Gospel Story Finder

I can think back to one Christmas in which our family budget was extremely tight. We were supporting one of my brothers on his mission to Chicago, and that required us to skimp on nonessential items. The only gift-wrapped item I got that year was a fleece blanket. Nothing extravagant, just a plain blanket. I tried to talk it up to my friends at school and make it seem like it was a really great gift, but there was no use. It couldn’t compare to a video game console.
Since then, that blanket has come to symbolize much more to me. That gift was one of warmth. Yes, it warmed me on those few cold Arizona nights, but it also warmed me with love. My parents gave me more: they gave me fun family traditions, a firm sense of belonging, and a knowledge that true gifts are ones of service, love, and sacrifice. My parents sacrificed their money for my brother’s mission, but they never sacrificed their love for me, our family, and everyone around them as they served that year.
I wish I could go back to the school cafeteria table when my friends asked, “What did you get for Christmas?” I wish I could have answered them proudly: “I got a blanket, a blanket that warms me with the true love of the most wonderful time of year.”

While serving in Finland, I learned that my mission president’s wife, Sister Lea Mahoney, was a native of Finland. As a young girl she had grown up in the eastern portion of Finland in a city named Viipuri. As the ravages of war engulfed Finland and other countries during World War II, she and her family left their home, and Viipuri became part of the Soviet Union and was renamed Vyborg. In our zone conferences, Sister Mahoney would tell us of those left behind in Viipuri and of her desire that the gospel be taken to them. Following President Kimball’s challenge, we unitedly prayed that the hearts of the leaders of that nation would be softened so that the gospel could be taken by our missionaries into the Soviet Union.
We would go to the border between Finland and the Soviet Union and see the guard towers and the fences, and we would wonder who those brave young men and young women would be and when they would cross that border to take the gospel to the people there. I must admit, at that time it seemed like an impossible task.
Three years ago, our son Eric received a mission call to serve in the Russia St. Petersburg Mission. In his first letter home, he wrote something like this: “Dear Mom and Dad, I have been assigned to my first city in Russia. Dad, you may have heard of it before. It is called Vyborg, but it was previously a Finnish city named Viipuri.”
Tears came to my eyes as I understood that Eric was in the very city we had prayed about 32 years earlier. Eric found a chapel there and a branch of faithful Saints. He was living and serving in a place that to me as a young man had seemed impossible to enter.
I did not realize those many years ago, as we prayed for the borders to open and the missionaries to go in, that I was praying for our son. Most importantly for you of the rising generation, our son Eric did not realize that he and his companions were the answer to the prayers that had been offered by thousands of faithful Saints so many years ago. You of the rising generation are the fulfillment of prophecy that in our day “the truth of God will go forth boldly, nobly, and independent, till it has penetrated every continent, visited every clime, swept every country, and sounded in every ear, till the purposes of God shall be accomplished, and the Great Jehovah shall say the work is done” (Joseph Smith, in History of the Church, 4:540).

When I was a young boy, I loved Saturday because everything I did on that day seemed like an adventure. But no matter what I did, it was always preceded by the most important thing of all—watching cartoons on television. One such Saturday morning, as I was standing by the television and flipping through channels, I discovered that the cartoon I expected to find had been replaced by a broadcast of the general conference of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. While looking at the television and lamenting that there was no cartoon, I saw a white-haired man in a suit and tie sitting in a nice chair.
There was something different about him, so I asked my oldest brother, “Who is that?”
He said, “That’s President David O. McKay; he’s a prophet.”
I remember feeling something and somehow knowing that he was a prophet. Then, because I was a cartoon-crazed young boy, I changed the channel. But I’ve never forgotten what I felt during that brief, unexpected revelatory moment. With a prophet, sometimes it only takes a moment to know.

Recollecting times of fervent prayer during her childhood, Sister Smith continued: “The day I was to be baptized, my mother was delayed trying to find a place to park the car, so she sent me into the Salt Lake Tabernacle baptistry by myself. The sisters there helped me get ready, and I went into the baptistry and sat down. My mother wasn’t there yet. I was so nervous I could hardly sit still. The only thing I could think to do was to pray that Heavenly Father would make sure my mother would soon come to be with me. While I was praying, in she came, and I knew that my prayer had been answered.

