Gospel Story Finder

Another friend of mine is a prominent corporation lawyer. For years he’s had trouble sleeping at night. An ardent fisherman, he decided one restless night that he would try making the flies that fishermen use. The next day he bought some inexpensive equipment. He went completely overboard on flytying. He enjoyed it even more than fishing. In the space of a few years he must have tied half a million of those things, and he was proud of every single one of them. He became an expert.

When the two FBI special agents spotted Illinois license plate number 639-578, they began a chase that ended in a rapid thunder of gunfire, leaving them bullet-ridden with their targets fleeing in their government car. A nearby observer rushed to aid one of the wounded agents who whispered, “I’m a Federal officer. Help me, but take care of my partner first.”
Hours later both were dead.
The following day “Public Enemy Number 1” was also.
Nelson was next.
In April the 25-year old prison escapee had shot and killed an FBI agent, an act that put a $5,000 price tag on his head. He had devoted over half his life to crime and joined ranks with Dillinger in terrorizing the country.
It took Sam nearly six months to corner Nelson. Actually, it was two agents he had pulled off other cases to assist in the manhunt who first spotted Nelson, his wife, and a cohort in crime, John Paul Chase, as the three headed south on a highway near Fox River Grove, Illinois. The two turned to follow Nelson, who immediately spun his car around and began chasing the agents. Armed with only their service revolvers, the officers were no match for Nelson, who opened fire with a high-powered automatic rifle. The agents were forced to step on the gas and draw away. But one of their shots had found its mark on the gangster’s radiator, causing it to overheat and slow up.
Samuel Cowley hadn’t expected to find “Baby Face” Nelson under such conditions, but he immediately recognized the cars of both Nelson and the agents. Sam swung his car around to follow Nelson, who drove off the highway onto a side road. Both cars stopped. His car failing, Nelson was forced to shoot it out with the agents head on. Nelson and Chase took cover behind the stalled car; Nelson’s wife threw herself into a nearby ditch for protection.
Accompanying Sam was Special Agent H. E. Hollis, who unloaded ten shotgun cartridges before collapsing under fire. Sam discharged 50 shells from his machine gun before falling. Nelson, his wife, and Chase fled in the agents’ car.
Hollis was dead. Sam was taken to a nearby hospital where he required surgery, which he refused until he was able to meet with his boss, Melvin H. Purvis, head of the Chicago bureau of the department.
“Did you get Purvis? I must talk to Purvis before I die.”
Sam identified Nelson and the woman he believed to be his wife. He told Purvis he did not know the identity of the other man.
The following day the body of Nelson, with 17 bullets in it, was found abandoned in a roadside ditch. His wife was taken into custody two days later. Chase was picked up the following month.

Years ago, I was serving as the bishop of a ward in southern California. Because of a change in employment circumstances, our family was moving to another community. It would be necessary to replace me as bishop. The stake president asked me for my thoughts concerning possible successors. I gave him the names of several good men.

As to one of these he said, "I don't know him very well. I will find an opportunity to get acquainted." A couple of weeks later, I was again speaking with the stake president and the same subject arose in our conversation. The stake president then made this insightful observation that I have remembered ever since. Said he:

Well, I interviewed Brother So and So. But I do not think he is the man. If the Lord wants me to call him, He is going to have to tell me because I do not think he is the man.

There is a great principle here with much broader application than merely choosing a bishop. The Lord expects you to use your own good sense.

