Gospel Story Finder

Sister Bednar’s mother is a faithful woman and an inspired homemaker. From the earliest days of her marriage, she carefully has kept the household financial records. For decades she has accounted conscientiously for the family income and expenditures using very simple ledgers. The information she has collected over the years is comprehensive and informative.
When Sister Bednar was a young woman, her mother used the data in the ledgers to emphasize basic principles of provident living and prudent home management. One day as they reviewed together various categories of expenses, her mother noted an interesting pattern. The costs for doctor visits and medicines for their family were far lower than might have been expected. She then related this finding to the gospel of Jesus Christ and explained to her daughter a powerful truth: as we live the law of tithing, we often receive significant but subtle blessings that are not always what we expect and easily can be overlooked. The family had not received any sudden or obvious additions to the household income. Instead, a loving Heavenly Father had bestowed simple blessings in seemingly ordinary ways. Sister Bednar always has remembered this important lesson from her mother about the help that comes to us through the windows of heaven, as promised by Malachi in the Old Testament (see Malachi 3:10).

Seated across from me was a despondent man, head buried in hands, sobbing from the inevitable consequences of repeated violations of the commandments of God. He anguished: “I don’t know what to do. Everything is pressing in on me. I’m tired of running. There is no peace, no happiness. When I pray, no one is listening. What’s the use?”
I have known him for a long time. His parents and others have tried to give him guidance with little success. Because of his choices, he has become separated from the truths that would help him. He has not cultivated faith in the Master nor in the power of prayer. His decisions are centered on what could quickly satisfy his cravings. He either ignores problems or lies about them. He has manipulated the generosity of parents and friends to attempt a quick fix to challenges. He does not evaluate the consequences of today’s decisions on tomorrow’s life.
As my heart sorrowed for him, I realized he does not see the world as it really is—a place of joy and happiness, of true friendships where faith in Jesus Christ and obedience to His teachings invite the Holy Ghost to prompt correct decisions. He lives in an environment dominated by the influence of Satan. He has not followed sound counsel, because in his world he cannot see how it would possibly work for him. This distorted view of life is reality to him. It was forged as he succumbed to the subtle temptations of “Go ahead. Try it. Nobody will ever know. It’s your life. Live it the way you want to. They can’t force you. You have your moral agency.”
These promptings and the allure of the forbidden led him down a path that seemed fascinatingly attractive. He was carried on the crest of the wave of appetite and passion, oblivious to the consequences until the inevitable crushing encounter with the laws of God occurred. That produced pain, remorse, and regret. Then Satan provided other direction: “There is no way back. You might as well keep doing what you’ve been doing. It’s hopeless to try to change.” Because of his sins, he cannot see a way out of his failures. He will not see the tools needed for a new life in his current environment. His tragic, confining world has been created by the violation of eternal law, motivated by desire for a quick response.

There have been times when my wife and I have felt like sheepherders corralling our children for prayer or scripture study. But other times we have felt a sweet spirit that comes as we have truly shepherded and cared for our little flock. If we aren’t careful, we can easily miss these shepherding moments.

One such moment came while I was tucking our children into their beds. One of my sons asked, “Dad, what tempts you?”
I was startled by the question.
He then said, “We have been talking about what tempts us, and we wondered what things tempt you.”
I knew this would be a perfect time to teach them, but I was exhausted from a long day of work. I didn’t feel like having a deep conversation with two boys at such a late hour, especially on a school night.
However, into my mind came the story of the Savior at the well. Even after walking 30 miles (48 km) or more, He took time to teach the woman of Samaria (see John 4). I decided that this might be one of those “well” moments, so I sat down and asked them if they thought it was a sin to be tempted. There was a long pause, and then we began to talk and listen to each other. I taught them about the Savior’s encounter with Satan (see Matthew 4) and bore my testimony of the blessings that come from resisting temptation.
It was one of those special moments as a parent. We got to bed a little later than usual, but the joy I experienced was well worth any sacrifice of sleep.

