Gospel Story Finder

I hung up the phone, dumbfounded. “I have to call everyone,” I thought. “Pete, Whitney, Kristen …” I fumbled for my planner, too flustered to remember the phone numbers I’d had memorized since middle school.
A few weeks before, our group of friends had mailed Daniel a Christmas package. We had marveled that in a mere six months he would be home from his mission. We could hardly wait!
Then Daniel’s dad had called. Now I wished we still had to wait—bad news suddenly turned six months into three days. Daniel had become so sick he was bedridden, and the doctors didn’t know why.
Besides being worried about his illness, I was heartsick to think of how disappointed he must be. Serving a mission had been his most treasured goal, and the people in Michigan were some of his most beloved friends.
The night before Daniel’s return home, I lay in bed staring out the window. The moon illuminated brown mountains and bare tree branches—nothing like the snow-covered evergreens I pictured in Michigan. I frowned. “It will be even more depressing if he has to come back to this,“ I thought. Climbing out of bed and onto my knees, I prayed that Daniel might be welcomed home by a glistening, white blanket of snow. Before I drifted off to sleep, a few snowflakes flurried outside my window.
The next morning, as we walked to Daniel’s house to await his arrival, beautiful snow crunched under our shoes. I offered a hurried, silent prayer of thanks.
Soon a car pulled into the driveway. Daniel looked frail, but he managed a weak smile and handshake for each of us. As he inched up the walkway, he paused to survey the yard. His smile deepened. “I like the snow,” he murmured. I turned away to hide my tears.
That afternoon, as I drove back to college, I realized more fully what the Lord had done. Only one storm cloud hovered in the sky, directly over our hometown. Less than three miles away from the snow, the sun beamed down on a dry, brown valley.
I had always believed in answers to prayers, even in miracles. But it was the first time I had understood that sometimes God performs small miracles just to show His love. Overwhelmed by the Spirit, I thanked the Lord again for His gift of comfort—a snowstorm for Daniel.

My mom is the genealogist in our family. She’s researched over 10 generations of our family line, taught herself to read German, and has an abundance of knowledge about the cultural traditions of different time periods.
I, on the other hand, have never been good at history, and I’ve always been content to let other people do our family history work. However, my reluctance changed one Sunday in July.
My priests quorum adviser, Brother Holland, who is famous for his homemade wheat bread, gave the entire priests quorum a challenge: “If you go home and index 100 names through FamilySearch by the end of the night, I will bake you an entire loaf of bread.”
The first thing I did when I got home was to access the indexing tool at FamilySearch.org/indexing. When I downloaded the first batch, I met my first set of problems. First, the handwriting on the records was hard to read and sometimes unintelligible. The second and much more serious problem was that I couldn’t read cursive. Luckily, with the help of the Internet, I worked my way carefully through the first few names until I got the hang of it. Reading and writing the names started to go faster.
I tried to picture in my mind the families as I input their names. I saw families from all over the world—from Italy, Ireland, Germany, and more. When I read their names, I felt like I somehow knew them. When I came across a name I couldn’t read, I didn’t give up. I thought of every possibility and even searched the Internet for what it might be. I wanted to get it right.
It wasn’t too long before I finished my 100 names. I called Brother Holland and reported that I had completed the task. Later, I got my loaf of bread. The next week, he made the same offer. I went home and indexed more names, but this time I didn’t report it. I realized that I wanted to do it—not because I wanted bread, but because I genuinely wanted to help the people I was recording. I wanted their descendants to be able to find them and help them. It was a great feeling to be a part—even just a small part—of family history work.

Several months ago I left my country to go to one where I knew only my sister and her boyfriend. At church I felt like an outsider. Two or three months went by, and I felt the same feeling of loneliness until I decided to smile at others and ask, “How are you?” Each Sunday that went by, they were saying more to me than the simple “I’m fine.” It also helped to participate in seminary and Mutual and to work on Personal Progress with other young women. Now I feel comfortable at church, as if I were at home.
Vanessa B., age 17, La Vega, Dominican Republic

The Book of Mormon was a means of introducing Wannipha Thongchalerm, to the Church. First introduced to Christianity by a United States serviceman, she received a copy of the Book of Mormon from a friend. The book led to visits by the full-time missionaries. “Learning the gospel was a happy experience for me,” she says. “The missionaries would visit me every other day, and I would make notes of what they told me. Each time they came, I would repeat the previous lesson back to them. I was baptized in 1976.”
Sister Thongchalerm married a nonmember whose work required him to travel a great deal. After five years of marriage, they were divorced. Prior to the divorce, Sister Thongchalerm began studying to be a nurse, a profession she still follows at one of the local hospitals. Three years after her divorce, she married Anan, who had been baptized in 1981. With their two children, Ariza, 4, and Aachanoon, 3, they were among the group that went to the Manila Temple.
“When I came back from the temple, I felt a greater need to share the gospel with others. I decided I would try to bring at least ten other people into the Church, a goal I reached within two years.”
Sister Thongchalerm, who teaches in seminary, Sunday School, and Relief Society, treasures her testimony. “I feel that no matter what happens, no one can take away my testimony of Jesus Christ.”
The Thongchalerms live in a multilevel house in Udorn—a house Brother Thongchalerm will completely finish “some day.”

