Gospel Story Finder

“Look,” Jessica said, pointing to the window. “It’s snowing.”
We ran to look outside. The tiny flakes started falling faster and faster. Then the flakes got bigger. They fell in swirls and swoops, and sometimes we could hardly see the barn through the curtain of white. By the time we finished lunch, the snow was three feet deep.
We watched from the window, feeling snug and warm inside the house. The cedar trees bent and swayed under their load, and the mailbox wore a thick white muff. Every now and then we heard a sharp crack as a limb broke under the weight of the snow.
Suddenly the lights blinked—once, twice. We held our breaths. Mom hurried about, setting out candles and filling the oil lamp on the mantel. The lights flickered again, then gave up.
“Listen to the quiet,” said Jessica. There was no television, no radio, no hum from the refrigerator. The only sound we heard was the tick of the grandfather clock by the front door.
David brought an armful of wood from the shed for the fireplace and soon had a blaze crackling and popping. We all gathered around the hearth, bundling into our warmest clothes. Our dog, Duke, crept closer to the fire and curled up for a nap.
The wind howled around the house, and I was glad to be inside. “What about the ponies?” asked Jessica. “Will they get cold?”
“They’re safe inside the barn,” said Dad. “I put extra straw in their stalls.”
For supper we roasted hot dogs in the fireplace and ate off of paper plates. It was just like a picnic. We toasted marshmallows for dessert. I let mine burn on the outside so that they were crisp and almost black. Inside they were gooey and hot.
“Mmmm,” said Jessica, licking her sticky fingers. “I wish the electricity would go off every day.”
“I’ll bet you’d soon get tired of that,” Mom said.
“Well, it’s time for family home evening,” Dad said and brought out his guitar. He played while we sang “I Am a Child of God.” David said an opening prayer. Then, by the light of the oil lamp, Mom read us the story of the brother of Jared. The flickering candles made spooky shadows against the walls. I sat close to Dad, glad to be by the fire.
Afterward, we sang “Over in the Meadow” all the way through, and “Bingo” and “Old MacDonald” and “Frosty the Snowman.”
“We can make a snowman tomorrow,” I said.
David turned Duke out. When he came back inside, he looked like a snow dog. Jessica dried him off with a towel.
We knelt together for family prayer, then went to bed early in our warmest pajamas and with extra blankets piled on our beds. “May we have waffles for breakfast tomorrow?” I asked as Mom tucked me in.
“We’ll have cold cereal if the power is still out,” Mom reminded me.
The moon was bright, and I could see its reflection on the snow from my window. Everything looked strange and different. The house sounded different too.
I woke up in the middle of the night. My nose was cold. Suddenly, I heard a click and a hum. The electricity was back on! I heard the furnace start, and I snuggled deeper into my blankets. The house would be warm again by morning. Maybe there would be waffles for breakfast, after all.

I had an experience with this many years ago when I was a young law professor at The University of Chicago Law School. A prominent university official had been invited to give a prayer at a large public occasion in the university chapel. He sought my advice on how he should begin the prayer. This man had given many public lectures, but, not being a minister, he had never given a public prayer. He asked me because he knew I had done this.

“How do you begin a prayer?” he asked. “Oh, that’s easy,” I replied. “You just say ‘Our Father in Heaven.’”

His reply revealed his concerns. “Why do you call him ‘Father’? How do you know God is male?” “That’s what it says in the Bible,” I explained.

That didn’t satisfy him. “Won’t you offend some members of the audience if you address God as a male?” he asked. That was my opportunity to speak about the principle I am suggesting to you. “Oh, Edward,” I replied. “If you want to pray to God, you begin with ‘Our Father in Heaven.’ If you are worried about speaking to the audience, then you begin the prayer with ‘Ladies and Gentlemen.’”

You might be interested to know what he did with that advice. After he gave the prayer, he sent me a copy. I still have it in my files. His prayer begins, “God our Father, Father of us all.”