For Aileen Akagi, 17, the word crèche doesn’t remind her of only one nativity scene—it reminds her of roughly 600 of them! As a member of the Midway Fourth Ward, Midway Utah Stake, she has volunteered at the Interfaith Crèche Exhibit for three years in a row.
“It’s interesting to see the different styles of nativity scenes,” Aileen says. Seeing how diverse cultures portray the Christ child’s birth reminds her of how well-known the Christmas story is.
Volunteers set up the exhibits, monitor them, and lead children’s activities. Although Aileen has done a little of each, she spends most of her time running the marionette show for children. She organizes young women into groups who perform scenes from the Nativity with puppets. The show runs every 20 minutes.
“The first year we did the marionette show, one little boy brought his grandma to see it four times in a row,” Aileen laughs.
Throughout the show, the young women and audience sing Christmas songs. “One year, we finished by singing ‘Silent Night’ (Hymns, no. 204), and all the children and their parents joined in. It sounded like more than the audience was there—like angels were singing.”

When I was 13, I played on a baseball team with some friends. I was not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but two of my teammates were. They were twins. Their names were Rob and Lane.
One day at practice they invited me to come to home evening with their family. I didn’t know what home evening was, so I asked about it. They told me we would learn about church things and sing songs. I wasn’t very excited about that. But they promised there would be dessert, so I decided to go.
My family went to their house for home evening. I felt something really different. I didn’t know what it was, but it felt familiar. It felt good. My mom felt it too.
I didn’t know then that my mom was a member of the Church. She had been baptized as a young woman. But she hardly ever went to church.
After that night, my mom started going to church again. I went with her to learn more. A few months later, I was baptized by Rob and Lane’s dad.
I am so grateful that Rob and Lane cared enough about me to share the gospel. Today I am blessed to have an eternal family. And it all started on a baseball field!

I have been inspired by Moroni’s courage because of the many trials the world has seen this year, including the COVID-19 pandemic. Many of us around the world were forced into social isolation this year, some of us needing to separate ourselves from the people we love most. I too had to make that difficult decision.
I am a pediatric doctor, and I work on the front lines to give children urgent and emergency care in Maranhão, Brazil. During this pandemic, I made the difficult decision to avoid close physical contact with my beloved husband, two-year-old daughter, mother-in-law, and nephews (who all live in my home), along with all my other family and friends elsewhere. I isolated myself to avoid possibly transmitting the disease.
Social isolation was difficult because my family is so close. Every Sunday we get together for lunch. We also have regular family nights. I soon discovered that without them, I felt sad and lonely. However, I decided to spend a lot of time reading the Book of Mormon to invite the Spirit into my life. I learned that having the Holy Ghost as my constant companion helps me focus on gratitude and goodness, shows me how to serve others, and surrounds me with the Savior’s love during difficult times.
Sometimes I wonder how comforting it must have been for Moroni to read the words of his father, Mormon, after he was gone. I tried to apply his words to me: “Be faithful in Christ [my daughter]; ... may Christ lift thee up” (Moroni 9:25). I’ve learned that He always will! The Savior can give us power that is greater than all the problems we may face in this troubled world and help us hold on to hope.
As hard as this year has been, I am so grateful this experience has strengthened my testimony of Jesus Christ and taught me to place my total trust in Him as Moroni did. As I read the account of Jesus Christ in the Americas, I realized that before His arrival, the land of the Nephites was undergoing great and wonderful transformations (see 3 Nephi 11:1). Certainly, before the Savior returns, we will be able to go through our own transformation, preparing ourselves to meet Him again. I know that all the challenges we are experiencing all give us the opportunity to help us prepare to meet Him.
I know that Jesus Christ is my Savior. He is the light that I need to guide me when the way is uncertain. And I know that the Book of Mormon is a testament of Him. The truths found in that book can truly help us turn to Him and to have strength and courage and faith in times of crisis. I know it has for me.