All my life I was taught that there was no God. Little did I know how that would change when I applied to be a high school exchange student in the United States, representing the Czech Republic. When I filled out the application, one question was “What is your religious preference?” I knew most Americans were Christian, so that was what I wrote down. But I was a nonbeliever.
With anticipation, I awaited the outcome of my application. Where would I live?
I was assigned to the Grant and Jewel Hodson family, Latter-day Saints in Utah. Where is Utah? Mormons? Who are they? I looked up Utah in books, and I looked up Mormons too. The books said terrible things about the Church and especially about Joseph Smith. I spent my last night at home crying. I was terrified.
My mother assured me that everything would be all right, and if I didn’t like the family or Utah, I could come home or be assigned to another family.
When I arrived in Utah, Emily, one of the daughters, came to pick me up. She was 16 years old, wearing normal, casual clothes, and she was so nice. I thought, “Wow! This might not be that bad after all!” The whole family was warm and welcoming to me.
I experienced quite a cultural adjustment. I saw that my host family prayed before every meal and before they went to bed. They didn’t drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes. They lived moral lives. Everything was totally opposite of how the teenagers I had known lived.
And it seemed that almost everybody I met was a member of the LDS Church. I was impressed that when these people spoke about their church, they would say, “I know,” not, “I believe.” Never before had I heard such conviction in religious statements. If these people could know, I reasoned, there must be a way for me to know too. I was the sort of person who had to know, because if I accepted the teachings of the Church, I would have to make changes in my lifestyle and in my future plans.
With a strong desire to know for myself about the truthfulness of the Church, I watched the example of my host family. They didn’t proselytize, but the way they lived made me want to know what was behind their actions. I had never seen such faith.
I heard a Church leader say, “People will want to know Christ because they know you.” I wanted to know Christ because I knew the Hodsons. They were a great example to me of the way a family should live.
I began praying. I prayed for three weeks and nothing happened. I was a little discouraged. I thought that maybe I was not worthy to feel God’s love.
That same week I decided to join the Hodsons’ traditional family testimony meeting on the first Sunday of the month. The mother, Jewel, asked me if I would like to say anything. I said, “Sure.” But I thought, “What am I going to say?”
Since everybody had expressed appreciation, I thought I could at least express my appreciation to the Hodsons for all they had done for me. They had been so patient with me. They treated me as their own daughter and had never pushed me into anything. I would express my true gratitude.
I was the last to speak. I stood up and started saying how grateful I was for their kindness and patience and also for their desire to teach me about God. All of a sudden, a strong, overwhelming feeling came over me. The language barrier was gone; I had no problem speaking English. I was fluent for the first time! I had never felt anything like this before. I spoke as I was inspired. It was such a warm, beautiful feeling. I was quietly being taught, “You know what you are saying is true. You know I exist. You know.”
And I did know! With tears in my eyes, I sat down. I thought, “What was that?” Answering as though she had heard my question, my host mother quietly spoke, “What you are feeling is the Spirit.” All I could think was “Wow! It is true!”
With my parents’ permission, I asked my host father to baptize me into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It was a happy day for me. I felt so clean and fresh! In addition to my host family, I was surrounded by many members from my ward who came to support me. I appreciated that so much.

I grew up in the dryland wheat-farming country of northeastern Oregon, where my father managed an agricultural experiment station. I spent my boyhood in the little town of Moro, Oregon, which had about 300 people. There were no other members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Moro. We were the only members in the whole county.
We attended a small branch in The Dalles. But when I was about five years old, World War II started and we could not get tires or extra gasoline and could not drive the 80-mile round trip each Sunday. So a home branch was organized in our home.
Each Sunday we held sacrament meeting and Sunday School. My father taught my older brother, Richard, and my older sister, Joan. My mother taught my younger sister, Mary, and me. My mother was an excellent teacher and a wonderful storyteller. She made the scriptures come alive. We sang hymns and Primary songs.
My parents taught us exactly who we were and where we came from. I grew up with the sure knowledge of Father in Heaven, of Jesus Christ, and of the teachings of the gospel. My testimony developed steadily because of the teachings I received in my home.

