Gospel Story Finder

“I can fly,” laughed Carlos as he went spiraling into the cool Idaho evening. He landed in the playground sand and rolled like a movie stuntman.
He brushed himself off and ran back to the merry-go-round, but it was spinning too fast to get back on. The four of us, all college roommates, had the thing moving so fast that I was afraid it would spin off its braces and take flight. I guessed we’d break out of the earth’s gravitational pull somewhere near Boise, and I’d never get home for Christmas.
“Is there a point to this?” I yelled at Dave, who was leading our family home evening activity that night.
“Yep. And remember, I buy pizza for whoever stays on the longest,” he called from his position in the middle of the twirling merry-go-round.
Our roommate Brad, however, was standing near the edge of the contraption, and I could see his grip was not that secure. From the ground Carlos saw too and began spinning us until we were moving at particle-accelerator velocity. Finally, Brad slipped and was sucked off like he’d just opened the door of a flying 747. He crashed right into Carlos. The two of them landed on the sand in an awkward heap.
“Okay, I win,” I yelled. “Now stop this thing before I throw up.”
We eventually slowed the ride, and Dave gathered us on one of the park benches to give us his lesson.
“Anyone know why I put us through this merry-go-round exercise tonight?” he asked.
“Mental instability?” Brad guessed.
“A sadistic streak?” I asked. My world was still spinning.
“Thanks, but wrong. Did you notice why Carlos and Brad flew off?” Dave asked.
“Yeah, because you took the middle,” said Brad.
“Actually, there was room for all of us,” Dave added.
“Yeah, but it’s not as wild a ride in the middle,” I added.
“True,” said Dave, “there are greater risks on the outside—which is my point tonight. It’s safer when we are in the center—on the merry-go-round and in the Church.
“You’ll find that when you move away from the teachings of the Savior and the prophets, you find yourself taking risks you know you shouldn’t. And then you can suddenly find yourself far away from the Church. And it can be really hard to get back on the ride again once you’re off. Right, Carlos?”
Carlos nodded and brushed a few flecks of sand off his jacket.
Dave opened his scriptures and read from Moroni 10:32 [Moro. 10:32]. “Yea, come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness; and if ye shall deny yourselves of all ungodliness, and love God with all your might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for you, that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ; and if by the grace of God ye are perfect in Christ, ye can in nowise deny the power of God.”
Dave closed the scriptures. “Being a member of the Church is the greatest blessing in the world,” he said. “This scripture reminds us that if we come unto Christ and do all He has asked of us, we won’t be led astray. And if we stay centered on Him, following the teachings of the Church and the prophets, we won’t be tempted to take the risks that will throw us off the path that leads home.”
I have never forgotten Dave’s lesson. Every year the world seems to move faster and the distractions and temptations are greater, but I know if I stay centered I will avoid the greatest risks.
As Dave reminded me, by staying close to Christ I can overcome anything.

The construction worker lay where he had fallen, precariously balanced on a plank nine inches (23 cm) wide and 100 feet (30 m) in the air. He had been struck by a falling steel beam that had partially severed his left arm and leg.
In this case, the victim could not be moved safely until his injuries were assessed. I was hoisted up by crane on a metal cargo platform. Once I reached the victim, a construction worker held onto the back of my reflective jacket, serving as a human “crane” to allow me freedom of movement to examine the victim.
In situations like this, years of training take over, so I began to assess the man’s injuries. On his knee was an emergency field dressing placed there by the construction crew’s own first aid responder. Normally I would examine the injury to assess the damage since that is the protocol we are trained to follow.
But as I reached out, the Spirit prompted me: “Do not move the dressing.” So I did not touch it. Three more times during the incident, I was encouraged by others involved—the first responder, my colleague on the ground, and a doctor—to examine the knee wound, and three more times, the Spirit prompted me not to touch the dressing. Once we had stabilized the patient, we lifted the man onto the cargo platform, we were both lowered to the ground, and we transported him to the hospital.
In the emergency resuscitation area, the trauma team waited for us. One doctor quickly removed the field dressing from the knee. Immediately an artery ruptured, and the patient began bleeding profusely. In the controlled environment of the hospital, this life-threatening situation was quickly resolved. If it had happened on the plank 100 feet up, the victim may well not have survived.

Tonight, I’d like to tell you a story from my family history—you may have a story like it in your family history, too. Or your experience may be the source of stories that your posterity will tell.
My story is from the life of my second great-grandmother, Anthonette (Nettie) Marie Olsen. Nettie was born in 1845 in Oslo, Norway, the first child of Christian and Christine Olsen. Nettie and her parents joined the Church when Nettie was about 10 years old. As a result, Nettie and her family were shunned and ridiculed for their new faith. She worked as weaver in a factory to save enough money to immigrate to Salt Lake City, Utah, to be with other Latter-day Saints.
When she was 20 years old, she was ready to undertake the journey. Her father made her a travel bag, which contained a few pieces of underwear and a second dress. She wore the only pair of shoes she owned. Neither she nor her parents understood the nature of the journey ahead.
Nettie sailed across the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean and landed in Boston. From Boston, she took a train to a point near Florence, Nebraska. From Florence, she walked to Salt Lake City, a distance of 1000 miles. Before she walked 300 miles, her shoes wore off her feet. Nettie offered a fellow traveler her spare dress for a pair of shoes. The woman to whom she made this appeal had several pairs of shoes in her possession, but she refused, saying that she would need the shoes later on.
So, Nettie walked in her stocking feet. She mended her stockings each night by the campfire to be ready for the next day’s walk. Nettie later said, “This wasn’t so bad through the deep sand for miles and miles, but oh, the cactus patches.”
On November 8, 1865, Nettie arrived “afoot and alone” in Salt Lake City. She knew only a few words of English. She had met Christian Fredrick Bernhard Lybbert on the trail, and he helped her find work as a weaver and to learn English. She later married CFB (as the family calls him) and bore 11 children. She and her family eventually settled in Ashley Valley, Uintah County, Utah, where she died in 1932.
I have frequently thought of the sacrifices that Nettie made for her faith. She sacrificed personal comfort, her homeland, and the company of her friends and family in Norway. She sacrificed everything she had ever known for the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ. You may wonder if she thought her commitment to the restored church of Jesus Christ was worth her sacrifice—she knew it was. She had a deep testimony of the prophet Joseph Smith though she never met him. She lived her life consistent with principles of truth and served the Lord, her family, and neighbors. She had faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and in the promises He makes to the faithful. Her sacrifices built her faith, and she was faithful to the end.

