Gospel Story Finder

In the 1830s, missionaries baptized Mary Grimshaw and her family into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Grimshaws immigrated to the United States and made their home in Nauvoo.
Mary was given the assignment of helping Emma Smith, the wife of the Prophet Joseph Smith, with her laundry each week. Mary and Emma worked side by side in the Smiths’ kitchen.
“I’m so glad that you have agreed to help me,” Emma said as she lifted a large tub of water onto the black coal stove.
“I’m glad that I’m able to help,” Mary answered while she put dresses and shirts into the water to simmer and soak.
The kitchen air soon became hot and moist, and it smelled of strong lye soap. Mary wiped the perspiration from her forehead. She dipped a wooden spoon into the water and pulled out a shirt. Kneeling beside another tub of sudsy water, she scrubbed the shirt up and down the washboard. When the shirt was scrubbed clean, Mary handed it to Emma.
Emma rinsed it first in one tub of cool, clear water, then in another tub of clear water. The last tub had a few drops of bluing added to the water to make the shirts whiter.
After each article of clothing was washed and rinsed, it was pulled through a hand-turned wringer, which looked like two rolling pins hooked together with a crank on one end to turn them. The ringer was attached to another tub. As the clothes went through the ringer, the squeezed out water ran into the tub to be reused. The clothes were then hung neatly on the clothesline to dry.
“Thank you for your help,” Emma said.
“Oh, it was fun. I enjoy having an excuse to come to your home,” Mary told her.
Mary did enjoy helping on laundry day at the Prophet Joseph Smith’s home. For five years Mary faithfully returned each week.
Then one sad day the Prophet Joseph Smith was shot and killed. Wanting to go and comfort Emma in some way, Mary said to no one in particular, “Sister Emma needs me more today than ever.”
As she walked to the Smiths’ house, she smoothed the braids that hung from both sides of her head, straightened the apron tied around her waist, and forced on her best smile.
She thought of how different the day felt. The very air was filled with sadness and uncertainty. She wondered about her future and the future of the Church. Stepping onto the porch, she knocked on the wooden door.
Emma looked pale and lonely, and her eyes were red and swollen.
“I’m so sorry,” Mary heard herself say. “Do you still want my help today?”
“Yes,” Emma replied. “I was hoping that you would come. Please go into the kitchen and get started.”
As Mary began to sort the clothes, she jumped back unexpectedly. On top of the pile of clothes lay a man’s shirt. The left side was stained with blood, and there was a small hole singed by gunpowder. The sight of it made Mary feel weak. She fell to her knees and sobbed uncontrollably.
At the close of the day, Mary wrote in her diary, “Today I washed the shirt the Prophet Joseph Smith was shot in.”
Mary’s faith in the gospel grew. She sustained Brigham Young as the new prophet. Later she crossed the plains with the other pioneers and made her home in Smithfield, Utah.

As a little girl, I would tag along with my father on our little farm, beg to work with him, and try to help him with his many projects. I loved riding in his truck and helping him shift the gears. I remember him reading stories to us children and taking us on sleigh rides, fishing trips, and camping adventures. Riding horses with Dad, especially in the mountains, will always be a special memory.
After I started high school, I began to wonder about things I had been taught about the gospel. Things some of my friends said created questions and doubts in my mind.
One night I stood in our living room looking out of our big window at the stars. It was late, and I thought everyone had gone to bed. But Dad came up beside me, and we started to talk.
I told him of my questions and concerns. In response, my father testified that he knew the gospel was true. We talked about getting hung up on “the mysteries” and how foolish that can be. Dad said I had to come to my own conclusions and that it might take me some time. Then he told me something I have never forgotten. He said that when I had questions or concerns, I could lean on his faith and testimony.
I loved my dad and knew he would never intentionally lead me astray or tell me something that was not true. If he felt sure about what he believed, I knew I could trust him.
So, lean I did.
During my working years, when I was exposed to many ideas, theories, lifestyles, and beliefs that challenged me, I looked to my dad and leaned. During my years as a wife and mother, as experiences have tested my faith, I have looked to my dad and leaned. Even now, as I think about current circumstances in the world, I look to my dad and lean.
I often think about that night long ago and my conversation with Dad. I wonder how different my life would have been without his calm assurance and steady example.
As a child, I never wanted for the necessities of life. My goodly parents took care of me. But of all the things my parents gave me, I am most grateful for the values they taught me, the firm foundation in the gospel they gave me, and the simple, exemplary life they led.
I am also grateful Dad was there for me to lean on—not once but always. He was and is a great example of the things that matter most. My dad is my hero.

