Gospel Story Finder

My mind has been much on this topic because of an experience our family has had in the last few months. Our daughter and her husband took a while to find each other, and then, though they wanted children with all their hearts, for a number of years they had difficulty realizing that dream. They prayed and they sought priesthood blessings and medical help and eventually were thrilled to learn they were expecting twins.

Things did not go smoothly, however, and three and a half months before the babies were due to arrive, the mother-to-be found herself in the labor and delivery section of the hospital. The doctors at first were hopeful that they could stop the labor for a few more weeks. Quickly, however, the question became, would they even have the 48 hours necessary for medication to prepare the babies’ immature lungs to function?

A nurse came in from the newborn intensive care unit to show the couple pictures of the machines the babies would be hooked up to if they were born alive. She explained the risks for eye damage, for lung collapse, for physical impairment, for brain damage. The couple listened, humbled yet hopeful, and then, despite all the doctors could do, it was obvious that these babies were coming.

They were born alive. First the baby girl and then the baby boy—weighing less than four pounds together—were rushed to the intensive care unit and put on ventilators, with umbilical tubes and intravenous lines and constant attention. They can’t have too much light, they can’t have too much noise, their chemical balances need constant monitoring, as the hospital, with millions of dollars of equipment and many wonderful doctors and nurses, attempted to replicate the miracle of a mother’s womb.

There are multitudes of little miracles every day: a collapsed lung heals and then, despite the odds, continues to function properly; pneumonia is beaten back; more deadly infections invade and are overcome; IV lines go bad and are replaced. After two and a half months, the baby boy has gained two pounds and can breathe with an oxygen supplement. His ventilator is gone, he learns to eat, and his grateful parents take him home with monitors attached.

The baby girl keeps pulling her ventilator tube out, setting off alarms across the nursery. Maybe she wants to keep up with her brother, we think, but her throat closes off each time, and she just can’t breathe on her own. Her throat is so inflamed that at times the respiratory therapists have great difficulty reinserting the tube, and she almost dies. Her normal progress is stymied by her continued dependence on the ventilator.

Finally, after her baby brother has been home for two months, the doctors feel they are forced to suggest surgery for her—a surgery that will allow her to breathe by opening a hole in her throat, a surgery that might solve the stomach problems by opening a hole in her side, but a surgery that will impact her little body for many more months and maybe for the rest of her life. As the parents wrestled with this decision, a beloved aunt sent a message to all the family. She explained the situation—the critical issue of timing, the importance of getting off the ventilator—and suggested that we join our faith once again, and in prayer and fasting ask for one more miracle—if it was the Lord’s will. We would culminate our fast with a prayer the evening of December 3.

Let me read from a letter that was sent to the family the morning of December 4. “Dearest Family, Wonderful news! Blessings from the Lord. Our heartfelt thanks for your prayers and fasting in behalf of our little girl. Yesterday morning she came off the ventilator and has been off for 24 hours at this writing. To us, it is a miracle. The medical staff are still guarded about predicting the future, but we are so grateful to the Lord and to you. We are praying that this will mark the beginning of the end of her hospital stay. And we even dare to hope that she’ll be home for Christmas.”

She did make it home for Christmas, and both babies are currently doing just fine. Our family has had its own “parting of the Red Sea,” and we are prepared to testify that there is today, as there was yesterday and will be forever, a “God of miracles” who loves His children and desires to bless them.

Jenni Holt is from Ottawa, Canada’s beautiful capital city built on the wooded banks of the Ottawa River. She and friends from the Ottawa Ontario Stake talked with Church magazines about how prayer affects their lives.

One of the most interesting things the Ottawa teens discussed was how their prayers were answered. First, Susan Brook said, “If you want an answer, you have to listen for it.”
Susan said her answers sometimes come by reading the scriptures. She had a good example: “One day, I was just really tired, and I was being mean to everyone. I didn’t want to talk. I remember reading in the scriptures, I don’t even remember where, and it said, ‘Be humble.’ It hit me. That’s my answer.” (See D&C 112:10.)

Nathan and his mother were driving home from the store when something scary happened. They had been waiting at a red light, and when it turned green, they started into the intersection. Nathan looked past his mother and saw a car speeding toward them from the left. There was nothing they could do. The other car crashed into them with the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass.
Suddenly everything was quiet. He looked at his mother and saw that her arm was hurt. “Don’t worry, Nathan,” she said, “I’m OK. Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
They watched as the man from the other car angrily walked around the car and opened Nathan’s door. “Lady, you ran that red light! Look what you’ve done to my car! I’m going to sue you.” Just then a police car arrived, and the man went to talk to the policeman.
Some people who had been watching came over and helped Nathan and his mother out of the car. Nathan’s mother looked around at the group. “Did any of you see what happened?”
One lady stepped forward and said, “I saw you waiting at the red light. You didn’t go until it had turned green. That was when he hit you.”
Other people said that they had seen the accident, and Mother asked, “Would you testify in court about what you saw?” When several of them said that they would, she asked them to write their names and addresses and phone numbers down and give them to the policeman.
Two other police cars and an ambulance had pulled up, and one of the officers started talking to Mother. He noticed her hurt arm and had her and Nathan taken to the hospital.
Later that evening, as Nathan nestled into his comfortable bed, his parents came in to kiss him good night. Mother’s arm was in a white cast and was supported by a sling around her neck. Father swept Nathan up into his arms and said, “I’m so thankful to Heavenly Father that neither of you was seriously injured.”
Nathan gave Father a hug. “I’m scared, Dad. That man said the accident was our fault.”
Mother reached out and took Nathan’s hand. “Don’t be afraid. There were several witnesses who will testify, or bear testimony, that we waited for the light to turn green. The judge will decide who was at fault.”
Nathan’s parents knelt in prayer with him, then tucked him in bed again, and he soon drifted off to sleep.
A few weeks later they drove to the courthouse for the trial. Nathan was nervous. How would the judge know the truth when he hadn’t seen the accident? As they walked into the courtroom, Nathan recognized the man who had hit them. The first policeman and some of the witnesses were already seated.
The judge asked the policeman to come to the witness stand. The policeman showed a big board with a diagram of two streets crossing each other. First he used drawings to show how the cars had collided. Next he showed the judge some photographs that had been taken of the accident.
After he had gone back to his seat, the judge asked the man who had hit them to come to the stand and tell about the accident. The man said, “I was driving along Thirty-fourth Street, the light was green, and suddenly her car drove right in front of my car. There was nothing I could do. I tried to stop, but there wasn’t time.”
The judge told him that he could sit down. Then the judge asked Mother to come to the stand. After she explained what had happened, he said, “We have conflicting stories here. Are there any witnesses to this accident?”
The policeman gave the judge a list of people’s names, and he called each of them to the stand to give their testimony. Every one of them said that the man had been going very fast and had gone through a red light and hit Mother’s car.
The judge looked through some papers, then made his decision. He looked first at the man. “You are guilty of speeding and running a red light. You are the cause of this accident. You will have to pay the woman’s medical fees and the cost of having her car fixed. You will also have to pay a fine of seven hundred dollars in court costs.
Nathan was relieved. The judge knew the truth because of the witnesses’ testimonies.
The next Sunday morning, at testimony meeting, Nathan realized how important testimonies are. Each person who stood up told how he or she knew that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ live.
Nathan had a warm feeling about his testimony. He wanted to bear it often so that others would know the truth of the gospel, just as the judge had known the truth about the accident.