One young man at age 13 commenced having his eyes rotated, through the seemingly simple act of opening-what looked to him to be-just another magazine.
But things are not always the way they appear to be.
Little did this little boy know, that he was opening a Pandora's box that would turn his life-and his views of life and love-upside down!
Initially, he was repulsed by what he saw, but then, through repeated viewing, his heart and mind began to crave what his eyes saw. As he immersed himself in more and more pornography, he barely noticed the rotating of his eyes-along with the twisting of his mind, and the hardening of his heart!
He started to believe that everyone looked at love and at life the way he did. He started to believe that lust was really love, and that all love was, was lust. His goal in life became to have one intense lust-filled experience after another. But, there was never enough lust to fill.
Because, remember: You can never sin enough to make you happy!
He participated in illicit sexual experiences prior to, and following, his mission-seeing them as no big deal.. And besides- there was always repentance. A quick confession to the Bishop every now and then....and then, out the door for more and more lust-filled experiences. But once again....there was never enough.
Little did he realize just what sexual sin was doing to his views of himself, his life, his wife-to-be, and their relationship.
Never did he imagine that sexual sin was actually decreasing his ability to identify, and really know, true love and true marital intimacy.
Never did he imagine that so many of the things the world was telling him to do, in order to increase his enjoyment of sexual experiences-were actually making it almost impossible for him to ever experience true sexual intimacy!
Never did he imagine that he was being duped by the adversary-so that real sexual fulfillment would always be-just beyond his reach.
With his eyes so drastically and devilishly "rotated", he approached his wife on their honeymoon in a manner that made her feel " like a thing". He experienced his wife's refusal to participate in certain sexual activities, as proof that she didn't really love him. He was put off!
What was wrong with her? How cold and non-responsive could she be!
Rejection and loneliness became his constant companions.
And because of his severe "eye rotation":
Wrong looked right.Right looked naiveLust looked like love.Love looked like control.
And pornography looked like his only fun, only friend, only refuge.
An anaesthetic to numb his intense pain and ever increasing loneliness.
With his continuing immersion in pornography-which riveted his eyes into their destructively rotated position:
But things are not always the way they appear to be.
Over time, pain and confusion started to re-emerge. He couldn't see, think, or feel straight. He couldn't tell what was real-and what was illusion.
The day his wife put all his belongings out on the front lawn, and left a note indicating that she was filing for divorce, was like a whack on the side of his head.
A beneficial whack, that momentarily corrected his vision-reversing the adversary's "rotation" process.
He saw his life for what it really was....a crying shame! And he cried. And he felt ashamed.
Suddenly, sexual sin looked stupid...and he realized how stupid it had made him. His past choices-that had looked like freedom-now looked like chains. His affair looked like one gigantic death trap! His wife looked loving and patient, rather than pushy and cold. Prayer now looked like the sure refuge from the storms of his raging emotions. And so he prayed. He prayed as he had never prayed before. He prayed for freedom from the lustful feelings that held him captive. And he fasted-for courage and for endurance.
His initial humiliation grew into true humility. Regret, turned into remorse, and into a sincere desire to thoroughly repent of his adultery.
In this state, the Spirit returned to his life, and started the process of permanently reversing the adversary's rotation of his eyes, so that he could see things are they really are.
But the process was not easy! One main reason for the intense difficulty in correcting this man's vision was that, although he had been immersed in the waters of baptism when he was eight, his experience with the Gospel since that time, consisted only of a little sprinkling: a little sprinkling of a quick prayer from time to time, a little sprinkling of a few scriptures here and there. Church attendance-but never a time of worshiping and seeking after God. Fasting, only because his parents demanded it.
This intermittent sprinkling of Gospel truths in his life, gave this man only enough experience with the Gospel to feel guilty, but not enough experience to feel joy-the kind of joy that comes through immersion in the Gospel-regular immersion, for example, in prayer, scripture study, temple worship, and fasting.
Are you sprinkling your life with the Gospel-or are you immersing yourself in it?
Tragically, the only thing this man had immersed himself in, since his immersion in the waters of baptism, was pornography-which President Hinckley has termed, "the literature of Lucifer."[7]
Therefore, this man didn't have a reservoir of experiences with the Spirit, from which to draw-a reservoir that could have given him rejuvenating strength, for the rigorous days of change ahead.
At one point, when the process of change became so intensely discouraging, this man turned all of his feelings completely off!! "I have to numb myself" he told me. What a sad irony! This man, who had seen himself as being so passionate, was now unable to feel anything, for anyone. In every way, he was "past feeling."[8]
It was only as he avoided everything and anything that was sexually explicit, or even suggestive, and only as he regularly and relentlessly immersed himself in experiences with the Spirit, that the evil "rotation" of his eyes was corrected.
Slowly, he began to see that if he wanted real excitement in his life, obedience to the Lord's commandments was the only way to go. He had learned by sad experience that while sin looks exciting, sin and its consequences are pathetically predictable!
He started to see that while obedience used to look so boring, he soon discovered that it is obedience that unlocks the door to a thrill a minute. He came to experience that when the Lord knows He can trust you, it's almost impossible to imagine what magnificent experiences await![9]
He began to see that purity and passion go together. That "pure passion"-meaning, that passion which has been purified by the Holy Ghost-and therefore, is magnified, expanded and enhanced--is always greater, in every way, than impure passion![10]

Benjamin pulled his quilt up to his chin as his mom kissed him good night. R-r-r-r-r-i-i-i-p!
“Oh my!” Mom exclaimed, examining the long, jagged tear. The old quilt had been patched and mended, and mended and patched over years of daily use by three different children. “Time for a new quilt,” she announced.
“You know what I need, Mom?” Benjamin grinned. “A quilt with houses and streets on it.”
Mom kissed him again. “I’ll give it some thought,” she said, turning out the light.
The next day, Mom got her fabric box from a shelf in the basement. There were fabric pieces of all kinds and colors. She pulled out a piece of green material and a piece of gray. Then she looked carefully through the smaller pieces, choosing white, blue, tan, red, brown, and some small printed scraps.
Benjamin watched her cut the green fabric into large squares. Then she asked, “Will this gray be OK for streets?” Ben nodded. So she cut the gray into long, narrow strips. Her scissors snip-snipped for an awfully long time as she cut out the other colors too. But finally there were shapes cut for all sorts of buildings with roofs and chimneys and doors and windows. There were even some trees and bushes here and there.
“Will it be done tonight?” Benjamin asked.
“Oh no—not tonight,” Mom chuckled. “It takes a lot of work to make a quilt.”
The next afternoon Mom appliquéd all the houses and buildings onto the green squares. The sewing machine hummed and buzzed. Benjamin watched for a long time. Then Mom stopped to fix dinner.
On the third day, when Benjamin came in from play, the quilt top had been sewn together. Mom spread it out on the floor so that he could look at it.
“That looks like our house!” his sisters agreed, pointing to a white house with brown trim.
The colored squares with the buildings were separated by gray strips. It looked like a tiny town. Everyone admired it.
“Can I use my quilt tonight?” Benjamin asked.
“Not yet. You see, this is just the top. I have to put a piece of fabric on the bottom and fluffy batting in between. Then I have to sew all the layers together.”
Saturday was a busy day, and there was no time for working on the new quilt. But Dad did buy the rest of the materials for it, and he borrowed the quilting frames from Grandma.
Sunday wasn’t a quilting day, either. It sure is hard to wait for a quilt, Benjamin thought.
On Monday Mom put all three layers of the quilt on the frames and started stitching the layers together. Benjamin’s sisters helped a little. When his best friend’s mom heard about the quilt, she came to help too. Benjamin lay on the floor under the quilt and watched the brown stitches slowly outline each building and landscape. The next day Grandma and Aunt Tess came to help finish the outlining.
“Is it done now?” Benjamin asked.
“Not yet.” Mom pulled him close. “See how the outside edge is open. I have to bind the edges so that the batting will stay in and the edges will look nice.”
“Can you do that tonight?”
“I’ll try, but I have to go to a meeting tonight.”
After dinner, Benjamin watched Mom sew strips of green fabric together for the binding. Then she pressed it in half. But that was all that she got done before her Church meeting. As she kissed Benjamin good night, she said, “Tomorrow night you can sleep with your new quilt, I promise.”
Sure enough, when Benjamin went to bed the next night, the quilt was spread out on it. Mom asked, “Was it worth waiting for?”
Benjamin climbed under the quilt and just grinned.