Competing in fiddling competitions has been good for the girls. (Jesse is only four and does not yet compete.) They have made some good friends at the competitions. When Vanessa and Joanna competed in the same age group, occasionally Joanna would beat out her sister. Linda comments about Vanessa’s reaction, “I think Vanessa would rather that Joanna didn’t beat her, but when it happens she’s good about it. She says, ‘I’d rather have my sister win than someone else.’ “

Often their best friend beats them both. They honestly say, “Who could you want to win it more than your best friend?”

The competition, instead of creating a “killer” instinct in the girls, has taught them to value a person for what he is, not for how he does in a contest. They have learned to take the ups and downs of competing in stride. They know that when they come off the stage, all their friends will be talking and having fun no matter how they did in the competition. They get to know and like people as individuals, not whether they come in first or last.

In the beginning, there were only five families in the branch, and they met in President Manoï’s home. Meetings eventually moved to a theater, then to another (where classrooms were created by pushing boxes of beer and soft drinks together), and then to a Chinese restaurant.
“The branch was my heart,” Brother Manoï says. “But where we met was not good. During our meetings, people were either lining up to go to a movie, or the proprietor was banging whiskey bottles around. We needed a chapel of our own.”
Land for a chapel was finally purchased in 1970. Part of the branch’s fund-raising effort was performing Polynesian dances for the cruise ships that brought tourists to Nouméa. After one of their performances on board ship, the captain invited the branch members to his room. There they discovered he was a Latter-day Saint from Utah. Their mutual membership in the Lord’s Church created an immediate bond. That experience was a highlight because there was little contact with Church members outside the islands during those early years.

Youth of the Lehi Utah West Stake took King Benjamin’s words seriously by helping both God and man during their conference entitled “Called to Serve.”
Starting early Friday morning, they were divided into groups and sent to various locations to do things like repainting an old shed, weeding an elderly couple’s garden, clearing an irrigation ditch, planting a welfare corn field, taking the graffiti off a large cement wall, working on a float for a parade, painting two large corral fences, and tying four quilts for Deseret Industries. All totaled with the adults who helped, they estimate about 500 hours of service were given from one ward alone.
The conference also included swimming, camping, hiking, and some inspirational speakers. Everyone was amazed that they could have so much fun for just $5.00 apiece. They discovered that youth conferences don’t have to be expensive and extravagant after all.

Elder Matthew Fairbanks has spent his entire mission on Palau. He knows everybody on the island, it seems. And they all know him. He’s the Scoutmaster. With the mission president’s permission, he and his fellow missionaries teach some classes at the local schools. And he’s one of the few foreigners who has learned to speak Palauan, the native tongue of the island, where Japanese and English are also spoken.

Through their association with the schools, Elder Fairbanks and his companion, Elder Tirinteata Ratieta, a native of Markei Island in the Republic of Kiribati, became aware of the acute need for books. Elder Fairbanks wrote home to his family in the Bountiful 42nd Ward, Bountiful Utah Mueller Park Stake, and explained the situation. And that’s where Jon Fairbanks, Matt’s 14-year-old brother, got the idea for a wonderful Eagle Scout service project.

“Matt’s an Eagle Scout too,” Jon explained, “and he knew I needed a service project. He explained that some of the books they were using in the schools dated back to World War II. I thought it sounded like a good project to help them get some newer ones.”

Jon started looking for sources. “The principal of an elementary school lives in our ward, so I talked to him first. He gave me all of the old English, math, and spelling books on one wall of a storage room. Then I went to other schools, and at one they showed me two rooms full of math, English, and library books. I sorted through them and handpicked books for the project. Some of them were samples companies had sent to sell teachers on their products. Those books were brand-new.”

It wasn’t long before Jon had gathered more than 1,000 books. The other Scouts in his troop helped him sort them and stamp them: “Jon Fairbanks, Eagle Scout Project, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, ‘The Mormons.’”

Then the project hit its first—and only—snag. Books weigh a lot. And 1,000 books … well, they weighed 700 pounds. And Palau isn’t exactly right on Main Street. The cost of mailing the books would be prohibitive.

“But there is an airport in Koror, so we thought maybe the Air Force or the National Guard could arrange to get them there,” Jon said. “No such luck. Then I tried calling the commercial airlines.”

Finally Brother Rex Ballou, operations manager for Cargo Development Group, a wholly owned subsidiary of Continental Airlines, helped Jon work out a plan. The books were packaged about 40 pounds to a box, and Jon delivered them to the airport. All of the boxes were stamped with a notice that this was an Eagle Scout project. They were to fly on a space-available basis from Salt Lake City to San Francisco to Hawaii to Guam to Palau. Surprisingly, they arrived in Koror in less than two weeks.