But getting where she wanted to be has not been, shall we say, a piece of cake.
“My parents wanted me to be a doctor,” she says. After counseling with them and praying, she finally agreed she would study nutrition. That would allow her to be around food and yet still be involved in a medically related field. After college, she began work as a nutritionist in Mexico City. She loved the working environment and the people, but she still longed to be a chef. After giving the job a fair chance, she counseled with her parents again and mapped out a new plan.
“I prayed to Heavenly Father and asked Him to guide me,” she says. “Then I did all the research I could about culinary schools.” She saved money, studied English as a second language, then enrolled in a cooking school in London, England. That opened up the opportunity for her to also have apprenticeships—if she would work without pay. She did and gained experience as well as forming friendships with several of the top chefs in the world.
“Working without pay was hard,” she says. “I had to cater private dinners on the side to pay my way through school.” She also found a job at a restaurant equipment company in France, preparing meals and demonstrating professional ovens. For a year and a half, between school and work and various apprenticeships in two countries, her days were filled with long, hard work. “I had to pay the rent, and I had to pay for transportation, but I always had food because I was always allowed to eat in the restaurants.”
She also kept her standards high. “Living the Word of Wisdom was less of a challenge than some people might think,” she says. “For example, when people invited me to have a glass of wine, which is a big part of the restaurant business, I explained that I don’t drink alcohol. They respected that. And when people would party or suggest immoral activities, I would explain that my standards were different. We were colleagues at work, but I didn’t hang out with them in places that would bring me down.”
Lya and her husband, who is also a chef, offer this advice about careers: “Find something you love doing and that you’ll want to do for your entire life. Set goals and work hard, then pray, be humble, and follow your heart.”

For a few months before my mission, I lived with my brother and his family in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. After moving in with them, I found a job working with a crew framing houses.
My first day on the job, my boss dropped me off at the work site and introduced me to my supervisor. Soon I was on the roof of the garage learning how to “sheet” that part of the roof. As I looked on, I noticed that my supervisor might be in danger. He had placed a piece of sheeting down on the framework and had fastened one side. The other side was to be cut off with a Skil saw so the sheeting would fit in place.
As he was cutting, I noticed he was standing on the side that wasn’t fastened. If he continued to cut, he would end up “surfing” off the roof on a piece of sheeting. I kept silent, rationalizing to myself. Since this was my first day, what did I know? He probably knew what he was doing.
It turned out that my supervisor did slide off the roof on the piece of loose sheeting. I watched him, with the saw, fly through the air, landing on the ground on both feet. He looked back up to where he had been with a funny look on his face. I managed to control my laughter when it became clear he wasn’t hurt.
Since that time, I’ve thought more about that experience. Although it seemed funny, I’ve realized how dangerous that situation was. I’ve thought about how I would have felt if my supervisor had been badly hurt, crippled, or killed. I would have felt responsible. I knew something that could have helped him avoid a dangerous situation. I was afraid of what his reaction might be if I told him what he was doing wrong. I felt I didn’t have enough knowledge. But, in truth, I had the knowledge, the power to help save him, and I failed to use it.

Across the clearing Roxie saw a group of women and girls entering the new big house. She thought of how Brother Garn had teased her the night before. “See, Miss Roxie,” he had said, “I fixed a special hook here by the new fireplace for that fancy ‘gold’ bucket of yours.”

Roxie had smiled, for she didn’t mind being teased about her brass bucket. It was one of the few things that her mother had been able to bring from her home in England when Grandma and Grandpa had settled in Nauvoo.

As Roxie entered the big house and crossed to the doorway of the kitchen beyond, her eye went to her little bucket hanging there on its peg. It does shine like gold, she thought with satisfaction.

Some of the older women were preparing the veal in roasting pans to go into the big rock oven. A couple of others were kneading the dough that had been slowly rising under its clean folded flour sack through the night. Then Roxie noticed Sister Lewis ladling thick cream, from a pan of milk she had set out the night before, into the big wooden churn. Roxie crossed over to her and picked up the butter dasher without waiting to be asked. Churning gave her time to watch all that was being done to prepare for the feast.

The sun had reached the cloth-covered windows on the west, and the savory smells of hot meats and vegetables mingled with those of molasses cakes. At last the settlers gathered around the long tables in their new main room. Gratefully they bowed their heads for the Lord’s blessing. This was their first feast.

Everyone was so busy passing around the big pans of food that no one paid much attention to the dogs’ excited barking outside. Then one of the men near the doorway rose and pushed aside the blanket that served as a door. He caught his breath quickly, and the others crowded around him.

There in the clearing was a band of Navajos, mounted on their long-maned horses. Standing out from the rest of the group was Chief Comazzy on his fine buckskin pony with its silver-trimmed Spanish saddle. Beside him was a young woman.

