Gospel Story Finder

As one of many examples, a translator was needed for the translation and recording of Church materials in Mam (pronounced “mum,” a descendant of the Mayan language, spoken in Guatemala). Among the first missionaries called to Guatemala was an elder whose grandfather had spoken Mam. The missionary had been raised in a city and spoke only Spanish. But every night his grandfather would come to him in dreams and teach him the Mam language. This young elder became the primary translator of Mam in the Church.

Then one day his old tutor Rodriguez appeared. Disapproving of the way Simón was living, he persuaded the young man to go with him on a walking tour of Italy. They carried their own packs, slept in haystacks, and talked as they roamed the country in the fresh air and sunshine.
They stopped to rest one afternoon on a beautiful green hillside overlooking Rome. Fired by Rodriquez’ ideas and remembering the humiliating experience of being mistreated by the police in Madrid, Simón suddenly arose, stretched out his arms, and solemnly declared, “On my life and honor I promise most faithfully not to rest until I have freed America of her tyrants!” The rest of Simón Bolívar’s life was dedicated to keeping this promise.

What a comfort it is to know that if we live our lives in righteousness, sealed to one another, we can spend the eternities together.
On August 27, 1982, my brother, Howard Pack, died of a heart attack while running a cross-country race. At the age of 17, he was taken from our family of 13. We love him so very much. He was an example to us all.
Howard exemplified the words, “Don’t wait to be a great man; be a great boy.” Howard accomplished things, not to be noticed by the world, but to better himself. He completed all the requirements for his Eagle Scout Award yet never bothered to turn in the necessary papers. The recognition just wasn’t important to him.
An excellent debater, Howard carried the district team to a division championship. The local paper heralded the news, but somehow they listed his name as “Harland Pike.” Howard’s response was simply, “Oh well, I know who I am.” What an assurance for us to “know who we are.”
Howard’s list of achievements includes playing the clarinet, being seminary class president, winning trophies in debate and speech, making the honor roll, and being listed in Who’s Who among American High School Students. But through everything, his family came first. Though busy, Howard would make time to pick me up from work or dry the tears of a younger brother and sister. Howard honored his priesthood and kept the Lord’s commandments. In a recent conversation with mother, Howard assured her, “Mother, I am worthy to serve a mission.” When as a young boy, Howard cut his face, a clerk asked if he had received the scratch from fist fighting. Howard responded, “I don’t fight!”
Yet, for a good cause, Howard gave all that he had. He spent several hours of piano practice so that he could play a few hymns for seminary. When others smoked, drank, or told lewd stories, he walked away from it. Howard loved the Lord and is now serving him in the heavens.
How I love my younger brother. Although I am two years older, I looked up to him. He was such a good friend. We mourn the passing of a loved one, but my family knows that “families are forever.”

Elder John H. Groberg was once asked to go with Elder Boyd K. Packer to Samoa to create a new stake on the island of Upolu. Their plan was to fly one afternoon from Savai’i to Upolu. On the day of the scheduled flight, however, an intense tropical storm stirred up the elements, so much so that it was far too dangerous to fly. The only way back to Upolu was by boat, and that mode of travel would be extremely treacherous.

The flight to Upolu would have taken less than a half hour, and under normal conditions the boat journey would have taken just a few hours. Conditions were far from normal, however. The boat went up and down and rolled . . . and pitched all over that angry ocean for many more hours than usual. [John H. Groberg, The Fire of Faith (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1996), p. 257]

It was a terrible evening. Nearly everyone on board got sick. They held tightly on to one another to keep from being thrown overboard.

Finally, in the thick darkness of the night, they approached the harbor of Malifanua only to learn that they had another obstacle.

There was only a small opening in the reef and [they] had to negotiate it perfectly to keep from getting torn to pieces on the sharp coral on either side. . . .
Normally there are two lights for night entry—one at the wharf and another up the hill a way. When you line those two up you know you are entering the opening properly. Unfortunately the only light on that night was the one on the wharf. The one up the hill was not on, so [they] could not tell accurately where to enter the opening. [They] later found that the two men who were supposed to turn on the light on the hill had said to each other: “It’s a terrible stormy night and no one would be crazy enough to try to come from Savai’i. Let’s just stay home tonight and not go out in such a storm for no reason.” [Groberg, Fire of Faith, p. 257]

The boat in which Elder Groberg and Elder Packer were traveling had to reroute to a safer port some distance around the island. They arrived cold and soaked with ocean water with little time to spare before their meetings began in Upolu.

