Gospel Story Finder

I bought the first one several years ago in a drugstore in Alexandria, Virginia. At 77¢, it was the least pretentious bound notebook I could find. At the time, I didn’t know I was starting a journal. I only knew I needed a place to organize my thoughts.
Before then, I had written ideas on any convenient scrap of paper—on the backs of tithing slips, on church programs, in small spaces on calendars. As I lost those bits of paper, I lost my only record of my best insights. The time had come to make them more lasting.
From grade school through high school I had kept diaries, but the small, hand-size pages didn’t allow for long entries. And the word diary on the front seemed too lofty, like the record an explorer would keep of an Antarctic exploration. I wrote only the activities of my life in them, never my thoughts. (A typical entry: “Today I did horrible on my history test, but tonight Mike in my French class called me.”)
There was little emotional substance to those entries, but at least they were entries. Regrettably, as l attended college, I became “too busy” to keep a diary.
Therefore, when I bought the 77¢ notebook, I wasn’t thinking “diary” or “journal.” I was just tired of losing those insights that would make good Sunday School talks. As I wrote in that first notebook, I was fascinated by how easily words came. I began looking forward to writing in my notebook at night. Sometimes during the day I would write myself a note about ideas to record that night. Some mornings I awoke before dawn and wrote fervently for five minutes or even an hour, undisturbed by the need to get up and get dressed. Some nights I wrote several entries; some nights I wrote none.
I liked the inexpensive notebooks because I wasn’t afraid to make mistakes in them, or to write about the mistakes I made in living. I began setting aside time to write. I wrote in the same place—curled up on the sofa, by the lamp. I recorded in the margins events that were significant, such as a new car or the date of my cat’s vaccinations. The actual writing space was used to record my reactions to the day, my observations and conclusions.
It was only when I went back to the drugstore several months later to buy another notebook that I realized I was keeping a journal. I decided to give the series of notebooks a name: Janet. The first volume, Janet 1, hadn’t exactly assumed journal form, since I had dated few entries, and none mentioned daily activities and impressions. As I realized I was keeping a journal, I modified the format so that I would at least know what day each entry was written.
It became interesting, too, to note where I was each day I wrote. No matter where I went—on trips or to stay with nearby friends—I found that I was the same person, with the same personality.
When I was visiting a friend once, I realized the journal’s potential for encouraging spiritual and emotional growth. After hours of bantering with a philosophy student who wanted to argue about the gospel, I wrote a long entry about my beliefs. Putting it on paper was like testifying. That night, as I wrote with a purple felt-tipped pen, I realized how open and honest I was with my journal—probably more candid than I was with any friend. Because of my frustration with my ability to think and express myself I wrote: “My brain has been like a vacuum cleaner, sucking in all sorts of garbage and dirt. And gold dust. So I must empty the bag and sort out the particles one by one until only the gold dust is left.”
Writing out my ideas gave me a chance to analyze them. Sometimes, in writing, I realized that my attitudes were based on selfishness or faulty judgment. Other times I was glad to realize that my ideas were sound.
Sometimes I found myself laughing out loud at my reactions to the traumas of each day. Once on a bad day I wrote “PHOOEY” in letters 15 spaces high. It helped.
I started titling each entry. One of my favorite titles—and favorite entries—came when I was trying to develop greater faith. That title was “Doubt Creeps in and Janet Strikes Back.” Some titles reflect a calmer attitude. One in Janet 3, “On Days and Nights and Things I Love,” leads into a paragraph I love to reread:
“I love nights that are chilly and clear, when I can see the stars and talk aloud under them. And I love early mornings, being up, being alive, and being outside on a day that is only starting. I love new beginnings that are just getting organized. And clean sheets, clean nightgown, clean body, clean hair, and a reason to be happy. I love the world when my soul brims with hope.”
My soul doesn’t always brim with hope. Sometimes it brims with frustration. When that’s the case, I can look back to the rejuvenating entry I wrote that September night. I can find encouragement from another entry, written soon after that one: “When I can understand what I’m going through, I find that endurance becomes easier.”
Not every entry is profound or even interesting. But each, in its own way, traces my daily conversion to the gospel, my struggles with myself, and my delight with each line-upon-line discovery of living. Each helps the others assume clearer perspective. Not only does each entry reflect my life, but it affects and becomes part of my life.
It was during Janet 4, when my best friend moved, that I wrote: “I hurt too much to write.” And it was during Janet 5, after I had written a thoughtless letter that hurt a friend, that I wrote in my journal: “Through the many confusing voices that ring through my mind, one calming voice pervades and tells me the whole matter will be of no consequence.” After writing about that “calming voice,” I listened to it more carefully. The “voice” was right; when I later asked the friend to forgive me, he said he already had.
One day, when I felt that life was picking on me, I started what has become a tradition. I wrote an entry titled “Things I Am Thankful For.” It amazed me that day, as it still does, how varied and plentiful are my blessings, and how obscure and sometimes even humorous are my trials.
Through moves from one side of the United States to the other, through vacations, through each peak and plateau, the volumes of my journal have been a constant, a friend, tucked on a bookshelf or into a suitcase along with my copies of the scriptures. They have become a vehicle for working out personal answers for the curious challenges of each day.
I thought, at the beginning of the journal keeping, that I would neatly record my most profound thoughts, making them more accessible when I had to give sacrament meeting talks. Once or twice I have used a journal for that, but it’s far from the full benefit. The journal isn’t a reference book about my life, nor does it map my life. It isn’t a status chart; it’s a dynamic, if rough, artwork.
The Janet series is steaming ahead in its 15th volume. Some volumes span a year, and others a few months. I am the only person who has read all of them, and I may keep it that way—for a few decades, at least. The volumes have graduated from inexpensive notebooks to actual hardback books with blank pages. I have to confess—I bought a leather-bound journal last time (but it was on sale). And I did make quite a concession on the journal before that; it actually says “Journal” on the cover!