I don’t think I had ever even seen a homeless person until I moved to Puerto Rico with my family before my junior year of high school. Then the day after Christmas, the youth and leaders of my ward gathered at the church building to put together boxes of food to distribute to the homeless people who live on the streets of Old San Juan.
I had been to Old San Juan several times, but there weren’t any homeless people out during the day, or else I just hadn’t noticed them. When we arrived in the city, each of us set out with one box and the hope we would find someone who needed what we had to offer.
To my surprise, it wasn’t difficult. The first man we saw was selling little bags of tostones that his wife had made. When we asked him if he could use the food we had, he smiled and took it, thanking us until we were too far away to hear him. Before we left, he handed us a bag of his snacks to show his appreciation.
After giving away four of our boxes, we had only one box left. We got in the car and decided we would keep our eyes out for someone. It was getting late, and we needed to get back to the wardhouse.
As we were driving, one of the girls in the car told the driver to stop. “Do you see that guy over there?” she asked.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t look homeless.”
“I know, but I have seen him three times tonight, and he’s just been walking around.”
With that, she jumped out of the car and yelled, “Necesita comida?” or “Do you need food?”
The sweetest, most sincere smile I have ever seen came to his face as she handed him the box, covered with Christmas wrapping and filled with food.
A tear fell down his cheek as he said, “Feliz Navidad!” We could tell by his “Merry Christmas” greeting that one box filled with crackers, apples, and juice made a difference in his life.

When I was 17, I was assigned as my father’s home teaching companion. We visited a few families in our ward and gave them a message from the bishop or read an article from a Church magazine. Home teaching was actually not so bad. Some of our families really appreciated our company.
We visited an older couple who always looked forward to our coming. They were talkative and gave us cookies when we were there.
Another of our families was actively involved at church. They were easy to home teach. The TV would be turned off, and the family always gathered around, sitting quietly while my dad and I gave our message.
Our ward was spread out over a large area of farms and small communities outside of Pocatello, Idaho. Many of the people had chosen the semi-country life to escape from the city. They liked being away from the traffic noise. Some simply wanted to get away from society. The Browns, a family newly assigned to us, fit right into that last category. As I look back, I wonder at the patience my father showed.
It was my job to set up our home teaching appointments. Brother Brown answered the phone and told me they were too busy this month and to maybe call back later if I wanted to. The same results occurred four weeks later on my second attempt. My father decided we needed a more direct approach.
The next month came, and after visiting our other families, we drove straight to the Browns’ house. A pickup truck and a car were in the driveway. Our printout showed a family of three: a father, a mother, and a 9-year-old boy. We went up to the door and knocked. No answer.
A month passed and again it was time for home teaching. Visiting our regulars went smoothly, and then it was time for our not-so-regular.
“Do they really want us to come?” I asked.
“We don’t know for sure,” was the answer from my senior companion. “They haven’t told us to go away, and we haven’t done anything they could get mad at, have we? We can’t give up so soon.”
We drove to their house. This time the cars were switched. They had to be home. There were only two drivers. We went up to the door and knocked. Silence.
“Knock again,” said my dad. I heard some noise inside the house, but the door stood still. From the corner of my eye, I saw motion. I turned to the window and, for a split second, locked eye contact with a brown-haired child, who disappeared. We left. It seemed apparent that this family did not want us around. I did not know if I wanted to be around them. I suggested to my father that we report back to the high priests group leader that this family did not want home teachers and call it good.
“Hm.” My dad was not a man of many words, but I knew well the meaning of this. We would be going back.
The next month came all too soon. It was, again, time to do our home teaching. Our visits with the regular families quickly came and went. I then found myself standing in front of the door with the two cars in the driveway. My dad motioned me, and I timidly knocked. No answer. “There, that’s that. They won’t answer, Dad. Let’s go home.” A nod from my senior companion prompted me to knock again. I reluctantly did so, keeping my thoughts to myself. Then it opened; not the door, but a window. A gruff male voice asked what we wanted. A waft of cigarette smoke followed his question. I was ready to bolt. My dad smiled. He told the voice who we were and why we were there. He explained that we wanted to get to know this family and become friends. Then he asked if we could come back next month. That was all he said, nothing more. Hesitating, the faceless voice behind the window agreed and we left.
“He knew exactly who we were,” my dad said as we drove away. “He gets new home teachers every couple of years. He just knows how to get rid of us.”
The next month was much the same—the same voice from the window, the same brief conversation, and the same hesitation to let us come again next month.
Our third month was not the same, however. The pickup was not in the driveway. We went up to the door and knocked. We both looked toward the window in anticipation. To my surprise, the door opened! That same child I had seen earlier poked his head out, glanced down the street, and then at us. “Please, come in,” he said.
A lady was standing in the front room. “Thank you for coming, we only have a few minutes,” she said. “Do you know when Cub Scouts meet?”
“We will find out for you, Sister Brown,” my dad answered.
The child was staring at me. I was in shock now that we were standing in the house and not on the porch. Had he said something? “Can you baptize me?” he repeated, with a sincere ring in his voice.
His smile was contagious, but all I could say was “What?”
“He wants to become a member of the Church like his cousins in town. He has been watching you come to the door each month. I told him you could probably baptize him.”
“Can you baptize me into the Church?” he asked a third time.
I was beginning to recover. “Yes, uh, I think so.”
My dad helped me out. “Let’s talk to the bishop,” he said. “He can tell us what you need to do to get ready. Can both of you and Brother Brown come to church on Sunday?”
That was our whole visit. Then we were gone. I contemplated the entire situation during the quiet drive home. Being a home teacher was something more than cookies and pleasant conversations. Being a home teacher could be seriously important. Why had I suggested we give up on this family? The example my father gave me was beyond my years. I was experiencing guilty exhilaration, guilt because of my murmuring and exhilaration because of the unexpected results of our visit. I glanced at my dad.
“You did good,” he said, reading my mind. “Let’s watch for them on Sunday.”
I have always cherished my memories of home teaching with my father. I can remember some of the families we taught better than others. I will never forget the Browns.
We saw the mom and the boy at church that next Sunday and many other Sundays. We saw the boy at Cub Scouts the next week and many other weeks. I’m sure some deep conversations were held at the Browns’ house, because the door always opened for us, even when Brother Brown was home. He even learned how to smile and shake hands.
Then came the baptism. I felt the smiling eyes of the city cousins looking down on the boy and me. The bishop had let them kneel by the baptismal font, which was recessed into the floor at the stake center. A deep, peaceful feeling swept over me as this wet, glowing boy and I stepped up and out. I almost felt that it was I who had been baptized. The boy’s parents were beaming. I saw Sister Brown brush a tear from her cheek. I looked up at my father; he nodded his approval.
Warmth grew inside me as I realized the wisdom of His patience, His patience for this little family and for me.