Many teens volunteered to help others make the tour through the temple. Even though most of them had been on the temple tour with their families or with their seminary classes, they still found that helping someone else see the temple made the experience even better for themselves.
One group was asked to help the physically challenged American Fork special education seminary students take the tour.
Branden Madsen, 18, of the American Fork Central Stake, helped Natalie Shultz. Although Natalie couldn’t really talk to Branden, he said, “Her love and excitement were contagious. I had been through the temple four times before, but this was my best experience because of the sweet spirits of the special education students.”

In the early 1930s, Margaret Kisilevich and her sister Nellie gave a Christmas gift to their neighbors, the Kozicki family, which was remembered by them all their lives and which has become an inspiration to their families.
Home to Margaret back then was Two Hills, Alberta, Canada—a farming community populated largely by Ukrainian and Polish immigrants who generally had large families and were very poor. It was the time of the Great Depression.
Margaret’s family consisted of her mother and father and their 15 children. Margaret’s mother was industrious and her father was enterprising—and with all those children, they had a built-in labor force. Consequently, their home was always warm, and despite their humble circumstances, they were never hungry. In the summer they grew an enormous garden, made sauerkraut, cottage cheese, sour cream, and dill pickles for barter. They also raised chickens, pigs, and beef cattle. They had very little cash, but these goods could be exchanged for other commodities they could not produce themselves.
Margaret’s mother had friends with whom she had emigrated from the old country. These friends owned a general store, and the store became a depot for folks in the area to donate or trade surplus hand-me-down clothing, shoes, etc. Many of these used items were passed along to Margaret’s family.
Alberta winters were cold, long, and hard, and one particularly cold and difficult winter, Margaret and her sister Nellie noticed the poverty of their neighbors, the Kozicki family, whose farm was a few miles away. When the Kozicki father would take his children to school on his homemade sleigh, he would always go into the school to warm himself by the potbelly stove before returning home. The family’s footwear consisted of rags and gunny sacks cut into strips and wrapped about the legs and feet, stuffed with straw, and bound with twine.
Margaret and Nellie decided to invite the Kozicki family, by way of the children, for Christmas dinner. They also decided not to tell anyone in their family of the invitation.
Christmas morning dawned, and everyone in Margaret’s family was busy with the preparations for the midday feast. The huge pork roast had been put in the oven the night before. The cabbage rolls, doughnuts, prune buns, and special burnt sugar punch had been prepared earlier. The menu would be rounded out with sauerkraut, dill pickles, and vegetables. Margaret and Nellie were in charge of getting the fresh vegetables ready, and their mother kept asking them why they were peeling so many potatoes, carrots, and beets. But they just kept peeling.
Their father was the first to notice a team of horses and a sleigh packed with 13 people coming down their lane. He, being a horse lover, could recognize a team from a long distance. He asked his wife, “Why are the Kozickis coming here?” Her response to him was, “I don’t know.”
They arrived, and Margaret’s father helped Mr. Kozicki stable the horses. Mrs. Kozicki embraced Margaret’s mother and thanked her for inviting them for Christmas. Then they all piled into the house, and the festivities began.
The adults ate first, and then the plates and cutlery were washed, and the children ate in shifts. It was a glorious feast, made better by the sharing of it. After everyone had eaten, they sang Christmas carols together, and then the adults settled down for another chat.
Margaret and Nellie took the children into the bedroom and pulled from under the beds several boxes filled with hand-me-downs they had been given by their mother’s merchant friends. It was heavenly chaos, with an instant fashion show and everyone picking whatever clothes and footwear they wanted. They made such a racket that Margaret’s father came in to see what all the noise was about. When he saw their happiness and the joy of the Kozicki children with their “new” clothes, he smiled and said, “Carry on.”
Early in the afternoon, before it got too cold and dark with the setting sun, Margaret’s family bid farewell to their friends, who left well fed, well clothed, and well shod.
Margaret and Nellie never told anyone about their invitation to the Kozickis, and the secret remained until Margaret Kisilevich Wright’s 77th Christmas, in 1998, when she shared it with her family for the first time. She said it was her very best Christmas ever.

The Hole-in-the-Rock expedition is only one of many examples of the dramatic determination and devotion of the early Saints to answer the call of their prophet when it came. Another example is the creation of and call to the Muddy Mission in present-day Nevada. As with so many early pioneer settlements, the Muddy promised a very hard life, and much soul-searching was done when the calls came to settle there.
Some of those called in the 1860s certainly must have asked, “Of all places on the earth, why the Muddy?” Well, there actually were reasons. First of all, the American Civil War had given rise to the possibility of shipping commodities via the Colorado River. Second, when the war interrupted traditional sources for textiles, the Cotton Mission had been established in the cities of St. George and Washington not too many miles away. It was assumed that cotton for that mission could be grown in the Muddy region. Third, the Latter-day Saints felt strongly their obligation to work with the Native American tribes in the region, helping to feed them and hoping to educate them.
But the region was nevertheless a lonely, barren wasteland. It seemed to have almost nothing to offer but heat and hard work. It was isolated and for the most part desolate, and the river that gave the mission its identity was aptly named.
As to how and with what faith and determination the Muddy was settled, I will let one of the settlers have her say. She represents the grit and spunk and moral conviction that both young and old had—in this case especially the young. Wrote Elizabeth Claridge McCune of her father’s call to settle the Muddy:
“No place on earth seemed so precious to me at fifteen years of age as [the town of] dear old Nephi [in Utah’s Juab County]. How eagerly we looked forward to the periodical visits of President Brigham Young and his company! …
“… Bro. Brigham, Bros. Kimball and Wells with [their] entire company got out of their carriages, and walked over the flowery road … to our homes, [where] dinner was prepared and served. …
“We all attended the [Sunday] afternoon meeting, the girls in white having reserved seats in front. The sermons were grand, and we were happy until President Young announced that he had a few names to read of men who were to be called and voted in as missionaries to go and settle … the ‘Muddy.’ This almost stilled the beating of the hearts of all present. Many of our people had been called to go to settle the Dixie country—but the Muddy, so many miles farther south! and so much worse! oh! oh! I did not hear another name except ‘Samuel Claridge.’ Then how I sobbed and cried, regardless of the fact that the tears were spoiling [my] new white dress. The father of the girl who sat next to me was also called. Said my companion, ‘Why, what are you crying about? It doesn’t make me cry. I know my father won’t go.’ ‘Well, there is the difference,’ said I. ‘I know that my father will go and that nothing could prevent him, and I should not own him as a father if he would not go when he is called.’ Then I broke down sobbing again. …
“As we had just moved into a new house and were fixed [so] comfortably, many of our friends tried to persuade father to keep his home and farm; to go south awhile and then come back. But father knew that this was not the kind of mission upon which he had been called. ‘I shall sell everything I own,’ said he, ‘and take my means to help build up another waste place in Zion.’”3