In a letter home, Matt wrote:

“Last Friday morning, Palau Branch President Jay J. VanderWall drove up with 15 boxes full of badly needed books for the Palau schools. The people at Air Micronesia (Continental) were surprised to see so many boxes come with absolutely no charge. One man even asked if the Mormons were starting their own school. When we took the books to Meyuns Elementary School, the principal was just amazed. She was so delighted that someone would help out her school, especially with the real lack of funds they suffer. I know that it has touched many hearts to see a church that really works for the good of the people. It also touches my own heart to know that my family so actively supports their missionary. This mission is a family mission for us. I am just the one out in Palau!”

Some time later, a letter to Jon from Hilaria Lakobong, the school principal, summarized her feelings about his service project:

“It’s a great blessing for us, such a tiny island situated in Micronesia, a dot hard to find on a map. Boy! Surely we all felt proud to have the selections of tons and tons of books. We would like to express sincere thanks. Your brother has provided us, the teachers, with a lot of ideas, materials, and even his humble love. Very thoughtful. And we’re glad to thank you but please forgive our late reply. We’ve been busy setting up the classrooms with books to read!”

It was a hot day in July. I remember it well. After working hard in our yard all morning, Dad wiped the sweat from his face and neck with his handkerchief and looked up toward the east mountains.
“It would be nice and cool at Fish Lake. It’s going to be a scorcher here all day, that’s for sure.” Dad looked tired. He’d been up since dawn.
“What if I packed a lunch and we went to Fish Lake for the rest of the day?” Mama suggested.
Lorraine, the oldest of the children, was sent to Berthelson’s store for a can of deviled ham and some cheese to make sandwiches. The rest of us scurried to get ready to go. We put the camp quilt Grandma made for us in the trunk of our new 1952 Chevrolet. Now we would have something to spread out under the trees. We could put our tablecloth on it for our picnic, and Dad would have a soft place to lie and rest during the afternoon.
“If only I had time to stir up a cake,” Mama wailed. “We don’t have a thing for dessert.”
“Take some bottled fruit,” Dad advised. “It’s too hot to heat up the oven.” He was always in a hurry it seemed. Maybe he was anxious to get started so he could see how well our new car, that we had saved so long to buy, would climb steep Oak Springs Hollow Road.
Lorraine was back with the deviled ham and cheese. “They had watermelons at the store, but they cost a whole dollar.”
“Oh, let’s stop and buy one for dessert,” the rest of us chanted. We hadn’t tasted watermelon yet that year.
We counted out our money. “If we buy the watermelon, there won’t be enough left to buy gasoline,” Mama reasoned.
“Maybe we could charge it until our milk check comes?” Lorraine offered. “Mrs. Berthelson let Sue Ellen’s mama get one and pay for it later.”
“Now you know how your dad feels about buying and paying later.” Mama packed a bottle of peaches and a jar of apricot marmalade from the cellar into our lunch basket.
Daddy knew the exact spot to eat our lunch over on old Sawtooth Mountain. He’d been there when he was a Boy Scout and had never forgotten the fun he had. We couldn’t drive all the way up, so we parked at the foot of the steep trail and carried our things up the mountainside. We found a place where tall trees grew, and shade was as dense as green velvet. There on a little plateau, by a trickling stream fed by snowbanks, near the top of the mountain, we spread out the quilt.
Mama sent us upstream to fill the water jug. Lo and behold, what did we spy but a plump watermelon nestled among wet gray rocks in the water!
“Come and see,” we shouted. “Come see what we found.”
The whole family came immediately to the spot. Everyone stared in amazement, taking turns touching the melon. It was icy cold.
“Heavenly Father must have known just how much we wanted a watermelon for our lunch,” little Geraldine laughed, clapping her hands for joy.
That melon was as crisp as a September morn. It would crack when we opened it. We could just see its ripe perfection, taste its juicy sweetness.
“Heavenly Father knew how much we like watermelon,” Lorraine added.
“Heavenly Father doesn’t have melons grow in water,” Dad remarked. “He makes them grow on vines. No, somebody put that melon in this creek to cool, and somebody will be coming back to get it.”
We looked all around. We couldn’t see anyone, not even footprints. We listened. We couldn’t hear a thing except the gurgling of water tumbling over rocks. Yet in our hearts we knew it would be wrong to take something that did not belong to us.”
“Oh, Dad, you’re such a killjoy. Maybe whoever put it there forgot where it is, and if we don’t eat it, it might just lie there and spoil.”
Disappointment showed in our faces.
“What is the matter with bottled peaches?” Dad coaxed back our smiles.
Bottled peaches would be just fine.
We left the cold melon where it was. We ate our lunch, including peaches for dessert, and while we were eating no one mentioned watermelon. As we walked down the trail back to the car and all the way home, we wondered if anyone would come for it.
Sometimes I think about that watermelon. Whenever I cut into a crisp melon that cracks open to reveal a deep red heart, or I eat a bite of the sweet, juicy fruit, I remember that day in the mountains when Dad taught us simply by his example a lesson in a long line of lessons that have shaped our lives.