Christy peeked excitedly through the curtains. Snow glistened in the moonlight.
“Ready to go look at the Christmas lights?” Mommy asked. “You need to put on your hat, coat, and mittens.”
Christy skipped to the closet and pulled her coat off a hanger. She found her hat and mittens. Soon she was wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon.
Outside, Christy made footprints in the snow. Her breath came out like steam. Mommy helped her into her car seat.
Their van crunched through the snow, making new tire tracks. Christy looked at her house. It looked like a twinkling gingerbread house! She giggled. The whole neighborhood looked magical.
“Look at that one!” Christy squealed, pointing to a house covered in pink lights. “Oh!” she said, pointing to a giant Christmas star sparkling with tiny white lights.
Mommy drove farther and farther. Christy grew sleepy watching the colorful lights. Soon it was time to go home. Mommy drove onto a small road to turn around. The road was piled with snow.
Mommy tried to back up. The tires spun around.
WHIRR, WHIRR!
Snow flew up, but the van didn’t move.
Mommy tried to go forward. The tires spun around again.
WHIRR, WHIRR!
More snow flew up, but the van still didn’t move. Mommy tried to go back again and forward again. The van didn’t budge. They were stuck. Mommy got out of the van and looked down the road.
Christy couldn’t see any cars. She began to feel nervous. What if they had to stay here until morning?
Then she remembered something. Heavenly Father always knows where we are. She felt better.
Mommy got back in the van. She looked worried.
“Mommy, it’s OK,” Christy said. “Heavenly Father knows where we are. We can pray and ask Him to help us get unstuck.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mommy said.
Christy folded her arms and bowed her head. “Heavenly Father,” she said, “would you please send someone to help us get home?”
Christy felt warm inside. She knew Heavenly Father had heard her. “Thank you, Heavenly Father,” she thought.
“It’s all right, Mommy. We’ll be OK now.”
Mommy smiled and nodded her head. She still looked worried.
Bright lights lit up the back of the van. A man climbed out of a big truck. He waved as he waded through the snow. “You look like you could use some help,” he said. “I’ll have you out in a jiffy!”
The man hooked a big chain to the back of the van. His truck pulled the van right out of the snow. Mommy could drive again. She thanked the man and started for home.
“Christy, you taught me a lesson tonight,” Mommy said. “Heavenly Father always cares about us. I love you.”
Christy felt thankful and happy. “I love you too, Mommy.”

My husband and I were missionaries serving in Tarbes, France, in the Pyrenees Mountains. It was Christmas Eve, and we decided to go down to the city at Verdun Plaza to give away copies of the Book of Mormon. The street was deserted, and we started to ask ourselves what we were going to do with so many books. Suddenly, we saw a young man who seemed to not know where to go.
We approached him and offered him a Book of Mormon. He became joyful as he listened to us talk about the gospel. He explained that he was alone that Christmas night and that he would read the Book of Mormon and not feel alone.
After he left, we looked around the street again and saw a woman walking slowly toward us in the cold night. A glimmer of happiness shone in her eyes when we presented her with a Book of Mormon. She told us that she had become a widow recently and was happy that we were concerned about her. She said she was extremely grateful to us. As she walked away, we saw her hold the book against her heart.
That night we distributed every copy of the Book of Mormon that we had brought with us. Most of the people who we gave them to were alone, distressed, and very much in need of love. We went back home that night with the impression that we had received the greatest Christmas gift because of the joy that we were able to give to others.

While most members had plenty of food, cooking it with the power off was a problem. And since everyone was so busy trying to clean up their homes, the evening meals provided by different wards in the stake were extremely welcome. For two weeks after the quake, meals were prepared by the Relief Society sisters in the stake and transported over long distances to Coalinga.
Even more important than the food was the emotional support and closeness derived from ward and stake members coming together to talk and share concerns. “Coalinga is about the farthest ward from the stake center,” explained Sister Millie Netherton. “We used to see these people at meetings and work with them, but we didn’t really know them very well. Now we fall into each other’s arms we’re so glad to see each other.”

At one privately owned and operated care facility, compassion reigned supreme. The proprietress was Edna Hewlett. There was a waiting list of patients who desired to live out their remaining days under her tender care, for she was an angelic person. She would wash and style the hair of every patient. She cleansed elderly bodies and dressed them with bright and clean clothing.
Through the years, in visiting the widows of the ward over which I once presided, I would generally start my visits at Edna’s facility. She would welcome me with a cheery smile and take me to the living room where a number of the patients were seated.
I always had to begin with Jeannie Burt, who was the oldest—102 when she died. She had known me and my family from the time I was born.
On one occasion Jeannie asked with her thick Scottish brogue, “Tommy, have you been to Edinburgh lately?”
I replied, “Yes, not too long ago I was there.”
“Isn’t it beautiful!” she responded.
Jeannie closed her aged eyes in an expression of silent reverie. Then she became serious. “I’ve paid in advance for my funeral—in cash. You are to speak at my funeral, and you are to recite ‘Crossing the Bar’ by Tennyson. Now let’s hear it!”
It seemed every eye was upon me, and surely this was the case. I took a deep breath and began:
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.11
Jeannie’s smile was benign and heavenly—then she declared, “Oh, Tommy, that was nice. But see that you practice a wee bit before my funeral!” This I did.