I attended the Hamilton School. The bane of my first-grade teacher’s life was my friend Louie. He had what psychologists might call some kind of a fixation. He would sit in class and chew his tie until it became wet and stringy. The teacher would scold him. Louie eventually became a man of substance. I learned never to underestimate the potential of a boy to make something of his life, even if he chews his tie.

Then again, who would have figured that Lindsay was going to contract cancer—non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma—right after her sixth birthday? Doctors thought it was growing pains, or maybe children’s arthritis. But cancer?
“At the beginning, it was really confusing. I had a lump in my neck, and my legs were really sore,” Lindsay recalls. “Once [the doctors] found out I had cancer, I didn’t even know what it was, so it didn’t really make a difference to me. I knew I had to stay in the hospital and everything, and I felt sick. But I didn’t know how serious it was.”
It was serious. Lindsay was hospitalized in Hamilton, 90 minutes away from Port Colborne, where she underwent chemotherapy for two years. Doctors pronounced her cancer in remission six months after it was first diagnosed, and things did get back to normal within about 18 months. She hasn’t had a problem since, and nine years later you can tell she’s doing great. Her constant smile, that brightens even the grayest Canadian winter day, proves that.
“The cancer made me look at life in a different way. I know what kids who have cancer are going through, and I decided I wanted to help them. Had I not had cancer, I don’t think I would want to help people as much as I do now,” she says. She talks about her cancer like it was a blessing. Without the trial, she’s convinced none of this would have taken place.

Hiking into the foothills and onto the mountain east of Manti, Utah, was a favorite activity for me when I was growing up. One crisp fall day when I was about 10 years old, my friend and I decided to go for a hike.
My mother carefully wrapped two peanut butter and jam sandwiches and two pieces of raisin pie in waxed paper and put them and an apple apiece in brown paper bags for us to take for our lunches.
I enjoyed the cool, fresh air and the smell of the fields and orchards as we made our way past the outskirts of town, past one neighbor’s farm, and through another’s apple orchard. The trees were loaded with delicious red apples.
We were each carrying a large burlap sack, as we hoped to find pine nuts. As we took the narrow trail through the sagebrush and into the junipers, we found a piñion pine tree here and there and a few pinecones.
We put the cones, sticky with fresh pine gum, into our burlap sacks, knowing that each hard, green cone held a number of pine nuts locked tightly inside it. I loved pine nuts then; I still do. The Indians liked them, too, but they gathered them for survival. They made a pine nut bread that was half pine nuts and half grasshoppers. I preferred my pine nuts without grasshoppers.
My friend and I climbed higher until we came to a maze of flat, white rocks laid out so that they formed a huge letter M (for “Manti,” the name of our town). This huge letter could be seen from the valley below. We picked out one of the large, flat rocks and sat down on it to rest. Taking our shoes off to cool our feet on the smooth rock, we enjoyed looking down on Manti, out across the fields and valleys, and beyond. There was a soft breeze in the clean, clear air, and we could smell the mixture of sage, juniper, and pine. It felt so good to be alive!
We gathered dry brush and limbs so that we could make a fire to roast some of our pine nuts. We lit the brush, and soon it was blazing quite high—too high!
The flames caught onto one nearby clump of sagebrush, then another and another. It looked as if our little fire would soon spread to the whole mountainside and become a forest fire. We had no water to put out the fire with, so we tried to beat it out with our burlap sacks. But every time we beat at the fire, it seemed to fan out and spread more. In desperation my friend said, “I’ll go for help.” He pulled his shoes on and took off running down the mountain.
I was alone! I went to my knees in prayer. “Father in Heaven, help me put this fire out.” This is all I remember saying. I don’t know what I expected. There was not a cloud in the sky, and it didn’t suddenly start to rain. I didn’t hear a voice telling me what to do, but Heavenly Father did answer my prayer.
Before I’d even gotten off my knees, I was impressed to start throwing dirt on the nearest burning bush, and then on the next one. I threw dirt on another and another until I had encircled the entire fire and had it under control. Soon only smoke was left blowing up on the mountain where the fire had been. I had not heard a voice saying, “Throw dirt on the fire,” but I had felt strongly impressed to do it. In some way Heavenly Father had conveyed that idea to my mind.
I am grateful for the way Heavenly Father answered my prayer. He did not put the fire out. Instead, he allowed me the dignity of putting the fire out, which boosted my self-confidence and helped me realize that I could solve difficult problems with his help.
I learned many important lessons from this experience. The first lesson I learned was to not start a fire next to brush with a breeze blowing. More important, I learned that the prayer of a small boy on a mountain would be heard and answered. I also learned that Heavenly Father will generally not do for us what we can do for ourselves, but will prompt us to use our own intelligence, our own strength, and the materials at hand, such as the dirt under our feet.

1838—My brother Don Carlos and my cousin George A. Smith returned (from missions through Kentucky and Tennessee), having traveled 2415 kilometers—1450 kilometers on foot, and the remainder by steamboat and otherwise. They visited several branches. When nearly home they were recognized and pursued by the mob, which compelled them to travel 160 kilometers in two days and night. They had little to eat and narrowly escaped freezing both nights.