My heart jumped as I read the poster: “Handel’s Messiah performed by the Swansea Orchestra and Welsh Choir.”
I had been on my mission in Swansea, Wales, for six months and felt the longing that often comes to new missionaries during the Christmas season. We had many family traditions during the holidays, but my favorite was going to hear Handel’s Messiah. My mother had played the organ for many such performances. I would sit, listen, and feel the music.
With permission from the mission president, I purchased tickets for the missionaries in our area. The night of the performance, our group bundled up against the cold and walked to the concert hall. I silently prayed that we would all feel the sacredness of the inspiring music.
When we arrived, I realized that we were late and that the performance had already started. We weren’t going to be allowed inside until intermission! As I listened to the music through the doors, I could not hold back the tears.
An usher must have noticed my desperation and decided to let us in. He told us to stand in the back until the intermission so that we didn’t interrupt the singing. He slowly opened the doors, and we all quietly stepped inside.
Walking into the hall was like walking into heaven. The feeling of peace and joy overwhelmed me. It wasn’t long, however, before we noticed people turning their heads, pointing and staring at us. All of us had entered quietly and didn’t know what we had done to bring attention to ourselves. As soon as the intermission began, we found our seats.
When the oratorio resumed, the music filled my soul. I wept during the “Hallelujah Chorus,” and when the soprano sang “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth.” The missionaries beside me also felt the power of the music and grabbed their handkerchiefs. The experience was something we would always remember. But it wasn’t until the performance had ended that the truly memorable moment came.
As we were leaving the building, people were still whispering and pointing, but no one said anything until we were outside. A man then approached us, saying, “It was you! It was you!”
We all waited for an explanation.
“During the first part of the performance, we felt a change in the room—a strong feeling that Christ was there,” the man said. “So we turned to see what had caused the change. When we looked to the back of the auditorium, we saw seven figures glowing as if they were angels. When you came into the room, you brought the Holy Ghost. You were there to represent Christ; you were the angels.”
As he spoke, I looked down at my missionary name tag and read the bold lettering under my name: “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” How humbled I was at that moment to be a representative of the Messiah and to have silently testified of Him that night before thousands of people.

A true champion, after giving everything he can, calls on God for extra help.
Cathy Ferguson, age 17, was struggling in the backstroke swimming event, 15 centimeters behind the leader. She could hardly feel her arms and legs, but kept battling—8 meters, 7 meters, 6 meters, 5 meters. She kept swimming harder, until she pushed through to win. In that moment of glory, she could hardly control her tears, but she said, “I just kept praying, ‘Please God, help me keep going.’”

Sometime ago I overheard what I am confident is an oft-repeated conversation. Three very young boys were discussing the relative virtues of their fathers. One spoke out: "My dad is bigger than your dad," to which another replied, "Well, my dad is smarter than your dad." The third boy countered, "My dad is a doctor"; then, turning to one boy, he taunted in derision, "and your dad is only a teacher."

The call of a mother terminated the conversation, but the words continued to echo in my ears. Only a teacher. Only a teacher. Only a teacher. One day, each of those small boys will come to appreciate the true worth of inspired teachers and will acknowledge with sincere gratitude the lasting imprint such teachers will leave on their personal lives.

I think I was most grateful when I left California to attend BYU. First of all, I was glad that I had earned the grades necessary to enter college. And although I told my roommates I wasn’t interested in getting married because I was going to be a famous journalist, I really was. And I didn’t want to marry a slouch either. I wanted a man who had lived a righteous life and kept himself clean. I did find Mr. Right, and it was sublime not to have any serious transgressions to hide or confess before we knelt at the altar of the temple.

Maria was a young woman who had graduated from secondary school and began work as a secretary with a large company. She was the only Latter-day Saint employee in the office. Long before the New Year, everyone in the office was talking about the annual New Year’s Eve party. Traditionally, the office closed early on New Year’s Eve, and a wild celebration went far into the night.

Maria was concerned about the party for a long time before it actually took place. She didn’t want everyone to think she did not want to enjoy the party with them, but this kind of celebration was not in keeping with her church standards. She thought about claiming to be ill on December 31, but decided that being dishonest was not in keeping with her standards either. Her decision finally was to watch the clock closely. When the time neared for closing the office, she would quietly clear her desk, gather her things, and leave before being noticed.

However, when the time came to do this, the other workers began to gather before she could complete her plan, and Maria found herself in the middle of the office party.

She made a second plan. She would stand off to one side. When the party got underway, she would leave unnoticed. However, before long a group of her fellow employees had gathered around her, prodding and teasing.

“Just take one drink.”

“No one will know.”

“No one should go through life without at least tasting liquor.”

Her refusals and pleas were in vain. Frustration rising, Maria thought, “I’ll drink this drink, then get out of here.”

She held the glass up, but she could not drink it. She remembered the Primary teacher who had taught her the Word of Wisdom several years earlier. At that moment her ordeal was over. Handing the glass to someone, she firmly said, “No. I don’t drink. I never have, and I don’t intend to start today.” Pushing her way through the group, Maria picked up her coat and left.

Although Maria didn’t realize it, she had made the decision years earlier in a Primary class that she would turn down that drink. How much easier the situation would have been for her if she had long ago pictured in her mind what she would do in that kind of situation. Then those moments of indecision would never have happened—for the decision would have already been made.