American servicemen, their families, and others living in the Philippines loved the Filipinos and in 1960 pleaded with Elder Gordon B. Hinckley, then an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles assigned to supervise the Church in Asia, to open the Philippines to missionary work.2
On his first visit to the Philippines in 1960, Elder Hinckley realized the potential the Philippines offered as a mission field. Legal challenges slowed official recognition for the Church, but Elder Hinckley and Robert S. Taylor, president of the Southern Far East Mission, believed permission for missionary visas would soon be granted. With authorization from the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, they scheduled a meeting at the American War Memorial Cemetery on 28 April 1961 to initiate missionary work.
At 6:30 on a quiet, peaceful morning, around 100 members of the Church—mostly servicemen and their families, but including David Lagman, a Filipino member—met near the small memorial chapel. At the conclusion of a brief meeting, Elder Hinckley offered a prayer in which he invoked blessings “upon the people of this land, that they shall be friendly and hospitable, and kind and gracious to those who shall come here, and that many, yea Lord, we pray that there shall be many thousands who shall receive this message and be blessed thereby. … We pray that there shall be many men, faithful, good, virtuous, true men who shall join the Church.”3
Since that time, his prayer has been answered many fold. Visas for full-time missionaries were soon approved, and on 5 June 1961 the first four missionaries were transferred from Hong Kong to Manila. Probably because the people were curious about them, the elders were invited into every home they visited that day.

Elder Peterson was born in Roy, Utah, on 6 October 1939 to Rulon and Naomi Skeen Peterson. He and his wife of 39 years, Joan Jensen Peterson, have reared six children, which has been a rich and rewarding experience. A year after he and Sister Peterson were married in the Logan Utah Temple, their first child, Linda, was born with spina bifida. The experience rapidly brought the couple a deepened maturity. Their faith increased as they saw prayers answered and small miracles occur in the life of this daughter. Today Linda has served a mission, taught at the Missionary Training Center, graduated from Brigham Young University, married in the temple, and is the mother of two.

We can set objectives, if we will, to help guide us and to help us achieve something worthwhile in life. I would like to tell you about another letter I received during the hottest fighting in the Pacific. A young man in California wrote: “Brother Richards, there have been so many Mormon boys here in uniform and they have been such outstanding young fellows that it has literally changed the attitude of the people of this town toward the Mormon Church.” Then he told this specific story. He said that one of the women’s clubs in that town had sponsored a luncheon at a hotel. The lady in charge had had an extra plate placed at the table. She said, “We’ll invite the first soldier who comes along to occupy this place.” The first soldier happened to be a Mormon, and he did not hide his light under a bushel. When they tried to serve him coffee, he did not accept it. They offered to get him tea, and he did not want that.
This experience opened the door for that soldier to do missionary work. The women in the club wanted to know why he did not drink coffee or tea. This gave him a chance to tell them how he was raised. One woman at that table said right there that if the Mormon elders ever knocked at her door, she would let them in. She wanted to know more about a people who could raise a boy like that young man.
I told that story in the Assembly Hall one day at a conference. At the close of the meeting, a young man came up and he said, “Bishop (I was Presiding Bishop then), I am that young man.” I said, “No kidding.” He said, “No, sir.” And I asked, “Did I tell the story correctly?” He said, “Just exactly.” Then I asked, “What are you doing in the Church today?” Oh,” he answered, “I am bishop of such and such ward.” You see, the Lord knows who can be trusted. As President McKay has said, “It is better to be trusted than to be loved.”