The Butler bishop’s youth committee had one real problem to take care of—the back row at sacrament meeting. It was always full; and it was generally noisy. Whispering and giggling could even be heard during the sacrament. The committee decided to do something about it. They started a “Sit with Your Parents” campaign.
At first it wasn’t easy. The leaders would go to their friends and suggest they sit with their parents during meetings instead of on the back row.
“They thought we were a little weird to ask them,” admitted one class president, “but after they tried it, they began to like it. They found it was much easier to listen and enjoy the meeting when they sat with their parents.”
Anyone sitting on the back row gets pretty lonely now.

3 Second, the prophet. Our prophet continues to testify of Jesus Christ. When President Hinckley was here in Atlanta, I listened to his words and felt the Spirit strongly. Afterward, I got to give him a picture and shake his hand. He said thank you to me and continued to shake other people’s hands. When I looked into his eyes, I knew that he was a prophet of God. The day I met him will be one I will remember forever and will share with my children.
In the April 2000 general conference, President Hinckley gave a whole talk on his testimony of Jesus Christ. He said:
“He is my Savior and my Redeemer. Through giving His life in pain and unspeakable suffering, He has reached down to lift me and each of us and all the sons and daughters of God from the abyss of eternal darkness following death. He has provided something better—a sphere of light and understanding, growth and beauty where we may go forward on the road that leads to eternal life. My gratitude knows no bounds. My thanks to my Lord has no conclusion.
“He is my God and my King. From everlasting to everlasting, He will reign and rule as King of Kings and Lord of Lords. To His dominion there will be no end. To His glory there will be no night.
“None other can take His place. None other ever will.”*
When President Hinckley bears testimony of Jesus, I believe in Jesus, because I know he speaks the truth.

“Three weeks until summer break, Ryan!” my friend Logan said after recess. “I can’t wait to swim and hike!”
“Me too!” I said. I walked into the classroom smiling, but then I saw the chairs set in circles. That meant reading groups.
“Everyone get in your groups!” Mr. Carson said. “Blue group, Mrs. Bush is waiting for you in room 205.”
I trudged to my desk and grabbed my book. Most of my classmates had been able to read this book years ago. Everyone knew the blue group was for kids who couldn’t read well. I’d been part of it since kindergarten. That was when I found out I had a learning disability. Mom says it means my brain just understands things differently.
It’s not fair, I thought as I walked to room 205. I held the book to my chest so no one could see it was for little kids. I hated being different. I worked twice as hard as any of my friends. But I was still one of the worst readers in the whole grade!
After an hour of reading, Mrs. Bush said we were done. “Good work,” she told us. “I know reading is hard, and it would be easy to give up. But keep working at it! You can improve. And don’t forget your summer reading packet.”
I took the packet and walked back to my classroom. Every summer I got a reading packet with stories to read out loud, questions to answer, and other things to help me with my reading. None of my friends had homework over the summer. But I really wanted to be able to read, so the extra work was worth it.
At least I’ll still have some time to play this summer, I thought.
But when Mom picked me up from school, she had some news. “I just learned about a new computer program that can help you read better,” she said as I got into the car. “It will help your brain make better connections.”
“That sounds cool,” I said.
“You’ll need to work on it for a few hours every day.”
More homework over the summer? Part of me wanted to just quit trying. But an even bigger part of me knew I really wanted to read better. And that would take a lot of work. I took a deep breath. “OK, I’ll do it.”
It was a long, hard summer. I spent most of my time working on my reading exercises or the computer program. And I prayed every day for Heavenly Father’s help.
When school started again, I tried my hardest to follow along with the class reading. I was still pretty slow, but I could do it!
Soon my teacher asked to talk to me at lunch. That made me nervous. What would she say?
“Ryan, I’ve seen you reading along with the class this week. I know how hard you worked this summer,” Ms. Andersen said. “I’m going to put you in a higher reading group.”
“Really?” I said.
She nodded. “You’ll have to work a little harder than some of the other kids and promise to read every single day, but I think you can do this. Are you up for the challenge?”
Ryan finished high school and went to college. He had to work hard at reading. But it was worth it!
“Yes!” I said. I walked out to lunch feeling happy and strong. My hard work during the summer had helped me! And Heavenly Father had answered my prayers. I knew I could keep working hard. And I knew Heavenly Father would keep helping me.