Roxie’s father was among the first of the men to go out to meet the unexpected guests and lead them to the bowery to rest. The women scurried around inside the house now, worrying whether they had enough food and eating utensils to serve the new arrivals. Sister Hatch found a clean sheet in the big chest and told Roxie and Polly to set the worktable in the adjoining kitchen for the Indians. She helped the girls find and wash more tin plates and cups.

The men led the group of newcomers through the main room into the kitchen, but in the doorway Comazzy stopped. His eyes took in the scene. Then a curious thing happened. Comazzy turned around, jerked his head for the others to follow, and strode out of the room toward his horse.

The settlers were stunned. It was Roxie’s father who first thought to run out and catch hold of their horses’ bridles as they were whirling them around to leave.

Roxie and the others watched the excited gestures. They were able to understand Comazzy’s mixture of Spanish and English. He was insulted that he was to eat in the kitchen where women should eat.

“Comazzy, please believe us!” Roxie’s father said. “We intended no insult by the seating arrangements. Come back. We really are your brothers!” He took out his pocket watch and extended it toward the chief as a peace offering.

Comazzy stared straight ahead like a statue. The other Indians sat as though made of stone.

Suddenly Roxie thought of her treasure and ran to fetch it. She felt a pang in her heart as she lifted the precious little brass bucket down from its peg. But she hurried outside with it and went straight to the chief’s young bride and held it up to her.

A hush fell over the watchers. Then slowly, as if in a spell, the dark-skinned girl stretched out a slender bracelet-spangled arm for the shiny little bucket! At a signal from the chief, one of the braves swung down from his pony, took the offered prize, and fastened it to the young girl’s saddle.

The tension was broken. Now everyone tried to talk at once. Sister Hatch nudged Roxie and motioned her to come back inside. The Indians were once more led to the bowery. The women and girls hurried to rearrange the tables and reheat the food.

Roxie’s father escorted Comazzy back inside and ushered him to the head of the main table. Roxie glanced over to where the Indian ponies were tied under the trees. She could see the golden glint of her little brass bucket tied to the saddle. She wished she could go over and just once more rub a finger along its satiny side.

Before she hurried inside, Roxie paused for a moment. She listened to the joyful cries of the little children playing down the path and to the breeze that was starting to rustle through the leaves by the river. Rays of gold and scarlet were starting to streak across the heavens to the west. Roxie brushed back the tears, took a deep breath of the cooling desert air, and went inside to the feast.

When Elder Henry D. Taylor was a little boy living in Provo, Utah, he often walked across the lane from his home to his grandmother’s house. Whenever he visited her, she would offer him crackers, raisins, or other delicacies. “One day, however,” Elder Taylor recounts, “without waiting to be offered a treat, I reached into the box where the crackers were stored and, much to my amazement and anguish, put my hand into a mousetrap that had been set. This remains as one of my earliest recollections.”

Elder Taylor was the fourth boy born to Arthur and Maria Dixon Taylor. Later two more boys and two girls joined the family. Elder Taylor’s father and three older brothers, as well as his two younger brothers, all had red hair, but Henry had dark hair like his mother. He has often jokingly said, “I must be the black sheep of the family.”

Although they lived in town, where Henry’s father was a businessman, the family owned a fruit farm several miles from Provo. Elder Taylor recalls that “for several years we moved to the farm for the summer. Father would travel by bicycle or horse and buggy to his work at the Taylor Brothers Company. We learned to spray the fruit trees, to irrigate them, and to harvest the fruit. Night irrigating was a cold, unpleasant task, and it discouraged us from wanting to become farmers.
“Mother gloried in farm life. She had a beautiful garden and enjoyed picking the various kinds of vegetables and fruits when they were ripe. In the evening she delighted in walking along the brow of the hill and in admiring the magnificent sunsets. I suppose from her enthusiasm most of us children developed an appreciation for sunsets and other beauties of nature.
“Father and I would often drive from Provo out to the farm. Just over the Provo River bridge was a grocery store with a blackboard in front that was used for advertising. Across the top of the blackboard was scrawled the saying, ‘As we travel through life, let us live by the way.’ On our return to Provo, I would recite this statement. Father would chuckle as he caught the hint. We would stop the horse in front of the store, and he would buy me an ice-cream cone.”

Later on, instead of spending summers at the farm, Elder Taylor’s family would move up the canyon to a tent-cabin and stay until school started in the fall. Moving up the canyon meant moving the cows as well. Because it was very hard on cows (and boys) to walk in the heat of the day, Henry and one of his brothers would leave between 3:30 A.M. and 4:00 A.M. in order to reach the mouth of the canyon by sunup.

“It was the summers that brought us together. I remember the annual building of a raft to float down the Provo River (Huck Finn style), swimming in the same waters, trekking over the mountainside to gather logs for bonfires in anticipation of Indian stories to come, leaping from a tall swing to see how far we could jump, hiking up Mount Timpanogos with John Swensen or Uncle Walt Dixon long before easy trails had been constructed.”

Reminiscing about his happy childhood Christmases, Elder Taylor remembers that “just through the block from us lived Professor Robert Sauer, a German convert. He was a music instructor at Brigham Young University and the leader of its band. While it was still dark on Christmas morning, Brother Sauer would arise, stand on his front porch, and play ‘Silent Night’ and ‘The Holy City’ on his trumpet.
“Father and Mother went to great lengths to make Christmas a happy time for us. One Christmas a piece of string led from our filled stockings to our major presents hidden somewhere in the house. Hours had been spent making these preparations. We boys arose before we were supposed to, and in the dark we accidentally broke the strings. Father and Mother had to spend the remainder of the night repairing the damage.
“We were a missionary family. There was never a question about whether or not we would go on missions; it was just a matter of waiting until we were old enough to serve. Father and Mother themselves went on a mission to England.”

Elder Taylor received a call to the Eastern States Mission. But during the summer before he was to leave, he and a brother had drunk some contaminated water while on a trip to southern Utah. As a result, Henry contracted typhoid fever and was not able to leave until later. He recalls that “when I first reached my mission, our room wasn’t well heated. We had our study class at 6:00 A.M., and I would don my bathrobe and sit there with my teeth chattering. I found that putting a hot toaster under my chair helped a little.”