There are many single adults in the Church well beyond their early adult years. While finding their present life different than they had anticipated, they keep the law of chastity.11 It can be a trial of their faith. I express my deep respect and admiration for these disciples of Christ.
“God has commanded that the sacred powers of procreation are to be employed only between man and woman, lawfully wedded as husband and wife.”12 In the New Testament the Savior lifted the moral standard for His followers when He declared, “Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.”13 He taught us not to condemn others, but He was unafraid to speak directly: “Go,” He said, “and sin no more.”14
Our family has a friend. You probably know someone like her, or perhaps you are like her. Always faithful, serves nobly in the Church, admired professionally, adored by her family, and while she anticipated marriage and children, she is single. “I made the decision,” she said, “to put my … trust in Jesus Christ. Going to the temple frequently helps me keep a more eternal focus. It reminds me I am never alone. I have faith … that no … blessing will be withheld … as I … remain faithful to my covenants, including the law of chastity.”15
Another friend served an outstanding mission, followed by rigorous academic training. He hoped to have a family. His trial of faith: feelings of same-sex attraction. He wrote me recently: “I am promised in my patriarchal blessing that I will have my own family someday. Whether that will occur in this life or the next, I do not know. But what I do know is that I don’t want to do anything that will jeopardize the blessings God has promised both me and my future posterity. … Living [the law of chastity] is a challenge, but did we not come to earth to confront challenges and to show God our love and respect for Him by keeping His commandments? I am blessed with good health, the gospel, a loving family, and loyal friends. I am grateful for my many blessings.”16
The world protests, how can you ask so much? The Lord responds:
“My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways. …
“For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.”17
These two followers of Christ and tens of thousands like them have felt the Savior’s promise: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”18

Two young men jumped at the chance to complete their Eagle Scout requirements through service. The foundation was planning a trip to the Andes so it could build a medical post in Urubamba, but lots of preparatory work needed to be done at home first.

Scout John Tateoka gathered friends and family and coordinated a project of painting window frames, siding, and doors for the medical post. His fellow Scout, Adam Watts, contacted several construction suppliers for possible donations. In a short time, the necessary donations and work were complete, and supplies were shipped to Peru.

This story took place in Tonga in 1981.
Silioti walked home from school past trees of yellow papayas and rosy ripe mangoes. When she saw the fruit, she remembered how hungry she was. She also remembered that today was a special day. Today everyone in her stake in Tonga was fasting for the prophet, President Spencer W. Kimball. The prophet was sick and needed an operation. Tonight everyone in the stake would meet to pray and end their fast together.
When Silioti reached her house, she smelled food cooking in the ‘umu, the pit oven. Her stomach grumbled. Silioti was glad she was old enough to fast now, but fasting on a school day was so much harder than fasting on a Sunday.
Silioti tried to forget how hungry she was. She found firewood and cleaned up the leaves that had fallen from the tall breadfruit trees that shaded her yard.
Heavenly Father will understand if I take a tiny sip of water, Silioti thought as she washed her hands after chores. Then she thought of how much she loved President Kimball. She wanted him to be well again. She decided she would wait.
Silioti sat down on the porch and laid her head in her mother’s lap. She was so tired.
“You can end your fast if you need to,” Mother said.
“But I want to fast,” said Silioti. “I can do it.”
When Father came home from work, everyone in the family helped uncover the ‘umu. They took out the pork wrapped in leaves, the fish, and the breadfruit baked in coconut milk. Then they wrapped the food in cloth and carried it out to the road to wait for the bus.
They met other families on the road, all with their own bundles of food. They all smiled and talked as they climbed on the bus together. Silioti found a little space next to Mother. She smelled the good food as the bus bumped along.
It was dark when the bus reached the chapel. Inside, Silioti knelt with her parents, her brothers and sisters, and hundreds of other members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
During the prayer, Silioti prayed in her heart, Please let President Kimball get well again. She knew every person in the room was praying for the same thing. A calm feeling inside told her that President Kimball would be OK.
When she opened her eyes, she saw tears on the faces of the people around her. All of these people had fasted, and she had fasted with them. It had been hard, but she had done it!
President Kimball survived his operation and served as the prophet for four more years.