Many of my memories of being a five-year-old consist of volleyball nets, floor polish on gym floors, referee whistles, and roughly scribbled rosters. My dad coached a team of young volleyball players in our ward. I was his “assistant.”
My dad taught the players principles of hard work, team spirit, honesty, trust in self and in others, goal setting, perseverance, and sacrifice. There were prayers before games, 5:00 A.M. practices on Saturdays, and ice cream socials at our house.
One of the most important lessons I learned from my dad and his players was that of honesty. When a player touched the net inadvertently or mishandled a pass, my dad taught that it was important for the player to reveal his error with a raised hand. That lesson would make a lasting impression, not only on the members of the team, but also on a five-year-old “assistant coach.”
Our team had struggled in the beginning. But when the championships were held, we were there to compete. When it was time for the final match, the four years the team had spent playing together paid off. Just one match stood in the way of our winning the championship.
There was a spirited atmosphere at the championship match. Crowds of people came to watch the competition. I took my place next to Dad when the horn sounded to begin play.
I don’t remember much of that match, but I do remember the end of the final game. The crowd cheered as my dad’s team scored the final point. Participants and spectators flooded the floor. Brent, a big, formidable player on our team, had made the final point with a decisive spike. So powerful was his contact with the ball that even the experienced referee didn’t notice that Brent’s finger had brushed the net. It was a penalty that easily could have been forgotten. But amid the excitement, Brent slowly raised his arm into the air.
The teams reassembled, the crowd took their seats, and the game continued. Shortly thereafter, the game ended, and my dad’s team captured the championship they had been working at for four years. They could feel good not only about winning, but also about doing it honestly.
Many years have passed since my days of chasing volleyballs for my father and his players. But the memory of a coach teaching the value of honesty to his team still remains firmly planted in my memory. From my low vantage point on the floor that day, most people seemed tall. But the way I—and everyone else—saw it, Brent stood the tallest.

It had been a long week. I walked into the fireside broadcast late, struggling to filter out thoughts of exams, assignments, work, and friends. I hoped that somehow the words of the prophet could pierce through all these concerns and sink into my heart.
Oh, how I hoped and silently prayed for help to focus on the words of the prophet. And my prayer was answered. I walked into the fireside with my view clouded and troubled. When I left, I had a refreshed outlook on life and some plain, simple truths—a recipe for happiness.
Be grateful, be smart, be clean, be true, be humble, and be prayerful. How simple these statements are. How great a difference they can make in my life!
I know this gospel contains truth that is lacking elsewhere. I know that the prophet loves me. I am grateful that our Heavenly Father and the Savior love us enough to give us specific, individual guidance in our lives through prayer and through the words of our prophet. These things are plain, simple, and true.
Lisa Ware, age 19,Rochedale Ward, Eight Mile Plains Australia Stake

Many moving accounts have come to our attention as a result of this open house; countless hearts have been touched. Over eight thousand individuals with special needs came in wheelchairs, bringing relatives or friends to assist them. One young son paused at the entrance to the temple to carefully clean and polish the wheelchair his father was in before entering the sacred interior of the temple. A devoted father lifted his frail fifteen-year-old daughter in his arms as he carried her from her wheelchair into the brides’ dressing room. She looked around and said, “Oh, this is so beautiful.” With a smile on her lips and with tears in her eyes, she gently laid her head on her father’s shoulder and said, “This is where I want to come to be married someday.” This young girl had come to the temple from the hospital, where she has spent most of the past five years, her wish to see the temple fulfilled.

I cannot reflect on the priceless value of this day’s opportunity without thinking about the Hoa family. The year 1975 was grim in Vietnam. The Republic of Vietnam had collapsed in the face of the relentless onslaught of the North Vietnamese. The army had surrendered. The government had capitulated. Those who had been strongly identified with the government of South Vietnam or with the Americans feared for their lives and well-being. Many fled the country. Those who could not force their way onto departing military aircraft took passage on overcrowded ships and boats of every description. Some of these rusting hulks sprang leaks and sank in the South China Sea, not far into the voyage. Others were accosted by pirates, who molested and murdered many of these pathetic refugees and stole what few possessions they had brought with them. Tran Do Hoa, his wife Nga, their two young daughters and Nga’s teenage brother were among those who survived these perils and eventually reached the United States under an amnesty program.

Our ward in Southern California had offered to sponsor one such family. We found and rented a small home and furnished it in “early Deseret Industries”decor. Finally, the day came that we were to meet “our” family. With my young son as company, I drove to Camp Pendleton, the sprawling U.S. Marine Corps base in northern San Diego County, to pick them up. Following directions, we turned off the main highway onto a narrow byway that soon became a dirt road. We drove down this road for a considerable distance until we came to a large encampment of tents in an isolated part of the base. This was where these refugees were housed. The sight was heartrending: hundreds of Vietnamese attired in worn and ill-fitting clothing, many malnourished and still showing the bone-deep exhaustion of their ordeal. Clouds of dust hung in the late-summer air from the foot and vehicular traffic in and about the camp.