Young women around the world stand in holy places in nature at Young Women camp. A leader shared with me the story of one young woman’s experience. This girl was less active and was a bit skeptical about having a spiritual experience in the woods. After the first day, she reported to the leader, “I’m having a great time, but could we please cut out all of the talk about the Spirit? I’m here to camp, enjoy nature, be with my friends, and have some fun!” However, at the concluding testimony meeting, this same girl tearfully admitted, “I don’t want to go home. How can I have what I am feeling right now, this Spirit, with me all the time?” She had discovered a holy place.

One of the strongest recollections I have of being a missionary is how close I drew to the Lord through the practice of regular prayer. In my day the Mission Home was located on State Street in Salt Lake City. It was a large house that had been converted to a mission training center. It had large dormitory rooms with perhaps as many as 10 beds in a room. We checked in on Sunday night.
The week before I entered the mission field was an exciting time. There were a lot of parties and farewells. I am afraid that I was not properly rested and prepared for the training I was to receive at the Mission Home. As the evening of our first day in the Mission Home came to a close, I was weary. While waiting for the other missionaries to prepare themselves for bed, I stretched out on my bed and promptly fell asleep. My sleep, however, was interrupted by a feeling that I was surrounded. As the fog of sleep lifted, I heard the words of a prayer being said. I opened my eyes, and much to my surprise I found all the elders in my dormitory room kneeling around my bed, concluding the day with a prayer. I quickly closed my eyes and acted as if I was asleep. I was too embarrassed to get out of bed and join them. Even though my first experience with prayer as a missionary was an embarrassing one, it was the beginning of two wonderful years of frequently calling upon the Lord for guidance.

Words fail to express the deep feelings of gratitude for the Lord and the missionaries He sent to our home. The Lord blessed me with the knowledge of the restored gospel, and I felt an urgency to share this knowledge with others. I wanted to be a missionary.
Within months, my sister Dina and I were called as local missionaries in San Salvador. This calling gave us the opportunity to go door to door to share the glad news of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and bring many people to the waters of baptism. In due time, we both served full-time missions in the Central America Mission.
My mission had a great impact on my life. I learned to rely more on the Lord, to seek the guidance of the Spirit, and to feel an overwhelming love for God’s children. My knowledge of the scriptures and my understanding of the doctrines increased. So did my desire to be obedient and to keep the commandments with exactness. My testimony of the Savior and His infinite Atonement was strengthened. My missionary experiences became part of who and what I am. Missionary work became my passion. It has impacted my life and that of my family more than anything else.

On Friday, May 30, Elder and Sister Kearon assisted Primary children in packing hygiene kits for less-fortunate children at the Las Piñas Stake Center. Elder Kearon shared that he was “very grateful to see such wonderful children showcase values of service,” and expressed hope that “more children of our church around the world are able to help and give that service to more people.

Those words brought back memories to nine-year-old Natalie Sumagpao: “I remembered that one Christmas, my family and I drove around to give food to kids on the streets. I’m grateful to be able to meet Elder and Sister Kearon, guiding us through service and bringing us closer to Jesus Christ.”