A pang of the same old fear shot through me as I realized the old woman trudging up 400 South about a half block ahead of me was Miss Bickersheim, my old typing teacher. The shopping cart she was dragging behind her was the giveaway. Miss Bickersheim had dragged that cart to school every day with her materials in it, year after year after year.
It was her all right. I tried to smile at the return of my old terror. How silly. She couldn’t hurt me now. But then I had to admit Miss Bickersheim had really never hurt me or anyone. She had taught me, my classmates, and hundreds of students before us to type and type well.
My mind raced back to my first day in her classroom. Miss Bickersheim and I had gotten off to a terrible start. “My dear young lady,” she had said, her eyes glaring, “I’m afraid you and I are not going to do business well together.” I could still remember her exact words and how precisely she had said each one. She was not amused that I had mustered the courage to defend my fingernails which tapered to beautiful ovals: I had stopped biting them just the summer before, and at last they looked exactly the way fingernails should look, gorgeously, perfectly, uniformly oval. Miss Bickersheim had held up my hands to show the class how fingernails should not be for typing.
“But, but … they don’t show over the tips of my fingers … much.” I had said the words with a trembling, hopeful voice, shocked at my courage. That’s when Miss Bickersheim had glared at me and uttered those frightful words.
That night I begged my mother to let me check out of Type I. “Oh mom, she’s just awful. Awful! She never smiles. I mean never. She just glares. And she hates me now. I can’t go back. I can’t.”
My mother smiled sympathetically at my plight. “I’m afraid you’d be sorry later if you checked out,” she said. “I know how badly you want to learn to type. Miss Bickersheim may be frightening, but she is also the best. Sometimes we have to do things in life that are hard, but we’re glad later. Of course, you’re the one who has to decide.” Slowly I walked to my room where I would ultimately look for an emery board.
During the next few months, typing became a 24-hour part of my existence. At movies my fingers typed the words the actors said on the screen. While I studied for other classes, my fingers typed the words I read. One night I woke up to find that my fingers were typing on my invisible typewriter. I was typing in my sleep. And each morning before Type I, I shuddered and got a stomachache, but each morning I went.
Because Miss Bickersheim took typing very seriously, her students did too. Miss Bickersheim stressed steady, rhythmic, accurate typing. Ten points were deducted for each error. She taught blind copy typing. No lower form of typing would do. A whack on the desk with her ruler revealed the guilty student who was sneaking a peek at the cylinder or keys. And Miss Bickersheim’s five-minute timed writings were precisely that: five minutes. When she shouted her terrible “STOP!”—a stop that made the stomach jump and the hair stand on end—we stopped typing and stopped immediately.
Although we hoped for a substitute, Miss Bickersheim never missed a day. Never once did she relax long enough to lose her sternness. Never once did she joke or laugh with the students like the other teachers. And never once, no not once, did she smile. Using her own unique methods, she taught us to type. I hadn’t liked those methods, but because she had taught me to type, I had been able to land the excellent summer job I had at the Wilcox Insurance Company. Even though I was one of the younger applicants, the company had been impressed by my performance on the timed typing test, a standard part of the application. I had made only one error. But then, timed writings were “a piece of cake” without the anticipation of Miss Bickersheim’s terrible “STOP” at the end.
The Wilcox company had said I would be able to continue working part-time during the school year, again, because of my accurate typing ability. My job would help me get through college and someday I hoped typing would help me achieve my dream of being a writer. No, Miss Bickersheim hadn’t hurt me—that was certain. In fact, I knew I really needed to thank her. But I didn’t want to.
Ahead of me, she had stopped to adjust the wheel of her shopping cart and had turned slightly. Her body was slumped awkwardly over her cart and her profile looked just as frightening as ever. I wondered if her eyes were glaring. I also wondered if I would speak to her when I caught up with her in just a few yards.
My throat felt dry, and my heart was beginning to pump more vigorously. But what was she doing now? Miss Bickersheim had reached the corner, and instead of stopping at the curb of the same street I planned to cross, she had turned to face the other crosswalk. If I didn’t speed up, she would be gone. I had an excuse now. Maybe I wouldn’t have to face her after all. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to face those glaring dark eyes again anyway.
The light changed, and I knew that in just a few seconds she would be out of my life again and perhaps I would never have another opportunity to thank her. Opportunities cannot be resurrected with each dawn. Maybe that was all right with me. She was so mean and, well, I was scared. But then I thought again of what that one typing course, the only one I’d ever taken, had done for me, and I knew I would thank her, not only because I had to, but because a warmth was encompassing me. The feeling of obligation had been replaced by an urgent, happy desire. I suddenly wanted, really wanted, to thank the old woman just a few feet ahead of me.
“Miss Bickersheim!” All those years of hearing close to 30 typewriters going at once had apparently made her a little deaf. “Miss Bickersheim!” I was almost out of breath from running the last few yards. “Stop, Miss Bickersheim!” She stopped just before she stepped off the curb. I was close enough to touch her arm, and she turned and looked at me with unglaring eyes, eyes that—was it possible that there was a flicker of good humor in them?
“You were one of my students,” she said.
“Yes, I was.” I smiled and wondered what I would say next. I took a deep breath and talked fast. “I just wanted to thank you and tell you how much I enjoyed—appreciated—your class. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was in your class about five years ago and I was the one with the too-long nails.” What a dumb thing to say, I thought, as I realized she had probably taught hundreds of girls with nails that had initially needed trimming. “Anyway,” I continued, “I have an excellent summer job now because you taught me to type so well, and it’s helping me through college. So thanks!”
Miss Bickersheim didn’t speak for a moment, and her thick wrinkled face contorted slightly. “I wish I could say I remember you, but I had so many students.”
“Oh, that’s all right.” I assured her that I understood. After all, I had changed, and it had been a long time.
“I wish I could remember you because you’re a lovely girl—I can tell that.” Her bottom lip was beginning to tremble slightly. Was this the same Miss Bickersheim I had known? Where was the sternness? Why, this old woman was nice. And my short speech seemed to have touched her. Again there was a silence for a few moments. “I taught for many, many years, you know, 32 to be exact.” Her eyes had a glazed look. “And I taught thousands of students. But when I retired, no one said anything, not one student, and I thought, well …”
“Oh, but we all appreciate you now. Now that we realize how well you taught us, we’re all so glad we took type from you. I’m sure all your former students feel the same way I feel.”
“You think so?”
“Of course.”
She patted my arm with a wrinkled, slightly shaking hand, and it was then that I saw the miracle. Miss Bickersheim’s thick lips parted, revealing aged, slightly protruding teeth. She was smiling! It wasn’t a pretty smile. No, it wasn’t that. But it was nevertheless a genuine, from-the-heart smile. And although it only lasted a few seconds, I had seen it.
“I did my best. I did my very best,” she said with a raspy voice.
“You were the best,” I said.
The light had changed again, and after we said good-bye, I watched Miss Bickersheim until she stepped up to the opposite curb, her old shopping cart thumping up behind her. The sun’s reflection on the silver metal made the old cart appear to be an object of beauty. She raised her hand to me before she continued her trek. And it was gratifying to see that her step was much livelier than it had been before. As for me, I felt like skipping. I felt like skipping and laughing and hugging the world because Miss Bickersheim had smiled at me.