It was then, after checking in at the administrative tent, that I got my first glimpse of Hoa. He was a distinguished looking man in his early forties, thin to the point of emaciation, with graying hair and a gentle, polite smile. Nga, his wife, was a tiny woman with the natural beauty and graciousness of the Vietnamese. Two little girls, Betty and Ti, each clutching a doll, shyly clung to their parents. Thuan, Nga’s teenage brother, stood awkwardly nearby. And what I remember the most: all of their belongings were in a small, travel-worn suitcase and a cheap, plastic shopping bag. In Vietnam, Hoa had been a government civil servant, Nga had worked as a secretary. They had enjoyed a modest, but comfortable, standard of living. Now they had nothing. In fleeing Vietnam, they had forsaken everything they owned and held dear. Grateful to have escaped with their lives, they were totally and completely destitute in a strange land far from home. Hoa spoke halting English, Nga and the children spoke almost no English. As we drove out of that dusty encampment and onto Interstate 5, the great coastal superhighway, I remember thinking how overwhelmed and alone they must feel.

Looking back now, however, with the perspective of the years, I realize that Hoa and Nga had something not immediately apparent to the eye. They had a profound sense of gratitude for the opportunity that this land afforded them. They had virtually nothing of this world’s goods when they arrived in this country. But they brought with them a fierce determination to seize the opportunity provided. Through some interviews we helped to arrange, Hoa found work in a small electronics company. Nga immediately began attending English classes and eventually found a clerical job. Betty and Thuan enrolled in school and devoted themselves to their studies with single-minded resolve. Little Ti, a pre-schooler when the family arrived, grew up as an American child but fueled with the same work ethic that animated the other members of her family.

In time, our family moved away. We lost contact with Hoa and Nga and their children for a period of years. And so it was, with considerable delight, that we discovered on a return visit to that community that Hoa and Nga had purchased a lovely home. Two late-model automobiles were parked in their garage. Hoa and Nga each held responsible, remunerative jobs. Thuan had completed college as an electrical engineer. Betty had a scholarship to attend UCLA. And Ti was a vivacious teenager. Not long afterward, Hoa passed away prematurely.

More years passed, some twenty years from our first meeting. I was serving in the Area Presidency of the North America West Area and was assigned to a stake conference near Riverside, California. As I walked into the chapel on Sunday morning, there on the first row was Thuan. Although not a Church member and living more than 50 miles from this stake center, he had heard of my coming to the conference quite by chance from a workmate who was a member of the stake. He had come to once again express his gratitude, and that of his family, for the blessing of an opportunity. He threw his arms around me. It was a wonderful and tearful reunion for me, one I shall always remember.

As I look at us, you and me, bathed as we are in relative affluence, and all too often nonchalant about the opportunity cascading about us, I see in my mind’s eye a dusty encampment shimmering in the summer heat and a little family far from home, strangers in a strange land, with a worn suitcase and a plastic shopping bag. The vision restores my perspective.