“I have a secret, Lisa,” Katie said after she finished her milk. She put her glass on the kitchen table and swung her legs.
“What is it?” Her sister stopped eating her cereal.
“It’s something that you can see,” Katie said, swinging her legs faster.
Lisa looked all around. “I don’t see a secret. What is it?”
Katie shook her head. She slid off her chair and hopped around the table. “Dad, I have a secret.”
Dad looked up from feeding the baby and smiled at Katie. “Give me a clue.”
“It’s something that you can see.”
Dad looked really hard at Katie. He wrinkled his brow. “You grew ten inches?”
Katie laughed.
“No. Look again.”
“I can’t see your secret,” said Dad. “You’ll have to tell me.”
Katie shook her head. She ran around the table to her mother. Mother put her arm around Katie and kissed her. “I have a secret,” said Katie, bouncing up and down on her toes.
“That white mustache?” Mother asked, dabbing Katie’s mouth with a napkin.
“No. Something else. Something that you can see.” Katie looked down at the floor.
“We will have to guess later, Katie,” said Mother. “Now, let me tie your shoes so that you can go to preschool.”
“No thank you,” said Katie.
“Do you want me to tie your shoes?” asked Lisa.
“No thank you,” answered Katie.
“Shall I tie them?” asked Dad.
“No thank you, Dad.” Katie giggled.
“Someone will have to tie them, Katie. You can’t go with your shoes untied,” Mother said.
Katie jumped up and down, then held up one foot so that everyone could see her shoe. “That’s my secret. I tied them all by myself!”

When I was president of the Southern States Mission, I remember going to a conference down in west Florida. It seemed to me as if we traveled a hundred miles and never saw a house, and when we arrived at one of those little chapels, there it was filled with 250 people, and I said, “If you didn’t come out of the holes in the rocks, I don’t know where you came from. The Lord may know, but I don’t!” Well, that was literal, and we see that being fulfilled right before our very eyes.

Years ago, I found a summer job on an oyster boat in Long Island Sound. Four of us lived together in an area not much larger than the cab of a big semi-trailer truck. At first, I was considered a spy for the owner, and then a boy who didn’t have courage to “live like a man.” The others really gave me a bad time. Finally, when they understood that I would not do wrong things to prove I was a man, they left me alone, and we became friends. And then privately, one by one, they asked for help.
You know what is right and wrong. Be the leader in doing right. At first you may not be understood. You may not have the friends you want right away, but in time they will respect you, then admire you. Many will come privately to receive strength from your spiritual flame. You can do it. I know that you can do it.