It isn’t just nice to be a light for others; it is essential for their exaltation as well as for our own. “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matthew 5:16).

When his mission ended Barnard looked for work again. Not fish odors this time but pungent cow barn aromas became part of his new lot in life. He ventured into the New York countryside where farmers, he had heard, needed milkers for cows. “Can you milk?” they asked the English boy. “No,” he answered honestly, thereby losing the job. One time, desperate for work, he changed his answer to “I think I can” and was hired. But when he sat on the wrong side of the cow and could get no milk from it, the supervising lady accused him of lying. “I only said I thought I could,” he answered. She liked his forthrightness so taught him how to milk. He traded city-boy clothes for farm workers’ apparel. Mother, he knew, would cringe to see him dressed in dumpy work clothes and rough leather work boots.
Farm hours were long and the work hard. Barnard’s days started at 3:00 A.M. and ended after dark. But he earned some needed pocket money. And, more important, his body developed strength and endurance—strength he would need to avoid disaster later that year in Wyoming.
On June 20, 1856, the anchor of the Mormon charter ship Horizon had barely plopped into Boston Harbor when a small sailboat tied up next to her. Barnard, hoping to welcome his family to America, climbed aboard from the sailboat. Mother White spotted her son, started to rejoice, but gulped when she saw his clothes. Eighteen-year-old sister Elizabeth was shocked too and broke into tears: “My poor brother Barnard!” she sobbed. “What have they done to you?” No broadcloth suit. No silk hat. Common laborer’s pants and shirt. Ugly work boots. However, the reunion soon showed the Whites that their teenager had become a man during his 11 months in America, and they liked his maturity.
Soon, click-clattering train cars carried the Whites and other English Saints to the Mormon Trail outfitting point in Iowa City, Iowa. Here Barnard’s work clothes suited frontier life well, more so than his fastidious family’s foolish fashions. That first night in Iowa gave Barnard’s boots their first frontier test. According to sister Elizabeth, the Saints had to hike four miles from the train to the campground:
“We all started, about 500 of us, with our bedding. We had not gone far before it began to thunder and lightning and the rain poured. The roads became very muddy and slippery. It was late in the evening before we arrived at the camp. We all got very wet. The boys [including Barnard] got our tent up, so we were fixed for the night, although very wet.”
During the days that followed, most Saints busied themselves building handcarts. But not the Whites. Barnard felt a touch of social superiority when his mother clinked gold coins into agents’ hands to pay for a sturdy wagon and team. Barnard, the man of the family, became the White’s teamster and boss of four oxen, two cows, and one good wagon.
The Whites joined the John A. Hunt wagon train, a Mormon company of 50 wagons and 240 people. The train carried some baggage for the handcart companies. Like too many groups that year, they started late and gambled they could thread their way to Utah before winter storms struck. They left Iowa City on August 1 and reached Florence, Nebraska, by September 1. “The family had to walk,” Elizabeth said, “except when we went through water. We would travel from 15 to 20 miles per day.” Walking, they discovered, quickly wore out shoes and boots. If winter waited the Whites hoped to see Utah by early November. But winter came early that year.
Near Fort Laramie in Wyoming a buffalo herd stampeded the train’s cattle. Elizabeth said that Mrs. Walters, driving the team ahead of the White’s, “was knocked down and trampled by oxen. She never spoke but died in a few minutes, leaving a young baby. This affair cast a gloom over our camp. She was sewed in a blanket and buried.” (Barnard later married one of the Walters girls.)
On October 19th the Hunt wagons caught up with the Martin handcart pioneers in mid-Wyoming. “Many of them were quite worn out,” Barnard noted. That evening the Hunt, the Martin, and the Hodgett wagon train companies marshalled courage and crossed the frigid Platte River. Of the harrowing crossing Elizabeth recalled: “Our company camped on the east side and the handcart company passed over that night. All our able-bodied men turned out to help them carry women and children across the river. Some of our men went through the river 75 times.” By then Barnard’s leather boots probably had been soaked, frozen, and thawed many times.
That night many of the soaked river-crossers suffered severely from the cold. About seven inches of snow fell by morning. “Their suffering was intense that night,” Barnard said of the handcart Saints. “The next morning there were 13 dead bodies in camp.”
For a week the companies camped, waiting for the snow blanket to melt and icy winds to stop. The handcart people, tired and overexposed to snow and cold, sagged. “They would rather die than live,” Barnard observed. “They appeared to be like a lot of worn-out cattle and had no feeling for anything except to eat and die. I cannot find language to express the sufferings of those people, and God forbid that I should ever witness such scenes again.” The Hunt train shared its dwindling food with the handcart sufferers.
Snow buried plants and grasses. “Our cattle were drooping for want of food,” Barnard said, “and from this time on we had to cut down trees for them to browse upon and still they died off fast.” Sometimes stinging winds blew snows off the ground, exposing precious grass for the starving cattle. Sometimes Barnard chopped crusted willows to feed the White’s team. When cows died their tough meat was added to the travelers’ shrinking diets. At one point, Elizabeth said, her ration of flour was reduced to one tablespoon per day! Mixed with snow water it made a very thin gruel for hungry teenagers like Elizabeth and Barnard.