Beep! Beep! Beep!
I slipped my hand from underneath the warm cover and gently tapped the alarm clock. Since I had received that old clock as a Christmas present years ago, that same, resounding “beep” became the clue to start each day of my life. Today, though, my new life was beginning, and the sound of the clock became the introduction to the course my life would follow.
As I sat up on the edge of my bed, I stared at my old clock. A friend had given it to me, and I smiled as I thought of Rebecca. Only a short 18 years ago, Rebecca and I had been born three days apart in the same local hospital. She lived two houses down, and I remember vividly the many times we would play together in the neighborhood park.
Some days, we became world-famous explorers. Other days, Rebecca was transformed into the fairest of all princesses, and I, of course, became her knight in shining armor. Most days, though, I would teach Rebecca about the chirping noises the robins made in spring, the sound of the lawn mower trimming the summer grass, or the rustling sound of blowing leaves in fall. She was always full of questions.
“Rebecca, the red bird,” I would say, as I flapped my arms and pointed to the treetops, “sounds like this.” Then, I’d chirp as loud as I could. Rebecca would laugh with delight as she witnessed my performance; then she’d brush two of her fingers across her nose a few times to tell me I was funny.
I laughed, too, then began my next impression of the water flowing beneath the bridge.
“Water sounds like this,” I’d explain. Then, moving my hands in a wave formation, I’d curl my lips and create a loud gurgling noise. “Do you understand, Rebecca?” I was proud of my ability to conjure up various noises and became a sort of maestro of noisemaking.
Rebecca would smile and bring her forefinger close to her head, then move it up and down to show she understood. In my mind, I set Rebecca apart from the other girls because she didn’t communicate like everyone else did. But she was my favorite because she made me feel comfortable and needed. She taught me to enjoy the simple things of life, and out of those small things, to find the great things within. Rebecca was deaf, but that alone didn’t set her apart. She was also a Mormon, and at school, I saw the Mormon kids as such a life-loving people. Something about them and about Rebecca intrigued me.
I smiled as I thought about our friendship and all those days we’d spent together in the park. Sometimes I felt like her protector, especially when the other kids teased her about her hearing aids or how she used her hands to talk. My role of “knight in shining armor” became real when I’d rescue Rebecca from her tormentors.
The past didn’t seem so distant now. Just after entering high school, I went to the annual Christmas concert in the town square. Rebecca had asked me to go with her family.
As we sat listening to the familiar carols and arrangements, I studied Rebecca’s mother with envy. Because she was Rebecca’s interpreter, she would sit in front of the audience and use sign language to illustrate the music. Her facial expressions melted from one emotion to the other helping Rebecca to actually “hear” the meaning of the songs. And although at the time I didn’t realize it, I, too, “heard” a distinct voice as the choir sang about the Christ child that night.
The clock flashed to 8:43. I grabbed my towel and stumbled to the shower, still thinking about the days after that Christmas concert. Until a few months ago, there was a time when I refused to allow Rebecca to be a part of my life. As high school activities began, I was so involved with the basketball team, student council, and trying to be “cool” that Rebecca no longer was a priority. I occasionally joined with the other kids, ridiculing and tormenting my old playmate behind her back. Sometimes, Rebecca would wave across the lunchroom, but I’d pretend I didn’t see her, turn, and walk the other way.
Throughout the next three years, Rebecca sometimes invited me to church dances, firesides, or to summer youth conferences, but I never accepted her invitations. I always felt like I had an image to uphold, and being seen with Rebecca would destroy that. The differences that had attracted me to her when we were young were the same differences that kept me away from her now.
My friends would tease me, “So, Rebecca asked you to another church thing, huh, Drew? When she uses her hands to talk, she looks like a bird ready to take off the runway. She’s so weird.”
The whole crowd would laugh, and on the outside I would laugh, too, but, in my heart, I knew Rebecca wasn’t weird. Yet my integrity weakened, and my “shining armor” lost its sparkle.
My clock flashed to 9:32. I concentrated on what had taken place during the past few months. During the spring of our senior year, Rebecca invited me to her church worship services, but this time, I couldn’t come up with a ready excuse, so I consented to go. I recollect that day in the hall.
“Drew,” Rebecca yelled as best she could at me.
I was about to continue down the hall, but something told me to turn back and talk to her. I had “heard” this voice before at that Christmas concert. The strangest feeling pulled me back to talk to Rebecca.
She greeted me with her warm, enthusiastic smile, and using her hands in various gestures, she asked me to a sacrament meeting. “Drew, I teach little children, and I taught them a song that I think you’ll like. Will you come with me Sunday?”
“Um, well, I …” I stammered.
“It’ll only last an hour, and I promise, I’ll never ask you again,” she tried speaking while her hands created each word.
“Well, I guess I can go, but I don’t …” I tried to conjure up another excuse, but a powerful feeling of “Drew you need to go” overwhelmed me.
“Great!” she grinned. “I’ll pick you up at 10:45.”
When we were younger, I had gone to church with Rebecca, but it had been ten years since I’d been inside a chapel. I remember that following Sunday well. Rebecca promptly rang the bell at 10:45, and within 15 minutes, I was sitting in the middle section of the chapel waiting for sacrament meeting to begin. This week would be the Primary program, and Rebecca’s CTR class had a special part.
Through the prayers, announcements, and sacrament, I kept feeling that same strange sensation I had encountered in the school hallway and at the Christmas concert, and I puzzled over the joy and warmth that the congregation seemed to create. These people really enjoy being here, I thought.
After a few talks and scriptures, it was finally Rebecca’s turn. She marched to the front with five eight-year-olds trailing her heels. She looked like a mother duck with her ducklings. They took their positions, and the melody of “Teach Me to Walk in the Light” seeped from the piano. My heart began to pound as the children formulated the words with their tiny hands. They grinned from ear to ear as they followed Rebecca’s slow and cautious signals. Then the song ended, leaving the chapel in complete silence. A flood of memories filled my mind, and I felt at peace as when I used to play with Rebecca. The feeling of being needed was back.
After the meeting, I approached Rebecca to ask her about the meeting, the song, and the strange feeling I was experiencing.
“You did a good job. Those kids are amazing,” I said while trying to sign the words I knew. It had been quite a long time since I’d talked with Rebecca in her language. She beamed.
“Could you come to dinner?” she asked. “Then I will explain more about the Church.”
I agreed. I truly wanted to know why I was feeling this way. After all, I hadn’t felt like this since that Christmas concert years ago, and now, suddenly, Rebecca asked me to church, and the feeling was back and I wanted to know why.
I went to dinner and met Elder Dial and Elder Burningham for the first time. They immediately became two of my best friends, and my friendship with Rebecca began to strengthen again. Through months of study, discussions, going to church, and praying, I decided to join the Church, and last night, my decision became reality as I dressed in white, went into the water, and was baptized. Now, I “hear” that familiar voice, and my friend and confidant Jesus Christ is always with me as I do my part.
At school, my integrity began to blossom, my rusting armor gleamed again, and my friendship with Rebecca was as strong as when we were younger. My friends eventually softened their hearts and began including Rebecca in our circle. She started teaching them various signs, and throughout classes and in the halls, this became our secret code.
For years, I felt sorry for Rebecca because she couldn’t hear the sounds I heard, but when it came to what was truly important, she had full hearing, and I was the deaf one trying to find the true voice to follow. When I began meeting with Elder Burningham and Elder Dial, along with Rebecca’s testimony, I received my “hearing aids” through scripture study and prayer. Ultimately, my “hearing” began to improve. Last night, I received the most precious of gifts when my spiritual ears were restored.

