Gospel Story Finder

Dr. Kenneth MacFarland, a great, nonpartisan, national patriot, gave a speech entitled “Selling America to Americans.” He told about a young soldier who returned from Vietnam. In a very serious talk with his parents, the young soldier asked if they loved America. He asked how they felt about this great and glorious nation. Both mother and father got a little teary-eyed and said that they loved this country dearly, that it was more precious to them than their own life. “Why didn’t you tell me that when I was growing up?” he said. “I never heard you once say that you loved America. You never taught me to love it. I can’t tell you what an ungrateful pup I have been. I had to go to Vietnam to find out what the United States of America is all about. I would gladly lay down my life for it. I would have given anything to know how you felt about it when I was growing up.”

While Moses was learning about the restored gospel, he called his brother-in-law, Maroyi, to tell him about the Church. Maroyi, who lives in a refugee settlement in Burundi, said, “We need this church in Burundi.” Soon Moses began teaching his sister and brother-in-law by telephone with the missionaries. Moses’s sister and brother in-law were baptized, along with eight others in Burundi, the same day Moses was baptized in Spokane. The group in Burundi has grown so large that they need another building to accommodate all the people who come every Sunday.

Here I was, 18 years old, approaching graduation from Troy High School, just another boy from a southern California city who loved to have fun without damaging my physical body or dusting up my mind and soul. Little did I know I was about to make one of the hardest decisions I would ever face.
I was a high school senior. The time was approaching when I would be the right age to serve a full-time mission, and the prophet had said all worthy young men should serve. I knew that. But for some reason I wondered about when I should go.
It wasn’t much later that I was sitting in an interview.
“What are your feelings about accepting a mission call?” the bishop said.
I looked down at the patterned floor and replied, “I think I’d like to go.”
His mouth formed a smile as he opened his calendar. “Well, let’s see. You turn 19 in September, so if we filled out your papers three months before, then it …”
Before he could finish, I jumped in.
“Bishop, I don’t know when I want to leave. Yes, I turn 19 in September. But I guess I need some time to think it over.” I felt myself get tense as I sank deeper into my chair. I didn’t know what to say. Maybe I just needed time to ponder and pray.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to support you,” he concluded, as he walked me to the door. “I’m behind you 100 percent of the way,” he added.
Wandering back to the car, I began to realize how important my serving a mission was to my Heavenly Father. I also thought how important my example could be for my family. I was the second oldest of six children, and I felt I had to set an example for the four younger ones. But most of all, I thought about how accepting the call was the right thing to do, that I should listen and obey.
As I drove home, however, I felt a strong impression that when I should go was very important.
The next few weeks were incredibly spiritual for me as I pondered and prayed about my decision of when I’d leave. Praying for guidance from my Heavenly Father was not easy. I had never been one to rely so greatly on prayer. But I knew that through prayer, if I had faith, he would answer me.
After weeks of patience and prayer, I could feel the influence of my Heavenly Father’s spirit wrap around me. I began to feel that in January of 1996 I would be available to be called into the mission field.
I had never felt such a feeling of comfort and joy as I did that day. There was no doubt in my mind that when January rolled around I would be ready and willing to go. And I knew that within the next seven months I would have to work hard and prepare myself to serve an uplifting, spiritual mission.
Four months before I was to leave, my older brother, David, was in an accident that left him in a coma. A few days later he died.
The spirit that filled our house that day was something I had never felt before. It was as if our home was floating on heaven. Although I missed my brother terribly, I knew that was why I had wondered about when I should serve. His death brought my family closer together, and I will cherish for all eternity those few months I had with my family before I left for the mission field.
Now I’m teaching people about the true gospel of Jesus Christ, and I know that serving a mission is one of the most important things I could ever experience.
And to know that my Heavenly Father actually cared enough to answer my prayer about when I should leave made me feel like someone special. It gave me something to hold on to and helped my faith in him increase. My Heavenly Father knew exactly what was going on. I could see his footsteps beside me every step of the way.
Editor’s Note: Elder Goodman served a mission in the Colorado Denver North Mission. He was released in January of this year.

Nearly 200 years ago, the American short story “Rip Van Winkle” became an instant classic. The main character, Rip, is an unambitious man who is very good at avoiding two things: work and his wife.
One day, while wandering in the mountains with his dog, he discovers a group of strangely dressed men drinking and playing games. After accepting some of their liquor, Rip becomes drowsy and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens his eyes again, he is surprised to find that his dog is gone, his rifle has rusted, and he now has a long beard.
Rip makes his way back to his village only to discover that everything has changed. His wife has died, his friends are gone, and the portrait of King George III in the tavern has been replaced by a portrait of someone he does not recognize—by General George Washington.
Rip Van Winkle had been sleeping for 20 years! And in the process, he had missed one of the most exciting periods in the history of his country—he had slept through the American Revolution.