The companies decided that to survive they must keep moving. They started West again. On November 1 another snowstorm mixed with rain slowed them down. One night after dark, whoops and yells awoke the Whites and terrified the shivering campers. “Indians!” someone shouted. But, once awake, the camp discovered that their noisy invaders were a relief party from Utah, sent by President Brigham Young, with wagonloads of food. New shouts of happiness muffled across the night-covered, snow-covered plains. “They were loaded with all kinds of provisions,” Elizabeth said of the wagons, “flour, bread, butter, meat of all kinds, but frozen very hard. Everything was so good. The bread was like cake, so sweet and nice.” They had to cut everything with hatchets to cook or eat it. “Oh, how thankful we were that the Lord had answered our prayers and saved us from starvation,” she said. Baking fires burned through the night.
On November 5 the Hunt train reached the rundown log shelters at Devil’s Gate and could move no further. Snow stood eight to ten inches deep—to the tops of Barnard’s boots—and hemmed the travelers in. Hundreds set up camp there. The ground froze so hard Barnard could not pound tent pegs in, so he secured the tent edges with piles and chunks of heavy snow.
By then “three of our oxen and one cow had died,” Elizabeth said. “We had nothing to burn, only the sage brush from under the snow.” Some dilapidated cabins became firewood. Barnard, Elizabeth, and other youths tried to make the best of their dangerous situation at Devil’s Gate. One night, according to Elizabeth, “when we had made the campfires, the boys had cleared the snow away and several of us young folks were sitting around the fire singing.”
The rescuers, trying to outrace disaster, organized a survival push from Devil’s Gate to Utah. Carefully they loaded the very ill into Utah wagons and then recruited older girls, including Elizabeth, to ride along as nurses. Reluctantly she left her mother and family, and lonesomeness plagued her for weeks. Mostly she rode, but when the wagons ascended mountains she had to walk. At the foot of Big Mountain, a day away from Salt Lake City, snows stood so deep she had to put on men’s boots. Taller people walked in each other’s tracks, but Elizabeth was too short: “I had to make my own road up, frequently falling down as the snow was so deep and drifted.” When they reached the summit and could see Salt Lake Valley below, Elizabeth said, “the men took off their hats and we waved our handkerchiefs.” She reached the city safely on November 30, two weeks ahead of her family, and stayed with friends.
Meanwhile, back at Devil’s Gate, the Utah rescuers reorganized wagon and handcart companies. Many carts and half the wagons had to be parked for the winter. “Leave your stoves, boxes, and tools here,” the Whites were told; “only take along sufficient clothing and bedding to keep you warm.” For four days Barnard and others unloaded wagons and stored belongings in the old log buildings. Carefully he cached his mother’s china set, dated 1775, and her silver tea set. (Family records do not say if these treasures were ever recovered.) “We only saved one ox and one cow of our team,” Barnard said. “We were disabled and left our wagon and all our trunks and baggage.” The Whites then climbed into Brother J. H. Newman’s wagon to finish the trip. Some men were “volunteered” to winter at Devil’s Gate to guard the piles of baggage, but not Barnard.
Grouped into smaller wagon trains, the rescued travelers rolled slowly southwestward, farther into mountain country. Barnard lived on rations of one-fourth pound of flour per day and cattle that faltered. “We would knock them in the head and cut their throats and take the best meat,” he said. (What would his cultured teenage friends in London have thought if they had seen him then?)
The White’s group of wagons reached Fort Bridger in southwest Wyoming by December 4. There, Barnard said, “we were forced to camp as our teams were all dead.” For three days they waited and hungered. “I shall never forget the feelings of my mother,” he recalled. “She called us together and said she had never seen her dear children cry for bread before, but said the Lord would open the way and send us some provisions.” That night 14 relief wagons rolled into camp. “The wagons were loaded with flour,” Barnard said. “I will leave you to judge our feelings!” Baking fires roared through the night once again.
More rescue teams came and helped the wagon trains into Utah. Referring to his nightly camps Barnard said: “We would clear away the snow and pile some logs up and set them on fire. They would burn all night and helped to keep us from freezing.” Ascending Big Mountain he found snow drifted 20 feet deep in places. “We had to cut channels as much as ten feet deep,” he said. But what made this final part of the trip so difficult for the teenager was that “I had no shoes or boots on; my feet were in rags.”
On December 13 at 4 P.M. Barnard and his family stepped from Brother Newman’s wagon into the tithing yard in Salt Lake City. Barnard felt both pleased and humiliated—pleased to be safe and alive but humiliated to walk down the city’s streets dressed in ragged clothes and with flannel rags wrapped around his painful feet. No doubt he recalled then the fancy broadcloth suit and silk hat he donned 18 months before when leaving England for Zion. Utahns, he noticed, “wept like children to see our pale, emaciated, and careworn bodies, for we were quite worn out and had but little strength left.”
What had happened to Barnard’s work boots? They had succumbed to his appetite! While trapped by Wyoming snows Barnard had cut off strips from his worn-out boots and chewed the leather to ease the sharp hunger pains in his stomach—for as his biographer points out, “who can be hungrier than a 16-year-old trying to do the work of a man?”
In Utah Elizabeth married Bishop Isaac M. Stewart and bore 11 children. Barnard served in the Echo Canyon military campaign, settled in Paradise, Utah, and married Elizabeth Ann Walters. In time he became a prominent Ogden lumberman, farmer, rancher, and enterpriser, and a bishop and patriarch. Mother White lived for many years, residing with her children.

