Gospel Story Finder

“Of course, Maman (Mama)!” Louis said. “First I will take the socks you knitted to Monsieur Dubois, then I will meet my friends.” Louis looked at the clock. He still had plenty of time. The puppet show did not start for another hour.
“Here!” His mother handed Louis a small, brightly wrapped package. “And remember to wish Monsieur Dubois Joyeux Noël (Merry Christmas) and invite him again to have Christmas dinner with us.”
“He will not come, Maman. He will just smile and say that Christmas is a time for families as he does every year.”
“Too bad! Nothing is as sad as being old and alone at Christmastime. I do wish we could make him understand that our Christmas would be happier if we could share it with him.” Louis nodded politely, though he did not think that he would be any happier if Monsieur Dubois came for dinner. Christmas was perfect for Louis, just as it was.
“Hurry home as soon as the show is over, Louis. Grandpère (Grandfather) will be arriving soon.”
Louis smiled excitedly. “Do you think that Grandpère has finished my music box?”
“Perhaps,” his mother answered, “but do not ask him. He is always busy, and making a music box takes a long time.”
Louis was very proud of his grandfather, a fine craftsman who owned a shop in the city, where he repaired watches and clocks. In his spare time he had been making a music box for Louis, one that would play “La Marseillaise” (French national anthem).
Louis hurried to meet his friends. He decided to take the gift to Monsieur Dubois after the puppet show. He hastily stuffed the package into his pocket. His mother would not mind when he explained what he had done.
When the show was over, the children did not stop to visit with each other as they usually did. Christmas Eve was a special time, and they were all eager to get home. Outside, Louis talked for just a moment with the other boys. Then he remembered Monsieur Dubois and felt in his pocket. His eyes widened in distress. “The gift for Monsieur Dubois is gone!” he cried.
One after another Louis turned his pockets inside out. Followed by his friends, he ran back inside the hall where the puppet show had been. They searched the cloakroom, then the hall, looking up and down the aisles and beneath the seats. The package was not there.
“Maman will be angry and disappointed in me!” Louis said. “Even if I don’t tell her, I’m sure she will find out,” Louis said sadly.
When Louis got home, Grandpère had just arrived from the city, and Maman was smiling and hurrying about. Louis’s heart rose. He was lucky; he had only to remain silent. Maman was much too busy now to ask him about Monsieur Dubois.
His grandfather placed a hand on Louis’s shoulder. “Ah, how you have grown, mon petit (my little one)!” His dark eyes twinkled. “I have a surprise for you.”
“The music box!” Louis cried.
“Close your eyes,” Grandpère said.
Louis obeyed, smiling.
“Now!” Grandpère cried.
“La Marseillaise” tinkled and chimed from a small, beautifully carved music box, and—wonder of wonders—two tiny soldiers moved in a slow circle on top of the box.
Louis clapped his hands. “It’s wonderful, Grandpère! I have never had so fine a gift. No one in the world has so kind a grandpère as I.”
Grandpère’s eyes were bright. “And without you, my grandson, and your mother and father, I would be a lonely old man.”
Louis swallowed uncomfortably, for suddenly he saw the face of Monsieur Dubois, who had no one. All that evening, try as he might, he could not get the thought of the lonely old man out of his mind—not even when he placed his shoes before the fireplace so that Père Noël (Father Christmas) [Santa Claus] could put a gift or two in them. And when Louis awakened before daylight on Christmas morning, his first thoughts were of Monsieur Dubois. His heart was heavy. Even the music box on the table beside his bed did not help.
Suddenly Louis knew what he must do. He must take Monsieur Dubois a gift, a very fine gift, so that the old man would know that he was not forgotten at Christmas. He must go at once and be back before his parents and grandfather awakened.
As he dressed, Louis forced back a feeling of sadness. The music box was the only gift that he had that was fine enough for Monsieur Dubois.
It was still dark outside, and Louis had to ring several times before Monsieur Dubois opened the door.
“Joyeux Noël, Louis!” Monsieur Dubois greeted him. “Come in! Come in! You are early this morning.”
“Joyeux Noël, Monsieur.” Louis smiled. “I—I was supposed to bring your gift yesterday, but I have brought it for you today, instead.”
Louis wound the music box and placed it on the table. He stood back, listening to the tinkling music and watching the proud little soldiers. “Is it not beautiful!”
“Yes, Louis, very beautiful.” Monsieur Dubois’s eyes were thoughtful. “Now tell me, Louis, why did you bring me one of your gifts?”
Louis hung his head.
“Come, Louis. Tell me,” Monsieur Dubois insisted, smiling kindly.
Before he realized it, Louis told the whole story. “I—I’m sorry, Monsieur,” he finished. “I hoped that the music box was a fine enough gift to make up for my carelessness.”
“It is the finest gift that I have ever received, Louis,” Monsieur Dubois said softly. “But I want you to keep it for me. Each Christmas bring it here, and we will play it together.”
Louis’s face cleared. “You are not angry, Monsieur?”
“No, Louis. I am not angry.”
“And you will have Christmas dinner with us? Please, Monsieur!” Louis pleaded. “Our Christmas will be happier if we can share it with you,” Louis said, repeating his mother’s words. And, strangely, they were no longer just words. Now he understood them. Monsieur Dubois seemed to understand, too, for his face brightened like a Christmas candle.
“Wait for me, Louis,” he cried. “I will put on my finest suit.” Then Monsieur Dubois laughed. “Today, Louis, you and I have both learned something important. We have learned the real meaning of Christmas.”