Lest we feel these experiences are for another time or for another people, in closing, I would like to share a recent personal experience that illustrates the principles shared today. It occurred just a few months ago while I was on a stake conference assignment in Spokane, Washington. Prior to our Saturday afternoon meetings, the stake president and I made a ministering visit to the Pulver family. The Pulvers were identified from a long list of names submitted by the bishops and high councilors. The stake president did not know them well but felt a strong spiritual impression that we should visit.

We arrived at the home and sat down with Brother Pulver, who considered himself less active and had not been to the temple since his mission nineteen years earlier. Sister Pulver was working, and he was tending the children. Brother Pulver was gracious but wondered why we had decided to call on his family. As we started to visit, I asked where they had grown up. Brother Pulver indicated that his wife was from the small town of Ferron, Utah. I responded that I had been in Ferron just ten months earlier on assignment, and I started to recount a sacred experience I had had with a faithful sister during a home visit.

Brother Pulver blurted out, “You were the one.”

It turned out that the faithful sister I visited in Ferron was Sister Pulver’s mother—Brother Pulver’s mother-in-law. Brother Pulver gave me permission to share excerpts from his journal, in which he recorded the details of our visit that day:
After I mentioned Ferron, Elder Gerard lit up, saying that he had been to Ferron. It was at that moment everything connected for me, and I knew why he was at my home. When Genevieve [Sister Pulver’s mother] was hours from passing away, Elder Gerard visited her. . . . As he explained his story, the Holy Spirit entered my home to a degree I have never encountered before. The feeling was nearly palpable, and it testified of the Lord’s hand in our meeting.

It turns out that I was one of the last to visit with Sister Pulver’s mother, Genevieve, before her passing. When we had arrived at her home in Ferron, she was lying on the sofa in a semiconscious state. Sister Pulver’s father, a very faithful man, indicated that she had very little time to live. We sat at the small kitchen table and quietly visited, as we could hear her strained breathing in the adjoining room. As we prepared to leave, Sister Pulver’s father asked if we would give his wife a blessing. As we placed hands on her head, the Spirit of the Lord filled the room. It was a very sacred moment for us, as the veil of eternity was parted for a brief moment. She passed a few hours later.

As I shared the details of the final hours of his mother-in-law’s life, it became clear there was more to the story. Let me again read from Brother Pulver’s journal:
About a year earlier, Genevieve [Sister Pulver’s mother] was spending the holidays with us. She came into my bedroom and had a conversation with only me at that time. She asked my opinion on what to do with the continuation of her cancer treatment. I asked her what she wanted to do, and she told me she wanted to be done. She asked me then to take care of her daughter and grandkids. Then she did not ask, she told me, “You take this family to the temple.”

As we concluded the visit to their home, the Pulvers agreed to attend the Saturday evening session of stake conference for the first time in many years. Furthermore, they committed to fulfill the request of Sister Pulver’s mother to take the family to the temple. I am pleased to report that when I visited with the Pulvers just last week—when they authorized me to share parts of the journal—they indicated that Brother Pulver had recently attended the temple and that Sister Pulver is finishing the temple preparation lessons to receive her own endowment in the next few weeks.

Let me quote once again from Brother Pulver’s journal:
The Lord had the foresight to first assign Elder Gerard to the stake conference in the Ferron area. Then he was sent to the Spokane Valley East Stake just a little over a year after I had had a conversation with Genevieve. I have no doubt Genevieve had influence in this event. I do not believe this was a chance coincidence. This would not have happened if the Lord had not intervened. The Lord’s faithful disciples followed His promptings exactly as He wanted. It wasn’t just the events of this meeting that make it miraculous. The feeling of extreme power and extreme peace is what made this encounter life changing and something I will never forget. The gospel of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true, it’s real, and it is wonderful.

My dear brothers and sisters, I would have never supposed that my time with Grandma Genevieve just prior to her passing was in preparation to meet her daughter and family a few months later in fulfillment of her final request to make sure they received the blessings of the temple. I knew not what the Lord had planned, but as I exercised faith, put my trust in the Lord, and heeded His counsel—even when I could not suppose—I became once again a witness to the great blessings He grants to His children.

A few years ago I was afforded the privilege to serve as a mission president and became intimately acquainted with almost 500 missionaries. We had one young missionary who was very ill. After weeks of hospitalization, as the surgeon prepared to undertake extremely serious and complicated surgery, he asked that we send for the missionary’s mother and father. He said that there was a great likelihood that Elder Davidson could not survive the surgery. The parents came; and late that evening, his father and I, in the hospital room in Toronto, Canada, placed our hands upon the head of that young missionary and gave him a blessing. What happened following that blessing was a testimony to me.
Elder Davidson was in a six-bed ward in the hospital. The other beds were occupied by five men with a variety of illnesses. The morning of Elder Davidson’s surgery, his bed was empty. The nurse came into the room with the breakfast these husky men normally ate. She brought a tray over to bed number one and said, “Fried eggs this morning, and I have an extra portion for you.” Bed number one was occupied by a man who was lying on his bed with his toe wrapped up in a bandage. He had suffered an accident with his lawn mower. Other than his injured toe, he was well physically. He said to the nurse, “I’ll not be eating this morning.”
“All right, we’ll give your breakfast to your partner in bed number two!” As she went over to him, he said, “No, I think I’ll not eat this morning.”
She said, “That’s two in a row. I don’t understand you men, and there is no one this morning in bed three.” She went on to bed four, bed five, and bed six; and the answer was the same. “No, this morning we’re not hungry.”
The young lady put her hands on her hips and said, “Every other morning you eat us out of house and home, and today not one of you wants to eat. What is the reason?”
And then the man who occupied bed number six came forth with the answer.
He said, “You see, bed number three is empty. Our friend Davidson is in the operating room under the surgeon’s hands. He needs all the help he can get. He is a missionary for his church; and while he has been lying on that bed while we have been patients in this ward, he has talked to us about the principles of his church—principles of prayer, of faith, of fasting wherein we call upon the Lord for blessings.” He said, “We don’t know much about the Mormon church, but we have learned a great deal about Davidson; and we are fasting for him today.”
I might tell you that the operation was a success. In fact, when I attempted to pay the surgeon, he countered, “Why, that would be dishonest for me to accept a fee. I have never before performed surgery when my hands seemed to be guided by a power which was other than my own. No,” he said, “I wouldn’t take a fee for the surgery which Someone on high helped me to perform.”
Elder Davidson framed his life with faith.

