits and vegetables, and they had made other trades for goods not involving cash. Ida suggested they should give the money to the bishop to cover their tithing.
John was a little disappointed, as the cash would have helped a great deal toward the children’s schooling, but he readily agreed they needed to pay their tithing. He carried the heavy bag to the tithing office and settled with the bishop.
Shortly afterward he received word that a wealthy businessman from the United States, a Mr. Hord, would arrive the next week with several men to spend a few days in the mountains hunting and fishing.
Grandpa John met the party of men at the railroad station not far from Colonia Juárez. He had the string of saddle horses and the necessary pack animals ready to transport the baggage and camp equipment into the mountains. The following week was spent guiding the men and caring for the camp and the animals.
At the end of the week, the men returned to the railroad station to take the train back to the United States. John was paid that day for his work and was given a bag of silver peso coins to cover the other expenses. Once John and his men had been paid, John returned the balance of money to Mr. Hord, who was surprised, as he had not expected any money to be left over. He quizzed John to make sure all costs had been covered, and John answered that all the expenses for the trip had been met, and this was the balance of the funds.
The train whistled. Mr. Hord turned to go and then turned back and tossed the heavy bag of coins to John. “Here, take this home for your boys,” he said. John caught the bag and headed back to Colonia Juárez.
That evening as the family gathered around after supper to hear the stories of the trip, John remembered the bag and brought it in and set it on the table. John said he didn’t know how much was in the bag, so for fun the bag was emptied onto the table—it was quite a pile—and when it was counted, it came to exactly 100 pesos in silver. Of course it was deemed a great blessing that Mr. Hord had decided to make that trip. John and his boys had earned good wages, but the 100 pesos left over was a reminder of the exact same amount of tithing paid the week before. To some, that might be an interesting coincidence, but to the Whetten family, it was clearly a lesson from the Lord that He remembers His promises to those who faithfully pay their tithing.

A few days ago I was trying to read my scriptures, but I kept getting interrupted. First it was somebody coming to tell me I hadn’t done a job right. Then it was my little sisters fighting. I was about ready to explode. All I wanted was some peace and quiet. Was it asking too much just to be able to concentrate?
Finally, I lowered my head and said a silent prayer. I asked Heavenly Father to bless me that I could understand what he wanted me to learn from the scriptures. I finished my prayer and put the book down. All of a sudden, it was like all of the interruptions shut off.
I had been reading 1 Nephi 8, where it talks about Lehi’s dream about the tree of life and the iron rod. I thought about the people who get distracted and end up wandering in darkness. It occurred to me that I should not let myself get distracted by worries or noise.
Then I thought about the tree of life, and I re-read 1 Ne. 8:11–12: “And it came to pass that I did go forth and partake of the fruit thereof; and I beheld that it was most sweet, above all that I ever before tasted. …
“And as I partook of the fruit thereof it filled my soul with exceedingly great joy.” [1 Ne. 8:11–12]
The Lord had granted me peace, the peace of understanding. I sat thinking, grateful for the quiet in the room, but even more grateful for the newfound inner calm.

Not too long ago, I was struggling so much with anxiety. But instead of withdrawing from others, I prayed to Heavenly Father for help, and the Spirit helped me see a life-changing truth:
We need each other.
Even though anxiety can make me want to withdraw from others, isolating myself is not what Heavenly Father wants for me. The adversary wants us to feel disconnected—that we don’t belong, especially in our challenges. But when I rely on the Savior to give me strength to reach out to my siblings or friends about my challenges, they respond with love and help me keep moving forward.

Though he joined none of the religious denominations that were competing so fiercely for converts, Joseph studied and pondered and investigated Christianity carefully. His inquiries led him to conclude that the New Testament church was no longer on the earth and that mankind “Had apostatized from the true and living faith.” (BYU Studies, 9:279.) While studying the scriptures one day, he read in the writings of James an inspired admonition to seek for divine wisdom through prayer. (See James 1:5.) Joseph concluded that unless he wanted to remain in uncertainty he should do as the ancient apostle suggested.