I am ever grateful to many of the Brethren for their examples of kindness and thoughtfulness to their wives. I well remember, when I was a stake president, the example set by the late Elder S. Dilworth Young of the First Council of the Seventy. At that time, his first wife, Gladys, was an invalid, having suffered a cruel stroke. She remained that way for many years before her death in 1964. Brother Young made the extra effort to dress her, feed her, and care for her. In all my life I have not seen a greater example of gentleness and solicitude than Brother Young showed to Gladys. He once told me, “It was the worst thing in the world that could have happened to Gladys and the best thing for me. It made me decent. I learned what love really should be.”

The twenty-five children who are learning to read and write on Lubian Sequi’s patio are poor—too poor to afford shoes or uniforms or supplies for public school. Some have no beds at home, but sleep in cardboard boxes on the ground.
Sister Sequi is a small, lovely woman with a smile that warms and comforts. On the chalkboard she has written the words Dios Me Ama (“God Loves Me”). Besides teaching her students reading, writing, mathematics, social studies, science, and etiquette, Sister Sequi begins each day’s classes with a prayer and a lesson from the Bible. She also encourages the children to pray with their families. Sister Sequi provides pencils, notebooks, and chalk for the children who cannot afford them. She uses a lot of visual aids to help the children learn.
Sister Sequi has found most of her students on the streets of Santo Domingo. “Whenever I see a dirty, barefoot, or neglected child, I say to him, ‘Come here. Don’t be afraid. Where do you live?’” Then she goes home with the child to ask permission for the child to attend school in her home.
Once a month, she invites the parents to an evening meeting where they can see how their children are progressing. She also gives a talk to help the parents spiritually and morally. “Our intention is to teach the parents so that they can teach their children better,” she says. Although it is not Sister Sequi’s primary goal to convert, at least one student’s family has been baptized since coming to her school.

I’m thankful for the strength my mother showed while she was going through her bout with leukemia. Unbeknownst to many of us siblings during the time we were preparing to celebrate my father’s 90th birthday in the summer of 2007 that our mother was diagnosed with pre-leukemia. The Hematologist was keeping a close eye on her blood count.

Mom went through all of the preparations for the event without a single complaint of pain or acknowledging what she was going through at the time. She was focused on making sure that everything would run smoothly for dad’s big day. You could not tell in her expressions on that day that anything was wrong. Soon after the event, she began her treatments. Then again towards the end, no one realized that mom could not see out of one of her eyes. I took her to the eye doctor who explained that a blood clot had formed inside and was blocking her vision. It would be difficult to do any type of treatment due to her chemo treatments and the fact that she was taking blood thinners.

She never complained about it.

One of my brother’s and I even tried to get her to put a patch over the affected eye thinking that might help her vision. She looked like a pirate and said she didn’t need a patched eye. We needed to add a little humor to her day. She was a real trooper until the day she passed away. And her last words that were written in a book were, “love everyone."