I am an eyewitness of that truth. Over a lifetime, my wife has spoken for the Lord and served people for Him. As I’ve mentioned before, one of our bishops once said to me: “I’m amazed. Every time I hear of a person in the ward who is in trouble, I hurry to help. Yet by the time I arrive, it seems that your wife has always already been there.” That has been true in all the places we have lived for 56 years.

Now she can speak only a few words a day. She is visited by people she loved for the Lord. Every night and morning I sing hymns with her and we pray. I have to be voice in the prayers and in the songs. Sometimes I can see her mouthing the words of the hymns. She prefers children’s songs. The sentiment she seems to like best is summarized in the song “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.”11

The other day, after singing the words of the chorus: “Love one another as Jesus loves you. Try to show kindness in all that you do,” she said softly, but clearly, “Try, try, try.” I think that she will find, when she sees Him, that our Savior has put His name into her heart and that she has become like Him. He is carrying her through her troubles now, as He will carry you through yours.

Brigham Young is called to serve as the Lord’s shepherd in leading His sheep across the plains. Brigham organizes, encourages, chastises, and guides the thousands of outcasts and secures them finally in the valley of the Great Salt Lake.
President Young, the pillowed, portly gent with flashing blue eyes, played by Jim Eastham, fell one night during the performance and hurt his foot. But he got right up and finished the part. “It’s not that bad,” he said as he went to the first-aid station backstage to get it wrapped. The next day he had it X-rayed and found it was broken, but he was on stage that night giving Brigham-counsel and Brigham-organization to the trek west.

I visited the hospital room of an old friend who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. I took with me my two young daughters. I did not expect that she would even be able to recognize them. Her own family were gathered, standing around her bed as we entered.
She looked up and smiled. I will always remember her look as she saw that we had brought our daughters with us. She motioned them to come close to her on the bed. She sat up, held them, and introduced them to her family. She spoke of the greatness of those two little girls. It was as if she were presenting princesses to a royal court.
I expected our visit to end quickly. Surely, I thought, she is tired. But as I watched, it was as if the years melted away. She was radiant and obviously filled with love for all of us.
She seemed to savor the moment as if time had stopped. She had spent most of her life succoring children for the Lord. She knew from the account in the Book of Mormon that the resurrected Savior had taken little children one by one, blessed them, and then wept for joy.4 She had experienced that joy long enough herself to be able to endure in His loving service to the end.