In the spring of 1820, Joseph Smith, then a boy not yet fifteen years of age, knelt to pray in a secluded grove of trees near his home. According to the accounts which he later gave of that important morning, he was concerned about his own salvation and about the welfare of mankind. More directly, he wanted to know which, if any, of the churches he should join. But as he began to pray, Joseph experienced a desperate struggle. As he tried to pray, he was seized by an evil power so strong that he could not speak. Distracting thoughts ran through his mind, he heard a noise like someone walking towards him, and soon he was enveloped in thick darkness which seemed about to overpower him.

Despite his alarm, young Joseph continued to pray inwardly for deliverance, and the evil presence disappeared, replaced by a bright pillar of light that descended around him in the grove. Within the intensely bright light two glorious beings appeared. One of them spoke to Joseph by name and pointed to the other saying, “This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him.” [JS—H 1:17]

As the solemn vision of the Father and the Son continued, Joseph’s questions were answered. The Savior told him his sins were forgiven, that none of the churches held all the correct doctrines or proper authority, and that the fulness of the gospel would be made known to him at some future time.

Joseph told the story of his sacred interview to his family and close friends. One with whom he shared the account of the vision was a minister, who treated his story lightly and challenged the reality of modern visions and revelations. Joseph was to find both believers and scoffers as he continued his preparation. Fortunately he would also find many, like himself, who were searching for God’s message of salvation. These were people turned toward religion, in part, because of the revivals of the early 1800s.