As styles changed, more women were choosing to wear swimsuits that Rose Marie felt were immodest. Everyone thought she should start designing suits in the latest styles. But Rose Marie took a stand.
“I don’t like that style of swimsuit, and I don’t want to design for a company that makes them,” she said. Her business partners wouldn’t listen. Finally, Rose Marie decided to leave the company she had started. It was a hard choice. But she knew that standing up for what was right was more important than doing what was popular.

We were living in a small town in Georgia, USA, when my father died at just 55 years old. Most of our family lived in another state. Never had the 2,000 miles (3,200 km) between us felt greater than at that time.
My husband was the bishop and I the organist of our small ward. With all the emotions and stress of helping with funeral plans, I was feeling especially weary that Sunday when it came time for our sacrament meeting closing hymn: “God Be with You Till We Meet Again” (Hymns, no. 152).
Halfway through the second verse, my grief overcame me. Somehow I played through the end of that verse, but my hands were shaking and my eyes so full of tears that I had to stop with an entire verse left. I couldn’t stop crying.
A brief pause followed as the congregation realized the organ had stopped. But then ward members started singing a cappella. The singing wasn’t perfect. We were few, after all. But the Spirit made up the difference. Through my tears and embarrassment, I could feel the love of many as they sang.
God be with you till we meet again;
Keep love’s banner floating o’er you;
Smite death’s threat’ning wave before you.
God be with you till we meet again.
When the hymn ended, the music leader held me as I sobbed through the closing prayer. Several people then came up to the organ with tears in their eyes to say how sorry they were about my father.
Later, I told the music leader I would be playing the piano at the funeral. It probably seemed like a bad idea after what had just happened, but my dad so enjoyed hearing me play the piano. I wanted to play for him. I realized then how close he had felt during the closing hymn.
I am so thankful for the hymns. I testify that music can teach and comfort us in ways that words often cannot. As the First Presidency wrote in the preface to the hymnbook, “Hymns … comfort the weary, console the mourning, and inspire us to endure to the end.” I am also thankful for the love of a good ward when I was so far away from my own family. I know that my father and I will indeed meet again.

Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH by Robert O’Brien; illustrated by Zena Bernstein. Atheneum, 1971. Mrs. Frisby’s husband died suddenly last summer, and in the spring she and her four children have to move to a summer residence or be plowed under by the farmer’s tractor.
Mrs. Frisby starts out to find help. She befriends a crow named Jeremy, visits a wise owl, and then goes to the rats of NIMH for help.
These intelligent rats have a highly developed underground colony; however, they have found life too easy for them and have made plans to become self-sufficient. How the rats and Mrs. Frisby help each other is an exciting science fiction story. This book won the 1972 Newbery Award for the most distinguished contribution to American literature for children.