At that time missionaries often traveled without purse or scrip. Elder Taylor said that during his mission “the Lord was good to us, and the people were kind and provided us with food and lodging. My mission experiences were humbling and inspirational.
“I salute you noble young people. You will be the leaders in your communities and the Church in the very near future. Live clean and useful lives. Happiness comes from keeping the Lord’s commandments. I leave my blessing with you, and pray that our Heavenly Father will guide, guard, and protect you.”

I used to look at the Old Testament in sort of the same way I looked at fairy tales—neat stories that didn’t really relate to my life. Separated from me by thousands of years of history, they seemed far removed from reality. However, my seminary teacher loved the Old Testament, and his enthusiasm and humble testimony began to instill in me a greater reverence for these scriptures.
One night as I was studying, I came across this verse: “And the Lord spake unto Moses face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend” (Ex. 33:11).
I read these words, and at first I wasn’t particularly influenced by them. The Lord spoke to Moses. Of course He did. It seemed only natural for the Lord to appear personally to one of His prophets.
Then I prayed, and I really started to think about that scripture. I knew Heavenly Father wouldn’t appear to me that night, but maybe I could try to speak to Him “as a man speaketh unto his friend.” It was then that I felt His love envelop me.
As I prayed, I restated in my own words what I had read: “Moses spoke to Thee face to face, just like a friend.” I stopped. I said it again and again.
Then it hit me. The realization was so profound yet so simple. Moses saw God face to face. Suddenly Old Testament times were not so distant, and I realized that Moses had been a mortal—just like me. The scriptures came to life in my mind; I knew that Moses had actually lived and breathed, that he, too, had experienced challenges and struggled with a lack of confidence. Yet he talked to the Messiah, the Jehovah of Israel, his Lord and Redeemer—my Lord and Redeemer—in the same manner I spoke to my own earthly father.
“Heavenly Father,” I prayed again, “more than anything else, I want to return to Thee!” I closed my prayer and crawled into bed, feeling His love more tangibly than I ever had in my life.

Finances were tight for our young family in 1979. I was a student at Colorado State University. Meager funds from loans and my wife’s enterprises were deposited directly into a savings account. Then we would withdraw a budgeted amount every week for expenses. As Christmas approached we recognized that this holiday would be a frugal one.
One Friday evening we decided that I would take the two oldest of our four children to explore the excitement of the local shopping mall. En route we made our bank withdrawal, electing to withdraw the full December amount at the beginning of the month to cover the increased expenses of the holidays. I took the full amount in small bills.
Although no snow had fallen, the weather was cold and raw with an icy wind. Arriving at the crowded mall parking lot, I hurriedly extracted the boys from the van, eager to get inside the bright, warm mall.
For well over an hour we wandered from store to store, enjoying the rich sights and smells. At last we agreed to cap our outing with some ice cream. With shock, however, I immediately discovered that my shirt pocket was empty of its recent bulge of money.
I fought down a rising panic as we quickly retraced our steps. But with each negative response to our anxious inquiries about someone finding some money, our sense of loss increased. After making a last, futile stop at a security desk, we sadly returned home.
We related the bad news to my concerned wife. How could we buy food, pay the rent and utilities, and cover other expenses for the month, let alone provide a few extras for Christmas? The children began to softly cry and whisper among themselves. Somberly we gathered in family prayer to ask for guidance. Then, as we were discussing every possible but unlikely avenue to compensate for the loss, the phone rang.
It was the security guard at the mall. “Are you the people who recently reported the loss of some money?” he asked.
“Yes, we are,” I answered.
“How much was it, and in what denominations?”
After we gave him the information, he asked if we could return to the mall.
With guarded anticipation we made the short journey back. The security guard told us that several people had turned in numerous small bills found scattered by the wind in the parking lot. A count revealed the exact amount we had lost. There was no one to thank, for these honest souls left no names. The guard smiled and wished us a merry Christmas as he handed us the small stack of bills. Much relieved and profoundly grateful, we drove home.
We then knelt as a family and offered our thanks for the blessings given. Christmas was saved for our little family, and an eternal lesson was learned. These honest people were wonderful examples to us. What better way to give thanks to our Heavenly Father for the birth of His Son than by living the true spirit of Christmas?

My husband, Eddie Uele, and I have three children: Indie-Rose, Rollo, and Kamaukiterangi (Kamau). On 12 Jan. 2022, we tragically lost our then 2-year-old son, Kamau.
That afternoon, playing and laughing with our children in our bedroom, we suddenly realized Kamau was missing. Moments later, Kamau was found unconscious in our backyard. Eddie performed CPR until the paramedics arrived while my family and I pleaded for Heavenly Father’s help.
Kamau was rushed to the hospital where a team of doctors were waiting for him. When we arrived, Eddi and I were taken to a private room where we spent the next few minutes holding each other’s hands, still in constant prayer. A doctor finally walked in, sat down in front of us and began to speak.
I couldn’t hear any words that he was saying as everything around me had become still, quiet, and peaceful—then, as clear as day, I saw my son in front of me playing with a little toy truck, giggling and happy. It was then that I knew my son had died. I also knew that this was Heavenly Father’s way of preparing me for what was to come.
It wasn’t until later that evening when I truly understood the heavenly significance of that moment.
My mum held me as I cried in her arms, unable to bear the loss of my child. She asked me, “Are you angry with Heavenly Father?” I replied, “No, I’m not angry, but He ignored me, Mum. I begged Him not to take my son. I begged Heavenly Father to please let him stay. But He ignored me.”
My mum lovingly said to me, “Heavenly Father wasn’t ignoring you. He heard you. He performed a miracle by opening the veil to heaven and allowing you to see that He’s with Kamau, and Kamau will forever be safe in His arms.”