Jenny was excited to visit her friend Anne, who had moved to New York, but she was also afraid. What if she missed her airplane? What if Anne wasn’t there to meet her?
Dad helped Jenny find the right place at the airport and hugged her good-bye. “Have a good time,” he said. Jenny felt nervous, but she remembered that in family prayer Mom had prayed for her safety.
On the flight, Jenny read a book and drank juice. After landing, she found Anne’s family waiting with big smiles on their faces. “Welcome to New York!” Anne cried.
During the week they played, hiked, picnicked, and shopped. They even saw the Palmyra Temple and the Sacred Grove. When it was time to fly home, Jenny felt brave. She found her seat—right next to the window!—and put on her seatbelt.
Just as the plane began speeding up, it slowed again. The engines quieted, then stopped. “Is something wrong?” Jenny worried to herself.
“We can’t take off yet because of thunderstorms,” the pilot announced.
Three hours later, the airplane was still sitting on the runway. “I should have been home by now,” Jenny moaned. The grouchy man next to her muttered some bad words, and she felt even worse.
At last, the plane took off. Everyone cheered, except the grouchy man, who scowled. Jenny watched the city lights disappear beneath the clouds, then fell asleep.
A sudden flash awoke her. She blinked out into the darkness. There it was again!—sizzling, crackling lightning. Her stomach turned cold. She had never seen lightning so near. Her hair stood on end, charged with static electricity. She wanted to ask someone what would happen if lightning struck the airplane, but everyone else was asleep. Even the flight attendants were out of sight.
Bam! Another blinding ray of light exploded outside.
“Heavenly Father,” Jenny silently prayed, “I’m scared. Please help me to feel better and get home safely.”
As thunder rumbled and the airplane shook, Jenny remembered her vacation. She had flown to New York without any trouble. She had played, hiked, and ridden in a car. She hadn’t scraped her knees, caught a cold, or gotten lost. She hadn’t even forgotten her toothbrush. Nothing had gone wrong. Suddenly she realized that all of those things were blessings from Heavenly Father.
“If He protected me on the ground,” she thought, “why can’t He protect me in the air?” Peace entered her heart. She knew that no matter where she went, as long as she was faithful, she would be in God’s hands.
She settled back into her chair and fell asleep. When she awoke, the lights of her hometown twinkled up at her. “Prepare for landing,” the pilot said. Jenny offered a prayer of thanks, grateful to be safely home again.

Wolverhampton Ward, Birmingham Stake, was full of the festive spirit throughout December as ward members worked together to brighten the Christmas Day of patients at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham.
Sister Angela Elliot worked with the Relief Society after being told by her daughter Charlie, a nurse on the men’s ward, that some patients may not receive gifts on Christmas Day.
The sisters in Relief Society collected enough gifts throughout December to fill 25 packages of presents, containing items such as socks, chocolate, and puzzle books. They were then joined by the Young Women to organise the parcels and to make Christmas cards.
Then with voices ready, sisters and brethren entertained patients and nurses with carols and Christmas classics, sharing Christmas cheer with each area of the ward.
“It was a perfect start to the Christmas week, and we just loved seeing the patients and lovely nurses joining in.” said the Quesne family.
Susie Piper remarked, “It was a wonderful opportunity for us to serve with friends and to spread Christmas cheer.”
Sharing the light of Christ, and lifting those who are alone and suffering, really brought the Wolverhampton Ward the true joy of Christmas this year.

The scene is a familiar one: a deserted high school weight room where an athlete is putting in the long, often lonely hours of preparation that precede the split seconds of competition. But the hours of sacrifice and dedication pay off well for 17-year-old Shellie Spencer. Among the rewards she has received have been two Idaho prep titles in the women’s discus; a trip to the National AAU Junior Olympics in the discus event; three high school varsity letters in girls’ basketball and track, being named “Most Dedicated” on the girls’ varsity basketball and track teams; shelves of other trophies and medals; and numerous ward and stake honors in various sports.
For Shellie, the ability to set reachable goals and do the tremendous amount of work necessary to obtain them are reflections of her upbringing in the Church and the encouragement of her parents and family. She is a member of the Emmett First Ward, Emmett Idaho Stake, where her father is the bishop. A track meet or basketball game involving one of the Spencer children will usually find the whole family there—mom, dad, Jennifer, Eric, James, and Ryan, in addition to oldest sister Shellie.
The Spencer home shows the signs of its athletic family. It includes a weight room for Shellie and a large basketball court on which Shellie has painted a discus ring. Still, even though she is ranked nationally as one of the top ten discus throwers in her age group, after high school Shellie plans to concentrate on basketball, hopefully at Brigham Young University.
And despite the numerous accolades she receives for winning, Shellie has also experienced the heartache of defeat. At the regional qualifying track meet last summer she fouled three times at distances long enough to win the discus event. Her only eligible throw, however, was nearly 20 feet shorter, and she failed to place. Shellie was deeply disappointed, but believes that sacrifice and dedication are never wasted. “One of my coaches has said that athletics is merely a scaled-down version of life,” stated Shellie. “Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose, but the perseverance you develop by doing your best will stay with you always.”

I attended church for only a few Sundays before it became time for me to leave for Korea. When I went aboard ship on the last day of 1951, I took with me a triple combination and the Articles of Faith by James E. Talmage. I read the Articles of Faith during the first month at sea. One evening in February I heard it announced over the public address system aboard ship that Latter-day Saint services would be held in the crew library at 7:30 P.M. At the appointed hour I went to the library where I found four young men who looked very much like the two young missionaries who had knocked on my door in San Diego. I told them I was not a member of the Church but was interested in studying about it. They welcomed me with much enthusiasm.
When we arrived in Japan in the latter part of February 1952, the group decided that I was ready for baptism. So they accompanied me to the Japan Mission home where I was interviewed and received a recommend. On February 25, 1952, in the garden behind the Japan Mission home in 30-degree weather, seven thousand miles from my home in Missouri, I was baptized. Later I was confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My wife was baptized four days later in San Diego, California. Our search had come to an end.