I figured that I had my Mother’s Day present all taken care of, thanks to Mr. Lee. In his fifth grade class, we had all made a special flower arrangement for our mothers—a small wishing well made of Popsicle sticks and filled with tiny artificial flowers.
We worked for hours on it in Mr. Lee’s class, and he insisted that we do a good job. All the little spots of glue had to be wiped clean. The flowers had to be arranged perfectly. Mr. Lee told us that he wanted our mothers to be really impressed with this gift.
At first, I didn’t believe that my wishing well would ever turn out as beautiful as the one Mr. Lee made as a model. But the longer I worked on it and the fussier I was with it and the more Mr. Lee gave me suggestions and help, the more my wishing well began to look even better than the model.
I finished it the Friday before Mother’s Day. As I admired the thatched roof and the well bulging with tiny red, yellow, and orange flowers, I knew that this was going to be my very best Mother’s Day present ever.
I already knew the perfect spot for my gift—in the kitchen window above the sink. Then, every day, whether it was spring or winter, when Mom looked out that window, she would see flowers.
Saturday was a gorgeous spring day. School was almost over for the summer. The trees all had new leaves, the grass was green, the sun was shining. It was the kind of day that you wanted to go on forever so you could stay outside and play. That’s what I did with my younger brothers, Daniel and Justin. We were building a clubhouse in the huge sycamore tree in our backyard.
Mom was at a special Relief Society workday. She had fixed us breakfast that morning, then put our lunch in the fridge and told us to take care of things while she was gone. Dad worked on his truck in the garage. Our little sister, Leah, stayed near the clubhouse.
Usually we were busy with chores on Saturday, but since Mom wasn’t there to remind us, and Dad was busy in the garage, we didn’t worry about them.
At lunchtime, we ate the things Mom had left for us. Justin mixed up a pitcher of punch. He spilled sugar on the kitchen counter and slopped punch on the floor, but we didn’t worry about it too much—Mom would take care of it when she came home.
As Justin, Daniel, and I charged outside to finish our clubhouse, I noticed that the house looked a little like a tornado had blown through it. The family room still had the blankets, pillows, cushions, and toys left from Saturday cartoons. The kitchen was a royal mess. Our bedrooms were worse. The bathroom was horrible! Most of our clubhouse dirt had ended up streaked in the sink or smeared on the bathroom cabinet. Leah had tried to clean her watercolor brushes by herself, so mixed in with our dirt was red, blue, and green paint.
The house was such a disaster that I was happy to get out of there. I hoped that Mom would hurry home and get it cleaned up before we had to go back inside.
A little after three o’clock, Mom pulled up in the van, and we all helped her carry Relief Society things into the house. As soon as she walked inside, her mouth dropped open. “What happened here?”
“Most of this mess must be Leah’s,” Daniel explained. “We’ve been working on the clubhouse.”
Just then Leah came into the living room with her watercolor painting and handed it to Mom. “Happy Mother’s Day,” she chirped.
Mom was still looking at the mess everywhere, but she took the picture, smiled, and gave Leah a big hug. “Thank you, Leah,” she said warmly. “It is beautiful. I had forgotten that Mother’s Day is tomorrow.”
I slipped out of the house with Justin and Daniel. A few minutes later, Mom called to us. Sister Reynolds, who had had a baby a few days ago, needed some help cleaning up her house, and Mom was going to lend a hand.
Justin watched Mom’s van drive off. “You know,” he said sadly, “it doesn’t seem fair that Mom has to clean two houses. Somebody else ought to clean Sister Reynolds’s house. Mom didn’t make that mess.”
“She didn’t make the mess in our house, either,” Daniel said.
“She wouldn’t have to clean it if we did it for her.” Justin’s face brightened into a smile. “We could do it for our Mother’s Day present.”
I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. “I already have a Mother’s Day present for her—probably the best one I’ve ever given to her.”
“I forgot about Mother’s Day,” Daniel muttered sadly. “I don’t have anything for Mom.”
“Neither do I,” Justin joined in, frowning. “What did you get Mom that’s so great?” he asked me.
I took Justin and Daniel into the house and secretly and carefully took out the package that I had hidden in the back of my closet. I peeled back the tape and folded back the tissue paper. Justin’s and Daniel’s eyes bulged.
“She’ll love it, for sure,” Justin proclaimed.
“I’ve already picked the perfect spot for it,” I said proudly.
I took the flower arrangement into the kitchen and placed it on the windowsill. It didn’t look as wonderful there as I’d thought it would. You didn’t see it because of the dirty dishes in the sink and on the counters, knives and forks and dried pieces of sandwiches on the table, and crumbs and spilled punch on the unswept floor.
“I don’t think Mom will even notice the flowers,” Daniel pointed out.
“Let’s clean up the mess so Mom can see your flowers better,” Daniel suggested again. “It can be our Mother’s Day present.”
“I already have my Mother’s Day present,” I repeated stubbornly, snatching my flowers from the window. I stomped back to my room, determined to keep my gift until the house was clean so that Mom could appreciate it.
We went back outside to the clubhouse, but I had a hard time concentrating—I kept picturing my beautiful flowers sitting right in the middle of our dirty, messy house.
“All right,” I suddenly flared, turning on Daniel and Justin, “we’ll clean the kitchen for my flowers. But that’s all!”
Justin started on the dishes in the sink. Daniel cleared and cleaned the table. I grabbed a broom and started to sweep. There were still sticky spots on the floor after I swept, so I got the mop and wiped them up. Then I helped Justin and Daniel finish the dishes. We straightened the chairs, put things neatly in the cupboards and the fridge.
I rushed down the hall to my bedroom, got the flower arrangement, and put it in the kitchen window. “Perfect,” I announced with a huge grin. “Now she’ll notice my flowers because they’re not right in the middle of a big mess.”
“But what about the living room and the family room?” Daniel questioned. “She’ll see both of those before she ever sees the kitchen. She’ll be thinking of that huge mess when she sees your flowers.”
He was right. “Then we’ll clean the family room,” I declared.
We started on the family room. But we couldn’t stop there. Once we finished the family room, the living room didn’t look right. We straightened and dusted and vacuumed. Soon Justin was cleaning our room. Daniel joined him. I decided to do Leah’s room.
Once we got started, it became kind of fun to watch our dirty, messy house change into a clean, comfortable one, a house that Mom wouldn’t be sorry to come home to. And the more we worked, the more work we discovered that needed to be done.
I returned to the kitchen and saw that we really needed to scrub and polish the sink. Then I did the same to the stove while Daniel and Justin worked on the sink and tub in the bathroom. We gathered the dirty laundry and filled up the washer.
I don’t ever remember working so hard. When we finally finished, all of us had sweat dripping down our faces, but the house was perfect. Even the cushions on the sofa were arranged exactly the way Mom liked them.
We saw the van pull into the driveway and ducked into a closet to hide. When the front door opened and Mom stepped inside, we pushed the door open a crack. She stood in the doorway, looking about her. Her eyes were wide, and she was smiling. Slowly she began moving about the house, examining first the family room and living room. She stuck her head inside the bathroom. She crept down the hall and looked into our bedrooms. She kept muttering to herself, “I just can’t believe it’s the same house!”
She went to the kitchen last, and we slipped in behind her. “Happy Mother’s Day!” we burst out.
Mom whipped around and exclaimed happily, “So you’re the ones who have worked magic here! I dreaded coming home,” she confided. I kept wishing that somehow all the mess would just disappear. And when I got here, my wish had come true!”
“How do you like Stephen’s flowers?” Justin asked, pointing at the kitchen window.
Mom turned and her eyes went to the miniature wishing well in the window. “Oh, how beautiful!” She walked slowly to the window, admiring my flowers. “The house was so neat and beautiful,” she laughed, “that I didn’t notice these.” Then she turned back to me and said, “Thank you, Stephen. And do you know what makes them so special to me?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “The clean house around them. Thank you, boys! I don’t remember a Mother’s Day gift that I have loved and appreciated as much as this one.”
As Mom hugged us, I glanced at the flowers in the window, thankful that they were displayed in a very clean house.