When the school bell rang on Friday afternoon, big white snowflakes were falling thick and fast. It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation, and the world looked like a wintry wonderland.
But the activity day girls of the East Mill Creek Fourth Ward in Salt Lake City, Utah, had more to think about than making snowmen or going sledding. They had a mission of love. This afternoon they would be making hats and scarves to keep other children warm on frosty days.
Right after school, the girls bundled up and headed to the church. They stomped the snow off their shoes and took off their coats. Then it was straight to work.
The girls turned the Relief Society room into a busy, colorful workshop. At one table, girls cut cozy fleece and fringed and tied the ends to make scarves.
Other girls sat in a circle and knitted warm hats for children and infants. Using special knitting frames, even the youngest girls became expert hat makers.
At another table, girls made snowy white pom-poms to give the hats a fun finishing touch. Abby C., age 10, also brought a quilt she made at home to donate to the project.
The girls would give all their handiwork to the Humanitarian Center. They were happy to know that somewhere in the world, on another cold winter day, some other children just like them will be warmer.
“This was a great opportunity,” said Olivia V., age 9. “It was our dream to help people.”

One evening in 1978, I was at the Logan Airport in Boston, Massachusetts, USA, waiting for some friends to arrive. A man struck up a conversation with me, and we talked a little about our lives. I told him I had returned three months earlier from a trip to Central America.
I had gone to escape the painful realities of my life, I told him. Nine years earlier my brother had died. The following year my parents were killed in a car accident. A year later to the day, my grandmother died. Within a short time, I had lost several of the most important people in my life. I was devastated.
I inherited a large sum of money upon my parents’ death, and I used it to try to escape my grief. I spent it on expensive clothes, cars, drugs, and trips to faraway places.
On my most recent trip I climbed a pyramid in Tikal, Guatemala. There, even though I was physically on a high place, I remember feeling the lowest I’d felt in a long time. I couldn’t live the way I’d been living anymore. “God,” I said, “if You’re there, I need You to change my life.” I stood there for several minutes, silently pleading for help from a being I wasn’t sure was real. When I climbed back down the pyramid, I felt at peace. Nothing had changed in my life, but somehow I felt that things were going to be all right.
And so it was that three months later I found myself telling all of this to the man at the airport. He listened patiently and then asked if I knew that Jesus Christ had appeared in the Americas.
At that time I still didn’t think much of God. What kind of God would take away my family? I told the man as much, and he responded that the God he believed in had made a way for me to be with my family again. Now he had my attention.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Have you heard of the Mormons?” I didn’t know much about them, but the man proceeded to explain the plan of salvation to me. And despite my initial disbelief, something about what he was sharing rang true.
My new acquaintance and I exchanged phone numbers, and over the next several months, we dated a bit. We also talked about the gospel. He gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon, and we discussed it and other scriptures for hours over the phone. He told me about Joseph Smith restoring the Church of Jesus Christ. It was an amazing time of hope and growth.
Our friendship waned a little bit, but after several more weeks, my friend told me he’d like to send some friends to talk with me. The friends he sent were, of course, the missionaries. And with the full-time elders came Bruce Doane, a stake missionary who would later become my husband.
After several weeks of formal discussions, the missionaries asked if I would be willing to be baptized. I told them sure. Then they told me that before I could be baptized, I needed to be living the Word of Wisdom.
I hadn’t been drinking or abusing drugs as much as in the past. Things were changing in my life; I felt more hopeful than I had in ages—but surely those habits would be impossible to break completely. Besides, I had already given up so much in embracing the gospel—including several friends who thought I was crazy for showing interest in the Mormon Church. I had persisted because I felt that the gospel was true. But could I completely abandon long-standing addictions?
The missionaries offered to give me a priesthood blessing to help me. Immediately afterward, I threw away all the drugs and alcohol I had. And that night the desire to partake of anything that was against the Word of Wisdom left me. It was a true miracle.
I was baptized in June 1978. A little more than a year later, Bruce and I were married in the Washington D.C. Temple.
The gospel literally rescued me from despair. Before, I was lost in every sense of the word. My parents and brother and grandmother were gone, but I felt as though I were gone too. After their deaths I no longer knew who I was. Now I have found my identity. I know that I am a child of God and that He knows me and loves me. As I was sealed to my parents, grandmother, and brother, my grief turned to joy with the assurance that we can be together forever.
The gospel of Jesus Christ also rescued me from my addictions. For the past few years my husband and I have served as LDS Family Services addiction-recovery missionaries, working with members of our stake who are struggling with different types of addictions. I am so grateful to be able to help these brothers and sisters. I feel blessed that I can share my story with them to help them understand how we can all be rescued by the gospel.