As you return to Temple Square, walking downhill south on Main Street, you pass the once magnificent McCune home (14). The story is told that the wife of the original owner was serving as a guide on Temple Square when a haughty visitor asked her about the living conditions of the typical, uncouth Mormon. She assured him that she was an ordinary native and invited him to her “typical” home, with its marble floors, gold doorknobs, carved balustrades, and third-floor ballroom. The visitor was much astonished that this was the way Mormons lived!

In 1999, Skaidr?te was looking for a church. She saw a building with a sign that said The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It was a weekday, but she opened the door and went inside.
“There was a sister missionary. When I walked in, she was smiling—a very open smile. I thought there was somebody behind me. Then I realized that smile was for me, and I smiled back. I felt like I was meeting a best friend, long not seen.
“She was the one who introduced me to the Church. I had never met anyone like the missionaries. I felt like they were angels, literally come from heaven to earth.
“Basically from that day, everything changed in my life.”
Skaidr?te stopped going to her previous church, even though people there warned her she would find bad things in this new Church. “I told them if there was something bad, I would stop going,” Skaidr?te says, “But there was nothing but good to find.” That was 17 years ago.
Today, Skaidr?te, age 71, is so happy and full of life that it’s hard to believe that hasn’t always been the case.
“When I first saw that sister missionary, when I found the Church for the first time, since that day all the thoughts of suicide were gone. There were no thoughts of life being dark. In spite of everything, I am positive. Life is beautiful to me.”
Skaidr?te is so happy and full of life, it’s hard to imagine that for years she struggled with depression and thoughts of suicide. “Now I have the gospel,” she says. “Life is beautiful for me.”
While investigating the Church, Skaidr?te asked many questions. “As I did, I found answer after answer,” she says.
Years ago, when others warned her about investigating the Church, she told them there was nothing but good to find.
The first time Skaidr?te entered a Church building, a sister missionary greeted her with a smile. Skaidr?te was so impressed with the missionaries of the Church that she accepted an invitation to attend meetings. Today, Skaidr?te smiles all the time.

Illustrations by Greg NewBold
I was shocked! My grandmother wanted me to pay for my own grandfather’s car! Really? That car had been parked, just sitting there in her garage, ever since Grandfather’s funeral several months before. It was unused and old now, so to me it didn’t seem right or fair that it wouldn’t just be given to me, her oldest grandchild. She was my grandmother, after all, and was well provided for financially, so why couldn’t it just be an inheritance or a gift? She didn’t even drive it, so wouldn’t I be doing her a favor taking it off her hands?
Adding insult to injury, my own grandmother decided to call a neighbor of hers—a retired judge—to come over to the house and write up a purchase and loan agreement for me to sign before she would let me buy the car. At first it made me angry—then very sad. I started to believe she didn’t love me, her first grandchild.
There were a few minutes when I thought about leaving in a huff of insulted pride, to never look back or talk with my grandmother again. But luckily I didn’t, for a few very important reasons:
I needed a car.
I knew I could trust that car because Grandfather always kept his cars in top condition.
I could afford it.
Most of all, I knew Grandmother was insisting upon her method of transferring the car to me for a good reason, even if I didn’t know what it was.
Besides, as I thought about it, I realized she wasn’t the kind of person who would intentionally hurt anyone, much less me. She’d loved me all my life, so why would I think conducting a business deal between us would ruin our relationship? She was probably also thinking that my siblings and cousins could have felt slighted if the car had been an outright gift.
When we came to a mutual understanding, we both signed the document, and the judge signed as a witness. According to an ancient Chinese proverb: “The weakest ink is more powerful than the strongest memory.” Because we signed an agreement we had worked out together, I was able to keep my part of the bargain.
At the end of our meeting, with my copy of our contract in hand, I drove away in what was now my car, deeply assured that my grandmother really did still love me. Although she showed it in a way that at first caused me to doubt, I learned many other things from her that day. Most important to me was that if I wanted something in this life, there would ultimately be some kind of price I would have to pay for it, even things that seem to be offered for free—or that I think should be.
Perhaps the best part was that I was treated like an adult by a grandmother who expected me to be mature enough to understand that it was necessary to handle our transaction the way we did for my sake as much as for hers.