When I was 17 years old, I lost most of my left arm in a car accident. This experience would forever change my life. Though there have been difficult days and trying moments, this refiner’s fire has given me an opportunity to witness the power of the Atonement in a unique way.
My life now is all about being a wife and a mother, two roles I love deeply. Before my children were born, I wondered about my adequacy to be a mother. How could I possibly change diapers, prepare dinner, or comfort my children with only one arm? Fifteen years later, I am in the middle of motherhood with five sweet children. I have adjusted well, and my children hardly notice that I am different from other mothers. My missing arm is no longer a hindrance but a symbol of love. It is a source of comfort for my children to hold when they cry or fall asleep at night. This attachment may be due to many things, but I see it as evidence of the Savior’s ability to create something good out of something tragic.
I cannot describe the sweetness I feel when that part of me can provide such comfort to my children. Motherhood has brought perspective to my physical limitation, and I have felt the Atonement already begin to heal me.
The daily demands of motherhood have sometimes been difficult. Tough times give me reason to reflect on the reality of the Resurrection and the Savior’s ability to heal me. Thus the faith-promoting examples of healing found in the scriptures have special meaning to me. One of my favorites is when the Savior visited the people in the Americas and healed their sick. I have imagined what it might have been like to be one of those healed by the Savior. The account begins with His loving invitation:
“Have ye any that are sick among you? Bring them hither. Have ye any that are lame, or blind, or halt, or maimed, … or that are afflicted in any manner? Bring them hither and I will heal them, for I have compassion upon you; my bowels are filled with mercy. …
“… I see that your faith is sufficient that I should heal you.
“… When he had thus spoken, all the multitude, with one accord, did go forth with their sick and their afflicted, and their lame, and with their blind, and their dumb, and with them that were afflicted in any manner; and he did heal them every one” (3 Nephi 17:7–9).
For me, this is one of the most touching events described in the scriptures. But my perspective has changed as I have embraced motherhood with one arm. I once thought I was one of the people who most looked forward to the Resurrection and the idea of being made whole. But now I am not in so much of a hurry. Increasingly, I feel the Atonement working in my life now. I have realized that the healing power need not begin only when the Resurrection occurs. The wholeness has already begun when, every night, one of my children tenderly holds what remains of my arm and slips into slumber. This realization has been just as meaningful to me as any miracle of physical healing. I have decided that, for now, I am as whole as I need to be.

Carla Santivañez Castro of the Lima Perú Surco Stake writes: “I remember one family home evening in particular. We four children were very attentive to the lesson Papa shared with us. We participated in wonderful games. We not only had a lot of fun, but we learned about the Savior. The thing I remember most about that night was seeing my parents so happy as they enjoyed this time with us, their children. Many times I have remembered the joyful feelings of that night.
“Now my beloved husband and I have the opportunity to hold our own family home evenings and experience the joy I saw in my parents. My hope is that someday our children will feel the same love, warmth, security, and safety in our family home evenings that I felt that night so long ago.”

A sea journey was the only option for converts in Europe who heeded the call to gather with the Saints in America. Jane Rio Griffiths Baker revealed something of ship life during her emigration from England:
“Sometimes a few musical ones get together and have a few tunes, sometimes [we] get together and gossip, and so … the days pass along. When we have rough weather, we have enough to do to keep on our feet, and [we] laugh at those who are not so clever as ourselves.”

The days of mirth, however, were balanced by days of distress. Jane recorded her grief at the death from illness of one of her young sons. “I did not think his death was so near, though when witnessing his sufferings I prayed that the Lord would shorten them. He has done so, and my much loved child is now in the world of spirits, awaiting the morning of the Resurrection” (Diary, LDS Church Archives, 3–4, 5; spelling and punctuation modernized).

I live in Douala (Cameroon) and I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I joined the Church when I was 12 years old and back then I lived with my mother, Kameni Lauris, and my little sister, Awasiri Grâce. We used to attend a Pentecostal church which was very far from our home. The cost of getting there made it very difficult for us to attend.
My mother was someone who loved the Lord dearly. Whenever it was not possible for all of us to attend together, she would ask me to go with my little sister to another church near our home. As we went out on Sundays, I could navigate towards the nearby church while calculating the time it would take my mother to leave the house! Then I would go back home without attending the nearby church. At that time, I did not like religion at all because I could not understand much about it.
A friend to my mother, who looked after my little sister when my mother went to work, introduced us to Elder Holland and Elder Rambeleson. These two missionaries came to visit us at home. I still remember the first time I attended a sacrament meeting and saw young men like me participating in passing the sacrament. Afterwards, I attended the Primary and saw how much fun the kids were having. I felt a sense of belonging and knew I would never miss out on a Sunday.
When I got baptized, I immediately wanted to leave the Primary to go to Young Men and be able to begin my priesthood service. I started to really know my Heavenly Father and my identity. I helped clean the building on Saturdays, and came very early on Sundays, sometimes even before the building was open. As I grew older, my desire to serve a full-time mission grew likewise. Through seminary and institute, I was able to prepare for my mission and had the privilege to serve in the DRC Kinshasa West Mission from 2021 to 2023. I’m grateful for the restored gospel and for the joy it has brought to me and to my family.
I know that Christ lives, and that He is sitting down on the right hand of our Heavenly Father, that He knows and loves us all. I know that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ. I know that we are led by a living prophet who receives revelations from God.

I used to work at a camp where I helped campers rappel (or abseil) down a 100-foot cliff, a difficult and terrifying task for some. Most of them struggle with it for one reason: they lack trust. When rappelling, you need to trust your partners, the gear, the rope, the belay, and the carabineer. But most importantly, you need to trust yourself—or nothing can be accomplished.
Many people who approach the cliff come with wide eyes and shaking hands. But before they can scramble away in fear, I look at them and say, “Everything will be OK. I know you can do this. And I’m holding you up the whole way.” And when they make it to the ground, everyone cheers and hugs them, celebrating that they were able to conquer their fears.