President Heber J. Grant called Harold B. Lee into his office one morning.
President Grant: Tomorrow you will be sustained as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Harold: But, President Grant, do you really think that I am worthy of this call?
President Grant: My boy, if I didn’t think so, you would never be called to this position.
That night Harold couldn’t sleep. All he could think about was the foolish mistakes he had made in his life and about all the people he might have offended. He knelt to pray.
Harold: Heavenly Father, I will love and forgive every soul that has walked the earth. I pray that Thou wilt forgive me in return and make me worthy to be Thy servant.
The next day, he nervously went to the temple and was ushered into the room where the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles meet with the First Presidency.
President Grant: Take a seat here, Elder Lee.
Elder Lee: Imagine all the great men who have sat in this room, in these chairs!
After the ordination, one of the Apostles gave Elder Lee an assignment.
Apostle: Now, you know that after having been ordained, you are a special witness of the Lord Jesus Christ. We want you to give the Easter talk on the radio next Sunday night.
Elder Lee went into a room in the Church Office Building to read Bible accounts of Jesus’ life. As he read, he realized that he was having a new experience.
Elder Lee: I can almost see the events as if they are happening right now!
Elder Lee learned that every Apostle receives a special personal witness of Jesus Christ. When Easter Sunday came, he was ready to speak.
Elder Lee: I am now the least of all my brethren and want to witness to you that I know, as I have never known before this call came, that Jesus is the Savior of this world. He lives, and He died for us.

Among the many phonograph records we have at our home, none is as much enjoyed by our grandchildren as a record given to me in Korea that features singing by a chorus of little Korean orphan girls. The music is beautiful!
Soldiers serving in Korea often have spare time. Many of them waste this time, but a young man from Blanding, Utah, named Stan Bronson was not one of them. He decided instead to do some good with his extra hours, so he visited an orphanage where little orphan girls lived. Stan played his guitar and sang to them, and they were delighted with his music. Since the Koreans have beautiful voices, these girls soon joined Stan in singing. In no time he was the leader of a wonderful chorus of children.
These little girls sang to us at a Sunday meeting held in the chapel of the army base on the outskirts of Seoul, Korea. As they sang, I could scarcely hold back the tears. I watched Stan lead these beautiful girls, and I thought of Jesus’ statement, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God” (Mark 10:14).
Among the songs they sang, I enjoyed most a song I learned as a little boy in Primary, “Give, Said the Little Stream.” They sang the first verse in English, the second verse in Korean, and then the third verse again in English. I would like to give you the words of that third verse:
Give, then for Jesus give;
Give, oh! give, give, oh! give.
Give, then for Jesus give;
There is something all can give.
Do as the streams and blossoms do,
For God and others live.
I have often thought of these words and of this young soldier who gave to help others and of the marvelous way in which the lives of these little children were brightened by his talent. Under his leadership, the girls gave of their talents to brighten the lives of others.
Truly, as the song says, “There is something all can give. Do as the streams and blossoms do, For God and others live.”

Sometimes sitting in Valiant B class is about as interesting as washing woodwork for Mom. But last Sunday was a real surprise. In a way, I guess I was responsible. It all began before class started, when I put my gum on a piece of paper on my chair and went out into the hall to get a drink.

While I was still out in the hall, I heard this awful howl coming from the classroom. I raced back just in time to see Eileen Cameron pulling strings of gum off her dress.

“Who put that gum there?” demanded Sister Higgins.

The guys looked at me as I started backing out into the hall.

“Mark!” Her voice carried a warning.

Reluctantly I turned around. “It was an accident, Sister Higgins. Honest. I just put it there a minute while I went for a drink.”

“I see,” she said, unconvinced. “We’ll talk about it after class. Eileen, you may go to the rest room to see what you can do about removing that gum. The rest of you settle down so we can start.”

We tried to settle down, but it was difficult. Sister Higgins had her eye on me and the other boys. Finally she made us sit boy-girl-boy-girl so we wouldn’t giggle anymore.

“Mark,” Sister Higgins began again when the class had quieted down, “I want you to offer the opening prayer. And please ask Heavenly Father to help all of us to be reverent today.”

The prayer was going OK until I tried to say reverent. I just couldn’t seem to say it right. Someone giggled, and I ended with a quick amen and sat down fast.

I could tell that Sister Higgins wasn’t pleased with me. She pulled out some pictures and told us several stories about faith and about how you need to have faith when you pray. She had us write “Faith without works is dead” on a piece of paper, then split us into groups to make up skits showing how faith helps prayers to be answered.

Those skits were really fun! I guess we laughed every other minute. And even though Sister Higgins gave me a lecture after class, the lesson on faith was one we all enjoyed.