When I was very young, I loved to play ball, any kind of ball. As I grew older, it became obvious that the Lord had given me a special talent in athletics, and of all the sports in which I participated, I was most attracted to basketball. I came from a family of meager financial means, so when I was old enough to throw a ball through a hoop, my folks couldn’t afford the hoop or the ball. I found an old tin band from a wooden barrel and nailed it on the garage. Then I got some rags and tied them together until I had a good-sized rag ball. Every night after school I would go outside and shoot that rag ball through the hoop. Many times, I would have to climb up on the garage to straighten the band because it would bend from the rag ball hitting it so often. I could hardly wait to get home in the evenings so I could start shooting my rag ball through the hoop.
It was during my 13th year when Dad took me aside one day and said, “Bobby, how would you like to have a real basketball hoop?” He had made one out of a rod of iron, had made a backboard, and had attached the hoop to it. I could hardly believe my eyes! Dad and I mounted it on the back of the garage. He then gave me my first rubber basketball. Boy, was I excited! Night after night, as soon as I got home from school, I was out in back shooting my ball. I loved to shoot long shots and practiced them by the hour.
In my mind I would always picture myself as one of the great ball players of the day. If I were having that experience at this time, I would probably be Magic Johnson or Larry Bird. I always pretended I was in the national basketball finals with just a few seconds left. I had the ball and the score was tied. I would come down along the fence line and let go with a long shot, and as it went through the hoop, I would sense the feeling of being a hero. I won more national titles than you can ever imagine. I could see it in my mind’s eye. I thought about it a lot. I knew I could do it. I practiced and practiced. I also dreamed of one day playing in Madison Square Garden. It was the most famous basketball arena in the world at that time. There was no other place like it.
When I graduated from high school, I accepted a basketball scholarship to Utah State University in Logan. During my junior year, we were invited to Madison Square Garden to play in the first holiday festival tournament ever held there. My dream had come true! I had seen it! I had worked hard for it. Along with Utah State and other teams from the United States, the two top teams in the nation had been invited to the tournament. Our team played the number two-rated team the first night, and it was really close. The game went down to the wire, but we won. I was high-point man and played one of my best games ever. The next night Utah State played another great team, and again it was a close game. We won, and once more I was high-point man.
The Aggies from Logan were now in the finals against Manhattan University (New York City), the number one team in the nation. It was a tough and close game. We were never separated by more than four points. As we approached the final two minutes of the game, Utah State was leading by four points. We had the ball and had planned to stall it out, but we lost it. One of the Manhattan players stole a pass and went down and scored. Now Utah State had only a two-point lead with about a minute and a half to go. We came down the floor again and worked around the key until an open shot came. One of our players drove in and missed it. Manhattan got the ball again and scored. Now the score was tied with a minute or less to go. We had the ball, came down the court, and missed our shot. The rebound went to Manhattan, and now they had the ball with about 35 seconds to go. We didn’t dare foul them. What a terrible position to be in! At times like that, you wonder why you ever took up the sport. Manhattan worked the ball around until there were about 10 seconds left, and then the player who had been hitting all night faked out in front, drove to the bucket, and laid it up. I can still see that ball as it rolled around the rim but finally fell off. One of our players pulled down the rebound and threw it to me. I came down the side of the court and let the ball fly from about 30 feet out. It split the net! The final buzzer rang, and we had won the national holiday festival tournament! As that buzzer went off, I thought to myself, “I’ve done this before.” I had. In my mind’s eye and in the backyard, I had done it hundreds and hundreds of times. I had practiced and practiced. I had worked for it. Because of my faith and work, the Lord blessed me.