It was Wednesday night—and it was snowing, a rare occurrence in our mid-Texas town. I stood at the door to the church, watching as snowflakes tumbled to the ground, changing the asphalt outside into a field of white. The youth in our ward were in high spirits as they streamed in for Mutual. Their laughter bounced along the hallways and reminded me of music.
Tonight I didn’t follow them into opening exercises. The draw of the snowstorm was too strong, and I remained at the window. I smiled as I remembered the snowball fights and igloo-building contests of my girlhood in Salt Lake. Back then, snow wasn’t cold; it was pure fun.
I was lost in these thoughts when Jack, a priest, tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Sister Shaw, we’re ready to begin.”
I nodded. “Coming,” I said as I turned to take one last look at the snow.
That’s when I caught sight of Deirdre. She cut through the shrubbery that lined the church property and ran across the parking lot towards the building. Her brown hair, wet from the snow, flapped stiffly behind her. As she approached the lighted church, I saw that her hands were pulled deep inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt. She reached for the door, but the handle slipped from her grasp. I leaned forward and pushed the door open for her. Her breath came out in a wild fog before my eyes as she scampered inside.
She looked around, her teeth chattering uncontrollably.
“Deirdre?” I asked.
She looked at me like I was a complete stranger. And I might as well have been. Although I had been her Primary teacher six years ago when she was baptized, I hadn’t seen her since that time. No wonder she didn’t remember me.
But I remembered her. What an exciting year that had been for Deirdre! Not only was she baptized, but her mother had remarried. They moved into a beautiful home just outside the city. Her stepfather was soon called to a position of leadership, and her mother served as a Sunbeam teacher.
Then things began changing. Deirdre, usually talkative in class, seemed to withdraw from her peers. Next, her family stopped attending church, but no one knew why. Back then, I reasoned that this newly formed family was having some adjustment problems that, in time, would straighten themselves out.
I was wrong.
Several months ago, our Young Women presidency attempted to visit Deirdre at home, but like every home and visiting teacher before us, we were politely refused at the door by her parents. Needless to say, I was astonished to see Deirdre at Mutual.
“I’m Sister Shaw,” I said, smiling at her. I taught you in Primary a long time ago. I’m the Young Women president now.”
She looked at me blankly as chills shook her body. She was a petite girl, barely five feet tall.
“Come with me,” I said, putting my arm around her tiny shoulders. “I’ll introduce you to everyone. Do you remember Stephanie? You two were little chatterboxes in my class! She’s the Mia Maid class president.”
Deirdre nodded as we walked into opening exercises together. But before I could make any introductions, Stephanie rushed toward us. “Deirdre!” she called enthusiastically.
“Stephanie?”
The two girls hugged, then Stephanie introduced her to everyone. Although Deirdre appeared shy at first, she warmed up to the others quickly and was soon drinking hot chocolate in the kitchen with them.
As Mutual ended, I handed Deirdre a Personal Progress book and asked her to look it over. “Next week we’ll set some goals for you. Will you be here?”
“Of course she will,” Stephanie chimed in. “Now that I’ve found her, I won’t let her go!”
Deirdre’s face shone as the two girls left the building, their feet making tracks in the new snow. I watched Stephanie open the door of her mother’s van for Deirdre. I felt certain we’d be seeing more of her.
But Deirdre didn’t come the next Wednesday. Stephanie said she and her mother had stopped at her house to pick her up, but no one had come to the door. I asked if Stephanie was certain Deirdre had planned to come.
“Yes. We talked on the phone, and both times she said she wanted to come to Mutual.”
“I wonder what happened.”
“I don’t know, Sister Shaw,” Stephanie remarked, “but I don’t think her stepfather wanted her to come. The second time we talked, he picked up the other line and demanded to know who I was and how I knew his daughter. When I told him, he got real quiet, and then got off the line. A few moments later Deirdre said she had to hang up. And she did. I mean, she hung up on me.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
I tried paying a visit to Deirdre’s home that week. Although I could hear people inside, no one answered the door. I called several times during the week, but the phone rang and rang, like a timer with no one free to answer it.
We saw Deirdre sporadically over the next few months. It seemed that each time she did come to Mutual, she was reluctant to go home. She’d linger at the drinking fountain or in the cultural hall. Deirdre was always the last one out of the building.
Eventually Deirdre began spending weekends at Stephanie’s and attending sacrament meeting. I wondered what Deirdre’s family would think if they could see the tears that silently slipped from her eyes each time the sacrament was passed.
Finally, I arranged to speak privately with Stephanie concerning Deirdre. The next Wednesday that Deirdre didn’t attend Mutual, we met alone in a classroom. I said, “I’m worried about Deirdre.”
Stephanie nodded. “You’re not alone.”
I smiled. “Lots of people care very much about her—but she doesn’t seem happy.”
“She’s not.”
“Do you know why? I want so much to help her, but she doesn’t open up with me. Is there a problem at home?”
Stephanie shrugged. “Sometimes I think she’s afraid of her stepfather.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, she and her mother try to keep him from knowing some of the things she does. He doesn’t know she’s with me as much as she is. Or that she comes to church. I think they’re afraid he’ll stop her from coming.”
“That must be awful for her.”
“Yeah,” Stephanie continued thoughtfully, “but she never really tells me what she feels about it. In fact, she never really talks to me about anything personal—just shopping and movies and stuff like that.” Stephanie sighed and looked at the floor. “Sometimes Deirdre seems so closed up, like a locked room—and I don’t know how to get inside to see who she is.” She paused, looking up at me. “Does that make sense?”
I nodded. My heart ached. I knew exactly what Stephanie meant. Every time Deirdre came to Mutual, she and I sat together to discuss her Personal Progress. Our conversations were always superficial. Even though I’d open my heart to her, she never expressed any deep feelings or thoughts to me, either.
Stephanie tucked her feet beneath her chair, “Sometimes I don’t think being Deirdre’s friend is enough.”
I nodded. “That may be true,” I said, “but friendship is all any of us has to offer her right now. At least until Deirdre offers us something in return—her trust.”
One night in April, I was called home from Mutual early because my two-year-old was having an asthma attack. My child recovered after receiving medical treatment, but, as I prayed at my bedside that night, I felt impressed to return to Mutual. Looking at the clock, I realized that Mutual would be well over by now. I ignored the feeling and got into bed. About three minutes later, I remembered that I had left my purse on a chair as I hurried away. I decided I better follow the prompting and retrieve my purse. Explaining to my husband, I dressed and headed out.
After unlocking the church door and letting myself in, I was able to quickly find my purse. As I turned to leave, I noticed that the light in the chapel was on. I pushed open the double doors and reached for the light switch.
A chill crept up my back when I heard the distinct sound of heavy breathing inside the chapel, yet I could see no one.
My voice trembling, I called, “Is someone here?”
No answer. Repeating myself, I walked forward, my eyes scanning each pew. The breathing became louder as I moved toward the front. “Who’s here?” I repeated.
A slight movement made me whirl to my right.
And there she was. Deirdre. Sound asleep on the fourth pew, center aisle, on her side, her left arm under her head, her right strewn across her ears. I let out a long sigh of relief.
“Deirdre,” I said softly, moving toward her. My mind was reeling with questions. Why was she sleeping here? Was she all right? Did her parents know where she was? Why hadn’t she gone home?
“Deirdre, wake—” and then I stopped and stared at her arm where her sleeve had pulled high, revealing a series of deep purple marks—bruises. I looked closer. Some of the welts looked like they had been made by someone’s fingers. Others were too large for that. My heart fell.
I sat beside Deirdre and gently called her name as I took her hand.
Like a snapped rubber band, Deirdre jerked away from me, automatically curling into a protective ball, her back to me.
“Deirdre,” I said softly, “it’s me. Sister Shaw.”
Turning, she muttered sheepishly, “How embarrassing.”
I reached for her again, this time pulling her closer. With one arm around her shoulder and the other holding her hand, I hugged her. Tears filled my eyes, and I looked from her wounds up to the brass pipes of the organ. In a voice barely above a whisper, I asked, “Are you being hurt at home?”
I felt a singular nod against my shoulder. I wanted to tell her everything would be all right, but I couldn’t. Instead, I told her I loved her. Stephanie loved her. Heavenly Father loved her.
“Deirdre,” I said, “we will help you. We can get you help. I’m going to call the bishop right now.”
Deirdre surprised me by pulling back. “No,” she said emphatically through her tears.
“But he knows better than I do what—”
“No,” she repeated, wiping her eyes. “I don’t need to talk to the bishop.”
“But—” I stopped when she whirled and pounded her fist against the pew.
“No!” she shouted. “I don’t have anything to talk to the bishop about! It’s not my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong. He makes me—” Her voice shriveled up, but she didn’t have to say another word. Suddenly I understood that the wounds this young woman had suffered were much deeper than the bruises on her arms.
The air in the chapel stilled as I asked, “Your stepfather?”
She groaned as her head nodded. “But it’s not my fault …”
Again I hugged her and we wept together. “No,” I murmured, “it’s not your fault. You did nothing wrong.” Never in my life had I spoken truer words.
Ten years have passed since I made that telephone call to the bishop, with Deirdre’s permission. He met us in his office within 30 minutes. Although I cannot say Deirdre’s pain ended that night, I can say that her healing began. I know she has shed many tears over the years, but each tear that has fallen from her eyes has chipped away at the ache and anger in her soul.
Today, I am once again watching as Deirdre’s eyes fill with tears. But my arms are not the arms which will hold her today. It is not my hands which clasp hers as she kneels across the altar, dressed in a gown of sparkling white, with a young man who is promising before God in His most holy house to cherish her in the way heaven intended, as a wonderful, worthy daughter of God.