A true story from the USA.
“Time for school!” Mom called.
Bella frowned at herself in the mirror. Her jeans felt tight, and her shirt looked awkward on her shoulders. She remembered what David said on the bus last week—“You’re so fat!” She knew she shouldn’t let his words bother her, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Mom knocked on the door. “We’re going to be late!”
Bella grabbed her backpack. “I’m coming.”
“You look cute today!” Mom said.
“Thanks,” Bella mumbled.
As she walked to class later, she kept her head down. She wished she could be invisible.
“Hey, Bella!” Her classmate Ashley handed her a flyer. “Do you want to be in the school play? It’ll be really fun!”
Bella read the flyer. The auditions were tomorrow. Bella liked to sing and dance with her younger sister. Sometimes they put on shows for the family. Maybe it would be fun!
But then she remembered what happened on the bus. If Bella tried out for the play, so many eyes would be on her. She stuffed the paper in her backpack and tried not to think about it.
When Bella got home from school, Mom was making dinner. “How was school?” she asked.
“It was OK.” Bella put her backpack down and zipped it open. The flyer was still there.
“Oh, the school play!” Mom said, looking over her shoulder. “Are you going to audition?”
“Probably not,” Bella said.
“Why?”
Bella thought about it. “I just don’t like the way I look, I guess. I don’t want people staring at me on stage.”
Mom gave her a hug. “I know it can be hard to feel comfortable with your body,” she said. “But God created your body to be more than what people look at. Think of all the things it can do!”
Maybe I should audition for the play, Bella thought. It wouldn’t hurt to at least try.
The next day, she walked into the theater. There were lots of kids inside, laughing and talking. Maybe this was a bad idea.
When they called her name, Bella walked slowly onto the stage. Her heart was beating so fast. She said a quick prayer in her head. Heavenly Father, please help me not be so nervous.
Bella felt a little calmer. She sang one of her favorite songs and read lines from a script. After everyone was done, the theater teacher read a list of those who got a part.
Bella heard her name. She couldn’t believe it. She would be in the play!
Over the next few weeks, Bella practiced dancing, singing, and saying her lines. It was hard, but she got better every day. Her body was made for the stage! Her feet loved to dance to the music. Her arms loved to move props across the stage. Her brain loved learning the words to the songs. And her heart loved all the new friends she made.
Bella was so excited when the day of the play finally came. It was showtime!
She put on her costume and looked in the mirror. She loved how it sparkled in the light. During the show she danced, sang, and said her lines on stage. When it ended, she found her family in the crowd.
Mom gave her a hug. “You were so confident up there!”
Bella smiled. “God helped me!”
Illustrations by Shawna J. C. Tenney

The future of none of the prophets, however, was signaled more clearly than that of Heber J. Grant. While he was a small boy, he often attended Relief Society with his mother. On one such occasion, after the regular meeting had concluded, Eliza R. Snow, the sister of President Lorenzo Snow, gave blessings to all present by the gift of tongues, with Zina D. Young interpreting. In tongues Sister Snow also prophesied that Heber J. Grant would someday be an apostle of the Lord. On another occasion President Heber C. Kimball, a close friend of President Grant’s father, took the young boy up, sat him on a chair, and talked with him. According to the story later told President Grant by his mother:
“He prophesied in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ that you [Heber] should become an apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ and become a greater man in the Church than your own father; and your father, as you know, became one of the counselors to Brigham Young.”
However, none of these prophecies were quite so impressive to President Grant as the vision that he had shortly after being called to the apostleship in 1883. In this vision he saw his father, Jedediah Grant, the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the Savior, and he also saw the decision made to send the revelation for his call to the Council of the Twelve—this when he was twenty-six years of age.

One woman who came to this realization wrote:
“Right after my divorce, I determined that I was going to give my children the best of everything. … I would provide well for them. … I would substitute in every way for their father. I would take them on picnics, build them a tree house, and play baseball with them. I would not allow them to suffer because of our divorce.
“I baked, sewed, ran, played, wrestled. I cleaned, I ironed. I was busy being both mother and father for them.
“One evening I put the three of them in the bathtub together while I finished a chore. Then I came back, soaped the youngest, rinsed him, lifted him from the tub, and stood him on a bath mat while I wrapped a towel around him. Then I carried him off to the bedroom to put his pajamas on and tuck him into bed. I repeated the process with his brother and then his sister.
“As I bent down to kiss them goodnight, my older son said, ‘Sing us a song, please.’
“‘Which one?’ I asked.
“‘“Rudolph”!’ said the youngest immediately.
“‘No, “Johnny Appleseed,”’ said his brother.
“Then their sister said, ‘Sing, “Stay Awake.”’
“‘I can see if I stay to sing one song, I’ll be singing for an hour, and I don’t have an hour to spare. So goodnight.’ I turned off the lights.
“‘Please sing just one song, mommy. You can choose the song.’
“‘What about our prayers?’
“Firmly, I replied, ‘I said goodnight and I mean goodnight.’
“As I walked back to the bathroom to tidy up, I thought of how grateful they would be someday when they were old enough to understand how much I had done for them!
“As I entered the room I stopped short. There on the bath mat were three perfect sets of damp footprints. For one brief moment I thought I saw standing in the footprints the spirits of those precious children I had just tucked into bed. In that instant I saw the foolishness of my ways. I had been so busy providing for the physical needs of their mortal bodies that I was neglecting their spirits. I knew then that I had a sacred obligation to nourish both. If I were to clothe them in the latest fashions and give them all that money could buy and fail to tend to their spiritual needs, I could not justifiably account for my awesome responsibility as their mother.
“Humbled, I went back to their bedroom. We knelt together in prayer. We all four climbed up on the boys’ big bed and sang song after song until I was the only one awake to sing.”

In 2021, my parents were called as mission leaders over the France Lyon Mission. In 2022, Elder Soares came to visit. In his talk to the missionaries, he mentioned that his luggage got lost on one of his flights.
This was kind of a wake-up call for me. It’s easy to see apostles and prophets on our screens and think that life is easy for them. But our leaders don’t ask to do this—they are called to do it. They choose to follow the Lord, and that means leaving behind their plans for the future.
Elder Soares taught me what it means to be a disciple of Christ. Even though he was busy and had his own struggles, he tried to talk to as many members as possible. I realized that the General Authorities are people like you and me who have chosen Christ and work to show His love.
Lydie L.