A hundred-pound sack of rice landed on my back. If this was what Dad called “small odd jobs,” he had another letter coming from me. Tottering under the load, I almost fell over a chicken as I followed another moving rice bag. My uncle stood on a truck exuberantly shouting directions. But his sing-song Cantonese went right through me. The din of trucks, chickens, dogs, and babbling people clattered to the sky on this narrow Hong Kong street. I could make no sense of anything. All I could do was wonder why I was here when home was on the other side of the world?
“If you can’t make up your mind between going to college or finding a job,” Dad had said, “at least you can take a look at your roots.”
Roots? I had plenty of roots—all firmly implanted in American soil. After all, I was a second-generation American.
Dad had ignored my tirade. “Besides, Uncle Cheung is the only one left back in Hong Kong. Poor guy. No kids, lost his wife last year, and you could cheer him up. He probably gets awfully lonely, being retired and only doing a few jobs here and there,” Dad said.
Staggering under another rice sack, I watched a small shriveled man lithely carry his own enormous load.
“It was a very good day,” Uncle Cheung kept saying after finishing work. Were those the only English words he knew? I didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying. I was busy thinking about getting rid of this Hong Kong sweat under a cool shower.
The minute we walked into his rectangular cinder-block room, I remembered. The bunk beds were still stacked against the stark walls. The lonely white rice cooker was still on the floor in a corner, and the television stood on its rickety wooden table. But no bathroom or kitchen facilities had magically appeared.
Grumbling, I sauntered down to the common washing facilities in the middle of this huge building called an H-block because it was shaped like the letter.
I continued grumbling. “I know there’s better housing near here. It’s not that Uncle Cheung can’t afford it.”
When I returned, Uncle Cheung was in front of his door happily talking to a neighbor. I couldn’t figure out why he needed any cheering up from me.
The H-block was coming alive now. Woks sizzled outside people’s doors. Oil, fish, bean curd, vegetables, pork, and chicken created an aroma my nose had never before encountered.
Dinner was rather loud, not because of our lively conversation but because several jets at Kai Tak Airport picked that time to take off. They drowned out everything. I thought they might take our building with them. I wouldn’t have minded if they had taken me too. In between roars, I kept repeating one of the few Cantonese phrases I knew: “Hou sihk.” If my sounds and tones were right, it meant “delicious.” Uncle Cheung nodded and smiled gratefully, shoveling rice and fish into his mouth with his chopsticks. I wished I was back in America eating pizza with my friends.
Dad’s last words to me when I got on the plane were: “Re-learn the language,” and now Uncle Cheung was waving his hands and talking excitedly to me. It was time to bring out my trusty Chinese-English dictionary. What did Dad mean, “Re-learn the language”? How do you re-learn something you’ve never learned in the first place?
After a series of facial expressions, gestures, and dictionary pointing, I figured out that Uncle Cheung was going someplace after dinner and he was wondering if I wanted to come. I declined, choosing instead to stay and watch TV.
Unfortunately, the one English-speaking station was as fuzzy as the Chinese stations were unintelligible. I took out some paper.
“Dear Mom and Dad,” I wrote. “Is there any chance I could grab a plane back a few weeks early?”
The first time I saw her we were pressed almost nose to nose on the Hong Kong subway. I didn’t mean to have such a close first encounter, but I had no other choice.
“You need the day off,” my uncle had said, his eyes showing concern for my aching back and my diminishing appetite for rice and strings of greasy green vegetables. I didn’t object. I didn’t seem to be cheering him up much, and I always turned down his offers to go out with him in the evenings. Even on Sundays—my favorite day to sleep in—he was out the door long before I woke up to another day in Hong Kong.
With no work to do, I happily headed to the subway. Each train car bulged with people, with hundreds more waiting to get on. After missing several trains, I realized my only hope was to shove with the rest of them. But my technique was less than graceful, and I bumped noses with the most beautiful girl in the world. Drawing back in embarrassment, I knocked five heads behind me. Our noses remained one inch apart.
I tried not to stare at the girl’s soft dark eyes, sleek black hair, and delicately shaped face. If only I could say something to her. The Cantonese equivalent of “How are you?” (Neih hou ma?) sounded too trite. And how could I ask her if she’d eaten yet, even if it was a typical Chinese greeting. I wanted to reach for my dictionary, but my arms were straitjacketed in. Besides, how would it look for a Chinese guy to be sounding out Chinese tones in front of all these other Chinese people. No one knew I was an American.
The conductor droned out the stops in both English and Chinese. It was so muffled I couldn’t tell the difference. Suddenly, the beautiful girl was politely pushing her way out. Dumbfounded, I watched her disappear through the jostling crowd. “She’s gone forever,” I mumbled. By the time I realized Tsim Sha Tsui had also been my stop, I had missed it and was speeding under the harbor to Hong Kong Island.
When I finally made it back to Tsim Sha Tsui, I didn’t shop much. I got sidetracked at McDonald’s and a pizza place instead.
Rushing to make the subway before rush hour, I took one of the last places on the long silver benches lining each side of the car. I was still thinking about that girl when she suddenly appeared. “Is this seat taken?” she was asking me. At least I assumed that’s what she was saying. I smiled, motioning nonchalantly for her to sit down.
I looked at her, disappointed she didn’t recognize me. I ruffled through my dictionary, hoping no one would notice. What could I say to her?
Suddenly, I had something to say as the train jolted forward and I slid into her.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out in English.
She looked up, smiling. “No problem.”
“You speak English too!” I gasped.
She giggled. “At least I like to practice English.”
She looked at me quizzically. “You must be from America.”
“How did you know?”
“Your English doesn’t sound so British,” she said.
“You speak English very well,” I said.
She smiled demurely. “Oh, not so well. My brother and I like to speak English together.”
“Do you ever practice English with anyone else?” I asked.
“Well, yes …” she said.
The train screeched to a stop. I skidded into her again. “This is my stop,” she said, leaping up.
“It’s mine too,” I said.
“It is?” she said with surprise. “I thought you’d be staying in a hotel.”
“No, I’m staying with my uncle in the H-blocks,” I said.
“We live there too,” she replied.
“Really?” I exclaimed, not expecting such a beautiful girl to live in a plain, rectangular room.
It was time to go our separate ways. I hadn’t mustered enough courage to ask her name, and now she was leaving.
Then she called back. “I’m sure my brother would like to talk to you about America. He wants to go there.”
Here was my chance. I stuttered, “My name is Tod. Do you have a name too?”
“Yes. It’s Ling Fa. My brother is Lai Jan. Maybe we could all get together at the park tonight and talk English.” Yes! We had made a connection.
I almost ran over my uncle as he tromped up the stairs loaded with vegetables and fruit. I hugged him, watermelon and all.
“You had a good day?” he asked with a grin.
“It’s been a great day.”
I met Ling Fa and her brother that night, and quickly became fast friends with them. We did a lot together, including going to a dragon boat race practice a few days later. Lai Jan was one of the boatmen in the race held each year during the Dragon Boat Festival, a Hong Kong celebration.
“Maybe you could help us out today,” Lai Jan said to me, as we headed to a small inlet on the harbor. “One of the guys in the other boat said he couldn’t make it today.”
“Who me?” I laughed. “Never seen a dragon boat in my life.”
Then a sleek dragon boat splashed into view. It looked like the longest canoe in the world, except its sides were painted with green dragon scales and a ferocious dragon head stuck out the front with a green tail flowing out the back. Forty paddling boatmen were almost lost in the spray. A drummer stood in the middle beating a large drum in a steady cadence.
“I’m just sure I can do that,” I joked. “But I don’t even speak Chinese.”
“No need to speak Chinese,” Ling Fa answered. “Just paddle with the beat of the drum.”
After being introduced, I stepped gingerly into the boat. I had never seen so many people in such a narrow boat. Gripping my paddle, I nodded to the guy next to me.
“Good luck,” shouted Lai Jan from the boat next to mine. I realized we would be racing each other.
Soon, we were gliding over the water. I concentrated on paddling to the beat of the drum. I was actually getting the hang of it. The faster the drum beat, the faster we paddled. On my right, I could see the menacing dragon head of Lai Jan’s boat. Lai Jan grinned at me.
When our drummer beat faster, my paddle responded. I wanted to win this race. We pulled ahead of Lai Jan’s boat, which began lagging way behind.
My strength melted the minute we rounded the buoy and headed toward shore. I knew something was wrong. It looked as if there had been a big traffic accident in the middle of the water. A limp body was being pulled into a boat. It was Lai Jan.
When I stepped to shore, Ling Fa ran to me sobbing, “Please, please. I don’t want it to be true.”
When I asked what had happened, Ling Fa said, “It was so strange. Suddenly he was spilling out of the boat when another boat hit him.”
Soon sirens were crying, and Lai Jan was loaded into an ambulance. He briefly opened his eyes and said something to Ling Fa.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He said he wanted a blessing from his home teacher.”
“Home teacher?” I said, perplexed.
“It’s someone in my brother’s church,” she answered, as she got in the ambulance with her brother. I ran to catch a bus that would take me to the hospital.
When I arrived at the hospital, I looked for Ling Fa’s beautiful face. But it wasn’t her I noticed first. Startled, I saw Uncle Cheung talking to Ling Fa.
“This is Lai Jan’s home teacher,” she said.
Home teacher? My uncle was a teacher in a church?
“He’s going to give my brother a blessing now.”
I watched in awe as my uncle placed his wrinkled hands on Lai Jan’s head. As I listened, I wish I could explain what happened to me. But I doubt even my best buddy back home could know what I felt. I understood everything. Not just individual words, but the meaning of all Uncle Cheung was saying. There was no need to speak English or Chinese. There was a calmness and peace like nothing I’d ever felt before. I knew some power beyond me—the power of God—would heal Lai Jan.
When I lifted my eyes, Ling Fa was quietly crying. I wondered if she understood how I felt.
Lai Jan’s eyes blinked open, focusing on Uncle Cheung. “I knew you would come.”
Ling Fa gently placed her small hand on my uncle’s arm. “My brother says you help everyone.”
Uncle Cheung shook his head modestly. But his eyes smiled. “I just love everyone.”
I wasn’t supposed to understand, but I did.