Every December since I can remember my family has bought a nativity set, and every year we give it away. As a family we decide who we will give it to. Usually we choose someone in our ward or neighborhood who does not have family in the area, or someone who may feel lonely over the Christmas season.
Twelve days before Christmas we begin delivering our gifts. Each night we secretly deliver one piece of the nativity set with a poem attached, starting with the camel. On Christmas Eve, we deliver the baby Jesus. We do not run and hide when we deliver this last gift as we do with the others. Instead we deliver this last piece with some goodies in person.
The best Christmas gift I get every year is seeing the happiness of the people when we give them the baby Jesus—the piece to complete their set. I always get a wonderful feeling inside when I deliver the nativity set with my family. I know the Lord is pleased with what I am doing.
My brother is on a mission right now, and last Christmas we sent him a nativity set so he could carry on the tradition even while he was serving. I really enjoy this family tradition. It is something that I plan to continue when I get married. I thank my parents for starting this tradition that helps us focus on the Savior and His birth.

I remember the Sunday when I first learned about President Hinckley’s challenge to read the Book of Mormon by the end of the year. Two weeks before, as part of a challenge from my Young Women president, I had finished reading the Book of Mormon in 65 days—the approximate time it took Joseph Smith to translate it. It averaged out to be about nine pages per day, and I had struggled to finish it in time. Now here I was sitting in sacrament meeting, listening to a letter asking me to read it again.
I started to think: “I’m going to be so busy this year in school; I’m not going to have time to read more than one page a day. President Hinckley just wanted us to read it this year, and I already did that. I’m sure he would understand.” By the time the sacrament was over, I had rationalized my way out of the challenge.
It was fast and testimony meeting that Sunday, and many people talked about the blessings that come from scripture reading. “I’ll still read my scriptures regularly,” I thought to myself.
The next person to get up was a friend of mine. I listened complacently until he mentioned the Book of Mormon challenge.
“It’s going to be hard,” he said. “But the prophet asked us to do it, and whatever the prophet says, goes.”
Whatever the prophet says, goes. That statement hit me hard. What had I been thinking? It wasn’t just anyone who had asked us to read the Book of Mormon; it was a prophet, the Lord’s messenger. If an angel appeared to me, I would listen. This wasn’t any different. I was going to obey President Hinckley, no matter what it took.
I finished reading the Book of Mormon, and I know I made the right decision. I don’t have any spectacular stories to tell about reading it, but I know that the experience as a whole strengthened my testimony. I was really busy that year, and having a goal motivated me to read my scriptures every day.
“Whatever the prophet says, goes” has sort of become a motto for me. When I am tempted with things such as immodesty or inappropriate movies, I think back to that memorable fast and testimony meeting.
I’m glad I was paying attention that day. I’m also glad that my friend got up and bore his testimony and that the Spirit carried his words into my heart.

One need look no further than to the many missionaries who have labored in that part of the world, who in obedience to the Lord accepted a call from His prophet to serve a mission. It was said by the Apostle Peter long ago that Jesus went about doing good. As His ambassadors, missionaries in our generation have gone and continue to go throughout the world doing good in the true spirit of the Master. Let me describe one of them. He is typical of so many others who sincerely desire to serve the Lord.
He came from California and grew up in an ordinary sort of way, not a member of the Church. He became acquainted with a girl who was a member of the Church. He was so impressed with her that, on learning that she was a member of the Church, he wished to know more. Latter-day Saint students at the university taught him the gospel while he was completing a difficult scholastic program. He was baptized. Then, working nights and summers, he saved money enough to sustain him, if he spent it with care, for a period of eighteen months as a missionary. He was called to Guatemala. He was a handsome young man with a brilliant mind and a wonderful education in a highly technical field. I met him in the Guatemala City Temple. He grasped my hand warmly. I asked, “Are you happy?”
“Oh yes, so very happy,” he responded. I asked where he was working as a missionary. He said, “Out among the Lamanites, the native people of Guatemala. It is a very small place where there is much hardship, but the people are wonderful, and I love them.”
As I have thought of that tall and handsome young man, gifted and educated, working among the Indians of Guatemala in a jungle village, I have remembered the words of Samuel the Lamanite:
“Yea, I say unto you, that in the latter times the promises of the Lord have been extended to our brethren, the Lamanites; and notwithstanding the many afflictions which they shall have, and notwithstanding they shall be driven to and fro upon the face of the earth, and be hunted, and shall be smitten and scattered abroad, having no place for refuge, the Lord shall be merciful unto them.
“And this is according to the prophecy, that they shall again be brought to the true knowledge, which is the knowledge of their Redeemer, and their great and true shepherd, and be numbered among his sheep.” (Hel. 15:12–13.)
This young missionary, with his associates, was bringing to those among whom he walked “the true knowledge, which is the knowledge of their Redeemer, and their great and true shepherd,” that they might be numbered among His sheep.
This particular young man received no letters from his parents, no money, no encouragement. He had sufficient money, which he had saved, to support himself for eighteen months. Because his mission was ending when we were lengthening missions from eighteen months to twenty-four, he had the option of remaining an additional six months. He asked his mission president with emotion, “Is there some way I can get help to stay another six months to work among these people I have come to love so much?” A person was found to help pay for his expenses, and the missionary was able to serve a full twenty-four months.
There are others like him, thousands today working in many lands, who, in the spirit of the Lord, are going about doing great good.

Hamilton was a small boy with short legs. He wished that he were as tall as his daddy so that he could look over the fence and see his friend’s new puppy.
He wished that he were as tall as his mommy so that he could see all the good things to eat on the pantry shelves.
When he went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, he wished that he were as tall as they were so that he could get out some games without having to bother them.
“Grandpa,” he said, “I wish that I were tall. Then I could see as much as you and Grandma and Mommy and Daddy.”
Grandpa looked at Hamilton.
“I see what the trouble is,” he said. “You have short legs. What you need are tall ones.”
“How do I get tall ones?” Hamilton asked.
“Let’s make some,” Grandpa told him.
Grandpa found two long boards and two short boards. He took some nails out of a glass jar and nailed the short boards to the long ones.
Then he showed Hamilton how to put his feet on the short boards and hold on to the long boards and walk around.
“These are called stilts,” Grandpa said. “When you walk on them, you will have tall legs.”
Hamilton was very happy. Now he could see in Grandma and Grandpa’s toy closet without having to bother them. Now he could find the bread and peanut butter in the pantry all by himself. And now he could look over the fence and see his friend’s new puppy.
“Arf!” said the puppy, wagging his tail very fast. Now he could see Hamilton too!