Angelina stood straight and tall as she sang the Christmas carols. She wore a new white dress that Mama had made especially for her.
Angelina glanced at the tall evergreen tree reaching almost to the ceiling of the big school hall. The colored lights glowed softly over the chorus.
Everyone had brought ornaments and garlands of sparkling tinsel from home, and the tree was full and beautiful. The children in the fifth grade had built a fireplace with red cellophane inside to look like flames. Hanging from the mantel were stockings—knitted ones and felt ones with sequins and holly on the tops and the toes. Packages wrapped with beautiful papers and huge ribbon bows surrounded the tree.
As Angelina looked down at the audience, she could see Mama’s big brown eyes looking up at her. Now Mama will see, she thought. Now she’ll understand that this is the way we should celebrate Christmas in America. We live here now, and we should do things the way they do.
The final carol was “Silent Night.” The audience was asked to join in on the last verse. Angelina was embarrassed. She knew Mama didn’t know the words, and if anyone else looked at her, they would know it too. She hoped her friend Jane wouldn’t notice.
When the concert was over, Jane hurried over to Angelina and asked, “Is that your mother with the brown coat? Are those your little brothers sitting next to her?”
Angelina looked at her family. She saw them as she though Jane must be seeing them. They were different from everyone else—you could tell that right away.
Mama smiled and beckoned to her daughter. Angelina knew that Jane wanted to meet her family, but she left her standing alone in the hall with only a hurried goodbye. “I have to run. See you later!”
Angelina put her thin coat on over her new white dress and took each of her little brothers by the hand. Together they crunched over the snow and pushed through the brown slush at the curbs, breaking a path for Mama.
Little José shivered as Angelina picked him up. “Well,” she said, “how did you like the Christmas program?”
“Pretty,” he said. “Pretty.”
She hugged him and he let his head drop to her shoulder. “I liked it,” he said shyly.
“I’m glad you did,” said Angelina, “and I’ll bet Roy did too.”
“I liked it,” Roy said, “but I also like our Christmas.”
“Oh, but that’s so old fashioned,” Angelina snapped. “It’s not the same in this country. Putting straw in your shoes for the wise men’s camels is just plain silly! And why don’t we have Christmas on Christmas Day? Why wait twelve days? I couldn’t stand our old Christmas anymore now that I know what a real Christmas is.”
She turned to help Mama over a large puddle of slush. Mama’s face looked a little sad, and for a minute Angelina felt unhappy about what she’d said. But, after all, they were in America now and they might just as well live like their neighbors.
By the time Christmas Eve finally arrived, Angelina made sure everyone had a stocking to hang up. They pinned their stockings to the back of Papa’s chair.
Papa had brought home a tree, and Angelina decorated it with a string of lights she bought with her baby-sitting money. The boys helped hang ribbons and a bird from one of Mama’s hats on the tree.
“We need something with sparkle!” Papa said as he tied silver spoons all over the tree. When he turned off the ceiling light and plugged in the tree lights, it was lovely.
Angelina looked at her brothers. “How do you like an American Christmas now?”
Little José clapped his hands and said, “Pretty. Pretty.”
But Roy called, “Mama! Where is the straw for our shoes? What will the camels do for straw? And where are the luminarias (lamps) and the candles to go in them?”
Angelina felt hot anger rise in her throat and soar up into her cheeks. “Roy! We don’t do that anymore,” she scolded.
“That’s for Mexico. This is America! Don’t you understand?”
“Why, Angelina!” Mama said.
“Well, why don’t they try to understand?” Angelina asked.
“They are trying,” her mother said. “But it’s hard for them to learn the new ways. It’s hard for all of us—even for you.”
Angelina ran to her room. Her throat ached as she held back the tears. Why couldn’t her family see what she was trying to do? If Jane ever came over to the house and saw luminarias and straw in their shoes, she would think it very strange.
Baby Linda made a little sound and Angelina bent to look at her in the cradle Papa had made. Linda looked like the baby in the manger scene at Las Posadas, when everyone in town, carrying candles, joins a procession looking for shelter for Joseph and Mary. Linda looked just like that baby. Angelina lightly ran a finger over Linda’s smooth soft cheek. Then she walked out of the bedroom and stood looking at her family.
She suddenly realized that Papa had always played the part of Martolo, the lazy shepherd, in the Christmas play in Mexico. He had accepted the part from Grandfather with tears in his eyes. “I’ll do it well, Papa,” he had said. “Then I’ll give the part to Roy when he is old enough.”
Angelina looked at Mama and remembered how in Mexico she always had a supply of bizcochitos (rolls) and candy for the children who went from door to door singing songs.
But most of all, she thought of Roy and little Jose. How much they would miss if they never put out shoes of straw for the camels, joined a Las Posadas procession, or hit a pinata with a stick until all the candy and toys showered out over them!
“Mama!” Angelina burst out. “Mama, I was wrong.”
Everyone turned to look at her. Mama held out her arms and Angelina ran into them.
“I can hardly wait for January sixth, the Day of the Wise Men,” she cried. “Then we can do all the things we have always done—the lovely old things.”
“The new is good, Angelina,” Mama said, “but the old ways are good too. Many people here do not know about our customs. Maybe we could show them. You could invite a friend.”
“Jane would come,” Angelina said.
“She might like to see how we celebrate Christmas,” Mama said.
“I’ll go get the straw for the shoes,” said Roy.
Angelina laughed. “No, Roy,” she said. “That isn’t until the Day of the Wise Men on January sixth. Remember?”
“We all remember,” said Mama very quietly.
Angelina smiled. “I remember too, Mama,” she said. “And it’s good to remember.”

My brother Gary was very committed to raising a righteous family. He didn't let his education, career, or other interests distract him from that commitment. He worked hard and sacrificed to provide for his family. After a full day's work, he proactively helped his wife care for the children. When they were little, he changed their diapers, bathed them, and put them to bed. When they grew older, he helped with their schoolwork and supported them in their activities. He loved his children. He was concerned about their welfare and development. He taught them the gospel and helped them live it. He fasted and prayed for them. He made sure that family scripture study and prayer were a daily practice. He was a great example of a true family man. Finally, after 40 years of active and successful parenting, his last child was married in the temple.

On a beautiful October morning, our family gathered in a sealing room at the Newport Beach California Temple. My father performed the sealing ordinance for Gary's daughter Andrea and her husband, Trent. After the ceremony, Gary expressed deep satisfaction and joy. He felt that raising his children and seeing them married in the temple had been his most important work on earth. Considering his single-minded effort and devotion to raising a righteous family, it was clear why he felt that way.

Three months later, almost to the day, we received the shocking news that Gary had been killed in a car accident. Following his memorial service, we gathered in the living room of his home. His daughter Julie was inspired to read Gary's patriarchal blessing to us. The blessing spoke of the great work the Lord had appointed and prepared him to fulfill. It promised him that his life would be protected until it had been completed. These inspired blessings and promises given to Gary as a 19-year-old now comforted his family. We felt that he truly had fulfilled his work on earth.