After I returned from my mission, I stayed with my family for three weeks before I had to leave to enter Brigham Young University. Before school started, my father visited me, meeting my friends and seeing Salt Lake City. When I took him to the airport, he embraced me and told me, “Out of all 46 years of my life, never ever have I felt more love or the Spirit of God in my home than when you were home the last few weeks. I know that we owe it to the service that you gave in Spain for two years.”

Well, you may well understand, the second day I stood up to bat, I was not so confident as before. The same bowler stood opposite me and began that mind-bending warm-up. He threw a fast ball with a spin so wild that it hit the ground and bounced off, knocking me over to the left of the wicket with a force so hard I almost fell down.
The next thing I knew, everybody was yelling “Howzat?” to the umpire—the standard query for an umpire decision. Unless that is said, the umpire will remain silent the whole game. As far as I was concerned, he should have kept quiet, for I saw, unbelievably, the letters “L.B.W.” come to his lips. I was next to him in a minute to argue the decision.
It was then that I learned another important lesson about the game and the British character. It was Trevor who rushed to my side to inform me, “No player ever disputes an umpire’s decision once it’s been made.”
“You mean you can’t beef about a lousy decision?” I complained.
“Of course not,” Trevor said in a matter-of-fact voice. “That just wouldn’t be cricket.”
I had to admit he had me there. As I hobbled off the field (suspecting that the name of the game came from that grasshopperlike animal, the cricket, which is the only creature physically equipped with the muscles necessary to avoid getting hit with a L.B.W.), I vowed that never again would I make fun of something I knew nothing about.
The next day I was as cheerful as ever and persuaded the boys to play a game of rounders—from which, of course, I arose the hero. However, I was quiet about my laurels. After all, no sense in becoming a sticky wicket about it.

As a young person trying to find God, it was really hard to believe we had prophets living on the earth today. It felt so complicated and confusing. But almost two years later, as a committed convert to the Church, I found it even harder to believe that I was one of the 15 young adults in Sydney, Australia, chosen to meet with President Russell M. Nelson for a question-and-answer session.
It was an experience that will always bring a smile to my face and tears of joy every time I flashback to it.
We were all anxious to meet him and even more nervous to hear what he had to say to us as young adults. I imagined the answers he would give to our questions to be deep and elaborate, and I wondered if I was ready to hear and understand his words. With the amount of nerves flowing through us, we all decided to say a prayer to help us be more at ease and to invite the Spirit.
The moment when President Nelson walked into the room was so surreal. We have always been taught that prophets receive revelation from God and share it with the world, helping everyone to come unto Christ. We see them speak at general conference. But seeing and speaking with him in person is a different experience.
Here he was—a humble, loving prophet of God. The Spirit he brought into the room was so powerful. We all stood in silence, hesitant to smile or speak, but as he walked over with a huge grin and told us how happy he was to meet us, we were all filled with so much joy and peace. I could feel his sincere humility and the love he had for each of us as he shook our hands and gave us all a tender smile.
We began asking him questions about young adults in the Church, and one particular question stood out to me the most. We asked, “As young adults, we often struggle to encourage our families and friends to take part in the gospel. How can we do better at sharing the gospel with them?” President Nelson took a moment to think and then said two words: ”Be attractive.” And he went on: “Be an example and be faithful.”
That was it—a simple yet thoughtful and true message. His simple words were deeply imprinted on our minds and hearts. I realized in that moment that as young single adults, we tend to complicate and overthink the gospel so much, when truly the guidelines from the Spirit and from our prophets are simple, straightforward, and they hold so many promises of blessings.
I realized in that moment how President Nelson had become so humble and spiritual: from constantly practicing living the gospel of Jesus Christ. And all we have to do is the same. Do those little things each day that draw us closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ: attending church and the temple, reading the scriptures, praying with a sincere heart, and ultimately being kind and loving toward everyone we meet. Those small, everyday acts are the keys to mastering the art of becoming true disciples of Christ, strengthening our bond with Him, and sharing His truth with others.
We should simply strive be the best version of ourselves, and those small simple things will lead to big results. Yes, the world is complicated, and yes, it’s easy to overthink so many things in life, but God’s plan is simple, and when we follow it, it makes life more simple. By taking the prophet’s guidance to heart and doing our best to become like our Savior Jesus Christ each day, our mere examples of faith will change the lives around us.