Thomas Carlyle lived from 1795 until 1881. He was a Scot essayist and historian. During his lifetime he became one of the world's greatest writers. But he was a human, and humans make mistakes.

On October 17, 1826, Carlyle married his secretary Jane Welsh. She was an intelligent, attractive, and somewhat temperamental daughter of a well-to-do doctor. They had their quarrels and misunderstandings, but still loved each other dearly. After their marriage, Jane continued to serve as his secretary. After several years of marriage, Jane became ill. Being a hard worker, Carlyle became so absorbed in his writings that he let Jane continue working for several weeks after she became ill. She had cancer, and it was one of the slow growing kind. Finally, she became confined to her bed. Although Carlyle loved her dearly, he very seldom found time to stay with her long. He was busy with his work.

When Jane died they carried her to the cemetery for the service. The day was a miserable day. It was raining hard, and the mud was deep. Following the funeral Carlyle went back to his home. He was taking it pretty hard. He went up the stairs to Jane's room and sat down in the chair next to her bed. He sat there thinking about how little time he had spent with her and wishing so much he had a chance to do it differently. Noticing her diary on a table beside the bed, he picked it up and began to read in it.

Suddenly he seemed shocked. He saw it. There, on one page, she had written a single line. "Yesterday he spent an hour with me and it was like heaven; I love him so." Something dawned on him that he had not noticed before. He had been too busy to notice that he meant so much to her. He thought of all the times he had gone about his work without thinking about and noticing her.

Then Carlyle turned the page in the diary. There he noticed written some words that broke his heart. "I have listened all day to hear his steps in the hall, but now it is late and I guess he won't come today." Carlyle read a little more in the book. Then he threw it down and ran out of the house. Some of his friends found him at the grave, his face buried in the mud. His eyes were red from weeping. Tears continued to roll down his cheeks. He kept repeating over and over again, "If I had only known, if I had only known." But it was too late for Carlyle. She was dead. (11)

Perhaps it was this experience that motivated Thomas Carlyle to write the phrase, "The greatest of faults is to be conscious of none." We would, indeed, be foolish if we saw no need to improve ourselves to strengthen our marriages.

In regards to the first facet of living our lives in such a way that we are able to receive guidance, I am reminded of a story related as follows by Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone:

“Some time ago, I had the privilege of being involved with a young man and his father. The youth and a friend had been hiking in the foothills near Cody, Wyoming. The friend jumped across a high power line that was down, but the young man got tangled in it and was electrocuted. The friend ran all the way back down to where the father lived (and it wasn’t a short distance) and told the father that his son had been electrocuted and was dead. The father, who was not a young man, ran all the way back up, taking about fifteen minutes. When he got to where the boy was lying across the wires, he managed somehow to remove the youth from the wires with a board or a large stick. Then he picked his son up in his arms and held him, blessing him by the power and authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood, and commanded the boy to live. The dead boy opened his eyes and talked with his father.”7

Elder Featherstone, when commenting on this experience, said that this miracle could not have been performed or granted from the Lord if the father was not living in such a way as to be worthy to use his priesthood power. When we live obedient lives, the Lord can perform miracles through us.

Even before the Church was organized, Hyrum, Joseph’s older brother by five years, knew the truthfulness of what Joseph was teaching and reporting. He wanted to do his part and hoped and pled to be called as a missionary. I believe that you will want to study carefully the entire 11th section of the Doctrine and Covenants, which is the answer given by the Lord through Joseph Smith to Hyrum’s entreaty. A useful exercise is to count the number of times in these verses that Hyrum is told that his work is to “keep the commandments.” Let me just repeat part of the oft-quoted verse that must have been both a test and a trial for Hyrum.

“Seek not to declare my word, but first seek to obtain my word” (D&C 11:21). I suppose, had Hyrum been inclined, that he could have been just as offended as were Oliver and others when Joseph, acting in his role as president and prophet, had to tell them the hard truth as well. To Hyrum’s everlasting credit, in spite of his initial disappointment that he was not to be a missionary at that time, he stood by Joseph and received the blessings God reserves for those most loyal and trusted. These blessings included, less than a year later, the exact opportunity that Hyrum had initially sought (see D&C 23:3).

Not long ago I was in a country that has had missionaries only in the last 15 years or so. The member of the church who was driving me to a meeting made a comment as we drove past a cathedral. “That’s where I first felt the Spirit” he said. He went on to explain, “When I was a boy I went in that cathedral and as I was looking at the paintings and thinking about Jesus I suddenly knew that he was real and that what I had heard about him was not just a fable but was true.” He said that years later when the missionaries came he felt the same thing again as they taught him. He learned the truth by the Spirit and loved the truth. It has made all the difference in his life. He has an eternal marriage and is finding true joy raising his young family.