As a young man of Primary and Aaronic Priesthood age, I attended church in the grand old St. George Tabernacle, construction for which had begun in 1863. During very lengthy sermons I would amuse myself by gazing about the building, admiring the marvelous pioneer craftsmanship that had built that striking facility. Did you know, by the way, that there are 184 clusters of grapes carved into the ceiling cornice of that building? (Some of those sermons were really long!) But most of all I enjoyed counting the window panes—2,244 of them—because I grew up on the story of Peter Neilson.
In the course of constructing that tabernacle, the local brethren ordered the glass for the windows from New York and had it shipped around the cape to California. But a bill of $800 was due and payable before the panes could be picked up and delivered to St. George. Brother David H. Cannon, later to preside over the St. George Temple being built at the same time, was charged with the responsibility of raising the needed funds. After painstaking effort, the entire community, giving virtually everything they had to these two monumental building projects, had been able to come up with only $200 cash. On sheer faith Brother Cannon committed a team of freighters to prepare to leave for California to get the glass. He continued to pray that the enormous balance of $600 would somehow be forthcoming before their departure.
Living in nearby Washington, Utah, was Peter Neilson, a Danish immigrant who had been saving for years to add on to his modest two-room adobe home. On the eve of the freighters’ departure for California, Peter spent a sleepless night in that tiny house. He thought of his conversion in far-off Denmark and his subsequent gathering with the Saints in America. After coming west he had settled and struggled to make a living in Sanpete. And then, just as some prosperity seemed imminent there, he answered the call to uproot and go to the Cotton Mission, bolstering the pathetic and sagging efforts of the alkali-soiled, malaria-plagued, flood-bedeviled settlers of Dixie. As he lay in bed that night contemplating his years in the Church, he weighed the sacrifices asked of him against the wonderful blessings he had received. Somewhere in those private hours he made a decision.
Some say it was a dream, others say an impression, still others simply a call to duty. However the direction came, Peter Neilson arose before dawn on the morning the teams were to leave for California. With only a candle and the light of the gospel to aid him, Peter brought out of a secret hiding place $600 in gold coins. His wife, Karen, aroused by the predawn bustling, asked why he was up so early. He said only that he had to walk quickly the seven miles to St. George to give $600 to Brother David H. Cannon.
As the first light of morning fell on the beautiful red cliffs of southern Utah, a knock came at Brother Cannon’s door. There stood Peter Neilson, holding a red bandanna which sagged under the weight it carried. “Good morning, David,” said Peter. “I hope I am not too late. You will know what to do with this money.”
With that he turned on his heel and retraced his steps back to Washington, back to a faithful and unquestioning wife, and back to a small two-room adobe house that remained just two rooms for the rest of his life. (See Andrew Karl Larson, Red Hills of November, 1957, 311–13.)

I was puffing as I ran my third lap around the track, but I was determined to finish at least one more. My friend Jennifer had pulled ahead of me as usual, nearly half a lap ahead and still gaining. It didn’t bother me that she was faster. I admired her for it. I admired her for a lot of things.
We had been friends since fifth grade, and I remember that she struggled with math so much she had to get extra help. Now she was on the honor roll. Athletics were easier for her, but she had to work hard at that, too. That’s why we were running the track together. She needed the athletic conditioning; I needed the exercise.
It was hard not to like Jennifer; her outgoing personality made her cheerful and friendly. She seemed to have it all and do it all. Her life was an endless round of activities, all of them wholesome and productive.
I was busy, too. I always had more to do than time to do it in. In fact, I had to schedule my time very carefully. I thought about Jennifer’s schedule—which was busier than mine—and wondered how she accomplished all she did.
About then I noticed a younger red-haired girl standing by the track watching us. She was a handicapped student at our small school. I said a polite hello as I ran by her, but I couldn’t afford to slow my pace to say much more. She watched as I rounded the track.
Jennifer seemed to be behind me now, even though I knew she was already a lap ahead and about to pass me again soon. She would finish before me, I was sure, and move on to the other important activities she must have planned.
I looked ahead to the next turn and then looked back to see where Jennifer was. She had slowed to a snail’s pace, and the red-haired girl was holding her hand and running beside her. The busiest girl in school had time to help someone else, and I didn’t. I thought about the Savior as I watched the two of them running together.
I was the only onlooker. Only the Lord and I would ever know about that small kindness. Jennifer didn’t do it for recognition; it was just the way she was. That day she became my hero, not because of all the great things she was known for but because of that simple act of kindness when no one was around but me.