When I was about eight years old, I learned a very valuable lesson. It was early spring in the small Utah town where I lived, and some of my eight-year-old friends and I wanted to camp outside one night. My father said, “It’s still very cold at night. You’ll be miserable, and you’ll probably get sick.”
I explained that we thought everything would be fine. My parents let me make my own choice, and my friends and I decided to go ahead with the campout. As it got late the temperature dropped and it became very cold. Instead of having a great time, we were awake and miserable most of the night and, true to my father’s prediction, a day or two later I got sick.
As I was sick at home and missing fun activities, I remembered the advice my father had given me. Every bad consequence he mentioned had happened. I remember thinking, “Wow, my dad is really smart.” I came to realize, even at that young age, that my father had more experience and wisdom than me and if I were more careful in seeking and following his counsel it would make my life happier.

One of the biggest surprises of my life came as a young bishop when in that calling I first had access to the tithing rolls of my ward. It was a ward in which I had grown up. Many of the people had been my teachers; all were my friends. I had been taught by them; they were my heroes. I loved them and felt loved by them in turn. But it was a terrible shock to see many who stood on fast day and affirmed a strong and abiding faith in God and in his holy work upon the face of the earth, and then when it came to paying tithing their faith faltered.
Many of us backslide, many stumble, and I believe firmly in the gospel of the second chance. But the gospel of the second chance means that having once been found weak, as was Peter when he denied that he knew the Savior, thereafter we become steadfast like the few Lamanites spoken of in Third Nephi, “They were firm, and steadfast, and immovable, willing with all diligence to keep the commandments of the Lord.” (3 Ne. 6:14.)
We cannot hide what we are, try as we will. It shines from within us. We are like the emperor in the fairy tale who was deceived into thinking he was arrayed in beautiful garments, but he was in fact unclothed.
Those who stand firm, steadfast, and immovable are given great inner hidden powers and unseen strengths. They will be endowed with full and potent spiritual resources.

I had an experience several years ago that taught me the power of asking and its role in bringing comfort.

One day I noticed that one of the students in my Russian class was visibly distraught when she arrived for class. We had a few minutes before class was to start, and she sat down in the back of the classroom, near the door.

As the rest of the class chatted and prepared for class, I thought to myself, "Hmm... Maybe I should go talk to her."

I walked back and, out of earshot of the others, asked her if she was okay. She shook her head and asked if we could step out in the hall. She then confided in me that on her way to my class she had learned—on Facebook, of all places—of some devastating news about her family situation. She didn't know what to do.

I suggested that she skip class—can you believe it!—and take time right then to deal with the situation. She thanked me and left.

I was proud of her for just showing up to class and am sure she would not have learned or retained anything about Russian short-form past passive participles that day.

Looking back, I was glad that I had asked that one simple question. I checked in from time to time with her on how things were going, and my sense was that she was appreciative that someone cared, and cared enough to ask.

Several months ago our dog, Barclay, who is usually well behaved, began to show a different side of his personality. One evening after dinner, we didn't clean up very well and he seized the moment. All seventy pounds jumped onto the table for a glorious feast—a pile of chicken bones lying in a puddle of Shoyu-flavored grease that was just too much to resist. When my wife, Stacy, discovered him lying on top of the table eating out of the Pyrex dish she was rather surprised.
We laughed this one off but a day or two later it happened again. At lunch, Barclay was sitting up tall, staring at the sliding glass door that looks onto the back porch. I was curious. Stacy reported how he had managed to open the door of the pantry and raid the package of marshmallows on the bottom shelf. This time, however, his behavior was rewarded with scraps of a different kind. Scolded, contrite, and forlorn, he seemed to be learning the lesson of a lifetime. Perhaps he was having a moment of self-reflection.
Brothers and Sisters, I am not a dog-psychologist, but I accept that each of us, from time to time, has a moment of truth. Shakespeare captured this well in the famous line from Julius Caesar: "The eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other things." Like Barclay seeing himself in the glass, the mirror from which we examine ourselves is the gospel.

On another occasion, the Spirit came to my assistance as I was editing a casebook on a legal subject. A casebook consists of several hundred court opinions, together with explanatory material and text written by the editor. My assistant and I had finished all of the work on the book, including the necessary research to assure that these court opinions had not been reversed or overruled. Just before sending it to the publisher, I was leafing through the manuscript, and a particular court opinion caught my attention. As I looked at it, I had a profoundly uneasy feeling. I asked my assistant to check that opinion again to see if everything was in order. He did and reported that it was. In a subsequent check of the completed manuscript, I was again stopped at that case, again with a great feeling of uneasiness. This time I went to the law library myself. There, in some newly received publications, I discovered that this case had just been reversed on appeal. If that opinion had been published in my casebook, it would have been a serious professional embarrassment. I was saved by the restraining power of revelation.