During my tour aboard the USS West Virginia, a call came for an officer who spoke Portuguese to go on a three-week exchange with the Brazilian Navy. I was the only one in the submarine force who spoke Portuguese.
My initial feeling was not to go. I had just finished a three-month patrol and was looking forward to seeing my family, but the exchange would not leave my mind. I turned to Heavenly Father in prayer, received a strong answer that I should go, and accepted the assignment.
The arrangements proved fraught with hurdles. At one point I felt like giving up. I thought, “How important could this be?” The Holy Ghost, however, prompted me to push ahead.
Illustration by Allen Garns
Finally, after several delays, I arrived on a Brazilian ship. When I was escorted to the officers’ dining room, the ship’s captain was yelling and pointing his finger at a young officer. The captain saw me, stopped, and said in broken English, “Ah, my American friend has arrived. Welcome. May I offer you something to drink?”
I responded in Portuguese that I would love a popular Brazilian soft drink I hadn’t tasted since my mission. He told me the ship had all kinds of liquor on board, but I stated I did not drink alcohol.
Later a knock came at my cabin. When I opened the door, there stood the young officer from the dining room.
“You are an American,” he said. “You do not drink alcohol. You speak Portuguese. Could it be that you are a Mormon?”
“Yes, I am,” I responded.
He threw his arms around me and broke down sobbing.
This officer, Lt. Mendes, was a fairly new convert and a recent graduate of the Brazilian Naval Academy. On board the ship, he quickly learned that the captain expected him to share in the wild lifestyle of the officers when visiting ports. Instead, Lt. Mendes constantly volunteered for “in-port duty” and otherwise skipped port-of-call activities. The captain grew weary of this. When I entered the dining hall, he was yelling at Lt. Mendes for not joining in.
“You will go out with the officers during our next port of call,” he had ordered the lieutenant. “You will show the visiting American officer what it is like to have a good time. He will expect that of us.”
For months, Lt. Mendes had been praying that his captain would understand and accept his principles. With my arrival, discussion of the gospel became the center of most conversations in the dining room. We talked with the other officers about Joseph Smith, the Restoration, the Word of Wisdom, and the law of chastity. Feelings toward Lt. Mendes soon changed. The officers removed the openly displayed pornography, and at the next port we all enjoyed a meal together at a restaurant instead of going to a club.
Near the end of my three weeks onboard, and after many discussions with the captain and officers about our beliefs, the men softened their hearts. “Now I understand,” the captain told Lt. Mendes before I left, adding that he would no longer ask him to go against his principles.
I will never forget this experience. Lt. Mendes and I learned that our Father in Heaven knows us individually, loves us, and is concerned with our personal lives.

As a full-time missionary I have the opportunity to read the Liahona (Spanish) and to share copies with others.
One time, my companion and I were approached by a young man who asked if we would give him any copies of the Liahona we had finished reading. He explained that he likes to read the Liahona because he learns much from the experiences and counsel published in the magazine.
As we left to get him a copy, we asked him which ward he belonged to. He replied that he was not a member of the Church but had been reading the Liahona for quite some time because members of the local branch had shared it with him. We asked if he wanted to know more about the Church, and eventually, after hearing the missionary discussions, he was baptized.
This new convert continues to read the Liahona because, as he says, the words of the prophets “really apply to our lives.” The messages in the Liahona are not just for members; they are for everyone.
Elder Moctezuma Meza,México Guadalajara Mission

Such diligence in scripture reading had not been a long-established habit in our family. Perhaps we were not much different from many other families in the Church when it came to studying the scriptures. We knew we should study the scriptures; we wanted to study the scriptures, but we had never had much success in our attempts. Finally, we decided to dedicate ourselves to gaining a habit of scripture reading. To help us in achieving this goal, we adopted an approach presented by Carvel Whiting, our stake Sunday School president.
His method was simple. He made the habit of reading something each day the primary objective of his program. The goal was to establish an attitude, to raise the scriptures in our awareness. He did not specify how much we should study each day, nor did he suggest that we study in a specific way. We were simply encouraged to read the scriptures every day, no matter how briefly, and to keep a record of how many consecutive days we had read, even if we read only one verse.
Using this simple approach, we could read a few verses or ten pages on any given day. We could read through the scriptures chapter by chapter, or we could study topics. We could use this time to read our assignment for next week’s Sunday School lesson. We could vary from time to time—reading the chapters in sequence, but occasionally skipping to another section of the scriptures or focusing on a specific topic. We could even set a secondary goal to read a chapter a day (or half an hour, or five pages), but if we did not always meet that secondary goal, we were still having success and maintaining our daily scripture study habit as long as we read even one verse during the day.
We found that keeping a record of the number of consecutive days we read gave us a useful and flexible system for motivation and positive reinforcement. Specific numbers of consecutive days (for example, 10 days, 30 days, 50 days, 100 days, 200 days, 365 days) could be identified as milestones, at which we earned some form of reward or recognition in the family. The frequency and nature of the rewards could vary according to the age or maturity of the participants. For example, we had a fairly young family, so we had some type of simple treat every ten days for the younger children.
The program gave our family the motivation we needed to get started. During the first two years we used this approach, our family missed reading the scriptures together only twice. Three of us have passed the 365 day mark, and the record in our family for an individual is held by our oldest son, Tommy, who read 446 consecutive days before missing—during the time he was eight and nine years old. Our two oldest children, Lori and Tommy, have now read the Book of Mormon, the Pearl of Great Price, and the book of Genesis, and are well into the New Testament.