My Young Women president challenged all of the young women in my ward to read Jesus the Christ in just five months. As I sat down to read it, I was disappointed at first. I had expected the heavens to open and light to pour down, instantly filling me with the Spirit. However, that did not happen. Instead, I struggled to get through even the first chapter without my mind wandering off. I put the book down, frustrated at the seeming lack of divine inspiration.
I decided I needed to change my approach to reading. The next evening I knelt by my bed and asked Heavenly Father to allow me to have the Holy Spirit accompany me, that I might better understand and be able to read this book about His Son and my Savior. After that prayer, I felt a subtle wave of peace come into my room as I settled down to read. I understood the book better and enjoyed it more.
Every night after that, I made sure I started and ended my reading sessions with a prayer, in which I thanked my Heavenly Father and invited the Spirit to guide me as I learned more of the Savior.
I struggled at times and became discouraged that I couldn’t just zip through this 800-page book. But I continued on with my reading and even felt sad as I turned to the last page, knowing the book was ending. The Spirit that was present as I read Jesus the Christ was so indescribably sweet and comforting, and I came to know my Savior on a deeper level. My testimony of the Savior and of the Atonement grew so much from the simple act of reading a book for a few minutes every night.

Joseph wrote these feelings to his wife in an 1832 letter from New York City, where he had gone with Newel K. Whitney to buy goods for the Whitney store in Kirtland, Ohio. He had spent some time walking through the “most splendid part” of the city:

“The buildings are truly great and wonderful to the astonishing of every beholder and the language of my heart is like this: Can the great God of all the earth, maker of all things magnificent and splendid, be displeased with man for all these great inventions sought out by them? My answer is no. It cannot be, seeing these works are calculated to make men comfortable, wise, and happy. Therefore not for the works can the Lord be displeased, only against man is the anger of the Lord kindled because they give him not the glory.”

Then he wrote:

“I returned to my room to meditate and calm my mind. And behold, the thoughts of home, of Emma [his wife] and Julia [his daughter] rushes upon my mind like a flood and I could wish for a moment to be with them. My breast is filled with all the feelings and tenderness of a parent and a husband. … Yet when I reflect upon this great city … my bowels are filled with compassion towards them and I am determined to lift up my voice … and leave the event with God.”

He concluded,

“I prefer reading and praying and holding communion with the Holy Spirit and writing to you than walking the streets and beholding the distraction of man.”25

While on this journey with Brother Whitney, Joseph suffered a severe case of food poisoning that almost cost him his life. He wrote to his wife:

“My situation is a very unpleasant one although I will endeavor to be contented, the Lord assisting me. I have visited a grove which is just back of the town almost every day where I can be secluded from the eyes of any mortal and there give vent to all the feelings of my heart in meditation and prayer. I have called to mind all the past moments of my life and am left to mourn and shed tears of sorrow for my folly in suffering the adversary of my soul to have so much power over me as he has had in times past, but God is merciful and has forgiven my sins and I rejoice that he sendeth forth the Comforter unto as many as believe and humbleth themselves before him.”26

Seek for Inspiration. Our prayers and faith help us open our hearts to let God change us. One woman I know felt concern about the TV shows her adult children let their children watch. She felt the shows modeled disrespect and quarreling, even though they were considered age-appropriate. Not wanting to intrude, she prayed and fasted repeatedly about what to do or say. One morning her daughter-in-law called to ask for advice about how to manage disrespect and quarreling among her children. My friend shared her observation about the TV shows, an influence her daughter-in-law had never noticed. The young parents addressed the issue with their children. Changes were agreed upon, and the atmosphere in the home improved.

The Southport members of the Church, on Preston New Road, set themselves a one-week lockdown challenge to ‘index’ 400 names. Said local resident and volunteer, Mona Gibson (pictured), “I became involved with indexing some years ago when we were asked to help transcribe the 1911 Census by indexing all the information it held. This makes it so much easier for those searching for ancestors in order to build up their family history. Inputting names and information alphabetically onto the computer also helps build a safe digital record. It can help with easing the frustration of searching through pages of documents and maybe endless trips to cemeteries or having to rely on older family members who may no longer be able to remember specific details.”

Mona continued, “I love Indexing as it’s a way to serve the whole family history community, and I can do it all from the comfort of my own home, on my own computer. We managed to get almost 1,000 names indexed over the week of our challenge.”