Three weeks after my return, my sister Shawna and her daughter came with a cousin from Brigham City to spend a few days. Bob, her husband, drove down in the Lincoln and spent an afternoon. Michele, their five-year-old, said, “You’re a General Authority now, aren’t you, Rick?” I tousled my niece’s blonde hair and smiled. I hadn’t seen Shawna for three years because before my mission she was at the University of Arizona. She and Michele wore designer clothes, and Shawna had her hair swept back, with curls on one side, kind of unnatural. Mother brought out the Harris family histories, and we sat around the living room; but Shawna, who had majored in interior design, daydreamed and looked at Mom’s furnishings and made faces at some of the color arrangements. When Bob came he lounged on the sofa and talked about the demise of the Dallas Cowboys, not my favorite early summer subject. He had played linebacker at BYU. About all he could stop now was a bowl of chocolate pudding. At dinner he ate thirds of both casserole and salad. He was full of good cheer about his younger brother’s prospects in the Deseret News Marathon. Of course Bob didn’t run anymore. After they left I asked Mom what had happened to my sister and her family.
“What do you mean?”
“They seem different.”
“You’re the one who’s changed, Rick.”
“I have?”
“Yes, you’re a lot more serious now.”
“Really?”
Two months now. Michele and Shawna were gone, Dad was in Houston on business, Mom was playing golf in Provo—and I sat under the locust taking in the dance of monarch butterflies along the hedge. So peaceful, so quiet, so dull. I amused myself by considering that the Savior was never a “returned missionary.” I had come to distrust the phrase. His mission was a mere three years, and he never went back home with nothing to do. Returning from a mission was a personal loss. You had to go on from there—become a goshawk and keep flapping your wings. I decided to make myself useful by helping Dad. He wanted the locust limbs trimmed away from the chimney before summer school.
On the roof I caught my breath after tossing off limbs. Gracious, I was thin! Wiping my forehead I saw Sister Hunter, two backyards away, bent over a rototiller—just as I had seen her husband do. Oh—it struck me: Brother Hunter had died of a heart attack a few weeks into my mission. How could I—I hated to even think the word—forget? Certainly he still hoed his beets and flooded his yard. Had he and Sister Hunter made it to the temple? Since my little medical problem I saw the temple as the abode of Deity, the place where, whatever the need, one found solace. Mom and Dad had worked with them after Brother Hunter joined the Church. But I hadn’t heard the results. As I grew up Sister Hunter offered me candy and nursed a bruised knee. She used to give me ice cream bars and a hug.
I climbed down from the roof and walked quickly down the block and into the driveway leading to her fence. After catching my breath, I said, “It’s the carburetor.”
“This pesky machine,” she said, “I want to kick it.” She was not old, only about 65, a small woman with hair the color of a fresh Oregon waterfall. She liked to wear a white cardigan sweater in cooler weather. Her eyes were green. She had a small, doll-like mouth that gave an appearance of youth. She loved to make vegetables and flowers grow.
With a screwdriver I adjusted the carburetor. But the short, frayed cord came taut under my jerked pulls. Nothing happened. I checked the oil—nothing wrong. Sister Hunter hovered above me like a mother eagle, watching first here and then there. Finally I got a spark plug out of our own lawn mower and, after more tinkering, the rototiller started. She said, “You’re a wonder. I never could have done that.”
After tilling her garden, which was deftly situated between the bank of grapes and the gray shed in the back, I helped her hand weed the corn against the side fences. I hadn’t had this much fun with dirt since the preparation day in Salem when I helped Brother Goss tie up his tomatoes. After a few mornings weeding by hand, we stood by her prospering garden as water filled the rows. She smiled and said, “Wouldn’t Henry be proud?”
Several “situations”—she refused to call them problems—plagued Sister Hunter. The grimy red pickup gathered heat in the driveway, and the water pump had quit in her washing machine on the back porch. I asked Mike Nelson, a young acquaintance at church, to help me, and within a few days we had installed a new fuel line in her ancient pickup. We road tested it through town with Jack, Sister Hunter’s faded-blond retriever. He wasn’t much help when I stalled at the Suprette Market. All he did was hang his head and loll his tongue. We ended up at the back of the store giving him water out of a discarded paper cup. Back at Sister Hunter’s we guzzled lemonade while taking breaks from her washing machine. I bought some frozen cans of lemonade to replenish her supply—and threw in a small pot roast for good measure. Mike thought I was nuts, but I wanted to do it. I found out she hadn’t had a special Sunday dinner since her husband died. Sure enough, at church she invited us over, and I graciously declined, not wanting to negate my good deeds. But she insisted. The next Sunday we arrived, and I discovered the table set with stunning china and sparkling silverware, a bouquet of peonies, and the steaming roast. Afterward I teased her about such a nice meal. Then we listened to a tape of a general conference talk by Elder James E. Faust on temple work while Mike fell asleep on the couch.
The next Tuesday I cornered Mike in an aisle of Pay Mart with a brilliant idea.
“Clean every one of her windows?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Inside and out?”
“Sure. It’s a small house.”
“You’re out of your tree.”
“So?”
So we armed ourselves with squeegees, clean rags, and spray bottles of glass cleaner and assaulted Sister Hunter’s windows, Mike outside, me inside. Her place sparkled, not a book out of place, not a dog hair on the couch, the islands of throw rugs floating on the polished hardwood floors. I spied on a lamp table a photograph of her husband, taken years ago. It stood behind an opened Bible which had on it a red pencil and glasses and which lay on an intricate doily. A hallowed feeling lingered in the house.
Both Mike and I figured our small act of kindness was finished. But one afternoon as I drowsed under the locust and thought about Sister Hunter, a strong feeling came over me that we hadn’t done enough. Her pickup ran, her washing machine purred, her windows shone, and her garden was a showpiece, the cool upturned earth mellowing in the furrows. What more could we do?
By now summer school was heating up, and I was busy as an instructor in the elders quorum. For diversion I hiked a few miles above Strawberry Reservoir, until I was too tired to go on and had to return. In the solemn hours I picked out lonely love songs on my guitar. Then late one evening as Mom and I endured our brewer’s yeast milk shakes I asked her about the Hunters’ temple sealing. Mom shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. Since her husband died she has stayed pretty much to herself.”
That night, in the privacy of my room, I poured out my heart to the Lord for courage to finish our task.
On a Friday after class at the Y, without Mike, who was shopping for a quick-action .22, I found myself enjoying the pungent aroma of cut apples in Sister Hunter’s blue kitchen.
“I appreciate you and Mike so much,” she said over her apples. “I’m an old sourpuss, I know. I’m too set in my ways. Won’t even talk to Bishop Thompson that much, but the home teachers are a blessing. Those young rascals think I can’t do for myself. But I can.” She glanced up at me. “Since Henry passed away, I’ve had to.” She went back to slicing apples, their whiteness glistening under her knife. Then she stopped and looked up at me again. “I never had a more trying time than when I waited for Henry to join the Church. I thought he never would, and I kind of gave up. But through it all I had to stay true—true to what I felt. You know, you’re the first one to take a real interest. And I don’t know how to say thanks.”
Like the goshawk, Sister Hunter had fierce eyes. They were light like a hawk’s, but green. She had learned to take care of herself—to keep her eyes alive by the spirit of life. She had flown into the cold recesses of fear and come back. She had fought harsh winds and long boreal hours of loneliness. The contempt I had read in the goshawk’s eyes, as in Sister Hunter’s, was a disdain for giving up—for anything vulgar or hurtful—a disdain for anything that kept him from flying freely through his northern forests.
I told her thanks were not necessary, and then I said good-bye, without having asked her about going to the temple. In Grants Pass, Oregon, I had strenuously challenged a hardened truck driver to quit smoking and he did, but I had not yet brought up the matter of the temple with Sister Hunter because I hadn’t found the words. We had talked about the temple, and we had listened to the words of an Apostle, but just what I should say had not come to me, short of simply asking, “Why haven’t you gone to the temple?” Tomorrow I would ask her.
On the back porch she stopped me. “You wait here. I want to show you something.”
She came from the house with a flat, white box, tattered and crushed, but still with its lid. She sat down beside me and opened it. She lifted out a lace veil from the box.
“This was my mother’s temple veil.” The veil, pure and white, held a sacred aura.
Sister Hunter’s eyes were intense, sparkling. For some time we sat on the back porch steps. Quietly, still composing herself, she asked, “Would you—and your folks—come with me to the temple some day? If I am worthy? Would you stand in for Henry?”
“Need you ask?” I replied, in hushed voice. “Of course.”
For days I thought about Sister Hunter’s temple veil. I had spent too much time worrying about myself. I too wanted to attend the temple and consecrate my service. The goshawk, Dad said, had to keep flying, and it too, after long hours, must have wondered about going on, wondered how it might finish what it had started. Sister Hunter had somehow shown me the continuity I sought between my mission and my present life—simply by being available to serve.
A few days later, in the Provo Temple, I experienced an extraordinary event. As I participated in the ordinances of salvation a powerful thought came: covenant, covenant—the word echoed deeply. Covenant grows out of the faith that we can keep on going by serving others. I could fly out of the woods. The sensation I lived with before I spotted Sister Hunter from our roof was one of being lost in a dark woods, with no clear path for certainty, only the shadows of tall trees, and the sunny meadows behind me. I clearly envisioned my father’s goshawk, poised, eager, attentive, ready.
It was a special afternoon. I wanted to share the spirit of the temple with my parents—and especially Sister Hunter.
Outside the temple the air was fresh but warm. A couple, hand in hand, the man carrying a suitcase, strolled into the sunlight from under the white portico. I shouldered my blue canvas pack and walked down the hill. Utah Lake sparkled in the sunlight. The lake was incandescent. The mountains beyond shone faintly, hazed by a lingering mist. All of Provo became a green sea converted for a passage to the holy hills. Looking over this domain, I wished the goshawk might find, in his wanderings, such a place to light.