Divine messengers attended the dedicatory services of the Kirtland Temple on March 27, 1836. After the dedicatory prayer was read, Frederick G. Williams arose “and testified that midway during the prayer an Holy Angel came and seated Himself in the stand.” Heber C. Kimball could see the personage from where he sat, describing him as “very tall . . . [with] black eyes, white hair, and stoop shouldered; his garment was whole, extending to near his ankles; on his feet he had sandals. He was sent as a messenger to accept of the dedication.” After a midday adjournment, the first thing Joseph Smith did was announce to those assembled that “the Personage who had appeared in the morning was the Angel Peter [who] had come to accept the dedication.”

A year before the experience related above took place, before he had even heard of the Latter-day Saints, Parley was newly married, had a fifty-acre farm, comfortable house, productive orchard, and beautiful garden. But he sensed something lacking. He studied the Bible and wanted to know more; there must be a restoration of the gospel, he believed. He did not know that it had already occurred but decided to leave his farm and his home to search for the true Church. His older brother William remonstrated with him. “How will you live?” he asked. Parley said he had enough bank notes to sustain himself and his family. These notes, he said, were “founded on capital that will never fail, though heaven and earth should pass away.” His brother asked to see them. Parley records:
“I then unlocked my treasury and drew from thence a large pocket book, full of promissory notes like the following: ‘Whosoever shall forsake father or mother, brethren or sister, houses or lands, wife or children, for my sake and the gospel’s, shall receive an hundred fold in this life, and in the world to come life everlasting.’ ‘If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, you shall ask what you will in my name and I will give it you.’ ‘All things are possible to him that believeth.’”9
Parley then asked his brother if these were genuine notes, if the “signer” of the notes, the Lord Jesus Christ, was able and willing to meet his promises. “Yes” was the only reply William could give. So in August of 1830 Parley settled his affairs, and with ten dollars in his pocket, took his wife and set out in search of the kingdom of God.
He discovered, as all missionaries can, that the Lord does pay off his notes.

What made this work so effective was the opportunity it presented for friendships to develop between members of the Church and open-minded individuals behind the Iron Curtain. In 1975 I visited Kiev, Ukraine, as a participant in round-table discussions relating to archival matters. After one social event held outside the city, the participants boarded a bus for the long ride back into Kiev. One of the conference translators sat next to me. Because of the lateness of the hour, almost everyone soon fell asleep. At that moment he turned to me and asked if I were a Mormon.
His question took me by surprise. Who in Eastern Europe in 1975 would know about the Church and have the courage to inquire? I asked why he would pose such a question. He said he had met a member of the Church once at a conference. What he observed in me reminded him of his previous acquaintance. We spent several nights in rewarding conversation.
I do not know who that member of the Church was, but his example had made a lasting impression on this man. Individual members of the Church, through the power of their personal examples, introduce the gospel long before the Church is able to officially establish its presence.

Yvette gets up at 4:00 A.M. every day to study for school, which starts at 7:00 A.M.. Once, getting good grades seemed impossible to her. “When I used to study, I was never able to remember and understand the things I was studying,” she said. “When I had tests, I’d get very nervous and not remember anything. My father told me that before I study and before taking tests, I should pray. When I follow his advice, I always do better. Before I started praying about my studies, I was never one of the better students in my class, but now I’m in third or fourth place in the whole school.”