It was a gorgeous spring day about a week before school let out for the summer when my father and the house came barging back into my life. I intended to call my best friend, Marge, and go down to the corner for a pop before I started my homework. I picked up the kitchen phone and put the receiver to my ear without even realizing mom was on the extension in the bedroom. The first thing I heard was my father’s voice.
"Cathy is my daughter," he was saying. "I don’t think a week of her summer vacation is too much for me to ask."
"I know," mom answered, "but I have to leave the decision up to her …"
I hung up the phone quietly and went upstairs to my room. My school books were lying on my bed. I opened one and pretended to study, but my thoughts were far from algebra. My father wanted me to spend a week of my summer vacation with him. I didn’t want to. Why did he have to keep barging into my life and messing it up? I’d just get things straightened out, and suddenly he’d appear again to jumble them back up.
Mom tapped on my bedroom door. "Cathy," she called.
"Come in," I replied, pretending to be deeply engrossed in my studies.
Mom entered and sat on the edge of my bed. "May I talk with you a minute?"
"Sure," I said trying to sound nonchalant. "But I have a lot of homework to do."
"Your father just called," mom said in a voice that displayed no emotion. She always talked of him that way, trying not to prejudice me against him.
"Oh? What’d he want?"
"He wants to see you. He’d like you to come visit him for a week over summer vacation."
"What’d you say?"
"I said it was up to you."
I pretended to think for a moment, but my mind was already made up.
"I don’t think I can, mom. I’m planning on getting a job, and I don’t think anyone would hire me if right off the bat I said I had to have a week off."
"Yes, I can see that, but he does want to see you. Maybe you could work something out. Maybe go for a weekend."
"I don’t know …"
"Cathy, he is your father."
"I know he’s my father," I had to struggle to keep back the resentment that statement contained, "but I’m going to be really busy this summer."
"Too busy to go for even one weekend?"
I looked at mom. She could see right through my transparent excuses. "Well, maybe one weekend," I conceded.
"Fine, you pick the weekend, and I’ll call your father tomorrow to make arrangements."
I often thought it was odd that my father lived in the same city we did, and yet we never saw each other. But it was a big city, and we lived at opposite ends of it, and I really didn’t care if I saw him or not.
The house was the same as I remembered it, except for new furniture in the living room. But there was still the same stale odor of smoke. Though he never did it in front of me, I knew my father smoked. It was part of the reason why he had never taken mom and me to the temple. My father was just about the same too. He was still tall and thin with a receding hairline, except that what hair he did have was now speckled with gray.
"Hi, Cathy," he said when I arrived at the white Spanish house.
"Hi."
"You’ve sure grown up the past few years."
"Yes, that does have a tendency to happen," I replied dryly.
He laughed nervously.
"Can I put my stuff away?"
"Sure. Put it in the second room on the right down the hall. I should have dinner ready when you’re done."
I went to the room he indicated. It had green carpet and green, blue, and white striped wallpaper. It reminded me of a hotel room. I hadn’t brought much, so it didn’t take me long to unpack. When I was finished, I wandered into the kitchen. My father was taking a casserole out of the oven. "I’ve become a pretty good cook," he said.
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
We didn’t talk much during the meal. He made several attempts at conversation, and I answered as simply as I could.
"What are you doing this summer?" he asked.
"I’m getting a job."
"Oh? Where?"
"At the Chicken Barn. I’m waiting on tables."
"Going to make a lot of money, huh?"
I shrugged. "Just enough to help pay for my school clothes and cheerleading uniforms."
"You a cheerleader?"
"Yes."
"Well, I guess I’ll have to come to the Chicken Barn and donate to your school wardrobe."
I shrugged again.
"You’re pretty active at school, aren’t you? You starred in your school play last year, didn’t you?"
"How did you know?"
"Your mom told me."
"Oh?"
"I came and saw it. You didn’t know that, did you?"
I looked up startled. "You did?"
"Yes, opening night. You were really good. I even sent you some flowers. Did you get them?"
"They were from you?"
"Yes."
"I didn’t know that. The card wasn’t signed. I thought they were from Robbie Fletcher."
"Your boyfriend?"
"I wish."
"Are you disappointed they weren’t from him?"
I just shrugged once more. "I’m kind of tired tonight," I said. "Do you mind if I go to bed now?"
"Go ahead."
I’d just settled into bed when I heard a noise outside. I peered out the window and saw the silhouette of my father on the porch. In his hand I could see the glowing ember of a lighted cigarette. He never smoked in front of me, almost as if he didn’t want to admit to me that he did it. How dumb did he think I was. "What a hypocrite," I said to myself. Then I laid back down in bed.
When I woke up Saturday morning, there was sun streaming in the bedroom window. It took me a few minutes to remember where I was.
When I did, the brightness of the day seemed to dull a bit.
I found my father in the kitchen fixing breakfast.
"Good morning," he said.
"Hi."
"Here’s breakfast. I hope you like your eggs sunny-side up."
"That’s fine."
"What shall we do today?"
"I don’t know."
"We could run down to the amusement park."
"I’m kind of old for that," I said, determined to be as uncooperative as possible.
"Well then, how about going to the beach?"
"I’m kind of tired of that. Edward takes us there all the time." I hoped my reference to Edward would bite a bit, but if it did, my father gave no sign of it.
"Then I guess we can always just stay home and visit. I’d like that. This house is kind of lonely just me here. It’d be nice to visit."
"If you’re so lonely, why don’t you get married?" I asked bluntly.
My father was good at not acting surprised by my frank comments. "Well," he replied, "I guess I never met anyone besides your mother who I loved enough to marry."
All the bitterness I’d ever felt welled up inside of me, and it was impossible to keep it out of my voice when I replied. "If you were so in love with mom, why did you desert her?"
My father put down his fork and looked across the table at me. "I don’t know what your mother has told you about me and what happened …"
"She hasn’t told me anything. In fact, she’s bent over backwards to keep from portraying you as a villain."
"Well then maybe it’s time someone did tell you something."
I expected him to tell me a real sob story with him as a poor picked on man and mom the domineering nag of a wife, so I steeled myself to defend her. But I was surprised when he spoke.
"Cathy, your mother and I, we’re human."
All kinds of sarcastic replies raced through my mind like, "Oh, I’ve waited all my life to glean this bit of wisdom from you." But I kept my mouth shut and my father went on.
"We make mistakes. Some mistakes can be corrected quickly; others haunt you for the rest of your life. When your mother and I were married, we were young and naive. We still clung to some of those silly ideas about finding beautiful princesses and handsome princes and living happily ever after. We didn’t realize that everyone marries imperfect partners and the wise spend the rest of their lives working together to become better. We both expected love and each other to be perfect immediately. My idea of a perfect wife was one who left me alone to do whatever I wanted. Your mother wanted a husband who’d take her to the temple. I always said I would, but I wasn’t going to be pushed. I figured there was plenty of time for that, and there were still things I wanted to do first. Anyway, one day we discovered we’d pushed and pulled ourselves right out of each other’s lives." He paused and seemed to be thinking for a moment. Then he went on. "Oh, I guess if we’d been a bit more mature or if we’d really tried, we could’ve made things work. But it was easier to just call it quits. For a long time I blamed your mother, and by the time I realized how wrong I was being, it was too late; your mother had remarried. Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s great that she’s found Edward. They seem to be happy enough."
"They are."
"Well, I guess what it boils down to is that you’re all I have left, Cathy."
I poked at my food.
"Hey!" he said. "Why don’t we go shopping. I’ll buy you a new outfit."
"You don’t have to do that," I said.
"I want to. After all, why should I make my contribution to your wardrobe through the Chicken Barn when I can give it directly to you?"
I laughed. "All right."
I watched my father that day as we shopped. I had always been under the impression that if I was around my father long enough, I’d see him sprout fangs and claws. He didn’t, and I realized that I had spent a long time looking at him through eyes tainted by bitterness and selfishness. As I pushed them aside, I could see my father as he was—a lonely man who’d made mistakes and was paying for them.
When we got home from shopping, my father excused himself to go outside. I knew he was going to smoke and watched out the window. There was a look of disgust on his face as he lit the cigarette. He smoked it hastily with short puffs. Then almost angrily he dropped it to the ground and crushed it out with his foot. I let the curtains drop then, so that he wouldn’t know I’d been watching.