Every year my parents took me to visit Aunt Ruby and Uncle George, who lived on a dairy farm. I enjoyed visiting them because there were so many different things for me to see and do. I played in the barn, helped feed the animals, rode on the tractor, and explored the big red shed.
One year, a few days after we had arrived, I was helping Uncle George feed the animals in the barn. “You sure are quiet this morning, Justin,” he said.
“I was thinking about something my Primary teacher said in class last week.”
“Oh—what did she say?” Uncle George asked as he pitched a forkful of hay to one of the cows.
“She said that making right choices will help me keep the promises I made to Heavenly Father when I was baptized. The problem is, it’s hard to always make the right choice.”
Leaning on his pitchfork, Uncle George nodded. “It is hard to always make correct choices, Justin. But when we live the gospel standards and follow the strait and narrow path, like the scriptures tell us to, the Lord will help us.”
I thought about the “strait and narrow path,” for the rest of the morning. When we finished feeding all the animals, Uncle George said, “Thanks for your help, Justin. I surely appreciate it. What would you like to do now?”
“I’d like to go over to my friend Jeff’s and play, but Mom and Dad usually drive me to his house.”
Tilting his hat back on his head, Uncle George said, “And they’ve gone into town to help Ruby with the shopping. I’d like to take you over there, but I have to fix the tractor.”
He put his arm around my shoulders and led me to a big dry ditch. “If you get in this ditch, you can follow it all the way to Jeff’s house. Do you think you can do that?”
I told him that I was sure I could do it. Before he sent me on my way, he gave me two warnings. One, I was to stay in the ditch. If I got out, I could get hurt or lost. Two, I was to keep going, even if I got tired. Then he assured me that if I followed his instructions, I would have no trouble reaching my friend’s house.
At first I was nervous. The grass on both sides of the ditch was so tall that I couldn’t see over it. But soon I began to see interesting things all around me and being in the ditch didn’t bother me. I found a small, white-colored snail shell, a lot of joint grass I could pull apart, and milkweed pods filled with silk and seeds. Then I found a round, clear pebble that I shined up and put into my pocket.
After a while, the newness of my adventure began to wear off. I’d seen everything twice, and my legs were beginning to hurt. I felt like I’d been walking for miles and miles. My faith in Uncle George’s words began to waver. Maybe I’d already passed Jeff’s house. I wasn’t even sure if I was still going in the right direction. My uncle’s warnings were still clear in my mind, but I carefully climbed to the top of the ditch so that I could see over the tall grass and find out where I was.
Happily, I saw that only a fence and a large, green pasture stood between me and my goal. All I had to do was walk through the pasture, and I’d be there. The day took on a new excitement. My goal was in sight; my uncle’s warnings were forgotten.
Finding a hole in the fence, I slipped through. All I thought about was the fun Jeff and I were going to have once I reached his house. I paid no attention to what might be going on around me, until I heard a loud snort and the snapping of breaking sticks. Turning, I saw a large bull charging toward me out of the tall willow patch at the edge of the pasture.
Running wasn’t my greatest talent unless I was scared. And I was really scared. I ran like the wind. It felt like I was running a hundred miles an hour. I could hear the air whistling around my ears. Everything around me was a blur. I had a new goal in life—to reach the fence before the bull reached me. All the time, I was silently praying that Heavenly Father would bless me to run faster than the bull.
The fence was getting closer, but so was the bull. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder, because I was afraid it might slow me down. Although I was only nine years old, I already knew that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. So I ran, as straight as an arrow, back to the hole in the fence I had climbed through earlier.
I was sure I felt the bull’s hot breath on my neck as I dove through the fence to safety. The bull snorted loudly as his nose pushed through the hole and he realized he couldn’t reach me.
My life had been spared. Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. My heart was full of gratitude to Him. I would see the sun come up in the morning. I would see my family again. I could still play with my friend. Life was good!
Now all I wanted to do was return to the “strait and narrow path” and follow my uncle’s instructions. I knew that there were no bulls in the ditch. It was a safe place. I also knew that I would never forget the words my uncle told me that morning. “Go down the ditch in the direction that I’ll show you. Stay in the ditch, because if you get out, you could get hurt or lost. And you need to keep going, even if you get tired.”
I had learned that my Primary teacher and Uncle George were right. There is great safety when choosing the right and following the correct path. I was sure that the Lord had helped me run faster than the charging bull. He had saved my life, and I was grateful. I was glad to have a chance to be back on the right path, and I knew that Heavenly Father would always help me stay on the “strait and narrow path” if I would listen and obey.