Mark and I faced several trials in the following months. After returning to the Philippines for my wife’s funeral, I lost my job. I sold our car to pay Monina’s hospital bills. Plus, Mark and I had to adjust to life without Monina. Despite the adversity, Mark and I found hope in our newfound faith, and we were baptized in April 2008. In the months that followed, I was able to find another job and pay the hospital bills. Mark and I made a goal to attend our branch trip to the Manila Philippines Temple so we could be sealed together as a family.
After saving all our extra income and preparing ourselves spiritually, Mark and I traveled with our branch to the temple in May 2009. As we prepared for the trip, we saw firsthand the destructive hand of the adversary as well as the strengthening and uplifting love of our Heavenly Father. I got extremely sick the day before we were scheduled to leave for the temple. Some members had unexpected immigration problems, while others had trouble obtaining passports. Our friends who introduced my family to the gospel, the Espinosas, lost their jobs the week we were scheduled to attend the temple. Even worse, a member of our branch presidency who was scheduled to attend the temple for the first time lost his father to a sudden illness three days before our trip. But in the end the Lord strengthened each of us and made it possible for 42 members of the branch to attend the temple. Sixteen of us attended for the first time.
May 13, 2009, is a day I will never forget. When I arrived at the temple, the weight and pain of my wife’s death immediately vanished. Although I was initially nervous about the temple because I didn’t know exactly what to do or where to go, I was struck by the calm, peaceful presence I felt once I stepped inside. It was very different from the busy streets just outside the temple doors.
As the day progressed, my temple experience became only more meaningful and more powerful. In the morning our branch participated in baptisms for the dead. As I watched, I found myself thinking of my wife, who a year and a half earlier had expressed her desire to be baptized. I then witnessed the fulfillment of that desire as a friend was baptized for and in behalf of Monina.
The most significant portion of my trip, however, came later that afternoon when I walked into the sealing room. My wife and I were married years ago, but we were not married in the temple by Heavenly Father’s priesthood authority. When my wife died, I thought I had lost her forever. But as I met with the missionaries, I learned that in the temple, families can be sealed together for eternity.
As I walked into the sealing room at the Manila Temple, I was overcome with emotion. Ever since my baptism, I had known the blessings of the gospel were real, but in that instant I truly witnessed their worth. As Mark and I knelt at the altar to be sealed as a family, I felt my wife’s presence. I could hear her voice, and it was as if I were holding her hand. I felt Monina’s presence with every feeling in my heart. I knew then that we were an eternal family.