When our children were very small, I started to write down a few things about what happened every day. Let me tell you how that got started. I came home late from a Church assignment. It was after dark. My father-in-law, who lived near us, surprised me as I walked toward the front door of my house. He was carrying a load of pipes over his shoulder, walking very fast and dressed in his work clothes. I knew that he had been building a system to pump water from a stream below us up to our property.
He smiled, spoke softly, and then rushed past me into the darkness to go on with his work. I took a few steps toward the house, thinking of what he was doing for us, and just as I got to the door, I heard in my mind—not in my own voice—these words: “I’m not giving you these experiences for yourself. Write them down.”
I went inside. I didn’t go to bed. Although I was tired, I took out some paper and began to write. And as I did, I understood the message I had heard in my mind. I was supposed to record for my children to read, someday in the future, how I had seen the hand of God blessing our family. Grandpa didn’t have to do what he was doing for us. He could have had someone else do it or not have done it at all. But he was serving us, his family, in the way covenant disciples of Jesus Christ always do. I knew that was true. And so I wrote it down, so that my children could have the memory someday when they would need it.
I wrote down a few lines every day for years. I never missed a day no matter how tired I was or how early I would have to start the next day. Before I would write, I would ponder this question: “Have I seen the hand of God reaching out to touch us or our children or our family today?” As I kept at it, something began to happen. As I would cast my mind over the day, I would see evidence of what God had done for one of us that I had not recognized in the busy moments of the day. As that happened, and it happened often, I realized that trying to remember had allowed God to show me what He had done.
More than gratitude began to grow in my heart. Testimony grew. I became ever more certain that our Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. I felt more gratitude for the softening and refining that come because of the Atonement of the Savior Jesus Christ. And I grew more confident that the Holy Ghost can bring all things to our remembrance—even things we did not notice or pay attention to when they happened.
The years have gone by. My boys are grown men. And now and then one of them will surprise me by saying, “Dad, I was reading in my copy of the journal about when …” and then he will tell me about how reading of what happened long ago helped him notice something God had done in his day.

Moving forward takes practice, advises Lazare of Georgia, a convert in the country bordering Russia and Europe. Learning to trust LDS friends was his first step, after which he agreed to accept a priesthood blessing. “Then I could move forward with the missionary discussions,” he explains. As Lazare’s faith in Jesus Christ increased, “I took the big step of baptism even though I wasn’t 100 percent certain. But the Lord gave me courage with each phase, and I am so grateful now that I did it.”

Several years ago, I was invited to give an important lecture at a medical school in New York City. The night before the lecture, Sister Nelson and I were invited to dinner at the home of our host professor. There he proudly introduced us to an honor medical student—his beautiful daughter.
Some weeks later, that professor telephoned me in an obvious state of grief. I asked, “What is the matter?”
“Remember our daughter, whom you met at our home?”
“Of course,” I replied. “I’ll never forget such a stunning young lady.”
Then her father sobbed and said, “Last night she was killed in an automobile accident!” Trying to gain composure, he continued: “She asked permission to go to a dance with a certain young man. I didn’t have a good feeling about it. I told her so and asked her not to go. She asked, ‘Why?’ I told her that I simply was uneasy. She had always been an obedient daughter, but she said that if I could not give her a good reason to decline, she wanted to go. And so she did. At the dance, alcoholic beverages were served. Her escort drank a bit—we don’t know how much. While returning home, he was driving too fast, missed a turn, and careened through a guardrail into a reservoir below. They were both submerged and taken to their death.”
As I shared my feeling of sadness, he concluded: “My grief is made worse because I had the distinct feeling that trouble lay ahead. Why couldn’t I have been more persuasive?”

Leah looked around the third-grade classroom. The desks were lined up in neat rows, and bright posters hung on the walls. Most of the other kids were talking with their friends.
Leah sat down at her desk. She didn’t really know anyone in this class. She hoped she’d be able to make a new friend at school this year.
“Hey.”
Leah looked up. A girl had sat down next to her.
“My name is Anna,” she said. “Want to be friends?”
Leah smiled. “Sure!”
Later Leah and Anna ate lunch together. During their break, they played four square and jumped rope. At the end of the day, Anna waved goodbye to Leah through the window of the bus. “See you tomorrow!” she said.
From then on, Leah and Anna were good friends. They played together every day. In the winter, they made long paths in the snow. When the snow had frozen over, they slid down the paths. One time they were partners for a science project about space. Leah had fun making a poster of the planets with Anna.
But one day Anna started acting kind of strange. She didn’t wave back to Leah in the morning. She joined a new group for math practice. And at lunch, she barely talked at all.
“Hey,” Leah asked, “what’s going on?”
Anna sighed. “Look, I don’t think we should hang out as much. My friend Audrey said you were weird.”
“Oh.” Leah frowned. She and Anna had fun together. Why would Anna care so much about what other kids thought?
Anna said they could still be friends, but after that, she never talked to Leah. Leah tried not to feel hurt, but it was hard to be by herself while Anna played with other kids.
Soon the school year ended, and their summer break began. Leah stayed busy with lots of fun activities. She went to ballet class and cooking class. She also took a sewing class with her best friend, Ellie.
Ellie and Leah had known each other since they were little. They went to the same school, but they’d never been in the same class. Sometimes Ellie came over to play at Leah’s house. Leah found a pair of fake glasses to wear that looked like Ellie’s. That made Ellie laugh.
“I can’t believe summer is almost over,” Ellie said. “I wish we got to see each other more.”
Leah smiled. “Me too.”
Another school year was coming up fast. Leah was excited for fourth grade, but she was a little nervous too. She was fine with being by herself most of the time. But a year was a long time to not have a friend in her class. She remembered how she felt when Anna stopped being her friend. She didn’t want to feel lonely.
Leah kept praying to Heavenly Father for peace. When summer ended, she felt hopeful. She knew things would turn out OK.
On the first day of school, Leah walked into her new classroom.
“Leah!”
She couldn’t believe it. Ellie was in her class!
Ellie ran to Leah and gave her a hug. “I’m so happy you’re here! This will be the best year ever!”
Leah smiled big. She knew Heavenly Father had been with her, even when it was hard. And Ellie was right—this year would be the best one yet!
This story took place in the USA.