Giovanni closed the front door softly so that he wouldn’t wake his family. Though early in the morning, it was already warm in Sicily, the large island at the “toe” of the Italy “boot.” The air felt heavy and moist like a damp blanket. The street was quiet except for the sound of the boy’s footsteps as thoughts of last night’s family home evening swirled in his head.
Mama had read from her new Book of Mormon that was already showing signs of wear, “‘Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in my house; and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of Hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing that there shall not be room enough to receive it.’”* She’d stopped reading and stared blankly at the page.
Giovanni had looked down at his hands and said quietly, “Ever since we were baptized and started paying tithing, it seems like we’ve just gotten more problems.” His mother turned toward him, a look of surprise in her eyes, but he could not keep the words inside any longer. “Paying tithing didn’t keep Papa from losing his job, and it hasn’t given us the money we need. What good is paying tithing?”
The room was silent for a long time. Finally Papa spoke. “Giovanni, what if every time you obeyed a commandment, someone gave you a reward?”
“It would be easy to choose the right.”
“Too easy,” Papa added.
“But Heavenly Father wants us to choose the right so we can live with Him again.”
“Yes, He does,” Papa said. “But we must want to live with Him again, too—enough to choose the right even if we aren’t rewarded right away. And enough to avoid evil, even if it seems profitable. Heavenly Father won’t solve all our problems for us. But He will help us as we work to solve them.”
A dog barked from behind a wood fence, startling Giovanni as he walked, interrupting his thoughts. “I wish this problem would have been solved before I had to spend my summer looking for work,” he muttered to himself.
Jobs were scarce, especially for a boy. Everyone he asked had answered the same: “No.” Only one person would hire him—Tomaso. He had a reputation for never smiling—and for never keeping a worker more than one day.
Giovanni heard the bell tower’s deep bong. It was six o’clock, and Tomaso had been very clear that he was to arrive by six o’clock. Giovanni ran the last block to the Mercato Aperto (open air market). He found Tomaso already setting up under the dusty canvas canopy. He was a short, wiry man, though what he lacked in height, he made up for in his hands. Giovanni had never seen bigger hands. Tomaso easily hefted two full crates onto the rickety table.
“Finish these,” he said, motioning with his head.
Giovanni unloaded the crate of sanguinelle (blood oranges). They looked like any other orange on the outside, but on the inside, the fruit was a beautiful ruby red. Giovanni took a deep breath. The sweet, tangy odor mingled with the aroma of pollo allo spiedo (roast chickens) across the street and the pungent smell of olives floating in vinegar in the booth next door. Already people were milling about and vendors were shouting their wares in noisy competition for customers.
“Arancie, mille lire (oranges, a thousand lira),” Giovanni joined in.
“Due chili” (two kilos), answered a woman.
Giovanni placed a bag on the scale and began to fill it. Suddenly his eye caught the glint of something shiny among the oranges. He picked it up. It was a 500-lire coin, with silver edges around a brass center. He glanced around quickly. The woman was searching her purse for money. Tomaso was busy helping another customer. Giovanni slipped the coin into his pocket. He finished filling the bag and handed it to the woman.
The customers came one after another all morning long. Giovanni forgot about the coin until another gleam caught his eye. This time it was two 500-lire coins! That made 1,500 lire, half of what Tomaso had promised to pay him for a day’s work! Giovanni remembered what his father had said at family night, “Heavenly Father will help us as we work to solve our problems.” This must beHeavenly Father’s way of blessing us for paying tithing, he thought. But as he slipped the coins into his pocket, he felt that something was not right.
“That’s all for today,” Tomaso said shortly. “Let’s clean up.”
Giovanni tried to ignore the knot in his stomach as he boxed the remaining oranges and helped collapse the tables. He wished Tomaso would pay him so that he could get away.
“Three thousand lire,” Tomaso said gruffly, holding out three bills in his hand.
Giovanni reached for the money, then stopped. His father’s words echoed in his mind, “… avoid evil, even if it seems profitable.”
He slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out the three coins. “I found these today among the oranges. I don’t know who they belong to, but they do not belong to me.”
Tomaso stared at the coins for a moment. Then a smile began to turn up the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Giovanni,” he said, taking the coins from the boy’s small hand with his large one. “I thought I had lost them. They are part of my brother’s coin collection. They are not worth much beyond their face value, but they give my brother much pleasure. He is ill and has few pleasures, so I was distressed at losing them.”
Tomaso turned and put some oranges into a sack. He handed it to Giovanni with the lire bills. “You are not only a hard worker but honest. All the other boys I hired stole oranges from me. You not only returned my brother’s coins, but you also did not steal any fruit. I cannot afford to pay you more money, but I can give you this.”
Now it was Giovanni’s turn to smile. The terrible knot in his stomach had disappeared. He took the three bills and the sack Tomaso held out, and turned to go.
“Giovanni,” Tomaso said, “come again tomorrow—six o’clock sharp.”