When she awoke the old woman was immediately alert. From her bed on the dirt floor she looked toward the east window, trying to guess the time by the amount of light seeping through the cracks around the curtain. My sister the sun must be lazy today, she decided, throwing the blankets off. The Two Who Have Something to Say had stayed quite late last night, talking and answering questions, and perhaps she had overslept. At the window next to the door she saw gray clouds sitting where the sunrise should have been. She must get the sheep out soon. Late October was too early for a very big storm, she reasoned as she rolled up the bedding.
Quickly she washed at the washstand below the window, then stoked the potbellied stove, and put a kettle of water on to boil. From a cloth bundle on the metal cabinet near the stove she took a large piece of fry bread and placed it on the warm edge of the stove top.
After changing from her night dress into a long, full-tiered skirt and velvet blouse, anklets and oxfords, she paused by the overstuffed chair to tidy things. The Two Who Have Something to Say had left some small booklets for her to read and a larger, thicker volume with a blue cover. There was a picture of a gold statue on it, a man blowing a long horn. “The Book of Mormon,” the lettering read.
Next to the armchair was an apple-box bookcase, overflowing with her beloved books. Raymond, her youngest son, had promised seven years ago to replace the boxes with real shelves, but he was married now and lived across the wash to the west, about a mile from the highway. He had a demanding wife, and they were both drinking. The old woman knew she would never have another bookcase. She sighed when she thought of Raymond.
The whistling teakettle called her to the stove. From the metal cabinet she took a box of tea bags. Then she remembered the Fair One with Sky in His Eyes had said “Sister Ashton, tea isn’t good for you every day. It should be used only as a medicine.” It surprised her.
“Why should it matter?” she had asked. “I am an old woman. Will God deny a small pleasure?” He had smiled as he replied, “To obey is not a small thing.” She put the box back into the cupboard.
Instead, she put sugar and evaporated milk in the hot water and found that it warmed her just as well. The warmed-over fry bread tasted good. She thought of last night, sharing it with the Two Who Have Something to Say. The Fair One with Sky in His Eyes, whose name was Elder Wilson, told her of a prophet, Joseph Smith, and the book that contained a history of her people. The missionaries she had known as a girl, the Ones Who Wear Long Coats, had told her some confusing things, and the Ones Who Wear Short Coats had baffled her as well, although nothing as curious as this.
These young men, these Mormons, spoke of things that touched her soul deeply. They told her how her family could be together again in another life because of Jesus, why she must learn this new law of health, and that a man who spoke with heaven was at the head of the Church. As they left after the meal and the talk and the prayers, she had said, “You speak of many hopeful things, but I am an old woman, perhaps too old to change my ways.” The taller one, Elder Jordan, had replied, “Sister Ashton, our Father in Heaven loves you and wants you to become as a little child and follow him.” He gestured toward the shelves. “Your many books may bring you great knowledge and the wisdom of this world, but they can never give you peace of mind.” After assuring her that they would return in a few days, they went out into the night. They are only young men, but they are as wise as grandfathers, she marveled as she heard their car move slowly out of her yard.
When the old woman had finished eating, she brushed her hair and wound it into a knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with a piece of silver hair jewelry encrusted with turquoise. Then she placed her bedroll by the loom in the unheated part of the hogan, which was separated by blankets hanging over the poles that supported the thick dirt roof. Hanging on the wall along the south side of the hogan, obscured by the blankets from the rest of the room, were pictures of her family—Alvin in his Army uniform, Evelyn at her wedding, Patrick’s twins, Priscilla’s high school graduating class, even her husband Tom a year before his death.
She lingered over the last picture of her seven children taken three years ago at the Navajo Fair in Window Rock. That was before Jonathan’s death in an auto accident on the Shiprock Road. Her daughter Donna was married to a white man from Holbrook, and he always took pictures. At first the old woman thought it was silly, but now, seeing Jonathan again, she was glad. Beside the picture hung a piece of paper in a metal frame: “This is to certify that Jonathan Ashton has earned the Doctor of Medicine degree and is qualified to practice.” She did not know which was the greater sadness, Raymond’s drinking or Jonathan’s young life wasted. As she took her wool blanket off a hanger dangling from a nail on the wall, she wondered if Jonathan would have approved of the Two Who Have Something to Say.
Outside the door, the woman adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, took the staff she had left leaning against the hogan yesterday, and made her way along the well-worn paths around the clumps of sagebrush and cactus toward the corral. My sister the sun is still hiding, she thought, but in the fall she often plays this game. The clouds in the west looked as if they would soon disperse.
The corral was far enough south of the hogan that the old woman couldn’t hear the sheep until she was halfway there. There were 50 in the herd now, including 15 lambs which would bring a good price at the market next spring. The rest would be ready for shearing by then, too. She was already planning how to spend the money. Some would go to Jonathan’s son, Edward, at school in Phoenix; she had great hopes for him. And some would go for a book about needlework.
The corral, some 20 feet square, was made of poles three to four inches in diameter. There was a gate on the north side. The entire structure looked flimsy and ill-suited to its purpose, but as long as the bellwether was with them, the rest of the sheep stayed, even if the gate was open. A large stack of baled hay stood on the east side, far enough away so the sheep couldn’t nibble at it through the fence.
Now that her own children were grown, the old woman sometimes thought of the sheep as her children, and she greeted them with terms of endearment. Some even had names. The bellwether was Hozhoji—“happiness.” He was sure and dependable, knew where to lead the herd almost before she directed him, and when she was tired at the end of the day, he knew the way home. He made her happy.
As she opened the gate, the bellwether nuzzled her hand, then hurried on to take his place at the lead, his bell clanging with authority. He started north, but she stopped him and turned the herd south. The area near the spring had the best pasture, and it was only a few miles away.
As she walked, she noted the condition of the sky, listened to the jays chatter and scream at each other from the junipers along the way, and laughed at the clumsy lambs trying to catch their mothers immobile and get a few gulps of milk. After two miles they crossed the rutted road, continued another mile till they came to a slight incline. From the top she could see the spring in the valley below. The sheep could smell the water and hurried down to drink and then feed on the succulent greenery nearby. A rock outcropping about halfway down the hill made a perfect vantage point for watching all the sheep as they grazed. My mother the earth is very generous, the old woman thought, as she made her way to the rock. The spring and summer had brought more rain than usual, and the pasture was rich.
Sitting there, the old woman could see south toward the dry river bed, wandering aimlessly, following the path of least resistance. It was probably three miles across the valley floor to the red clay cliffs on the other side. The few cedars growing in the valley seemed lonely. The scene was still as an oil painting, but the old woman knew this high desert land was teeming with jackrabbits, small rodents, snakes, and even deer and antelope who crept down to the spring from their hiding places in the thick undergrowth higher up. Three miles northeast, hidden behind the end of the mesa, was a trading post. The old woman could hear the wind and the faint bleating of the sheep, but nothing else.
She found herself thinking again of the Two Who Have Something to Say and anticipating their next visit. The young men seemed so certain of what they said. Whenever they spoke of the book with the blue cover they said, “I know,” as if the knowing were a secret waiting to be discovered. But they told her how they could be so sure. “I have prayed, Sister Ashton,” Elder Jordan said, “and the answer came with such power I can never deny it.” Elder Wilson added, “Our Father knows what we need, but he waits for us to ask before he gives it.”
She could not explain why she was so moved by what these young men said. She had studied other religions before. Many years ago when she attended a Christian boarding school near Ganado, nothing any of the priests or ministers said ever affected her this way. Now she was an old woman, sure of herself, wise, experienced. Being a grandmother satisfied her; her opinions were always sought, always important. If she went the way of the Mormons, it would be like starting all over again in many ways. Her children and grandchildren might think that her mind had slipped away from her and that she had become foolish. Anyway, she hadn’t even read their book yet. And she was an old woman. Perhaps …
A sudden gust of strong wind broke the old woman’s reverie. She stood to judge the northern sky and saw black, puffy clouds billowing over the hill behind her, almost near enough to touch. Never had she seen a storm move so fast. Fearful for the lambs, she hurried down the hill, calling for Hozhoji as she went. He was obedient, but some of the other sheep were reluctant to leave and had to be prodded on their way. By the time she had disengaged the last lamb, the bellwether was at the top of the hill and setting a brisk pace. Anxious and panting, but not daring to stop and catch her breath, the old woman hurried on behind the sheep. As snowflakes began to fall, the wind got stronger. Some of the sheep stopped here and there to graze, but she scolded them like a mother with naughty children, and they scurried on.
The flakes thickened, the wind began to howl, and the old woman’s anxiety grew. Then suddenly she was within sight of the corral, and Hozhoji was leading the herd inside. Now they were safe. A quick head count told her all were there. She counted the lambs twice to be sure and closed the gate. Before she had taken three steps she realized that if the storm were to last very long, she might not be able to get out to feed them. She dragged a bale of hay from the stack, opened the gate and pushed it into the corral. The sheep were settled and quiet now, huddled together for protection. By the time she had struggled the second bale into the corral, the storm was directly upon her, snowflakes pelting her face and stinging with the force of the wind. She counted the sheep once more, made sure the gate was closed securely, and began her journey to the hogan, planning carefully as she made her way through the swirling flakes.
The south side of the corral was no longer visible. She tried to remember small landmarks along the way, but one clump of sagebrush soon began to look like another and she was no longer sure. Hoping to reorient herself, she turned toward the corral, but in turning she stumbled and fell. When she recovered she was alone in the blizzard, unable to see beyond the length of her arm. She knelt there trying to think clearly. She knew she was on the north side of the corral, and if she went straight north she would come to the hogan. But which way was north? A little to the left? Slightly to the right? Too much one way or the other and she might miss the hogan and wander for hours, perhaps in circles, perhaps passing near a sheltered place but not being able to see it.
In a subtle flash, the face of the Fair One with Sky in His Eyes came into her mind. “Our Father in Heaven loves you … become as a little child,” he was saying. But I am a grandmother, she thought. “Little child … little child,” his voice echoed again. She bowed her head.
“Oh Lord,” she whispered through the furious gale, “I am lost. Never have I been lost before. Only you can see through this storm. I know you love all living things, but if you want me to live, you will have to guide me home. You are the only way I can get there.”
Suddenly, in the midst of the storm, she was calm. It was as if a hand had touched her shoulder, for an overwhelming warmth ran through her. Then there was a sound at her side, and she turned to find the bellwether.
“Hozhoji!” she cried. Puzzled for a moment, she hugged the ram’s woolly neck. She distinctly remembered locking the gate. He tossed his head restlessly and nudged her hand. Then she understood.
“He sent you!” she whispered.
She got to her feet, fixed her fingers firmly around the bell strap, and patted the sheep. “Take me home, Hozhoji.”
Carefully, instinctively, the sheep led her to the hogan door, then disappeared into the storm.
Once inside, the woman dropped the blanket from her shoulders. The deep lines of her wrinkled, leathery face seemed to lift and brighten. Never had she felt so loved. Briefly she saw the face of Elder Wilson saying, “Our Father knows what we need, but he waits for us to ask.” Sinking to her knees, she whispered a prayer of thanksgiving.
“Oh God! Praise God! I feel you near me, my Father! Jesus, my Brother, I know you now!” And she put her face in her hands and wept.
Presently the weeping ceased. The old woman dried her tears. Then she arose, went to the old overstuffed chair, and sat down to read the book with the blue cover.