One of my esteemed colleagues told me of his efforts to aid a young college student who was feeling sorry for himself, who was lacking motivation and had no sense of responsibility. My friend made an attractive proposal to this young man. In a conversation that went something like this, he said, “Son, I’m going to take over full responsibility of your affairs from now on and relieve you of your worries. I’ll pay your tuition at college, buy your clothes, furnish you an automobile and a credit card for gasoline. When you get ready to marry, don’t worry about it; I’ll look for a wife for you, and I will supply you with a house that is furnished. I’ll support you and your family thereafter without any effort on your part. What do you think of my offer?”
After a moment of sobered thinking the young man replied, “Well, if you did that, what would there be for me to live for?”
Then my friend replied, “That is what I’m trying to make you see, my boy. That is the purpose of life—there is no joy without struggle and the exercise of one’s own natural abilities.”

The deacons quorum of the Apple Valley Ward of the Salt Lake Butler Stake is enthralled with reading the Book of Mormon. They accepted the challenge presented to them by their stake leaders to read and then test Moroni’s promise that they can pray and know for themselves if the book is true. To help them reach their goal, their quorum leader, Mark Duffin, has helped the boys stay interested and motivated. “I want them to feel what they are reading instead of just getting through the pages.”

“At first I actually passed out tests, with questions chapter by chapter,” said Brother Duffin. “They loved it at first. When that wore thin, I had them come prepared to talk about a chapter. But I think the best thing we’ve done is having them over to my house on Sunday evening about once a month. We read together. We talk and discuss what we read. Then we have cake and ice cream. After an hour or so, I have to kick them out. They don’t want to go because they’re enjoying themselves.”

At age 13 I was called into Bishop Murray Holt’s office, and he extended a call to me to serve as the president of the deacons quorum. He told me I needed to go home and pray about who my counselors should be. He taught me that the Lord would help me decide. He did. I then learned about counselors, and I began to see why the Lord has His Church directed by presidencies, not just presidents. I loved my counselors in the deacons quorum, and we prayed and worked hard to help the boys in our quorum. Bishop Holt taught me the pattern of presidencies and taught me how a presidency should operate and function in the Lord’s Church.
When I later served as president of other quorums, I already knew the importance of counselors, and I knew that the Lord would help me choose them—just as my bishop had taught me.