In 1996, I received my mission call to serve as a full-time missionary and was assigned to the Philippines Bacolod mission. I was excited for my call and assignment and had to look on the globe at my sister’s house to find out where the Philippines was. In the Missionary Training Center they taught us Cebuano, one of the many dialects. Learning a new language was not the easiest for me. To my surprise, when I entered the mission field, I was assigned to an area where I had to learn and speak Hiligaynon, a totally different dialect than what we learned in the MTC. In my second area, the dialect was Aklanon, a third and completely different dialect from the first two. In my third area, I was to teach in Cebuano. Then, in my fourth and last area, I spoke and taught in Hiligaynon once again. Needless to say, the many dialects that I had to learn kept me humble and on my toes. One day, toward the end of my mission, our schedule for the day was full with teaching appointments and Book of Mormon readings. I was excited for the day and couldn’t wait to meet with the friends we made who were interested in learning about the gospel. At our first appointment, I felt something was missing. I realized I did not feel the Holy Ghost [as] I had felt it other times. I felt uneasy during our lessons as my connection to Heavenly Father was lost. I realized that I had become too comfortable in my own abilities to speak the language and was not relying on Heavenly Father as I taught that day. I prayed in my heart, begging the Lord to forgive me for my pride, and bless me with His spirit. At our next appointment, the same thing happened again. The Spirit was gone. I prayed even harder, asking the Lord to bless me with the Holy Ghost. I remember through the rest of the day having that same empty feeling. I was ashamed of my ego, which led to damaging my connection to the Spirit. Finally, I humbled myself deeper and told the Lord, I knew that I was nothing without Him, and I could not continue to do His work without His Spirit. When I got home that night, praying on my knees, I asked Heavenly Father to bless me with even a portion of His Spirit so I could be a better instrument in His hands. The next day, I continued to have that prayer in my heart, and as my companion and I taught, I was filled with joy as I could feel the Holy Ghost witness to the truth of what we were teaching.

In the past I’ve always had very negative feelings about myself. I would always complain to my friends about how ugly I looked that day, how fat I was, how messy my hair was, and so on. One day this began to change.
I had a wonderful friend named Holly. She was a great listener and just fun to be around. She gave me a note after school one day, and on the envelope it said, “Don’t open until you get home!” Of course, my curiosity grew, and I wanted to open it very badly. But I decided to wait until I got home so that I could really read it.
I wondered what this letter contained. I thought of the worst things she could have written. I got home and opened the letter. It said that I was a good person and that I should always remember I am someone special. She had written out a list of all the good things she saw in me. I read this letter and wondered how I had let these qualities go unnoticed. By giving me that list in her letter, Holly helped me develop a better opinion of myself. She helped me remember that I am a child of God and that he loves me.
I think Satan would like us to believe that we are not worthwhile. When we don’t value ourselves, we end up doing things we will later regret.
The Lord loves us and always will. I now know that he doesn’t just look at our weaknesses. He also sees our strengths. I know, thanks to a letter from Holly, that I am someone special and that Heavenly Father loves me.