When she paused between arithmetic problems to look out the schoolhouse window, Julia thought about how Billy Johnson would have sweet rolls in his lunch again. Resting her pencil eraser on the unfinished problem, she pictured the package of rolls as he always produced it from his jacket pocket at noon. He would lay it on his desk and look around at everyone else to make sure he had their full attention before unwrapping the wax paper and revealing two rolls in all their splendor, filled with apricot jam and crowned with white frosting.
Julia’s stomach rumbled. Although her family had not really been wanting for food since they’d moved five months ago, she seemed always to be hungry. Most of it was a hunger that the boiled navy beans in her pail wouldn’t satisfy.
Her brother flashed her a grin when she looked his way. “I’m hungry,” he mouthed.
She raised her eyebrows and looked toward the clock. Twenty more minutes.
The teacher was hearing third graders recite the multiplication tables: “Four times five is twenty.” “Four times six is twenty-four.” “Four times seven is twenty-eight. …”
Julia bit the end of her eraser and stared at her own problem: What is the simple interest on a loan for eighty-five dollars for eighteen months with an annual rate of eleven percent?
There’s no sense thinking about rolls, she told herself. But she couldn’t get the thought of them out of her mind. Had she ever eaten sweet rolls? She wondered. She couldn’t remember the taste—only the smell, buttery rich and fruity rising out of Billy’s wax paper every day.
Get back to the problem, she scolded herself. Multiply first. What next? She worked out the first part of the problem:
$85 x .11 ——– 85 850 ——– $9.35
Loans! That’s why they had had to move and didn’t have much money for food. When the drought had come, there had been loans against the farm to buy seed. Loans against the cattle and then the horses, until they had had to be sold. Loans for more seed and for a hospital bill. Everything had finally been forfeited to the bank—as had almost all the other farms in the area. What would a bank do with all those farms and all those thin cattle and hungry horses?
Next, eighteen months is a year and a half, so multiply nine dollars and thirty-five cents by one-point-five.
Seven years of crop failures and loans. The last time Dad made a wheat crop, I was five years old, Julia thought. No wonder I can’t remember the taste of sweet rolls.
The schoolhouse door and the windows were open to the filtered light that made the month of April so hopeful. Snow still filled the ditches beside the road, but at recess Julia had heard water running under the snow and had seen it through holes her brother made by poking a stick through the crusty snow. Perhaps this year there wouldn’t be a drought. Last year they had lived on wheat that Dad had scraped out of the granary of an abandoned farm. This year there were navy beans. Maybe next year her mother could make her sweet rolls to bring to school.
Julia’s stomach rumbled again as she pictured Billy Johnson licking the frosting from his fingers the way he did every day.
Two more arithmetic problems.
Julia touched the eraser to her lips, considering. A merchant makes fifteen percent profit on clothing he sells in his store. He sells $5,082 in clothing one year and $4,237 the next. What are his total profits for the two years?
Who makes profits? Billy Johnson’s dad. He must be a rich merchant to buy all those sweet rolls.
And all she had were beans. Cold beans. All cooked from the huge sacks of beans brought with them last November when Uncle Fred had moved them the six hundred sleety, wind-whipped miles to his home in Michigan.
Uncle Fred had been cutting and hauling cedar fence posts, expecting to trade them for wild horses to sell at a profit. But none of the ranchers were building fences. Why put up fences for dying cattle? None of them had horses to trade, either. If he had gotten horses, Julia and her family would still be in Dakota.
A Crookston garage owner had let them stay all night in his shop. It had a wood fire, so Uncle Fred stoked it with some fence posts and said that if he couldn’t use them for barter, he might as well burn them.
Since November Dad and Uncle Fred had been cutting more fence posts in the cedar swamp. Their whole family was cramped into one room at Uncle Fred’s—along with their three beat-up mattresses and Mom’s cookstove. Every day Mom cooked up a pot of beans and sent it and three bowls and three spoons to school with the children.
Julia was writing down the merchant’s two-year profit, $1397.85, when the teacher announced the lunch hour.
Julia stood in line with the other girls to wash her hands in the wash pan in the entryway. She watched Billy Johnson pull the package of sweet rolls from his jacket pocket and head back to the classroom. Her mouth watered as she saw the sweet jam oozing from the coils of golden bread. “Those look good,” she said to the girl next to her.
“They’re stale,” the girl said. “His dad buys them by the bushel to feed his hogs. He gets them really cheap from a bakery in Grand Rapids.”
Julia thought a bushel of sweet rolls, even stale ones, sounded pretty good. “How do you know?”
“My mother got a bushel there once,” the girl replied, rocking on her heels. “Some of them were moldy. Most of them were just powder-dry. But it’s easier for Billy to grab up a package of rolls than to make a sandwich. Besides, I doubt if they even have stuff for sandwiches. They’re having a hard time getting by.”
“If Mom only had the things to make some rolls, …” Julia began.
“It wouldn’t matter if Billy’s family did have the stuff to make rolls,” the other girl said. “His ma’s dead.”
Julia thought about that. She thought, too, about her mom, who loved her and who cooked beans for them. Today the beans would taste better than ever. Even better than a sweet roll.