I had awakened that morning to the sound of Trophy’s hooves on the dusty cobblestones outside my window. I jumped from my feather bed and ran to the window, flinging the shutters wide. Through the vines, I saw Trophy bobbing his head and waiting patiently as Malcolm Greenaway delivered milk to our doorstep and walked along the picket fence toward Bridey’s house. “Morning, Mr. Greenaway,” I called as he passed beneath my window.
“Morning, Jessica.” He waved, then continued on his way.
At the sound of my voice, Trophy swung his head slowly in my direction and peered at me from behind his blinders. “Hi, Trophy, old boy,” I whispered.
The black dappled horse followed his master, the milk wagon rumbling quietly behind. I leaned far out the window and pushed the green viny leaves aside, watching as the wagon turned the corner and went on down Church Street.
A horse is a beautiful creature, I thought, and sank back on my bed to stare at the ruffled canopy above. If Pa would only allow girls to ride horses, how much happier I would be! But my father held to the idea that girls and ladies should ride in wagons, with their skirts tucked neatly about their ankles. Grudgingly, I went to the washbasin, splashed water on my face and wrists, pulled my petticoat and dress on over my head, then ran downstairs.
After breakfast, Father took Steven by the hand and headed for the door. Then, without a thought for my feelings, he turned to Mother. “I’m taking Steven for his riding lesson,” he said. “We’ll not be long.”
When the door had closed behind them, Mother came to me. “I know how you feel, Jessica,” she whispered as she straightened my braids and fixed my collar. “But your father thinks riding is unladylike.”
A lump stuck in my throat. Then I swallowed and asked, “Shall I wipe the steps down, Mother?”
I was twelve and my brother, Steven, barely nine. Yet my dream was his reality! It was an unfairness that I could hardly stand! As I knelt on the hard wooden steps, I rubbed the banister railings until they shone. Then I bent my head and scrubbed the stairway, my tears mingling with the soapy water.
‘Course, I couldn’t blame Steven for his good fortune, but when he returned all smiles and smelling of horse and stable, I wanted to box his ears! Instead, I went to our granary and listened to the doves under the eaves. I could see Mother stirring apple butter in the iron kettle in our backyard, but it held no interest for me today.
I ran from the granary and across the meadow. And before I knew it, I was standing outside Malcolm Greenaway’s stable.
“Jessica?” Mr. Greenaway called. “Looking for someone?”
“No, Mr. Greenaway,” I replied. “Just wondering if I could feed Trophy.”
He walked over to me, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a straw hat on his head. “Certainly!” he said with a smile. “I’m just going to join Mrs. Greenaway in the garden, so make yourself to home.”
I watched as he slanted his hat against the sun, then turned toward the garden. I stepped into the cool stable. Trophy bobbed his head over the door and greeted me with a snort. I held oats up to his mouth and watched his lips gently nibble them from my hand. Then—I don’t know what made me do it—I opened the stall door and stepped in beside Trophy.
He watched me for a moment with soft brown eyes. Then he nuzzled me with his nose, bumping me toward the side of the stall. Suddenly, I had an idea! I raised my skirts with a single motion and climbed up the side of the stall, where I perched on the top board and clicked my tongue till Trophy moved closer. Then, with trembling hands, I grasped his mane and swung my leg over his back. It seemed a long way up, and I thought I was in heaven. Trophy looked over his shoulder at me, then pushed the stall door open while I grabbed for his halter and hung on for dear life. Trophy slowly plodded out into the sunlight with me on his back. Gently I pulled on the halter, guiding him this way and that. I was riding!
Certainly it was a willful, deceitful thing to do, but every chance I had, I went to the stable. And if Mr. and Mrs. Greenaway were not about, I climbed up on Trophy’s back and circled him around the yard.
Then about two weeks later, when Steven was off gathering more berries and Mother and I were sealing preserves, we heard a frantic call. Mother rushed out the door, wiping her hands on her apron, and I followed, my dust cap flying. As we burst through the granary door, we saw Father sprawled on the floor, his leg twisted meanly beneath him. Mother cradled his head in her lap.
“Oh, please, Margaret,” he moaned. “Get the doctor, quick!”
Mother’s trembling hand went to her throat. “I can’t leave,” she said. “Jessica, please get help!”
I ran outside and called in every direction, but the yards were deserted and, without another thought, I ran toward the Greenaway’s stable. I pounded on their door, and although it was open, no one answered. Instantly, I ran to the stable and climbed onto Trophy’s back. Leaning forward, I grasped the halter and urged him toward Doctor Kroller’s house.
A short time later, Trophy stood frothy wet and snorting as I slipped from his back and banged on Doctor Kroller’s door. Panting, I explained about the accident, then watched as Doctor Kroller’s buggy raced toward our home.
Later, as I led Trophy to his stall, Mr. Greenaway came out of the house. “Young lady!” he snapped. “Your father would tan your hide if he knew you ran off with my horse!”
“Please, Mr. Greenaway … I had to fetch the doctor. My father’s had an accident in our granary,” I stammered.
“I’m sorry, child,” Mr. Greenaway replied quickly. “Come, let’s go see if everything is all right.”
After the doctor had left and Father was resting in bed, I tapped softly on his door.
“Come!” he replied.
I tiptoed into the room where the warm breezes of the afternoon blew through the open window. “I deceived you,” I said quietly.
He looked at me sternly, then patted the bed beside him. “I’m glad you came, Jessica. I have something to tell you.” He opened his arms and I slid into them, burying my head in his shoulder. “I know you rode Trophy to get the doctor, Jessica. Will you forgive me?”
I raised my head and stared into his face. “Forgive you, Father?”
“Forgive me for being a stubborn man.” He rocked me gently in his arms and spoke quietly into my hair. “We’re getting a horse, Jessica. It was to have been Steven’s and also to be used with a buggy. But now I see how unfair I’ve been. It will be as much your horse as Steven’s. And when Mother sends for clothing, I want you to look through the catalog and get a pair of riding—“
“Jodhpurs, Father?” I asked, hopefully.
“Yes, jodhpurs,” he said, his face beaming.
My father is a stern man, well educated and fair, and he always taught us to be truthful. I know he heard me when I said I’d deceived him, but he never mentioned it again, and somehow I know he forgave me.