Spiritual unity can be a crucial ingredient in building solid family faith, says Piero Sonaglia of the Rome Italy Stake. “Being united in purpose can be a source of strength for all families,” but it is especially a blessing when that purpose is to “move together toward Jesus Christ.” This is his family’s most important goal.
Piero didn’t always have such priorities. At age 15 he left the Church and didn’t look back until becoming a father and dealing with his own father’s near-fatal heart attack. These incidents sparked memories of gospel teachings he had learned as a child. “I knew very clearly that I had to repent and put my life in order,” he says. He also knew that “such an important and drastic change” would affect his family. His parents had divorced, partly because of religious differences, and he wanted his own family to be united.
Piero’s wife, Carla, grew up practicing a different religion from his and had attended church each Sunday as a child. “But I would come home feeling more confused,” she says. For her, religion had been a matter of tradition rather than something to shape her life. Carla hungered for something more. She says, “I felt a strong desire to pray to Heavenly Father on my own, using my own words” instead of written prayers. Her heartfelt, prayerful relationship with the Lord prepared her to embrace the restored gospel when Piero returned to activity.
As parents now united in faith, Piero and Carla try to prepare their sons, Ilario and Mattia, against temptation—starting now, while they are young. “We read scriptures every night and have family home evening,” Carla says. “Our sons are happy to participate. We go to church. We pray together. We go to the temple.” Regular temple attendance for Piero and Carla is not a small feat when the nearest temples are in Switzerland and Spain.
“We try to recognize every moment as an opportunity to teach,” Piero adds. “At this stage in their lives, our young sons are especially learning to obey their parents.” Piero hopes this will help them learn to obey Heavenly Father, arming them with the strength and testimony necessary to remain faithful throughout their teenage years and beyond. He knows—and wants his children to know—that lasting happiness is found only in obedience to God.

“It’s my turn to play with the ball!” Seth said. “Your turn is up.”
“No, it’s not!” Adam hugged the ball. Tears filled his eyes. “You always get to play with it longer than I do!”
The ball was from Aunt Jill. It bounced very high. It lit up when it hit the floor. It was their favorite toy from Christmas.
It was hard for Seth to share. It was hard for Adam to share.
Seth frowned. It felt like he was all scrunched up inside. He didn’t like the way he felt.
Then Seth thought about something. His Primary teacher said making good choices can help us feel good inside. She said making a bad choice can make us feel bad inside.
Am I making a bad choice? Seth wondered.
Maybe fighting with his brother wasn’t a good choice. But how could he be kind to Adam and still get to play with his favorite ball?
Seth had an idea. His angry face turned into a happy face.
“Hey, why don’t we play with it together?” Seth asked. “We can bounce it to each other.”
Question for You
How can you be kind when you are playing?
“OK,” Adam said. “That sounds fun!”
Adam bounced the ball to Seth. Seth laughed and bounced it back.
Lights flashed across the floor. Seth felt lighter inside too.

My father sat next to me in the cramped cab as I pulled a plow behind the tractor to create furrows that would guide the water evenly through the field. Corrugating takes a long time, and the lines have to be perfectly straight. Craning my neck to see out the back window, I could already see my line was curving.
I didn’t know what to do. If I corrected, the field would have a series of S lines. If I let the curve continue, it would slowly become more pronounced. The water would never make it across the field, and much of the crop would quickly wither and die.
Pointing my tractor at the correct angle, my father told me to line up two shapes on the horizon with the tractor’s hood. He told me to make sure the three points overlapped from my point of view. As long as I kept those three points lined up, the tractor moved in a straight line.
After three hot days in the field, I gazed out over my finished work. Rows of straight lines met my eyes. When the field was completely corrugated and sown, the water flowed evenly across it. The alfalfa seeds would grow tall, strong, and green.
Just like I needed to align three points to create straight lines, we need to align ourselves with those things that are right. As we do so, we will point ourselves in the direction of the Savior, and we will have access to living water.
Heather W., Utah, USA

Not long after being called as a stake patriarch, one of us gave a 93-year-old sister her patriarchal blessing. The words pronounced in that blessing were a heaven-sent message of approval for a life well lived in valiant service to the Lord. More than reassurance, she was given additional counsel and direction for her life both here and hereafter. She was also told that the long-awaited reunion with her beloved eternal companion who had passed away years ago was not far off. Both she and the immediate family members present wept and embraced and celebrated her willingness to seek this revelation from the Lord.