On a cool, sunny morning, the missionaries in the Dominican Republic Santo Domingo West Mission gathered in the San Geronimo chapel in Santo Domingo. This special occasion brought them together to listen to an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ and to other authorities of the Church and be “nourished up in the words of faith and of good doctrine” (1 Timothy 4:6).
Elder D. Todd Christofferson arrived early, accompanied by his beloved wife, Sister Katherine Jacob Christofferson, Elder José L. Alonso of the Seventy and his wife, Rebecca Salazar, and Elder Cándido Fortuna, Area Seventy and his wife, Sister Damaris Rosario. They were received by President José M. Santos, who presides over the mission, also accompanied by his wife, Madeleine Guzmán De Santos.
The meeting began with a beautiful prelude, after which Elder Christofferson and those who were with him greeted and shook the hand of each missionary.
A missionary choir performed a hymn in English and Spanish, creating an atmosphere of peace and preparing everyone present for this special gathering.
Elder Christofferson asked those who accompanied him to share a brief message. The messages focused on their feelings about the Book of Mormon, the restoration of the gospel, missionary work, and the sacred mission of our Savior, Jesus Christ.
“A missionary must be constantly inviting people to act,” Elder Fortuna said while addressing the missionaries.
In his message, Elder Alonso made reference to the words found in 1 Nephi 3:7. He taught that Heavenly Father provides us with a way to fulfill what He has commanded us. When concluding his remarks, he thanked the missionaries for what they do in the work of the Lord.
Sister Christofferson addressed the missionaries, speaking both in English and Spanish so that the message she shared was understood in its entirety by the new missionaries and those who already had spent some time in the mission field. She shared with them the scripture found in 2 Kings 4:1–7 and taught them that at that time it was customary for creditors to take the children of debtors as part of the payment of the debt as was the case in this scripture.
The woman in the scripture story obeyed Elisha and borrowed all the vessels she could from her neighbors. She filled them from her one pot of oil and noted that the oil stopped flowing only when there were no more vessels to fill. It is interesting to note that not only was she given enough to pay the debt she had, but also to cover her living expenses in the future. “There are two important teachings here,” Sister Christofferson said. “First that the Lord will provide for those who have faith in Him and second that we must be prepared to receive what God wants to give us.” Sister Christofferson concluded her remarks by thanking everyone for their missionary service in this country.
In his concluding remarks as the keynote speaker, Elder Christofferson addressed the missionaries in Spanish. He highlighted the messages shared by each of those who preceded him. He told them: “As my wife indicated, we receive everything we are prepared to receive.” Then he asked the missionaries what things they could do to prepare themselves to receive the blessings that have been promised.
“Be obedient,” replied one of the missionaries, to which Elder Christofferson added that they can take advantage of what God has already given them, that is, the commandments. He said, “The commandments are like stairs that help elevate us each step” to be closer to Him.
He continued by inviting the missionaries to fast once a month, as this will help them have the Spirit and open their minds and hearts to receive greater revelation. He also told them: “By studying the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon, I not only learn, but I also correct myself.” He indicated that one can be better when studying the scriptures. He stressed that also by sharing one’s testimony, “we receive testimony. … The Spirit testifies to you that what you share is true.” He added that we should “ask in prayer” showing that we want more. “We can ask, according to His will, for more, for what we need,” he concluded.
At the end of his remarks, he left them with a special blessing. He told them: “I bless you so that you may have greater power in your teaching, by teaching the principles of the gospel, greater capacity and greater convincing and persuasive power in your teaching. …May people feel that deep love that you have for them, whether members or nonmembers, that you get answers to your prayers.” He concluded his remarks sharing his testimony about the truthfulness of the gospel, that Jesus Christ directs His Church and, just like the Prophet Joseph Smith, President Nelson was also called by God.

It sounded simple. For two weeks I was to choose a family member and every day give something small to the person to express my love. I chose my little brother because we usually did not get along very well, and I figured this would be a good opportunity to draw closer to him. I decided to do it anonymously, and for the first week I bought him small bags of candy and various trinkets, leaving them by the side of his bed or under his pillow. After the week was over, I was thinking, Wow, this has got to be the easiest Personal Progress goal ever!
The second week, however, fell during our family camping trip, and the absence of convenient stores seriously complicated things. But I soon found that all it took was a little more creativity. Instead of buying things, I started doing things. I helped him roll his sleeping bag, whittle a marshmallow stick, and untangle his fishing line. Thinking constantly of ways to serve my brother strengthened our relationship incredibly, and I could see clearly the promise being fulfilled: “He that loveth his brother abideth in the light” (1 Jn. 2:10).
The last day of camp I lay in the dark tent, deep in the woods, listening to the soft calls of the birds and the gentle splashing of water from the nearby lake. The wind rustled through the tree tops, and I felt a cool breeze across my face.
“Someone tie up the window,” my brother mumbled sleepily. I felt him shiver beside me and suddenly realized that I had not done anything for him that day. I tied up the window, but since it was the last day, I felt I should give him something extra special. Maybe when we get home, I can buy him something especially expensive, I thought. No, that won’t do. It has to be today, and he is almost asleep. I lay quietly, thinking for a moment, and then rolled onto my side to face my brother.
“Warren,” I whispered.
“Hmmmm?”
“I love you.”
He was quiet for a second before he clearly responded, “I love you, too.”
I lay on my back and looked through the “sun roof” at the clear, dark sky and smiled.