An Evening at the Luzern Opera
With you, I have observed the Awake and Arise Pattern followed in the birthing process of those being born again. In fact, most of us have experienced this patterned process ourselves. The mission field is the great delivery room for the souls of men and women, and the mission field is all around us. When we are able to bring the pattern of our own gifts of the Spirit to the assistance of someone tracing the Born-Again or Awake and Arise Pattern, the convergence is memorable. I participated in such a divinely engineered convergence in the early spring of 1988 at the Luzern Opera House in Switzerland.

The office staff of the Switzerland Zürich Mission had taken the evening off to enjoy a performance of Verdi’s Rigoletto. We were the guests of LDS baritone Brian Montgomery, who would be singing the role of Rigoletto.

Following the first act, the manager of the theater made his way to our little group chatting in the foyer. Looking at my name tag, he asked if I were the “Herr Präsident of the Mormon Church.”

Bemused at my sudden elevation, I affirmed that I was indeed the “Herr Präsident of the Mormon Church’s Swiss Mission.”

He explained that Herr Montgomery had requested our services and then asked with some urgency that I accompany him, which I did, taking my assistants, Elders Steven McGhie and Scott Smith, with me. As we made our way backstage to the women’s dressing room, he explained that Miss Marina Jajic, the soprano playing the role of Gilda, had become seriously ill and would be unable to continue her performance. He had been about to call the house physician but was prevented by “Herr Montgomery, of your faith,” he explained, “who insists that the Präsident of the Mormon Church say a prayer over Miss Jajic and make her well—so, if you would be so kind . . .”

Suddenly apprehensive, we followed him into a corner of the dressing room where Miss Jajic—an attractive, heavily made-up, and deathly pale young woman—sat slumped in a corner chair looking like a Gilda who had already fallen victim to the assassin’s dagger. I introduced ourselves to her and learned from her labored and whispered responses in broken German that she was from Yugoslavia, spoke little German but more English, believed in Jesus Christ, and, yes, she knew he could heal her. She slumped back against the chair, and Elder McGhie anointed her head with oil from a key-chain vial.