Sixteen-year-old Steven D. McKell of Salt Lake City, who was kidnapped at gunpoint but was able to free himself, received Scouting’s Medal of Merit for his bravery.
The FBI report of the incident reads:
“While alone at his home, Steven was confronted by a person who represented himself as a deliveryman. The man at the door had a truck-type dolly with a large cardboard box on it.
“The man indicated he had a document that Steven should sign as a receipt for the package. As the youth started to do this, the deliveryman pulled out a handgun, held it against Steven’s cheek, and forced him into the house.
“The man placed leg irons and handcuffs on Steven and forced him to lie on the floor. Steven’s mouth was then stuffed with a bandanna, and the bandanna was taped in place. Pads of cotton were placed over his eyes and taped closed. A nylon stocking was pulled over his head to keep the bandanna and pads in place.”
Steven was told to get inside the carton, which was then hauled out of the house on the dolly and lifted into the van, which was driven to a location about 10 minutes away.
The boy was led into an old rabbit hutch where boards were nailed over him. He was told by his captor not to try to escape since someone would be watching him.
“I didn’t believe him,” said Steven, “so when I heard him drive away, I began kicking my feet until I could get out of the frame. In my efforts to get free, I felt a nail against my nose and used that to pull the blindfold off.”
Steven was still gagged and cuffed hand and foot, but he could see and move. He made short jumps toward the road and attracted the attention of a jogger, who removed his gag and carried him over his shoulder to a nearby home. From there, Steven called his father, allowing enough time for the local police and the FBI to set a trap for the kidnapper, who was caught, convicted, and imprisoned.
Steven received the national Scouting office medal at a court of honor. He is a member of the Butler 12th Ward, Salt Lake Butler Stake.

The presence of those who hold the Aaronic Priesthood brings to mind my own experiences as I graduated from Primary, having memorized the Articles of Faith, and then received the Aaronic Priesthood and the office and calling of a deacon. To pass the sacrament was a privilege, and to gather fast offerings a sacred trust. I was set apart as the secretary of the deacons quorum and, at that moment, felt that boyhood had passed and young manhood had begun.
Can you young men realize the shock I felt, while attending an officers’ meeting of our ward conference, when a member of the stake presidency, after calling upon the priesthood and auxiliary leaders to speak, without warning read my name and office, inviting me to give an account of my stewardship and to express my feelings regarding my calling as secretary of the deacons quorum and thus a ward officer. I don’t recall what I said, but a sense of responsibility engulfed me, never to depart thereafter.

Let's consider the offices that Jesus put in His church to assist us: apostles and prophets. President Monson is an example. As I read his biography and his talks, I realized a pattern in his talks. It is the pattern for how we become like the Savior and obtain revelation in our lives. His stories are for children and all those who humble themselves like a little child. What happens to your heart when you hear this story from President Monson's biography, written by Heidi Swinton?

"...the home was buzzing with Thanksgiving preparations when Charlie Renshaw, a friend over the back fence, stood outside, as was the custom...and hollered, 'Tom-my!'

"'What are you eating?'

"Tommy told him it was turkey, and Charlie asked what turkey tasted like.

"Tom responded, 'Oh, about like chicken,' to which Charlie asked, 'What does chicken taste like?'

"Tom ran into the kitchen, snatched a piece of breast meat, and handed it to his friend. 'That's good!'

"When Tom asked what Charlie's family was having for dinner the answer was, 'I dunno. There's nothing in the house.'

"Tom had no turkeys or chicken or money. But he did have two pet rabbits, a male and a female, the pride of his life. He motioned to his friend and headed for the specially constructed rabbit hutch...and reached in and grabbed his two pet rabbits, put them in a gunnysack, and handed the bag to Charlie.

"He said: 'Rabbit meat tastes better than chicken.'"

Brothers and sisters, when one gives a love gift, all that one has, the meal will taste better than any dish prepared by a gourmet chef. President Monson's stories are not just stories. They teach us how to become like the Savior.