“What color was the sky today, Benjy?”
Benjy picked up his pewter supper plate and took it into the dark little bedroom where his twin sister, Betsy, lay ill. She and their mother had eaten earlier, but she liked to have Benjy sit near as he ate.
“Why, uh, blue, I guess. Isn’t the sky always blue?”
“Oh, no, Benjy! It can be almost white, or nearly black or gray. And there are so many different blues. Was it blue-blue all over, or sort of white-blue, like it can be when there are lots and lots of high thin clouds? Or was it an angry blue—very dark, as though a storm might be coming? What color was it, Benjy?”
Benjy hadn’t left the glassworks, where he had been apprenticed to Mr. Gibson for all of his three years in Boston, until almost dusk. He had made deliveries along the way—one square pane of glass to Mr. Edmund Litton, and two roundels for Mr. Alexander Greene. But Benjy had had his mind on not breaking the precious glass and had not noticed the sky.
“I’m sorry, Betsy,” he said. “When I went on errands today, I guess I had my mind on other things. Did you know that Mr. Trenton will return in two weeks? That means there will be another month or two of school. I was so pleased to hear that news that I guess I just didn’t notice the sky.”
Benjy hated to disappoint her. Sometimes he forgot how long the days were for a twelve-year-old who had to spend most of them in bed. Dr. Bryant said that the weakness in her heart came as a result of the high fever she had last winter. He hoped that with plenty of good food and rest, the time would come when she could again run and play as other children did, without pain or shortness of breath.
The heavy piece of waxed paper in the cabin window made the bedroom dark, even at midday. Someway, somehow, Benjy had to get a pane of glass for Betsy’s window.
Mother did fine sewing for ladies who lived in the big houses high up on King’s Row. She worked hard but made only enough for food and other necessities for the three of them. She heard Betsy’s question now and came to Benjy’s aid. “The sky was blue-blue, Betsy—just like your very own eyes, not greenish-blue, like Benjy’s. And the sunlight? It was every bit as warm as your smile. Today was what your father used to call a ‘Betsy Day’ because it was just like you. Remember?”
Betsy laughed, delighted. “A Betsy Day! I haven’t heard those words in so long, not since Papa …” She stopped and her face clouded, remembering that great storm at sea three years before, after which neither her father nor his boat had been found.
A good friend to the family, Mr. Gibson had taken Benjy on right away as an apprentice. “You are a bit lacking in years, lad, and ordinarily I wouldn’t have one so young around the molten glass. But I have confidence in you, and if you mind instruction, we should get along. Now find your tongue, lad. Be you willing to do what is to be done, rather than what you might be wanting to do?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, Mr. Gibson! Then, when I have a trade, I will be able to help my mother—”
Mr. Gibson had interrupted. “Now, understand from the first, lad. There is no pay until you have finished your apprenticeship. That won’t be the day after tomorrow. Seven years it is, lad. But you’ll be getting an early start, and after those seven years, well, we’ll have a place for you in the Gibson Glassworks. Or, who knows, perhaps you’ll set up your own business. Glass is here to stay, and people will always be wanting to have windows in their houses. So it’s a good chance I’m offering you, lad—but best know from the beginning that it won’t be easy.”
Mr. Gibson had been right. It had not been easy. Benjy began by working next to the great brick oven in the center of the furnace room, sweeping up the fine white sand and lime and soda ash that spilled from the shovels. Later he began shoveling the ingredients into the big pot himself. And later yet, Mr. Gibson entrusted him to deliver some of the smaller panes to the buyers.
But Benjy was still anxiously awaiting the day when Mr. Gibson would think him ready to blow the glass himself—to dip the end of the long blowpipe into a glowing, orange-red mass and see the magic of the expanding glass as he blew.
Benjy felt confident that he could do it. He had seen his master and Rolf, who also worked with him, do it many times. So though he had kept his promise to Mr. Gibson, his eagerness grew to try his hand at blowing the glass. He wanted to make a windowpane for Betsy, although he didn’t know how he could pay for it. If only he were making a very small salary! If only he had time to take another job.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful—Mr. Gibson even gave him time off for school, allowing him to work before and after class to make up for the time. Few apprentices had that privilege! But Mr. Gibson had told him, “You must learn to read and cipher, lad, if you are ever to have your own business. It is important that you be present when the schoolmaster is in town.”
Other than this, however, Mr. Gibson made it clear that the boy’s time belonged to him. There were always ashes to be removed, cleaning to be done, and deliveries to be made, and the master insisted that his apprentice be there, working.
Benjy appreciated the schooling, and not just for himself. With their mother’s help, he taught his lessons to Betsy. She would draw the lamp closer to her bed in her dark little room, and she soon was reading better than Benjy. It pleased her to find that on occasion she could help him.
“The Bible is so big. It has so many words,” he complained once in his struggle to read it.
“I know, Benjy. But it is a blessing to be able to read the words of God. And once you can read the Bible, think how well you will be able to read other books when we get them.”
He was kept so busy at the glassworks that it gave him a feeling of guilt to return at night and realize that all day long he had given little thought to Betsy. On stormy days the closed shutters made the room darker than ever.
It was on just such a day that he arrived home and Betsy asked again, “Benjy, what color was the sky?”
This time Benjy knew. “It was bright blue this morning, Betsy. Then about noon, when I took a pane of glass over to the church, the clouds were coming in and it was more gray than blue. Tonight as I was walking home, at sundown, the clouds were quite black, but rimmed with gold at the sundowning. I wish you had seen it, Betsy. …”
He stopped, knowing only too well how very much she wanted to. If only he could get the glass! Through the little window to the west she could see the sundowns herself.
On his thirteenth birthday, it happened! Mr. Gibson said, “This is the day, Benjy. You are beginning to be a man, and you are beginning to be a glassblower. You have watched Rolf and me often enough. On this day you shall try it for yourself.”
As much as he had wanted this moment to come, Benjy’s hands were shaking as he picked up the blowpipe. Stepping up to the big pot that held the red bubbling mass, he dipped the rod in carefully, lifted the glowing ball, and began to blow. As Mr. Gibson had instructed him, he blew gently, then more gently as the bubble grew and began to thin and expand into a long tube.
When the tube started to cool and harden, Mr. Gibson helped Benjy take it off the blowpipe, cut off its ends, and slit it lengthwise. Then Benjy reheated it enough to bend it flat and smooth it out.
Both Rolf and Mr. Gibson applauded. “There you are!” shouted Mr. Gibson. “You see what we have here, Rolf? No longer just a boy apprentice, but a real glassblower!”
Rolf grinned. “This gives us one more man in the shop. We will be able to make more glass than we have ever made!”
Mr. Gibson nodded, and said to Benjy, “This pane is not quite perfect, but it is wonderfully done for a first one, and you will learn to make them better in time. We’ll hang it on the wall, lad, and then, as you improve with experience, you can compare your panes with this first one.”
Benjy’s heart was pounding harder than when he first dipped the blowpipe into the glass. “You mean you’re not going to melt it down again? You’re just going to hang it on the wall? Here?”
“Why, yes, lad. We could throw it back in, melt it down, and try again, but I thought that you might like to keep your first piece. Do you not wish to see it on the wall?”
“Oh, yes!” Benjy exclaimed. “But if you’re not going to sell it, could you … could I … well, could I put it in Betsy’s window at home?”
When he showed the pane of glass to Betsy, Benjy thought her eyes were the bluest blue he had ever seen.
“Oh, Benjy! How can I ever thank you? I know I’ll be better soon now! I just know it!”
Upon his return from work the following day, it was Benjy who asked, “Betsy, what color is the sky?”
“Blue, Benjy! So very blue!” She looked up at him and grinned. “Aren’t skies always blue?”