Since Dad’s death, when Jared and I were four and five, Mom had been denied the luxury of sentimentality. There had always been so much work, so many worries, so much pressure. That’s why I was surprised after my mission to discover that she had kept the roses. I had just assumed that she had tossed them out with the wilted lettuce, the table scrapings, the cantaloupe rinds, and a host of other disposables. They were, of course, dry and brittle, mere shells of their former, fragrant selves. But there they were, wrapped delicately in the green floral paper, laid in the white oblong box, and endowed by her touch with a tender timelessness, completely impervious to the persistent onslaught of age.
In the beginning Jared and I had gone to Brother Palmer’s floral shop fully intending to send roses to the twins, girls who had earlier taken us to the Easter dance.
We pushed open the glass door with the “Yes, we’re open” sign displayed prominently on the inside. As we did, a silver bell tinkled a cheery welcome, and a wave of intoxicating flower perfumes enveloped us.
“Well, how are the handsome Hansen brothers today?” Brother Palmer called out to us as he saw us enter. We closed the door, stepped into the cool interior, and basked in the fragrance.
Brother Palmer was wearing a white shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of green faded slacks that hung low on his ample hips and supported a stomach bulge that buried his belt buckle and most of his belt. A disarming smile cut across his round perspiring face, the corners of his eyes crinkled in happy welcome, and his bald head, laced with several thin strings of graying hair, shone brightly.
He had been watering and pampering two enormous ferns he kept hanging above the counter, but when he saw us, he set his watering can on the floor, wiped his hands on the front of his shirt, and ambled toward us with an outstretched hand.
Jared and I smiled a greeting. We liked Brother Palmer. He got a little preachy at times, but under all his paternal advice and cautions, he was a good man. He was also our home teacher and had been for as long as I could remember. Mom appreciated him too. In fact, he was the only exception to her strict rule of absolute self-reliance. She would allow him to assist us as long as he disguised his service and kindness enough for her to maintain her pride.
Though Mom was a widow, she was fiercely independent, never one to run to the bishop or the Relief Society for help, refusing anything remotely resembling a handout. Ever since Dad died, she had been supporting us single-handedly. She had worked her way through college, raising us at the same time, and after graduation had finally found a teaching job. She had been working at it ever since.
“We need some flowers,” I announced to Brother Palmer, glancing about his shop, intrigued by his jungle of ferns, flowers, and creepers, mesmerized by the yellows, blues and myriad shades of red that surrounded me. I loved coming to Brother Palmer’s shop because it was like stepping into a giant, magical terrarium.
“How’s your mother, Jarom?” he asked me, ignoring my request and tugging on his sagging pants.
I pushed my hands into my pockets and nodded. “All right, I guess. She manages to stay busy.”
“I suppose she would with two boys like you to look after.” He eyed us sternly. “You treating her all right?” Jared and I nodded. “No back talk? Not too much complaining?”
Our faces colored just a little. “Well, not much,” Jared mumbled.
We were used to Brother Palmer’s interrogations, and we knew he would never talk about our flowers until he had made his inquiries. And it made no difference to him that he had seen us only two days earlier at church and had asked us other questions then. He never let an opportunity pass without inquiring about our welfare.
“Has anyone plowed your garden?”
“Brother Parks is letting us borrow his tiller,” Jared explained. “Jarom and I should be able to take care of it.”
“I have a few extra seed potatoes and tomato plants. I’ll run them over to you tomorrow.”
I grinned. “You always just happen to have a few extra ones. Just enough to plant our garden. You’d think that after all these years you could estimate a little closer than you do.”
Brother Palmer raised an eyebrow. “I estimate all right.” He rubbed his double chin and said, “Tell your mom that my wife will pick her up for leadership meeting tomorrow night.”
“We’ll tell her. And by the way, we’re having our family prayer and home evening too,” Jared grinned knowingly. “Now, what about the flowers?”
Brother Palmer plucked a dried leaf from his pet fern and dropped it into the garbage can behind the counter. “I’m just doing my job.” He heaved a sigh. “One of these days I’m going to meet your dad, and the first thing he’s going to do, even before he so much as shakes my hand, is ask about your mother.” He stared out the front window into the street without really seeing anything out there. “I remember when he courted her. I was in the temple when they were married. Your dad loved your mom.” He slapped his hand on the counter. “Now, when I meet him, I want to be able to give him a good report.” Brother Palmer cleared his throat. “I hope you two have some good answers for him too.”
His eyes twinkled, and he stepped behind the counter. “Now, what did you have in mind? Something for Mother’s Day?”
“Mother’s Day?” I asked, glancing over at Jared. “Is it Mother’s Day?”
Brother Palmer forced a cough. “I’ll bet you don’t forget dinner very often,” he muttered. “And it looks like your clothes have seen a washing machine lately, no thanks to the two of you.”
“Mother’s Day isn’t this Sunday, is it?” Jared asked.
Brother Palmer nodded. “That gives you five days.”
“We’ll have to get Mom a card,” I said to Jared. “Let’s not forget.” I turned back to Brother Palmer. “We’re taking the twins out to dinner this Saturday. We want to take them flowers when we pick them up.”
“Very romantic,” he remarked dryly. He stared at us a moment without speaking. He took a handkerchief, wiped his brow and the top of his head, blew his nose loudly. “Card for your mother; flowers for the twins,” he mumbled.
“Huh?” I asked.
He shook his head slowly and stuffed his handkerchief in his back pocket. “Nothing. Just thinking with my mouth open. I have carnations and daisies,” he said gruffly. “If you want I can even gather up some dandelions.”
Jared and I laughed. “Actually we had something a little more impressive in mind. Do you have roses?”
“Not for the twins,” he said bluntly.
“Huh?” I grunted.
He grabbed a rag and began polishing the counter. “Nope, boys, I have flowers for all occasions, but you have to fit the flower to the occasion. Now for your special occasion,” he said with not a little sarcasm, “a bouquet of daisies or dandelions will do just fine.”
“Come on, Brother Palmer, we’re trying to give you a little good business,” I said, not sure whether he was joking with us.
“You’re forgetting,” he said, jabbing a finger at me, “that I’m your home teacher first, your florist second.”
“I don’t get it,” Jared said.
Brother Palmer shook his head and began to explain as though this were the one hundredth time he had gone over it with us. “You don’t give roses to just anyone. You spoil the effect if you do. Now, I don’t know the twins. Maybe they’re good girls, but I suspect that they’re too young for roses. Maybe in a few years they’ll be old and wise enough, but not yet. Have you ever given roses before?” We shook our heads, utterly confused. “Then don’t start on the twins.” He sighed. “You can send a million carnations to almost anyone. But be careful when you send roses.”
“Brother Palmer,” I moaned.
“What will it be,” he demanded, “daisies or dandelions?”
“Roses.”
He wagged his head. “Not for the twins.”
“Brother Palmer,” I protested.
He shook his head adamantly. “I do have a good deal on roses for Mother’s Day,” he added quickly. “I don’t sell Mother’s Day cards, though.”
“Mom doesn’t even like roses. She’s too practical,” I declared. “If you can eat it, wear it, or put it in the bank, she’ll like it, but roses are just for beauty’s sake. To Mom that would be a waste.”
“Yeah,” Jared agreed. He thought and then added, “She does like potted plants. She keeps some around the house, but roses would be a waste of money because you just throw them out after a few days.”
“I know,” I called out, “we’ll get a potted plant and some roses.”
“Who gets the roses?” Brother Palmer asked. “The twins. Mom likes potted plants.”
Brother Palmer shook his head. “I don’t sell that combination.”
“But we’re getting the plant for Mom.”
Brother Palmer eyed us, the disappointment obvious. “Why not roses for your mom, the plant for the twins?”
“It’s not the same,” I complained. “Roses are …” I groped for the word.
“You’re right,” Brother Palmer said quietly. “It’s not the same. There’s a message that comes with a rose. It doesn’t come with any other flower.” He looked at us. We avoided his eyes and stared at the floor. “Don’t send that message to anyone until you’ve first sent it to your mom. Otherwise you spoil the effect. Once you’ve sent roses to your mom, you’ll know when to send them to someone else.”
“But Brother Palmer,” I complained.