Shortly thereafter, this stalwart sister passed through the veil.

I treasure the memory of that day when I began more fully to understand the power of a patriarchal blessing in whatever season of life it might be received.

One morning a good many years ago, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve came to my office and told me of a beautiful, touching experience that had happened to him that day. He had gone to the old Deseret Gym to enjoy the steam bath. As he sat there in the heavy steam, he heard the door open. He looked up to see who was entering. He couldn’t see anyone, but he had a feeling that someone else was there in the room with him. After a few minutes, he saw a young Primary-age boy seated two or three feet away. The boy gradually slid closer to the Apostle, and they finally said hello to each other. Then the boy moved even closer until he could look up into the face of the Church leader. The boy said, “Mister, I think that I know who you are.” The Apostle said, “Who am I?” The boy said, “I think that you’re one of the Apostles of the Church. I think you’re the one who travels all over the ocean on big boats and little boats and all kinds of airplanes—and you’re the one who never gets sick or hurt in any wrecks.”
The Apostle acknowledged that he was the one who was having those great experiences. The boy then said to him, “Do you know why it is that you don’t ever get killed or get hurt?” The Apostle said, “No, why is that?” The boy said, “Because I pray for you.”
What a lovely and simple expression of faith! There is far more power in simple prayer than many of us think possible. I am convinced that the Lord hears the prayers of all people. Nothing is more wonderful than for parents to gather their children around them to enjoy the special, tender moments of communing with our Heavenly Father in family prayer. May the Lord bless us and help us to serve Him with simple prayer so that we may enjoy the strength, power, and beauty that come from living the gospel.

Charlotte and her sisters were huddled around the dining room table with paper and pen, each absorbed in a world of her own. Although the wind and snow were blowing through the moors outside, the girls were comfortable sitting by the fireplace in their long woolen dresses.
Born in the early 1800s, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë grew up in a bleak parsonage on the Yorkshire moors of England. After their mother’s death when they were small children, Aunt Branwell, kind but proper, came to look after the family. Their father was good and loving but kept very much to his study.
Once a friend named Ellen Nussey, whom Charlotte had known at school, came to visit for a few days. After walking through the moors with Charlotte and realizing how isolated her friend’s parish home was, Ellen asked, “What do you do with yourself around here?”
“Oh, we’ve plenty to keep us busy,” Charlotte answered. “We teach Sunday School and visit the sick to help father. During the day we help Tabby, our cook, with the food preparation and Aunt Branwell with the housework. The best part of each day is spent by ourselves in our own special part of the moors. In the evenings we … well, we write stories.”
“How exciting!” Ellen replied. “What kind of stories do you write?”
“One night a long time ago we were sitting by the fireplace waiting for it to get dark,” Charlotte said. “Aunt Branwell never let us waste candles until it was dark enough to really need them, so we began to tell stories. We made up some countries along with our favorite heroes, and we’ve been writing little stories about them ever since.”
So began the love of writing by three young sisters who were to be found each evening sitting in front of a candle with pens in hand.
Charlotte found it necessary to bend very low over her paper because of her nearsightedness, and the scarcity of paper didn’t help. The girls had to train themselves to write so small that even a tiny piece of paper might contain a complete story or a lengthy poem.
One night Anne and Emily were writing on a flyleaf that had been carefully torn from a book. Charlotte was finishing a tiny book she had made by sewing small bits of old paper together. She had already completed several little books like this that she kept locked in a writing desk—a small rosewood box.
For many years the girls were too shy about their writing to share it even with each other. It took a small accident by Charlotte to get them to share their work and their dreams of someday having their work published.
Charlotte was moving Emily’s notebook one day to set the table. She had done this many times in the past and had never neglected Emily’s privacy by reading her work. This day, however, the notebook fell open accidently to some poems, and before Charlotte could close it her eyes caught a few lines.
Having studied the best poets at her boarding schools, Charlotte was capable of recognizing good poetry when she saw it. Emily’s poems were good, very good, and Charlotte couldn’t put the notebook down. She knew her sister’s work must be published.
“Charlotte! How dare you!” Emily cried as she came into the dining room.
“It was an accident, Emily; really it was.” Charlotte realized what her sister must think. “Your poems are so good, though, I couldn’t quit reading them.”
Emily’s anger lasted for three days during which she didn’t speak to Charlotte. After all was forgiven, the door was open for the sisters to discuss their work with each other and make plans to try to publish it.
There was something more than their love of writing that made the sisters want to publish their work. It was a fear of having to go out in the world to make a living. It had been hard enough on them to leave home for some schooling, but it was unbearable to stay away after that.
Each served as a governess to wealthy families for a short time, but they could not stand the cold indifference shown them. They longed for the warmth and love of their own home and family. At different times each one of them gave a quick notice to either school or employer and returned to the family.
They finally decided to each contribute some poems into a collection to be sent to an editor. The poems were accepted for publication, but the girls had to pay the printing expense. Only two copies were bought at that time, but these same two copies would be worth a fortune today.
Before the poems were sent off, the girls had a decision to make—what names to attach to their work. Women’s writing was not regarded highly then, so they desired to choose names that were neither feminine nor masculine. Each chose a name using her first initial. Anne chose Acton, Emily, Ellis; and Charlotte, Currer. They wanted the last name to begin with B and finally decided upon Bell.
While they were waiting for the poems to be published, they began a new, larger project. Each was at work on a novel. Emily chose to write about some old ruins that could be seen on a hilltop near their home. She had been entranced by the place for several years as she had watched the wind wuther (blow) through the moors up to the old ruins. She planned to call her book Wuthering Heights.
Both Anne and Charlotte expressed some of their unhappy experiences and feelings when serving as young governesses to wealthy families. Through Agnes Grey Anne told of the selfishness and bad tempers shown her by the “respectable” people for whom she had worked. Charlotte wanted to write about a poor, plain girl like herself, and after much thought she chose the name of Jane Eyre for her heroine.
Anne’s book had very little success at the time it was published, but she ignored that and immediately began another. Emily’s book received more attention, but not all of it was favorable. Jane Eyre, however, was soon being read by people all over the world. In time all the books written by the Brontë sisters became classics in English literature.