It had been an aggravating, irritating day—one in which I felt that nobody appreciated my efforts in behalf of the family. All the packing, planning, and preparation for our family’s annual camping trip had been left to me. My husband, David, a surgeon in training, had taken it for granted that I would attend to every detail of the trip. He had stayed at the hospital long past our planned departure time.
Before we had even driven out of the city, the children were restless and bored with the confinement of the car’s back seat. When David said I hadn’t packed enough activities to keep the children entertained in the car, I made some angry remark back at him.
“She’s just angry at Dad,” explained ten-year-old Owen to his little sister. It was then that I switched on a cassette tape of Primary songs for children and sat in bad-tempered silence.
But the joy of the Primary songs was contagious. One by one each family member began to sing along, until even my own anger melted, and I couldn’t resist joining in the chorus of “Listen, Listen.” The Holy Ghost will whisper. Listen, listen to the still small voice” (Children’s Songbook, 1989, page 107). How quickly the music changed the mood of our little family on that long stretch of highway. How quickly and how timely.
“We need to turn the car around,” David said as the sound of the chorus faded.
“What for?” I asked. “What did I forget?”
“Nothing,” he laughed. “I just have this compelling feeling that we need to turn around.”
Just as we had been in harmony in our song—suddenly we all felt the need to turn around. And as crazy as it seemed at the time, we followed the prompting, turned the car around, and started back along the way we had come. Shortly afterward, we reached a parked vehicle, and its driver stood by the side of the road motioning us to stop. As we slowed the car by him, he frantically called out:
“There’s been an accident,” he said. “A young woman was driving a motorcycle, and it rolled over off the highway. I think she’s dying.” He motioned to a still body in the grass at the side of the highway—a wrecked motorcycle beside her. We parked the car, and my husband got out.
We had never carried a first-aid kit in the car, but this time we happened to have an emergency kit with us consisting of medical supplies David had picked up at a hospital sale just three weeks earlier. For the first time in our lives, we had it in the car! Feeling helpless and scared, I held the children close to me as David grabbed the kit and headed for the accident victim.
As he reached the body, my daughter said, “We should pray.” Thankful for her suggestion, we bowed our heads. “Heavenly Father,” we pleaded, “please help Daddy. Help him to know what to do to save this girl’s life. …”
As I watched my husband kneel beside the young woman and assess her condition, I was humbled. The girl was indeed dying—unconscious and not breathing. David took out the last two items he had added to the emergency kit: a tube-like device called an oral airway that opens up the air passage to the lungs, and a bag that pumps in air and allows the doctor to “breathe” for the patient. He used them both. Along with his medical skills, they probably saved her life.
When the ambulance arrived, my husband rode to the hospital with the patient. In the ambulance, he was able to talk over the two-way radio to medical personnel at the hospital, preparing everyone for their arrival.
As I drove the car behind the ambulance, my mind was filled with questions. What if we hadn’t had the first-aid kit? What if David hadn’t gone to the hospital sale? What if he hadn’t been trained for such an emergency? And most of all, what if we had continued to argue instead of sing? Would we have then heard the “still small voice” prompting us to turn the car around? Would we have recognized it?
The cassette tape in the car had continued to play throughout the entire drama. Silent and in wonder, the children and I listened:
“For all his creations, of which I’m a part[,] Yes, I know Heavenly Father loves me” (Children’s Songbook, 1989, page 229).

As a youth I loved to play basketball. One of my biggest disappointments was when I didn’t make the school team. I stopped growing early, and I probably just was not good enough, anyway. Seeing other boys my age go on to become really outstanding basketball players was difficult—not because they achieved in the sport, but because I hadn’t.
However, that helped nudge me in the direction of the world of words, which, in the long term, has been a blessing to me. At the time, it seemed a poor substitute for basketball, but as I look back on my life, the nudging in that direction meant that I was to have many opportunities I could not otherwise have had.
When I served in the army during World War II, I was asked to write letters of comfort to the wives and parents of those who had been killed. I was also asked to write letters recognizing men for their bravery in battle. So I became more involved in the world of words.
Later, that led quite naturally to the mission field. In those days there was no churchwide plan for the missionaries to follow, and I came up with one that my mission used. So our talents can develop in a meaningful way even though we can’t see it at the time. While I would rather, in my youth, have played basketball, it would end up being more important for me to develop a talent with words. We need to trust in God in the midst of our disappointments. Experiences that seem hard when we are in the middle of them may well be part of God’s tutoring and training.