Some years ago I enjoyed a stake conference assignment as a junior companion to Elder LeGrand Richards, who had, under the influence of this directing Spirit, reorganized a stake presidency. We were driving home; he was very pensive. After a rather long period of silence, I asked him if there was something he would like to teach me. Quietly he said, “We have too many in the Church who deny the spirit of prophecy and of revelation.” That was it—he said no more about it. As I reminisced about the calling of the new stake president that day, it occurred to me then that this Church could not function for even one day without the spirit of prophecy and revelation.

It was my great privilege to know President Clark rather well. I was his printer. On occasion, he would share with me some of his most intimate thoughts, even those scriptures around which he tailored his teachings and lived his life. Late one evening I delivered some press proofs to his office situated in his home at 80 D Street here in Salt Lake City. President Clark was reading from Ecclesiastes. He was in a quiet and reflective mood. He sat back from his large desk, which was stacked with books and papers. He held the scriptures in his hand, lifted his eyes from the printed page, and read aloud to me: “Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: Fear God, and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.” (Eccl. 12:13.) He exclaimed, “A treasured truth! A profound philosophy!” Through the years that conversation has remained bright in my memory. I love, I cherish the noble word duty.

Mom was filling out a donation slip when David and Bresciana came inside for a drink of water.
“What are you doing?” Bresciana asked. “Are you paying your tithing?”
Mom smiled. “Not this time, honey. Today I am giving some money for the people who were hurt by the tsunami.” She explained to David and Bresciana that a big wave had hurt a lot of people. Many of them had lost their homes and did not have food, clean clothes, or water to drink.
“What will happen to the people who don’t have enough food?” David asked.
“The prophet asked the members of the Church to donate money to help,” Mom said. “If you want to help, you may. Your allowance for this month is on the counter.”
David and Bresciana ran to get their money—a dollar each—and gave it to Mom. They were excited to help the people. After Bresciana went outside to play, David sat down on the couch. He kept thinking about the children who didn’t have enough food or didn’t have a place to live anymore. It made him sad.
“I want to do more,” he thought. He went to his bedroom and opened his allowance box. There lay the money he had saved all year—$11. He grabbed the money and ran back into the kitchen. “Mom, I want to give this money to the people too.”
When Bresciana heard about what David had done, she decided to give the money she had saved too. Mom helped them fill out donation slips so they could give the money to the bishop at church the next day.
Later that day, David heard Mom on the phone telling Grandma about the money he and Bresciana had donated. When Mom got off the phone, David looked worried.
“David, what’s the matter?” she asked.
“I tried to do my best to help the people,” David said, “but I don’t think we can help all of them with our money. It’s not a lot.”
“Sometimes it’s more important how we give the money rather than how much we give,” Mom said. “Do you remember the story of the widow’s mite in the New Testament?”
David didn’t, so Mom told him the story. “When the people of Jesus’s time were donating money, many gave a lot of jewels and treasure. One woman was very poor. She only gave two small coins called mites. Jesus said that her sacrifice was worth more than the treasures because she had given all the money she had—just like you and Bresciana.”*
David felt better after that. On Sunday, he and Bresciana gave their donations to the bishop. The bishop shook their hands and thanked them. David was glad he and Bresciana could help.
After church, Mom told David and Bresciana some exciting news. “Grandma just called me. Yesterday I told her about you two wanting to help the people who were hurt by the tsunami. When she shared your story today with people at church, some of them decided to give more money than before. Your example helped more people than you thought it would.”
Bresciana had a big smile on her face. David felt happy too. “Mom,” he said, “our widow’s mite really did make a difference!”