“I have a good deal on a dozen roses for Mother’s Day,” Brother Palmer said, straightening up with determination. “Long-stemmed roses.”
“A dozen roses!” I choked.
“Roses come in dozens. Otherwise that magical impression is lost.”
“But we were only getting each of the twins two.” “Well, if you overspent on your mother like you planned to overspend on the twins you’d have to buy her a hundred dozen roses, but since your mother is a practical woman, let’s settle for an even dozen.”
“We can’t afford a dozen.”
Brother Palmer held up both hands. “Calm down,” he soothed, “I’m going to give you a good deal and save you money too. You’ve already planned for four roses and a potted plant. We’ll trade in the potted plant for three more roses. You can take the twins down to the Dairy Queen for an ice cream cone, and with the money you save on dinner you can easily buy the other five roses.”
“But Mom’s not the type,” I tried to explain. “Roses are you know—romantic. They dazzle.”
“Then dazzle your mom,” he said with quiet seriousness. “Don’t you think your mom would like that?”
We laughed. “You don’t know Mom.”
“No, you don’t know her,” Brother Palmer said warmly. “You think because she’s worked her fingers raw and grown gray that all she cares about is washing dishes, cleaning house, and putting food on the table for you. Well, I’ve got news for you. She doesn’t do a lot of things now, but not because she wouldn’t like to. Now she won’t tell you that, and it’s too bad I have to, but it’s better that I tell you than that than that you never learn. You don’t think anything of sending roses to the twins, and what have they done for you? Took you to a dance, smiled at you in the halls, tickled your vanity. And you were going to send roses to say thanks for that? Daisies or carnations perhaps. Roses never. Oh, the ignorance of youth.”
“Roses for Mom?” I asked incredulously.
“I’d sure hate to be in your shoes when you meet your dad,” Brother Palmer remarked. “You’ll have a hard time convincing him your mother didn’t like roses.”
I stared over at Jared, and he glanced my way. There was an annoying twitch in the pit of my stomach, the nagging by-product of a guilty conscience. Brother Palmer was right, and yet I surely had my mind set on dinner with the twins. There was no way we could do both.
Brother Palmer watched us fidget and fret. Finally he said, “Of course, you could always run down to Timmerman’s Floral. I hear he sells roses to anybody for about any reason. But then, he probably won’t ever meet your dad either.”
Glaring at the ground, I dug into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jared doing the same. “All right,” I mumbled, “a dozen roses.”
“It’s for Mother’s Day, not your funeral,” Brother Palmer remarked. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“Brother Palmer,” I cried out completely exasperated, “you just talked us into it. Are you going to try to change our minds now?”
He placed his elbows on the counter and held his head in his hands. “Don’t do it for me. Do it for your mother.”
Reluctantly we counted out our money. All I could think about was the dinner I would never have with the twins. I slid the money toward Brother Palmer, who ignored it completely.
“The roses will be ready Saturday afternoon,” he said as we turned and dragged our feet toward the door. We pulled the door open and the tiny silver bell tinkled softly. “Boys,” he called to us, “I’ll wager that in ten years you won’t even remember the twins’ names. If you can, come back and get a full refund. That’s a Palmer guarantee.”
The roses were forgotten until late Saturday. Most of Saturday we spent at the district track meet, trying to qualify for the state meet the following week. Unfortunately, neither of us quite made it. All we accomplished by going was pulling a hamstring, twisting an ankle, and acquiring a stinging sunburn. As soon as we stepped off the bus at the high school, all we wanted to do was go home, take a long bath, and drop into bed for about 48 hours. We forgot all about the roses until we passed Brother Palmer’s shop on our way home.
It was several minutes past closing time, but the place was still open, and Brother Palmer was waiting for us behind the counter next to our pile of money and a long white box, neatly wrapped with a giant red bow and ribbon.
Guiltily we shuffled in with our sweats tucked under our arms and presented ourselves before Brother Palmer. He eyed us for a moment, and then a faint smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and he said sheepishly, “I twisted your arms pretty hard the other day. I apologize. If you’ve changed your mind, you can take the money. Or the roses. Or both.”
We shook our heads and reached for the box. “You can take the money too, if you’d like,” he said, pushing it toward us.
I grinned tiredly. “And what do we tell Dad?”
Brother Palmer chuckled and nodded. “You better tell him you took the roses.”
I opened the door. “Boys,” he called out, “you have a good mom. Some day you’ll find good wives. But you’ll have to look pretty hard and be pretty picky before you’ll find one as good as your mom. The next time you order a dozen roses, you’ll begin to understand what I mean. You’ll be glad you gave your first dozen to your mom.”
When we finally arrived home, stumbled stiffly up the front steps and pushed open the front door, the smell of stew and baking biscuits greeted us. It wasn’t until then that I realized I was just as hungry as I was tired. But I didn’t notice that the carpet was vacuumed, that the furniture was dusted and polished, and that I had freshly pressed shirts in my closet. Nor did I take note of the warm, loving security permeating the homey atmosphere.
“Is that you, boys?” Mom called from the kitchen. “I’m running a little late. Supper will be ready in a few minutes. Why don’t you wash up and come in and tell me how things went at the meet. I’ll bet you’re exhausted.”
We tiptoed into the kitchen. Mom was hovering over the stew on the stove. “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom,” we called out. She turned around, her face flushed and her hands wet. I held out the roses and pressed them into her arms. She stared down at the box, too surprised to respond. I laughed and wrapped her arms around the box. “It’s all right,” I grinned. “It’s not a trick. They’re real, and they’re for you.”
“We didn’t qualify for the state meet,” Jared remarked, “but we did remember Mother’s Day—with a little help.”
Mom looked shocked, almost scared. Jared pulled out a kitchen chair and gently pushed her toward it and helped her sit down. With her eyes wide with anticipation and her hands trembling, she fumbled with the bow and finally pulled the lid off the box. A rich rose fragrance filled the room. Hesitantly, she pulled back the stiff, crackling green floral paper and gazed inside.
For a long time. she just stared, unable to touch or smell the roses. She didn’t even move. Then a tear glittered in the corner of her eye, soon crowded by another and another until a gentle flow of tears washed down her cheeks.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get another rose,” she whispered, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “They’re beautiful. Just beautiful.”
Setting the box on the table, she stood and went to her bedroom. She returned a moment later, choking back her tears and holding out a plain, white vase. It was one she had always kept on her dresser, always empty. More than once I had wondered why she had kept an empty vase there. It was not pretty. There was nothing unique in its features or design.
“Your dad gave me this when he sent me my first dozen roses, the night he proposed to me. Every year on our anniversary he would give me roses for my vase. Never a dozen, but always some roses.” She swallowed. “Now I’ve received a dozen roses twice.”
A smile of expectancy touched Mom’s lips and lighted up her face. Suddenly she was like a school girl, receiving her first bouquet. Carefully she took the roses from the box, one at a time, and arranged them with tender perfection in the white vase.
That night the stew and biscuits burned. Mom was embarrassed because that was something she rarely did, but Jared and I smelled the roses and ate the stew and biscuits anyway, without comment or complaint.
Five years later, looking down at the dried and faded roses, I was filled with poignant warmth. The roses brought so many things to my remembrance. Of course, I remembered Brother Palmer, and I was grateful for his far-from-subtle prodding. But mainly I remembered Mom. I remembered the clean sheets, the pressed shirts, the thousand meals, the clean home, and the baked chocolate chip cookies. I remembered the late nights when she had waited up for me and listened to me. I remembered the pride in her eyes at each of my ordinations. I remembered her face aglow with quiet excitement at my seminary and high school graduations. I remembered the second job she took, cleaning the seminary building evenings, so that I could go on my mission. I remembered the weekly letter I had received from her every Wednesday of my mission, and I wished then that I had sent a hundred dozen roses.
I smiled, realizing that I no longer remembered the twins’ names. But, oh, how well I remembered Mom!