Born in Semarang, Indonesia, in 1914, Julie was one of six children. Her father died when she was eight, and her Chinese mother, who had been disowned by her family for marrying a Dutchman, was unable to take care of her children. Julie lived with a foster family for several years until the family was reunited.
Julie finished school, earning a degree in education, and worked as a secretary until she met Rudolf Jacobs, whom she married in 1938. When World War II started, Rudolf, an experienced pilot, was called into action and soon became a Japanese prisoner of war.
Julie, pregnant with twins, was left to care for her infant son. As she struggled for the next three years to provide for her children, she sold knitting and other handiwork, trading everything she could to obtain food.
Rudolf returned from the prisoner-of-war camp very sick and underweight, and the family decided to move to the Netherlands, where better medical help was available. So in 1947 Julie left Indonesia, not realizing she would never return to the land of her birth.
Six years later, Rudolf Jacobs was killed in a plane crash and Julie was again left to provide for her family—four children ranging in age from five to fourteen. She went to work teaching typing and shorthand. In 1960 Julie suffered another blow when her oldest son was killed in a car accident.
Reeling under the loss—“It felt like part of my body had been torn away”—Julie experienced a crisis of faith.
“I couldn’t understand why I had to go through this,” she says. “I struggled every morning and evening to bend my knees in prayer, as I was used to doing, but I found I could not pray.”
Even though Julie had never attended a church, she had a strong belief in God that pulled her through. “After a while I heard a voice that seemed to repeat, ‘And still God is love.’”
She began to pray once more. “In thankfulness to my Father in Heaven, I searched for a church where I could serve him.” One rainy evening in 1962, two Latter-day Saint missionaries knocked on the Jacobs’s door.
Not long after, one of Julie’s sons was baptized, followed by her sister and mother. But Julie was not yet convinced. The evening before her daughter was to be baptized, a missionary challenged her to pray in an effort to gain a testimony of the gospel.
“I did not promise the missionary anything,” Julie remembers.
“And when I said my prayers that night I did not mention the Church. But in the middle of the night I woke up with an urgent need to ask Father in Heaven if this was indeed the true church where I could serve him.
“Never had I prayed so sincerely or for so long. And never had I felt God’s love and strength as I did on that night. When my prayer was over, I saw the sun shining through the curtains at my bedroom window. As I gazed outside in the early morning hour, I felt a happiness and peace I had not known since before my son’s death,” she recalls, her face reflecting the wonder of that morning a quarter of a century ago. She was baptized that very day, along with her daughter.
For the next twenty-one years, Sister Jacobs served in the Relief Society. For five years she was Relief Society president of The Hague Netherlands Stake. “It wasn’t always easy, but during those years I learned to kneel in prayer often to receive the help and inspiration I needed.”
Three times a year a special week in the London Temple is organized for the Dutch members. “We usually leave at night, driving for several hours,” Sister Jacobs explains. “Then we take the night boat to England, and drive for three hours. Each day we are there, we arrive at the temple before 6 A.M. and stay until 6 P.M. When I get back to Holland I am tired, but happy that I was able to work in the house of the Lord.”
“Life isn’t always easy,” Sister Jacobs admits. “But our final reward will be that God will lovingly take us in his arms when we leave this world. Thinking about that gives me the courage to accept the things that happen in my life.”

Fire has been used to describe a wide range of things, from romantic love to a “burning” testimony. Another common association with fire is anger. Ever heard of someone being described as “hotheaded” or as having a “fiery” temper?

Anger, like fire, can appear suddenly and without warning. Both can destroy anything they touch. Yet there’s something intriguing about fire. If you cut off its access to fuel, the flames vanish. The same principle applies to anger.

Object lesson time!

Supplies
Baking soda (aka sodium bicarbonate)
Vinegar
Tall drinking glass (see-through is more fun to watch, but not necessary)
Measuring spoons
Candle and flame source

Explain to your family that in this object lesson, fire represents anger. Ask somebody to read the following story by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008). As they read the story, light the candle.

“Many years ago I worked for one of our railroads. A switchman was aimlessly strolling about the platform one day. I asked him to move a car to another track. He exploded. He threw his cap on the pavement and jumped up and down on it, swearing like a drunken sailor. I stood there and laughed at his childish behavior. Noting my laughter, he began to laugh at his own foolishness. He then quietly climbed on the switch engine, drove it over to the empty car, and moved it to an empty track.”1

At an encampment in Finland, the Scouts decided I should know how to sauna. Finns heat their saunas to 170 or 180 degrees. President Olli Roto, the stake president who was teaching me, along with the Scouts, who were experts, made a small bundle of birch branches. When we really began to perspire, he took the bundle of birch leaves and swatted me all over my back, chest, and legs, and said, “That brings the blood to the surface.” I said, “It works.” Then we ran down and dove into the Baltic Sea, then went back into the sauna. It’s amazing what we learn when we’re working with youth.