In contrast, consider the attitude of the students who write me about violations of the Code of Honor. About once a month or more frequently, I receive a letter from a student confessing that he or she has plagiarized or cheated on work at Brigham Young University. Some of these letters are from the mission field or from young men or women who are or are soon to be called upon missions. They say, “I have something on my conscience that I wish to clear. In Course 100 I cheated, or I plagiarized a paper. Here is the information. I am ready to take my punishment, a reduction in grade or a loss of credit, whatever it is. But I wish to get on the path of growth.” And with love and understanding, rejoicing that someone has turned a corner on a dishonest, sinful, and degrading act, we consult with the teachers involved and assist these students in a spirit of mercy and justice, as best we are able.

This old house didn’t look so old anymore once the youth of the Milwaukee Wisconsin Stake finished with it. As a matter of fact, the youth renovated three unkempt and vandalized homes in Milwaukee’s inner city as part of what some say was the best youth conference ever.

“I found out that the Golden Rule really was enforced there,” said Synthia Ridenour, 16. “You slap somebody with paint, and you get it back.” But she and about 150 of her friends learned much more than that. When Synthia accidentally came across the family members who lived in the house saying prayers of thanks, she knew why she was there.

“I know from this project that service brings great happiness,” said Eric Wagner, 16, in the testimony meeting that was held at the end of the weekend-long conference. There had been dances, workshops, and a barbecue, but everyone agreed that the best part was re-doing the houses, and helping the families who lived inside.

I’m having a blast here at the summer conference of the National Association of Student Councils. Among the 2,000 student delegates from North America, I didn’t expect to find other Mormons, but soon they found me!
Some LDS delegates planned a testimony meeting and spread the word. Dozens of LDS kids from all over North America showed up! As we bore our testimonies, the Spirit let us know the truthfulness of the Gospel.
Here’s a photo of some of the LDS kids. It’s great to know that so many student leaders are also such wonderful examples for the Church!
Love, Jamie