I wasn’t one of the “in” crowd at my California high school, so my circle of friends was smaller than most. I was so shy that I kept to myself most of the time. Yes, I was, as the saying goes, “painfully shy.” Indeed, I was so shy it hurt.
One day as I sat down at my desk in U.S. history, another shy girl sat down behind me. We had spoken to each other prior to this, I’m sure, but I didn’t remember anything about her before then.
As she set her books on top of her desk, her notebook crashed onto the floor beside me. I turned to pick it up and noticed it said, “Seminary—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” on the cover. I reached down, retrieved the binder, and handed it to her as I timidly said, “Oh, you go to church on Saturday?”
Her face displayed confusion at the question. “No, why?”
I pointed to the notebook cover. “It says ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’ Doesn’t that mean you go to church on the last day of the week?”
She smiled and giggled slightly. Then she took a deep breath and asked, “What do you know about the Mormon church?”
I answered quite honestly, “Not very much.”
She inhaled deeply again and queried, “Would you like to know more?”
“Yes, I would,” I replied without hesitation.
At that instant her lower jaw must have hit the floor. Her eyes sparkled and an air of relief swept over her like a whirlwind. Before long we had set a date for me to meet with the missionaries and receive the first discussion.
I know that notebook did not fall on the floor by accident. As silly as my first question must have sounded, it opened up a channel between one shy girl and another. I found out her name was Yvonne Anderson, and we became friends. Yvonne introduced me to the Church and set up an appointment for me to see the missionaries. And when I was baptized, Yvonne was there.
That day in U.S. history, an instant bond was formed. And because of one golden question, two shy girls made their own eternal history.

It was dusk as my mother and I drove down the road on our way to visit my grandparents. I stared out the window, lost in my own thoughts as the conversation hit a lull.
“Pretty sunset,” my mother commented, interrupting my thoughts.
“Mmmm,” I mumbled in agreement, seeing the glorious sunset for the first time. The silence resumed until my mother broke it again.
“Do you know what Davy says?” she asked me as I turned toward her. It was not unusual for my mother to talk of Eloise’s children. Eloise, my mother’s best friend, had died two years previous after battling cancer. She left behind four children. The youngest was seven-year-old Davy.
Suddenly interested, I shook my head in answer to my mother’s question.
“He says sunsets make him think about his mother,” she said, choking back the tears. “He says it’s just like she’s smiling at him.”
I once again turned my attention to the evening sky. Davy’s words brought me a new perspective. The sunset was now more than a swirl of reds and yellows making intricate and beautiful patterns in the sky. It was a reminder of Eloise and others who had passed on and their love for those they had left behind.
As we drove on in silence, I watched the sunset fade into night. I was suddenly more aware of the beauty of the trees, the stars, the moon, and the clouds. I am thankful to Heavenly Father for the beautiful gifts he gives us every day. And I am thankful for a wise young boy who can see Heavenly Father’s love in something as simple as a sunset.

An incident in the life of Joseph F. Smith bears out this point.

In the fall of 1857, the 19 year old Joseph F. was returning from his mission Hawaii, and in California he joined a wagon train. It was a volatile time for the Saints. Johnston’s army was marching toward Utah, and many had bitter feelings toward the church. One evening several hoodlums rode into camp, cursing and threatening to hurt every Mormon they could find. Most in the wagon train hid in the brush down by a nearby creek. But young Joseph F. thought to himself “Should I run from these fellows? Why should I fear them?” With that he marched up with his arm full of wood to the campfire where one of the ruffians still with his pistol in his hand, shouting and cursing about the ‘Mormons’, in a loud voice said to Joseph F. ‘Are you a Mormon?’ And the answer came strait, ‘Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.’ At that the ruffian grasps him by the hand and said: ‘Well, you are the (blanket-blank) pleasantest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow, I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.’”

I was on the baseball team in high school, but I needed shoulder surgery my junior year and was unable to recover enough to play. When I had to quit baseball, I was very torn up. I wasn’t sure what to do with my life.
I have always been into music and had started writing songs on my guitar. For a long time I did this as a hobby and nothing more, but when I couldn’t spend my time playing baseball, I decided to transfer all of my passion into my music. I contacted a friend who had a home recording studio, and we started recording some of my songs. After four months I came out with an eight-song CD.
My parents have been encouraging me to save up for my mission since I was very young, but until this point I still didn’t have a lot of money in my mission fund. I decided that once my CD was finished I would sell it and save all of the profit for my mission fund. My goal is to make half the money I need for my mission through my music.
I know how important serving a mission is, and I’m working hard to earn the money I need. While it was disappointing to not be able to play baseball anymore, I know the Lord has a plan for me. I can’t play baseball, but I can play music. I see now how the Lord has opened up a way for me to earn some of the money I need to serve Him on a full-time mission.