One who listened and who followed was the Mormon missionary Randall Ellsworth, about whom you may have read in your daily newspaper or watched on the television set in your home.
Six months ago, while serving in Guatemala as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Randall Ellsworth survived the devastating earthquake which hurled a beam down on his back, paralyzed his legs, and severely damaged his kidneys.
After receiving emergency medical treatment, Randall was flown to a large hospital near his home in Rockville, Maryland. While confined there, a television newscaster conducted with Randall an interview which I witnessed through the miracle of television. The reporter asked, “Can you walk?” The answer, “Not yet, but I will.” “Do you think you will be able to complete your mission?” Came the reply, “Others think not, but I will.”
With microphone in hand, the reporter continued: “I understand you have received a special letter containing a get-well message from none other than the president of the United States.” “Yes,” replied Randall, “I am very grateful to President Ford for his thoughtfulness; but I received another letter, not from the president of my country, but from the president of my church—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—even President Spencer W. Kimball. This I cherish. With him praying for me, and the prayers of my family, my friends, and my missionary companions, I will return to Guatemala. The Lord wanted me to preach the gospel there for two years, and that’s what I intend to do.”
I turned to my wife and commented, “He surely must not know the extent of his injuries. Our official medical reports would not permit us to expect such a return to Guatemala.”
How grateful am I that the day of faith and the age of miracles are not past history but continue with us even now.
The newspapers and the television cameras directed their attention to more immediate news as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months. The words of Rudyard Kipling described Randall Ellsworth’s situation:
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Rudyard Kipling’s Verse, Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1946, p. 327.
And God did not forget him who possessed an humble and a contrite heart, even Elder Randall Ellsworth. Little by little the feeling in his legs began to return. In his own words, Randall described the recovery: “The thing I did was always to keep busy, always pushing myself. In the hospital I asked to do therapy twice a day instead of just once. I wanted to walk again on my own.”
When the Missionary Committee evaluated the amazing medical progress Randall Ellsworth had made, word was sent to him that his return to Guatemala was authorized. Said he, “At first I was so happy I didn’t know what to do. Then I went into my bedroom and I started to cry. Then I dropped to my knees and thanked my Heavenly Father.”
Two months ago Randall Ellsworth walked aboard the plane that carried him back to the mission to which he was called and back to the people whom he loved. Behind he left a trail of skeptics, a host of doubters, but also hundreds amazed at the power of God, the miracle of faith, and the reward of determination. Ahead lay honest, God-fearing, and earnestly seeking sons and daughters of our Heavenly Father. They shall hear His word. They shall learn His truth. They shall accept His ordinances. A modern-day Paul, who too overcame his “thorn in the flesh,” has returned to teach them the truth, to lead them to life eternal.

I was taught a valuable lesson by a personal experience with President Nelson a number of years ago when my husband served as the senior president of the seven presidents of the Seventy. President Nelson was the Quorum President of the Twelve Apostles at the time. We were at an annual mission leadership seminar in Provo, Utah. I happened to come late into one of the meetings focused on counseling the sister mission leaders. The room was full of our devoted sisters. I stepped in toward the back of the room, looking for a seat I could slip into quietly. Straight up the aisle from where I stood my eye caught Elder Nelson on the stand, and he smiled. I smiled back despite my embarrassment for being late and that he had caught me. Elder Nelson held my gaze, and he took his finger and he pointed to me and pointed to a seat on the front row. I kind of shrugged, not wanting to make a scene or in any way disrupt the meeting, and I took my finger and indicated a seat that I could sit down on, a seat right beside me. Elder Nelson smiled, and with his pointing finger he beckoned me once again to come forward and take my seat on the front row with my name on it.

Well, I think by then I probably disrupted the meeting enough, and I smiled back, this time with a timid determination to do as he asked. So, I literally took a deep breath and walked the long walk to the seat awaiting me on the front row.

After the meeting I bolted from my seat to catch Elder Nelson and ask his forgiveness as I feebly tried to repent for not responding to his request the first time. Elder Nelson smiled, and in loving forgiveness he simply said, "Thank you for being obedient."

I've thought a lot about that single experience, and what it taught me about myself, about obedience, and about following our ordained leaders.

I also learned about our dear prophet, President Nelson, his kindness, his caring, and most of all, his patience. He has been ministering all his life, one by one, and surely did so to me that day, one amidst hundreds. President Nelson's request of me was a loving invitation, one to come forward and be where I was asked to be, to not just settle on a seat near the back but step up and to be accountable for who I am and serve in a holier way.