When he was assigned to home teach a sister (whom we shall call Ruth Elliott), she was relatively new in the ward and Jay Lyman did not know her. By talking with her daughter who lived in another ward, and with others who could give him information about her, Brother Lyman was able to learn a little about Sister Elliott before he first called at her home.
Sister Elliott lived in a small apartment in a nice neighborhood. The apartment had been fashioned from the bedroom of a home and had its own outside door. The closet was used as the kitchen and was fitted with a small stove and a sink. The room was furnished with a broken-down upholstered chair in which Sister Elliott spent most of her time when she was not in bed. She seldom left the apartment and had no outside interests. Her days were spent alone at home.
This sister smoked and depended heavily on medications. Through the years her doctors had prescribed a number of medicines, and she continued to take many of them. Moreover, her appearance, manner, and conversation reflected a bitter attitude toward her life and circumstances. She harbored deep resentment toward her father and others, and an unfortunate incident with a Church member had wounded her deeply. Altogether, her life did not appear to be a pleasant one. Brother Lyman prayed fervently to know how best to serve this troubled sister.
Shortly after his call as her home teacher, an opportunity came. Her landlady was having the apartment painted, but Sister Elliott was responsible to move her furniture out to the patio before the work could be done. Brother Lyman and the ward’s high priests group leader moved the furniture out and then back in after the paint had dried. In this way they were able to be of service, although it was sad to see how little Sister Elliott owned and how meager her circumstances were.
On one occasion, while Sister Elliott had gone for a few days to visit with family members, Brother Lyman and his wife, Virginia, went to her apartment and “confiscated” the broken-down chair. It had a good frame, but needed new padding and fabric. Virginia did an excellent upholstering job on the chair, and they had it back in the apartment before Sister Elliott returned from her trip.
Brother Lyman and his junior companion visited this woman regularly, and Brother and Sister Lyman also went of ten to visit, to talk about the gospel, and to offer a simple prayer. Gradually, Sister Elliott began to accept and return their friendship, and they became closely involved in each other’s lives.
One spring, just prior to a surgery which their new friend needed, the Lymans spent many hours with her, on the phone or in person, taking her to church, to the doctor’s office, or shopping. They kept in touch daily. For a time she would call each night before going to bed; she was lonely and needed a listening ear, and they were somehow able to fill part of the void and provide a needed close association.
The Lymans were vacationing when Sister Elliott had the surgery, but they called her at the hospital to offer words of encouragement and cheer. She had received a priesthood blessing and felt that the Lord would watch over her. Moreover, following the operation she determined to stop smoking, which she did successfully.
Prior to his entering the mission field, a grandson had asked her to give up smoking—and she was able to accomplish the task through the help of the Lord and her own strong desire to please her missionary grandson.
As the months passed, Sister Elliott made new friends and found outside interests. Her church attendance improved, and she began to pay tithing. Brother Lyman recalls accompanying her to tithing settlement: at first she protested that she was ill and did not want to go, but he asked her to be ready and he picked her up. Returning home afterward she radiated happiness. She paid a full tithing for the first time in her life.
By now, her attitude toward life had changed dramatically. The bitterness was gone, replaced by a humble and contrite spirit. Those who had offended her were forgiven. Relations with her children improved, and there were changes in their attitude and behavior toward their mother, prompted by her increased tolerance and love for them.
This good sister was eventually able to move to a new apartment, furnish it attractively, and make new friends in her apartment building. A new physician, determined to correct her dependency on medication, insisted that she rely on her own strength to cope with problems and would not allow her to use medication for that purpose. Through his diligence and the power of the priesthood to bless and strengthen, she was able to endure a difficult period of withdrawal.
The blessings which have come to the “new” Sister Elliott have been many, including participation in the sacred temple ceremonies with her family and friends. Brother Lyman reports: “I am deeply grateful for the opportunity which has been mine to serve as her home teacher. Indeed, I loved the ‘old’ Sister Elliott as much as the ‘new’ Sister Elliott—but now I need not feel sad because of her meager and dreary life. Today it is full and pleasant, enriched by the blessings of gospel living.”

Some people also stumble over statements made by Church leaders that have turned out to be incorrect, not about doctrine but in their personal opinions. For example, President Joseph Fielding Smith (1876–1972) wrote in the first edition of his book Answers to Gospel Questions, “It is doubtful that man will ever be permitted to make any instrument or ship to travel through space and visit the moon or any distant planet.”4

Later, following the Apollo moon landings and the death of President David O. McKay, Joseph Fielding Smith became President of the Church. At a press conference, a reporter asked him about this statement. President Smith replied, “Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I?”5

It has been 400 years since the publication of the King James Bible, with significant contributions from William Tyndale, a great hero in my eyes.
The clergy did not want the Bible published in common English. They hounded Tyndale from place to place. He said to them, “If God spare my life, ere many years I will cause a boy that driveth the plough shall know more of the Scripture than thou.”
Tyndale was betrayed and confined to a dark, freezing prison in Brussels for over a year. His clothing was in rags. He begged his captors for his coat and cap and a candle, saying, “It is indeed wearisome sitting alone in the dark.” These were denied him. Eventually, he was taken from prison and before a large crowd was strangled and burned at the stake. But William Tyndale’s work and martyr’s death were not in vain.
Since Latter-day Saint children are taught from their youth to know the scriptures, they in a measure fulfill the prophecy made four centuries earlier by William Tyndale.

I began school again and started dating. I could see that I was progressing, but I felt that I would always view my mission with a little bitterness. Then a friend of mine reminded me that the Savior’s Atonement can heal all pain and bitterness. With His help I could be happy when thinking about my mission.
I knelt down and prayed to my Heavenly Father. I told Him about my pain and my efforts to be healed and comforted. I asked if He would take away the bitterness I felt. After my prayer, the Lord opened my eyes to see my mission from His perspective. Both my service and early return were a part of the Lord’s plan to help make me into who He wanted me to be. I could see the miracles that He had provided since I came home. It has been a hard path, but now I can look back on my early return home with peace, knowing that God has my best interests at heart.