Our missionaries serving throughout the world are beautiful examples of those who are truly ambitious for Christ. A few years ago, Sister Yamashita and I served in the Japan Nagoya Mission. Our missionaries were so ambitious for Christ. One of those missionaries was a young man named Elder Cowan.

Elder Cowan did not have a right leg because of a bicycle accident as a youth. A few weeks after he entered the mission, I received a phone call from his companion. Elder Cowan’s prosthetic leg had broken while he was riding his bike. We took him to a good repair facility, and there in a private room, I saw his leg for the first time. I realized how much pain he had been suffering. His prosthetic leg was repaired, and he returned to his area.

However, as the weeks went by, the prosthesis continued to break again and again. The area medical adviser recommended that Elder Cowan return home for a possible mission reassignment. I resisted this advice because Elder Cowan was a great missionary and he had a strong desire to remain in Japan. Gradually, though, Elder Cowan began to approach his physical limit. In spite of this, he did not murmur or complain.

Again, I was advised that Elder Cowan be allowed to serve in a place that did not require him to ride a bike. I pondered this situation. I thought about Elder Cowan and his future, and I prayed about the matter. I felt impressed that, yes, Elder Cowan should return home and await reassignment. I phoned him and expressed my love and concern and told him of my decision. He did not say anything in reply. I could only hear him weeping on the other end of the phone. I said, “Elder Cowan, you don’t have to answer me right now. I will call you tomorrow. Please consider my recommendation with sincere prayer.”

When I called him the next morning, he humbly said he would follow my counsel.

During my final interview with him, I asked him this question: “Elder Cowan, did you request on your missionary application to be sent to a mission where you would not have to ride a bike?”

He said, “Yes, President, I did.”

I responded, “Elder Cowan, you were called to the Japan Nagoya Mission, where you would have to ride a bike. Did you tell this to your stake president?”

I was surprised by his answer. He said, “No, I didn’t. I determined that if that is where the Lord called me, I would go to the gym and train my body to be able to ride a bike.”

At the conclusion of our interview, he asked me this question with tears in his eyes: “President Yamashita, why did I come to Japan? Why am I here?”

I answered him without hesitation: “Elder Cowan, I know one reason you came here. You came here for my benefit. I have come to understand what a great young man I have been serving with. I am blessed to know you.”

I am happy to report that Elder Cowan returned to his loving home and was reassigned to serve in a mission where he could use a car for his travel. I am proud not only of Elder Cowan but also of all the missionaries throughout the world who serve willingly without murmuring or complaining. Thank you, elders and sisters, for your faith, your focus, and your strong ambition for Christ.