Romans 8:16 says, “The Spirit itself beareth witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God.” The first time I remember feeling with all certainty that Heavenly Father knew me, loved me, and cared for me was when I entered the waters of baptism at age 15. Before then, I knew God existed and Jesus Christ was the Savior of the world. I believed in Them and loved Them, but I had never felt Their love and care for me, individually, until that day as I rejoiced in my opportunity to make baptismal covenants.
I realized what a great miracle it had been to have been found and taught by the missionaries, especially with only a handful of missionaries amongst two million people! I knew then that Heavenly Father knew me and loved me in such a special way that He guided the missionaries to my home.

Teresa was blessed to have a relationship with a fine returned missionary who promised marriage. These two loved each other in all the right ways. They planned to go to the temple. They qualified for this and they were anxious, but there was a snag in their plans. Teresa’s father hadn’t been active in the Church, so he didn’t have a temple recommend. She loved her father, the way girls do, and wanted him there when she was married. Through her love and encouragement, her tireless, tender conversations and prayers with him, her father finally came around.
I happened to be seated next to him at Teresa’s wedding in the temple. When the ceremony was over, Teresa turned at once to put her arms around her father, and with tears streaming, she whispered in his ear, “Oh, daddy, my daddy, my beloved first sweetheart. Thank you! Thank you!”
And her father, emotionally touched, replied, “Oh thank you, little girl. Thank you!”
Teresa was a voice of love!