Some Relief Society sisters recently prayed together as they prepared to visit for the first time a young widow whose husband died suddenly. They wanted to know what to do and how to work together to help prepare the home for family and friends who would come at the time of the funeral. They needed to know what words of comfort they could speak for the Lord. An answer to their prayer came. When they arrived at the house, each sister moved to complete a task. The house was ready so quickly that some sisters regretted not being able to do more. Words of comfort were spoken which fit perfectly together. They had given the Lord’s service as one, hearts knit together.

In my office I have a little plaque that reads, “Above all else, brethren, let us think straight”—the last known words spoken by my grandfather Elder Melvin J. Ballard in mortality. As I understand the circumstances, Grandfather, after a very grueling experience of preaching the gospel all through the eastern part of the United States, drove his own car from New York to Salt Lake City. When he came into the driveway at his home, he collapsed and was rushed to the LDS Hospital and was found to have an acute case of leukemia. He never came out of the hospital. He went in and out of coma, but as I have had it told to me by my father, who was there, Grandfather pushed himself up on his elbows and looked into his hospital room as though he were addressing a congregation or a group and said with clarity, “And above all else, brethren, let us think straight.” I don’t go into my office any day of the week that I don’t see that, and I find that it helps me a little bit.

One day my brother came into my bedroom and started bugging me. Because I was having a bad day, I started to yell at him. After I yelled, I felt really bad. I knelt beside my bed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive me. After my prayer, I went to my brother and told him I was sorry.
I felt good inside after that. I knew it was the Holy Ghost. I have a testimony that Heavenly Father will forgive us if we just ask Him to.

When I was first called as a General Authority nearly 50 years ago, we lived on a very small plot of ground in Utah Valley that we called our farm. We had a cow and a horse and chickens and lots of children.
One Saturday, I was to drive to the airport for a flight to a stake conference in California. But the cow was expecting a calf and in trouble. The calf was born, but the cow could not get up. We called the veterinarian, who soon came. He said the cow had swallowed a wire and would not live through the day.
I copied the telephone number of the animal by-products company so my wife could call them to come and get the cow as soon as she died.
Before I left, we had our family prayer. Our little boy said our prayer. After he had asked Heavenly Father to “bless Daddy in his travels and bless us all,” he then started an earnest plea. He said, “Heavenly Father, please bless Bossy cow so that she will get to be all right.”
In California, I told of the incident and said, “He must learn that we do not get everything we pray for just that easily.”
There was a lesson to be learned, but it was I who learned it, not my son. When I returned Sunday night, Bossy had “got to be all right.”