Well, you see, Hurricane was just a pioneer town in Southern Utah when I was little. We planned for me to be baptized in the Hurricane Canal on my birthday. I was so excited I could hardly wait. And then, just four days before my birthday, the canal broke.
The farmers were frantic. Peach orchards and hayfields were dry. Every man in town went up the river with his pick and shovel to help fix the break, but it was a bad one. The day before my birthday, I climbed the slope to the canal, hoping to see just one trickle of water. Instead, the hot, dry winds had caked and cracked the mud in the bottom, curling it up into little clay dishes. “Oh mama, what shall we do?” I asked. “How can I be baptized when the canal is dry?”
“You can always go to the hot sulphur springs, like your sisters did,” she suggested.
“But their birthdays were in the winter. We’d scald in July!”
Mama knew better than to suggest postponing the date. It was family tradition for each of us to be baptized on our eighth birthday.
“Let’s see what other choices you have,” Mama said. “Come with me.”
The cow’s watering trough was just outside the corral under the apricot tree, with a hole in the fence for the cows to poke their heads through.
“You could be baptized here,” she said. I regarded the long strings of floating green moss and shuddered. “You can scrub the trough with the broom and fill it with fresh water from the cistern.”
“But Mama …” I wailed.
“If being sorry would fix the canal, the water would be running in it now,” she said, cradling me in her comforting arms.
I had heard Uncle Ren say that the canal might be mended by sundown, so just before dark I climbed the bank, hoping to see the frothy head of the stream. But the cracked clay was only curled deeper. Heavy of heart, I trudged home and plopped down on my bed in the peach orchard, where we slept in the summertime. Looking up at the evening sky I watched the first stars appear. “Please, Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “help the men get the water in the canal by tomorrow.”
I wasn’t surprised when a short time later I heard a little splash of water coming through the headgate high on the bank above our house. Scrunching my feet under me, I sat on my heels and listened. The sound grew until it was the full-grown tumble of water splashing over the rocks and, finally, rippling through the ditch past our place. The canal had been fixed before sundown, but the water had miles to race before reaching town.
“Oh thank you, Heavenly Father,” I whispered. Then I hugged my pillow and drifted to sleep, lulled by the merry music of laughing, tumbling water.
By the next afternoon, all of the debris and froth from the new stream had washed itself on through the canal and the water ran placid and smooth. I put on my clean white nightgown and Uncle Ren Spendlove came in his faded bib overalls. Mama walked to the canal with us. Sitting in the shade of the willows along the bank were my playmates and cousins, waiting. Uncle Ren stepped down the slick muddy side into the water then, reaching up, gave me a hand. Ripples of light danced on the stream, and a few willow leaves glided like canoes through the mottled shade. The wind held its breath as Uncle Ren said the baptismal prayer. I felt the rush of water in my ears, and he brought me up blubbering. He held onto me until I had caught my breath. Then I noticed everyone watching and smiling at me and I felt wonderful and loved.
“Mama, I’m baptized!” I exclaimed. Reaching for my hands, she pulled me up beside her. She had said that baptism was a sacred ordinance, and when she hugged me, dripping wet as I was, I knew it was true.

Shannon, a young mother, did not expect that she would teach her children the power of prayer when they piled into their van to drive to their home just 40 minutes away. There was no storm when they left their grandmother’s home, but as they began to drive through the canyon, the light snow turned into a blizzard. The van began sliding on the surface of the road. Soon visibility was near zero. The two youngest children could sense the stress of the situation and began to cry. Shannon said to the older children, Heidi and Thomas, ages 8 and 6, “You need to pray. We need Heavenly Father’s help to get home safely. Pray that we will not get stuck and that we will not slide off the road.” Her hands shook as she steered the car, yet she could hear the whisper of little prayers repeatedly coming from the backseat: “Heavenly Father, please help us get home safely; please help us so we will not slide off the road.”
In time the prayers calmed the two little ones, and they stopped their crying just as they learned that a road closure prevented them from driving any farther. Cautiously, they turned around and found a motel for the night. Once in the motel, they knelt down and thanked Heavenly Father for their safety. That night a mother taught her children the power of holding true to prayer.