Upstairs, Mama hesitated a moment before going into the bedroom. “Emily,” she asked, “are you awake?”
“Come in, Mama,” a husky voice answered.
“How do you feel, dear?”
“Better, thanks, Mama.”
“Want me to plump up your pillows and raise the shade a little?” Emily nodded.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Mama wondered how to begin. She fussed with a thread on the coverlet a moment, then she started. “Emily, you remember last fall when your papa’s saddle horse Jake turned up missing?”
“Yes, Mama, and I remember how bad Papa felt when he found him dead and the mountain lion tracks all around where they had struggled. It was awful.”
“That’s right, honey, it was awful and we all felt bad, knowing how much your papa loved that old horse. But somehow we get over those hurts. Memories are softened in time, and we can more clearly see why things happen the way they do. Our hatred for the big cat gradually changed to an understanding that he was only acting out of instinct and that he must have been very hungry to attack an animal as large as a horse.
“Emily, I’m telling you this to help you bear some more hurt. And I’m sorry to have to tell you when you’ve been so sick, but there’s never a good time to hear some things.”
After Mama had explained about Marcus and the weasel, Emily sobbed out her unhappiness while Mama held her close.
When Jason came to see his sister later that afternoon, any mention of Marcus was avoided. He tried to cheer her up and talked of a new place he had found by the creek for their play. “It would make a perfect place for a castle moat!” he said excitedly. Emily managed a wan smile, but Jason knew where her thoughts were. When he couldn’t bear to feel Emily’s sadness anymore Jason fidgeted, then hugged his sister tightly and left the room.
After doing his and Emily’s chores, Jason wandered into the barn where he could hear Papa hammering on the anvil. He liked to watch the sparks scatter when Papa’s powerful arm brought his hammer down with a ringing blow to shape a horseshoe.
Nero, one of their Percheron draft (work) horses waited patiently while Papa fitted him with new shoes. A gust of wind fluttered the horse’s wispy leg feathers as it turned his head to watch Papa. Nero and his harness mate Bully together weighed well over four thousand pounds. Bully was seventeen hands tall, half a hand taller than Nero. But in the pulling contests at the fair they were both champions. There wasn’t a team in either Gallatin or Jefferson County that could outpull them. Maybe even in all of Montana, Jason speculated.
When Papa plunged the red-hot shoe he held with tongs, sizzling into the water tub, an idea came to Jason as he watched the last of the water bubbles burst. “Papa, when you’re through with old Nero, can I talk to you about something—something to make Emily happy again?”
“Sure, son, just give me a few minutes,” Papa replied.
Jason was always amazed at how expertly Papa maneuvered the big horses into position with the slightest urging. They seemed to know by his touch and the sound of his voice how fond he was of them. And they returned their master’s good feelings. It didn’t take Papa long to finish, and then Jason told him his plan.
For several days Mama was curious about all the hammering that came from Papa’s forge behind closed doors. But whenever she asked Jason or Papa about the racket, they always managed to skirt around a direct answer. When she took Emily’s lunch to the upstairs bedroom and her daughter asked, “What’s Papa making?” Mama answered, “I honestly don’t know, dear. And I don’t know how much longer I can school my curiosity.”
At the supper table that evening, Mama noticed Papa wink at Jason as he excused himself and said expansively, “Nobody ever made dumplings like that before, Mama.” Then he lifted her lightly and together they twirled twice around. “Now, Jason and I have to finish something,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “And never you mind what it is. You’ll know soon enough.”
Out in the twilight gloom of the barn, Papa said in a loud whisper, “Fetch a couple of feed sacks, Jason. We’ll put the parts in one and the tools in the other. I’ll get a length of rope and a lantern.”
When they had climbed up the ladder pole to the loft, they lugged their gear down to the door at the end of the barn where they could barely see the hay hoist silhouetted against the starry sky. Papa went up first. Next, he pulled up Jason and the sacks. Then the two forms hunkered down on top of the barn ridge and, by the soft lantern light, opened the sacks.
There was an air of expectancy in the kitchen the next morning. And in spite of the fact that Mama served Jason’s favorite meal—flapjacks and chokecherry jelly—he didn’t seem to be giving it his full attention. Papa wasn’t doing justice to his breakfast either. When Mama said she was going to take Emily’s tray up to her, they both offered their help, so they all trooped up the stairs together.
Emily was much improved, but she still felt sad and listless. Next to the family, she had loved the old rooster best of all.
Before Emily could get to her tray, Papa suggested they move her bed closer to the window, and Jason was already tugging at the blind. “Let’s let in more light,” he said. When the bed was shifted, Jason let the blind go with a FLAP, FLAP, FLAP.
Mama stopped talking in mid-sentence, and when she had caught her breath all she could say was, “Well, I declare!”
There high on the peak of the barn and facing into the first rays of the morning sun was a near-perfect likeness of Marcus, only it was fashioned out of scrap iron and brass. “It’s a weather vane, Emily,” Papa explained, “and pretty near indestructible unless a tornado snatches it away.”
“Do you like it, Em?” Jason asked excitedly. “See how he cocks his head just like Marcus always did.”
Emily thought at first she was going to cry, but then a smile made in heaven settled on her face and bathed them all with its warmth.
When she could find her voice again, Emily threw her arms around her father’s neck and cried, “Oh, Papa! Papa!” And then with wet cheeks she turned to Jason and said, “Thank you, my good knight. Well done! Now, whenever I look up outside I can see my faithful sky watcher riding on the wind.”

Hans let his light shine brightly, even through hard times.

When he was six years old, he fell and broke his arm. That accident became a great blessing. His mom was planning to move to the United States and leave Hans in Ecuador with her sister for a time. “But when he broke his arm,” she says, “I realized Heavenly Father was telling me not to leave my son. If I did, he wouldn’t be able to go to church.”

That’s when Hans’s mother, Antonia Yolanda Nieto, was baptized. Since that time, her testimony has continued to grow. She has received her endowment in the Guayaquil Ecuador Temple. Hans was the missionary who brought his mother to the light of the gospel.