It was a scenario at once strange yet familiar. Here, in a woman’s dressing room in a Swiss opera house, an American LDS mission president from Provo, together with two Mormon elders from Alpine, Utah, and Bettendorf, Iowa, were unexpectedly retracing the Lord’s pattern of the laying on of hands to administer to the sick in behalf of a deathly ill Roman Catholic soprano from Yugoslavia who desperately needed to be made well on this important evening of her musical career.

We laid on hands, anointed, and then sealed the anointing according to the ancient pattern, which I had traced several hundred times before. I had come to know my gift and what I might expect. I brought to that moment a confidence in a long-established pattern of blessing the Saints. As I began the sealing portion of the ordinance, I was unsettled by the distracting hubbub of the busy dressing room, for I feared that the Spirit would not come with the power I had been pleading for in the last few minutes. Suddenly someone turned off the hubbub switch, and I felt, moving through my hands and up my arms, a tingling faith flowing from this woman. Simultaneously I felt the old, familiar “Go”: the thrill up the spine, the electric flash across the forehead, the chill across my shoulder blades—signs I had known well and often. I knew my role; I stepped back and let the Spirit take command. From some recess in my soul the words welled up to give utterance and translation into English of those clear but ineffable impressions affirmed by the Holy Ghost in behalf of this lovely, talented, and deathly ill woman, who looked like one who ought to be on the way to the hospital and not into the rigors of act 2. Then I heard myself say, “It is the will of God, Marina, that you be healed, at once! Be healed!” And then: “You will begin to regain strength immediately; you will experience an amazing recovery; and you will not only continue your performance this evening, but you will sing and act magnificently.” Then, the words of healing pronounced, I suddenly saw on my internal video the implications of this evening; I saw that all that had happened, including our presence at that theater on that night, was also part of the Awake and Arise Pattern that, unbeknown to Marina, she was even now beginning to trace. The mission president reasserted himself, and I editorialized: “As you reflect later on the miracle of this evening, you will understand that this blessing comes by way of the power of God through his Son, Jesus Christ, whose representatives we are. And you will desire to learn about Christ’s purposes for you in mortality and will seek out his Church, which has been restored to earth for the purpose of blessing you and all mankind.”

I concluded the administration. Then someone turned the switch and the hubbub, which apparently had never stopped, flowed about us once again. Marina did not take up her bed and walk. Instead, she mumbled her thanks, her eyes still partially closed, her face pallid. As we turned away, the hand-wringing manager asked if I would be offended if he allowed the house doctor to treat her. “No, of course not,” I replied, but to myself I thought, still in tune with the Spirit and confident in the well-tried pattern, “She won’t need him; she’s going to recover—now.”

Then, like Peter, my stroll across the water was threatened by the storms of reality, and my spirit collided with my soul. I nearly staggered with the realization of what I—or somebody—had just promised. And the raised eyebrows of my two assistants said, “President, you just promised this woman that she will sing act 2. What have you done?”

As we left the dressing room, I said to them, “Elders, I said only what the Lord told me to say; let’s pray he’ll make it happen.”

We made our way back to our seats, reassured the others in our party, and requested their faith—right now—on Miss Jajic’s behalf. I began to pray—hard, intensely, and invoking the priesthood—that the Lord would honor at once the very specific promises I had made in his name and by his promptings. In a few minutes the manager appeared on stage to explain the delay by announcing that Miss Jajic had been taken seriously ill and that he had sent for her second; he requested our patience. I prayed harder, my weak faith warring with my confidence in the Lord’s proven gift.

After an interminable five-minute wait, the manager reappeared. “I am pleased to announce,” he beamed, “that Miss Jajic has recovered and will be able to continue in her role as Gilda.” The curtain went up, and Marina swirled onto the stage as the vivacious Gilda and sang her way into our hearts. I sat all amazed and thanked the Lord for his gracious intervention. As we applauded her performance, I was cheering our Father for his class act in stretching his welcome finger into our little scenario and repeating his patterns. For her part, Marina performed marvelously, as did our Mormon baritone, but I thought she looked a trifle too convincing in her death scene. We learned later that she went home to bed and collapsed for several days.

The encore to that evening was just another everyday miracle of just another child of God tracing the Awake and Arise Pattern. Marina, soon recovered and very much aware of the miracle that had occurred, began to ask Brother Montgomery during rehearsals exactly what had happened that Monday evening. Unwilling at first to attend church, Marina agreed to accompany the Montgomerys to a ward dinner at the Luzern chapel. Impressed by the Latter-day Saints’ welcome and by the Montgomerys’ deep faith, she continued to ask questions during rehearsals, when there was little time for him to respond. So the next week Brian and Jenny invited Marina to dinner, where, he promised, “We’ll answer all of your questions about Mormonism.” That Friday at dinnertime, two sister missionaries “just happened by” and were persuaded to stay for dinner and teach Marina the gospel. In June 1988, two months after that very special night at the opera, Marina Jajic awoke and arose to membership in the Church of Jesus Christ.