While I served as President of the Europe Area, Sister Wirthlin and I traveled throughout Finland, Sweden, Denmark, and Norway holding meetings and conferences with members and missionaries. As we neared the end of our travels, we arrived with President and Sister John Langeland of the Norway Oslo Mission in the small city of Alta, Norway. We were happy that we had made the extra effort to meet the members in such a remote place. But while chatting with the local Church leaders, we learned there was yet one more small branch even farther north in Hammerfest, one of the world’s northernmost cities.
To our surprise, we learned that several years earlier, Elder Howard W. Hunter had been the first General Authority to visit the Hammerfest Branch. The story of that visit says much about the man whom the Lord later chose as his prophet, seer, and revelator:
“‘Hammerfest is difficult to reach by normal transportation. It was originally planned that the visitors would fly … by seaplane. A change in the weather eliminated any possibility of using a plane, as is often the case. It was decided that they should travel by car from Alta, the closest city to Hammerfest with a commercial airport. Snow had started to cover the roads. Several times en route Elder Hunter and [President Leo M.] Jacobsen had to push their car through the snow. When it seemed as if further progress was impossible, a truck came by and towed the car over the summit to Hammerfest.’
“‘They finally arrived at ten-thirty that night for a meeting that was to have started at seven o’clock, and found that most of the members had waited” (quoted in Eleanor Knowles, Howard W. Hunter [1994], 175–76).
The members in Hammerfest, anxious to meet an Apostle and hear the voice of one called as a special witness, waited three and a half hours for Elder Hunter’s delayed arrival. Their faith, hope, and prayers were rewarded as he shared with them his powerful testimony of the Savior.

Because of my father’s experience, he was very anxious for me to have a good education. When I’d say, “But I don’t want to go to school,” he’d say, “Then I’ll go in your place. Do you think the teacher would mind? I wonder if I can fit into the seat at your desk?”

That always made me laugh because I think it would have frightened my teacher to see a grown man coming to school, and I knew he couldn’t fit into the small seat at my desk. So I would go to school.

Sometimes I’d complain, “My teacher makes me work too hard.” Then Dad would just smile and mess up my hair and say, “I doubt it.” (I’m not sure, but the way he smiled always made me feel as though he wanted that teacher to make me work hard. I never could understand why, for I thought the only good thing about school were the recesses.)

Later when I had graduated from high school, served a mission, and completed my courses in college, I went on to earn a Ph.D. from a school in New England. (Ph.D. just means you are a doctor that doesn’t give shots or fix broken legs. In fact, I’m not sure Ph.Ds can fix much of anything.)

When I received my diploma I wanted my father to have it. He had never received a graduation diploma from any school and I thought he deserved this one. I told him that although my name was on it, the diploma should really be awarded to him. I told him they probably just made a mistake in the printing. That made him laugh and then it made him cry. I wasn’t sure then why it made him cry—but I know now.

My father died last year, and now he is getting more of the education that he always wanted when he was a little boy. And me? Well, my wife and I have children of our own in school. And when they say, “But I don’t want to go to school,” I say, “Then I’ll go in your place. Do you think the teacher would mind? I wonder if I can fit into the seat at your desk?” And when they say, “My teacher makes me work too hard,” I just smile and mess up their hair and say, “I doubt it.”

Fathers, I guess, are like that. In His own special way, I think Heavenly Father is like that too.

Have a good year in school and learn all you can. It is going to be important to you for a long, long time. In fact, it will be important forever.

President Smith had learned early in life that great men always make time for those in need. When only five years of age, his mother had dressed him up in his little black velvet suit and sent him to see Brigham Young. He carried a letter asking some assistance from President Young in getting some railroad tickets to go to Ogden. Sister Smith’s husband was in the mission field in Great Britain and she was too poor to acquire the tickets herself.
Little George walked the two blocks to President Young’s office and pushed open the huge timber gate in the wall that then surrounded the headquarters of the Church. As the massive gate swung back on its heavy iron hinges, the little boy found himself face to face with a rather large Scot, named John Smith, who demanded of the boy, “What do you want?” Frightened to death George answered, “I want to see President Young,” to which the Scot bellowed back, “President Young has no time for the likes of ye.” According to President Smith’s own account he was by now nearly ready to faint, but just then the door of the office opened and President Young walked out and asked:
“‘What’s wanted, John?’
“John replied, ‘Here is a little fellow wants to see President Young,’ and then he roared with laughter. He thought it was a good joke. But with all the dignity in the world, President Young said to him, ‘John, show him in.’
“There was nothing else the guard could do then but to let me in and he took me up to the porch where President Young was standing, …
“President Young took me by the hand and led me into his office, sat down at his desk and lifted me up on his knee and put his arm around me. In the kindest way one could imagine, he said, ‘What do you want of President Young?’
“Just think of it! He was President of a great Church and Governor of a Territory, and with all the duties he had to perform, yet I as a little boy was received with as much dignity, and kindness as if I had come as a governor from an adjoining state.”