I play baritone sax in my high school’s marching band. One day we got on buses to go to our last competition of the season, and everyone was excited and ready to compete. We put everything we had into our final show, and it was one of our best performances. We were soon done and were waiting quietly in line with other bands to receive our awards when one of my friends behind me started to make conversation. Before long we were having a great time—talking, laughing, and joking around—while we waited to take the field again for the awards ceremony. I looked around and saw that other bands started doing the same.
One of my friends told a joke, but the punch line had a cuss word in it. I asked him to cut it out, and when everyone asked why, another one of my friends stepped in and said it was because I was Mormon and didn’t like to hear that type of language. I was relieved to see that my good friend knew about my standards and was willing to stand up for them. But I was still a little embarrassed that I was the one to ruin the fun everyone was having telling jokes, so I turned around to go join another group of friends.
Right as I turned, I heard someone to the right of me yell, “Hey! I’m Mormon too!” I glanced over to see a member of another band smiling at me. We started to talk and were soon explaining to groups of friends in both bands what our standards are and why we have them. As more and more people joined to ask questions and hear our answers, I was starting to feel overwhelmed by the questions being thrown at us—not because they were hard questions but because there were so many!
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Thinking it was another question, I continued answering the current question. I felt the tap again, so I turned and saw yet another young man from a different band smiling at me. “Are you guys talking about Mormonism? Dude! I’m Mormon too!” I couldn’t believe it! We all soon gathered up the Mormons in each of our bands to share our testimonies and experiences with everyone in the crowd. It was so fun to be surrounded by people I knew shared my same standards and beliefs and to teach others about the gospel.

Someone from Bountiful, Utah, originally called Sessions Settlement, told me I should read the diary of Perregrine Sessions. Anyone with a first name like Perregrine deserves attention!

On 18 September 1853, Perregrine Sessions wrote a story he had heard about Sarah Kirkman and her husband John.

"He had been slack about his prayers. After several evenings passed and he did not pray, she told him that something would happen. So she took a chain and put it under the bed with a string [attached] to it. After she had said her prayers and he in the bed laughing at her, telling her she could pray for both, she again told him something would happen. Directly after she was in bed she began to snore as though she was asleep. She then pulled the string and the chain began to rattle. John says, 'Sarah, Sarah, did you hear that?'

"'Why, what now? I told you something would happen. Hold your tongue and go to sleep and don't bother me. You would have heard nothing of it if you had said your prayers.' Directly she was asleep and the chain began to crink on the floor.

"He again calls, 'Sarah,' and began clinging to her. She began to push him away from her and told him to hold his noise and if he did not she would kick him out of bed. And directly she was asleep again and the chain began to jingle. He gets out of bed and kneels down and with his hair [standing] on its ends and says, 'Oh, Lord, if you will forgive me now, I will do better for time to come and not let the Devil have me. O Lord, have mercy on poor me!' This time, he began to cry for mercy, and once in a while the chain would rattle...

"At length he gets into bed and clings to Sarah and covers up head and ears. But he has not forgot[ten] to say his prayers since."

I learned that our Mormon pioneers had a sense of humor. A sense of humor helps keep us from being overcome by the cares of life. We do not make light of sacred things, but the ability to laugh at ourselves and find humor in everyday situations helps our mental health.

Some years ago I met a young man who had been in the armed forces and had flown a plane that completed one of the first bombing trips over Germany. In England after the war was over, he was selected to represent the American soldiers in an introduction to the Queen Mother and her daughters. He was put through a training course on how he should salute them. When he was finally introduced to them, he said, very naturally, “Hello, girls, how are you?” That won them over for him. I heard this same young man speak at a youth fireside. He held up the Book of Mormon and said, “This is what brought me home clean. I read it day after day.” Then he advised the young people to catch the spirit of that book, as it would keep them on the straight and narrow path.

I get angry easily. I’ve listened to many conference messages that talk about anger and learned that when we are angry, we are often prideful. And pride separates us from God. So anger is a challenge I’m trying to overcome.
A seminary teacher told me that to overcome anger, I can try replacing it with a Christlike attribute. I decided to try replacing my anger with the ability to forgive.
During my seminary class, one of my classmates threw some scriptures on my leg. I was angry at that moment, and I shouted at him. But then I remembered Christlike forgiveness. When class was over, I went to him and told him I was sorry for shouting at him. I forgave him, and then he apologized as well.
As I have practiced looking to Christ through forgiveness, I’ve seen myself change. I try to view things with an eternal perspective instead of getting angry. When I focus on Christ and attend seminary, it strengthens my testimony of Him, and I can help others strengthen their own testimonies too.