My dad took my sister, Cathy, and me to a daddy-daughter campout. We had lots of fun. At night we listened to stories and sang songs around a big bonfire. We roasted marshmallows and ate s’mores before going to bed. Cathy and I woke up in the middle of the night because there was a big rainstorm. I said a prayer that our tent would not blow down like it had at our last campout. When I woke up in the morning, the tent was still standing. I thanked Heavenly Father.Susan D., age 7, Virginia

Most of you, if not all, will be familiar with Frank Capra’s film It’s a Wonderful Life (1946). Someone years ago neglected to renew the copyright on this movie, which, in my opinion, was a very fortunate oversight, because without copyright, the movie is much more widely available and viewed than would otherwise be the case.

The Jimmy Stewart character, George Bailey, is a common man whose life and deeds, it is revealed, have been a significant force for good in his hometown of Bedford Falls. Toward the end of the story, George’s future is put in jeopardy by the disappearance of $8,000 in funds belonging to his building and loan company. Although George is unaware, we know that the funds accidentally fell into the hands of the villainous Mr. Potter, played by Lionel Barrymore. Mr. Potter unjustly keeps the funds, and his crime never comes to light. George, however, is rescued financially by gifts of money from the multitude of people he has helped in many different ways throughout his life—a wonderful life.

I find this movie endearing for several reasons, and one of them is the fact that George Bailey’s success and happiness do not depend on retribution for Henry Potter. In contrast to the dominant theme of vengeance in much of today’s movie fare, Mr. Potter is never made to account for the harm and distress he creates. The storyline leaves the ultimate accounting to God, and Mr. Potter is left for now a bit richer but still unhappy and friendless in his pinched and less than wonderful life. George Bailey and his wonderful wife and family can still be happy, enjoying their life of love and service.

Years ago, when I was a young father, I went downstairs one day to our oldest son’s bedroom. He was very upset and had been crying. I was there to try to comfort him and find out what was wrong. As he and I talked, he confessed that he had told a fib to his mother. He said, “Dad, it’s so hard to be righteous.” This caused me to turn my head and smile, because he was young, but then he continued to say, “Dad, life is like climbing over a wall, isn’t it?” For a moment I was completely stunned. How could he have such insight?
We continued to talk, but the rest of the conversation is a blur. I hope my part of that conversation included teaching him how the Savior made it possible for him to repent of the fib he had told his mother and any other mistakes he had made. I also hope I taught him how very important it is to listen to and follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost each day of his life.

A few years ago in Italy, LDS missionaries were harassed by some Italian youths. Among the group on two occasions was a young man named Felice Lotito. He was challenged by a bold elder to come to the local LDS branch so that he could judge for himself. It was a dare which Felice accepted. He came. He heard. He studied. He believed. He was baptized. Later he was sent on a mission to England where he increased his faith and his ability to speak English. He served honorably, came home, married a lovely Italian girl in the Swiss Temple, and became one of the directors of the seminary and institute program in Italy, which now serves nearly 1,000 students.

In July of 1980, Felice Lotito left at age 32 to be the mission president in the Italy Padova Mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints! God saw in Felice possibilities that Felice did not see in himself. When the gospel was presented to him, Felice had the integrity of heart and intellect to believe it, even though he had been harassing the missionaries just days before. The Lord reached out for Felice Lotito who will now reach out to thousands of his countrymen and touch hundreds of missionaries—missionaries like those of whom he was so critical just a few years before.

Game night is going to be epic! Sam will never know what hit him! I’ve been practicing!
Sam, are you OK? You don’t usually use words like that?
Losing just makes me so mad sometimes!
I know. We’ve been friends a long time.
That’s how I know you don’t normally talk like that. I don’t think it’s the real you, you know?
You’re right. Thanks for looking out for me.
Anytime! But I’m still gonna cream you in this game!

When I was a very young bishop in 1950, there was a tap at my door, and a good German brother from Ogden, Utah, announced himself as Karl Guertler.
He said, “Are you Bishop Monson?”
I answered in the affirmative.
He said, “My brother and his wife and their family are coming from Germany. They are going to live in your ward. Will you come with me to see the apartment we have rented for them?”
On the way to that apartment, he told me he had not seen his brother for something like thirty years. Yet all through the holocaust of World War II, his brother, Hans Guertler, had been faithful to the Church—an officer in the Hamburg Branch.
I looked at that apartment. It was cold; it was dreary; the paint was peeling from the walls; the cupboards were bare. What an uninviting home for the Christmas season of the year! I worried about it and I prayed about it, and then in our ward welfare committee meeting we did something about it.
The group leader of the high priests said, “I am an electrician. Let’s put good appliances in that apartment.”
The group leader of the seventies said, “I am in the floor-covering business. Let’s install new floor coverings.”
The elders quorum president said, “I am a painter. Let’s paint that apartment.”
The Relief Society representative spoke up, “Did you say those cupboards were bare?” They were not bare very long with the Relief Society in action.
Then the young people, represented through the Aaronic priesthood general secretary, said, “Let’s put a Christmas tree in the home, and let’s go among our young people and gather gifts to place under the tree.”
You should have seen that Christmas scene when the Guertler family arrived from Germany in clothing that was tattered and with faces that were drawn by the rigors of war and ­deprivation! As they went into their apartment they saw what had been in actual fact a transformation—a ­beautiful home.
We spontaneously began singing, “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright” (“Silent Night,” Hymns, 2002, no. 204). We sang in English; they sang in German.
At the conclusion of that hymn, Hans Guertler threw his arms around my neck, buried his face in my shoulder, and repeated over and over again those words which I shall never forget: “Mein Bruder, mein Bruder, mein Bruder.”
As we walked down the stairs that night—all of us who had participated in making Christmas come alive in the lives of this German ­family—we reflected upon the words of the Master: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).