Elder Walker was on assignment in Tonga when he met a couple whose lives exemplified faith and devotion. This couple was known for their unwavering obedience to the Lord, consistently prioritizing His work, even at the expense of their own health and personal needs.

As he got to know them, Elder Walker learned that the husband suffered from a heart condition that required surgery, an operation that would cost $24,000 and needed to be performed in Australia. The couple could not afford the procedure or the travel expenses, but thankfully, a family member in Australia offered financial help.

Soon after arriving in Australia for the surgery, however, the man felt a strong prompting to return home, even before the operation. Trusting this spiritual impression, he returned to Tonga, where he was soon called as the stake president. His sense of duty replaced any consideration for his own wellbeing, and he postponed addressing his health concerns to focus on serving the members of his stake.

Elder Walker counselled with the couple, urging them to prioritize the husband’s health so that the Lord could continue to bless him and use him to care for his family and his stake. Shortly after, the man was able to receive financial assistance and returned to Australia for health tests and medical advice.

Following some of these tests, Elder Walker received an intriguing message from a family member in Australia. The family member reported that during one scan, the technician noticed something unusual—something resembling a metal stent appeared exactly where the pain originated. When asked if the husband had undergone any surgery before, the family member assured the technician that he had not.

This unexpected finding was a sign of divine intervention, a miracle that allowed the husband to continue his service without needing the costly operation.

This experience left a lasting impression on Elder Walker, strengthening his testimony of the miracles that occur when we exercise faith and obey the promptings of the Holy Ghost. The humble couple’s willingness to sacrifice and trust in the Lord exemplifies the truth in 2 Nephi 27:23: "For behold, I am God; and I am a God of miracles; and I will show unto the world that I am the same yesterday, today, and forever; and I work not among the children of men save it be according to their faith."

“Mint chip,” Erin thought. “No, strawberry.” She peered down at the rows of different flavors inside the ice-cream freezer.
“What are you going to have?” Erin’s best friend, Stephanie, asked. She was already licking her scoop of vanilla, the same kind she ordered every Thursday afternoon when the two girls stopped at the Ice Cream Castle after their tap-dance class.
“I’m still deciding,” Erin said. “They all look good.” Erin had just settled on a scoop of peanut-butter fudge when the bell above the store’s front door tinkled.
In walked Brad and Chris, two boys from school. Erin cringed. Brad and Chris were mean to everyone, and Erin was afraid of them. As the boys sat down at a table at the back of the shop, Erin breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe they hadn’t noticed her.
But when the girl behind the counter asked Erin what she wanted, Brad called out, “Hey, Stephanie, be careful Erin doesn’t eat all your ice cream.” He made an oinking sound, and Chris laughed.
Erin’s face got hot, and her legs started to shake. She wanted to run out the door as fast as she could, but she felt like she was superglued to the floor.
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” Stephanie whispered. “Just go ahead and order whatever you want.”
But a peanut-butter fudge ice-cream cone didn’t sound so good anymore. In a small voice Erin said, “Could I have a lemonade, please?”
“Are you sure that’s all you want?” Stephanie asked. “Don’t let those guys bother you.”
But Erin just nodded. It was pretty much impossible not to be bothered by Brad and Chris.
While she waited for her lemonade, Erin glanced down at her blue jeans and purple T-shirt. Leaving the house that morning, she had felt good about how she looked. Now she thought she looked horrible.
The next Thursday when they got to the dance studio, Erin and Stephanie changed into their stretch pants and shiny black tap shoes and started warming up on the scuffed hardwood floor. One whole wall of the dance room was covered in mirrors. When she caught a glimpse of herself—legs moving, arms waving—Erin thought, “I’m bigger than the other girls. I look terrible in these dance clothes.”
Erin remembered what had happened at the Ice Cream Castle the week before, and the knot in her stomach tightened. She was about to go call her mom to come get her when Miss Yvette, their teacher, came into the room. “OK, girls,” she said. “Let’s start with some flaps and shuffles.” She turned on the stereo, and jazzy music spilled into the room.
It was too late to escape. Erin fell into line with the other girls and started moving her feet. The silver taps on the bottom of her shoes clicked and clacked, and Erin let her arms swing in time with the music. She had been taking tap-dance lessons for only a few months, but she loved hearing the sounds her feet made when she moved them just right. Pretty soon, Erin was working so hard to keep up with Miss Yvette that she forgot about how sad she felt.
Toward the end of class, Miss Yvette said, “I want everyone to line up in the corner. We’re going to practice our turns across the floor.” As the girls in front of Erin twirled and leaped, Erin hopped a little, trying to get her feet to do what she wanted them to do. Because she was just a beginner compared to the other girls, she had to try extra hard to get things right.
When it was her turn, Erin started dancing toward the opposite corner. “Stomp-shuffle-step and turn,” Miss Yvette instructed, and that’s exactly what Erin’s feet did. She was doing it! As she turned, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: blonde hair flying, body spinning, and biting her lip in concentration. As Erin reached the far wall, Miss Yvette shouted, “Bravo, Erin! Good work!”
By the end of class, Erin’s bangs were damp with sweat and her heart was pounding. Miss Yvette said, “You girls did great today. I want to congratulate Erin. She’s only been in this class for a little while, but she’s worked really hard to catch up with everyone. She wins the prize for most improved!”
The girls started clapping. From across the room, Stephanie shouted, “Way to go, Erin!” Just like at the Ice Cream Castle, Erin felt her cheeks start to burn. But this time it wasn’t because she was embarrassed, but because she was happy.
On her way out of the room, Erin watched herself in the mirror. “So what if I’m bigger than some people?” she thought. “Everyone is different.”
Erin knew Heavenly Father had given her her body. From now on, she would be grateful for all the good things her body could do.