Losing my mother when I was 10 was the most difficult moment of my life. My pain was deep and overwhelming. My life became confused, and I could not focus on school. Worse, my father was not around either. I was completely alone. I had no perspective and didn’t know how to move forward with my life. I was unprepared to manage the grief and pain of living without my mom. I had to learn to do everything on my own and I especially had to learn to defend myself from bad influences around me.
Today, thinking back on those times, I know I was never alone. I always had my Heavenly Father by my side. As a child, I attended an all-girls Catholic school, and the nuns were of immense help to me, teaching me how to make good choices. They taught me to love God, to believe in Him, and most of all, to trust Him.

Katie Lewis is my neighbor. Her father, Randy, is my bishop; her mother, Melanie, is a saint. And her older brother, Jimmie, is battling leukemia.

Sister Lewis recently recounted for me the unspeakable fear and grief that came to their family when Jimmie’s illness was diagnosed. She spoke of the tears and the waves of sorrow that any mother would experience with a prognosis as grim as Jimmie’s was. But like the faithful Latter-day Saints they are, the Lewises turned to God with urgency and with faith and with hope. They fasted and prayed, prayed and fasted. And they went again and again to the temple.

One day Sister Lewis came home from a temple session weary and worried, feeling the impact of so many days—and nights—of fear being held at bay only by monumental faith.

As she entered her home, four-year-old Katie ran up to her with love in her eyes and a crumpled sheaf of papers in her hand. Holding the papers out to her mother, she said enthusiastically, “Mommy, do you know what these are?”

Sister Lewis said frankly her first impulse was to deflect Katie’s zeal and say she didn’t feel like playing just then. But she thought of her children—all her children—and the possible regret of missed opportunities and little lives that pass too swiftly. So she smiled through her sorrow and said, “No, Katie. I don’t know what they are. Please tell me.”

“They are the scriptures,” Katie beamed back, “and do you know what they say?”

Sister Lewis stopped smiling, gazed deeply at this little child, knelt down to her level, and said, “Tell me, Katie. What do the scriptures say?”

“They say, ‘Trust Jesus.’” And then she was gone.

Sister Lewis said that as she stood back up, holding a fistful of her four-year-old’s scribbling, she felt near-tangible arms of peace encircle her weary soul and a divine stillness calm her troubled heart.

Katie Lewis, “angel and minister of grace,” I’m with you. In a world of some discouragement, sorrow, and overmuch sin, in times when fear and despair seem to prevail, when humanity is feverish with no worldly physicians in sight, I too say, “Trust Jesus.” Let him still the tempest and ride upon the storm. Believe that he can lift mankind from its bed of affliction, in time and in eternity.

A college student hoping to repent of some serious mistakes and straighten out his life told me only a few days ago of an influence which, for a time, controlled his life. His desire to have some expert ski equipment encouraged him to accept a job on Sundays and evenings. This prevented him from attending priesthood and other Sunday meetings. Now he was too tired to attend early morning seminary. With his new, fancy ski equipment, he made the high school team and made some new friends. To be “with it,” he started to smoke and soon moved to marijuana and from marijuana to LSD. His father and mother now appeared old-fashioned to him. He moved from his parents’ home to live with his newfound friends in an old house. The house had extra rooms, so they invited a young lady—also on drugs—to move in. His father tried to visit him, to communicate through letters. But this young man now felt completely disenchanted with church and home. After these tragic mistakes, he finally came to his senses and moved home with his parents. He told me, “The devil seemed to be in charge of my life.”