In early 1991 I was involved in a car accident that left most of my body paralyzed. Since then I have had a lot of time to compare my life before that incident with my life now. In some ways it is similar. Yet there are numerous differences.
Before my accident I had the attitude that I should try to perfect the four basic aspects of my life. Ranked in order of importance at that time, they were: (1) physical ability, (2) mental ability, (3) spirituality, and (4) emotional stability.
One year later, perhaps the only thing that has changed is the order of importance of these four vital cornerstones of my life.
Before the accident, my perspective was that of an 18-year-old athlete who thought he knew everything. Although I grew up in a religious family and felt good about my beliefs, spirituality was not my top priority. Instead, physical strength, speed, and quickness were more important to me than either religion or school. I felt that going to school was a necessity simply to remain eligible for sports.
Although I did fairly well academically, I often found myself practicing the sport of the season rather than studying for a test or completing an assignment. I had academic goals and important religious goals, but none of these took precedence over my athletic aspirations. The experiences I’ve had the last two years have helped me better understand what is really important.
Since February 16, 1991, the day I fell asleep driving my truck, I have had the opportunity to look at life from a completely different viewpoint. I have had a lot of time to think about and adjust my priorities. I still love athletics and believe they have the potential to build character. But they are not the most important thing in my life anymore. I recognize now that my religion, my family, and my friends are the foundation for my happiness, not a touchdown or a home run.
My mind is the most precious asset I have, and I realize that it must be exercised even as my legs or my lungs were exercised in athletics. I am grateful for the opportunity I have to attend college and gain knowledge. While the last two years have slowed me down physically, they have accelerated my spiritual and mental maturity.
Realizing that obtaining knowledge and spirituality is an on-going process, as well as increasing emotional stability and physical ability, I believe that the last two years of my life have been a step toward those elusive goals.
Not many people have the chance to actually live life from two very different positions. Because I can, I am grateful I have had this opportunity. It has helped me realize why my spirituality, mental capacity, emotional stability, and physical ability must be placed according to their importance.

When we were first married, my wife and I decided that we would accept the children that would be born to us with the responsibility attending their birth and growth. In due time they have formed families of their own.
Twice in our marriage, at the time of the births of two of our little boys, we have had a doctor say, “I do not think you are going to keep this one.”
Both times this brought the response from us that we would give our lives if our tiny son could keep his. In the course of that offer, it dawned on us that this same devotion is akin to what Heavenly Father feels about each of us. What a supernal thought.

Just before my ordination to the office of a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood, an important event transpired in our family. Early one evening Dad received a telephone call. At the conclusion of the call, he privately visited with my mother. She immediately began to tidy up the house, a sure sign we were going to have visitors. In a short while three well-dressed gentlemen knocked at our front door. Before we could tell who the callers were, mother whisked us to the rear of the house and shut the doors to the living room. After a few minutes of discussion with the men, Dad came and asked Mother to join them in the living room. Mom’s departure allowed me the opportunity to go into the kitchen and sit on the floor with my ear next to the living room door to hear what was being said in the next room. It was soon apparent that my dad was receiving a call to serve as the bishop of our ward. What a shock to a prospective deacon!

The doctor at the army base near Taejon, Korea, looked up at me and smiled. I had been congratulating him and his colleagues on their brilliant management of a carbon monoxide poisoning incident. As Chief of Professional Services for the Surgeon of the U.S. Army and for the United Nations Forces, I had been so impressed by this young doctor’s actions that I came down personally to review the case with him.
In his tent we chatted about the incidence of such poisoning among soldiers. Korean homes are heated with a soft coal, called yantan, which is pressed into large bricks and burned in a stove beneath one corner of the house. Smoke and fumes are ducted through the clay and tile floor to a chimney on the opposite side of the structure, warming the building and its occupants. If a leak develops, carbon monoxide is released into the house.
Often U.S. soldiers would leave their base of assignment, go into a nearby village, get drunk, and fall asleep near a yantan stove. Occasionally they suffered carbon monoxide poisoning and were returned to the base unconscious. In the course of treatment, it was customary to check the alcohol level in their blood.
I asked the doctor what this soldier’s blood-alcohol level had been, and his answer was both startling and satisfying.
“Oh, I didn’t get a blood-alcohol reading on Private Christian,” he said. “He’s a Mormon.”
I pretended not to understand why that would make a difference.
“What’s that got to do with it?” I asked. “This soldier went into town and was found unconscious. How do you know his unconsciousness wasn’t caused by alcoholic intoxication?”
The doctor replied, “Because this is Christian. He never does anything that is not proper and exemplary.”
The doctor explained that nearly everyone on the base knew that Private Christian was a returned missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He had served his mission in Korea, spoke the language, and during his off-duty hours he often went to the village to visit with the people. He had taught some of them about his church, and they had joined. They lived in a small hamlet next to the base but had gone with Christian to religious services in Taejon.
The private had returned home with them Sunday evening and was invited to spend the night. Because he was the honored guest, he was given the place closest to the smoldering yantan. But it was a cold night, and all the openings in the building had been closed. A crack in the floor had not been noticed. As the American soldier slept, he had been overcome by the gases.
With utmost pride I informed my medical colleague that I, too, was Mormon. I marveled that he could have known this young private so well. He replied that he didn’t know many soldiers closely but that Christian’s life was so distinct that it set him apart from all the other men on the base. I have never had the opportunity to meet Brother Christian and can only speculate about the total amount of good he did in an environment that normally draws out the base instincts of men. But I will never forget the impression he made on the doctor who treated him and the example he set for me. He had made proper decisions about many things in life years before being plunged into the challenges of military life, and he had not allowed his environment to deter his power to be good. The other soldiers knew him for what he was—uncompromising. I am sure that many of them carry his example in their memories, even as I do, and I’m grateful to him for letting his light shine.

President David O. McKay (1873–1970) was the ninth president of the Church. In his boyhood he desired to know, as Joseph Smith had known, of the reality of God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. One day while herding cattle in the foothills near his home, he sought a testimony through prayer. He said:
“I dismounted, threw my reins over my horse’s head, and there under a serviceberry bush I prayed that God would declare to me the truth of his revelation to Joseph Smith.”
He prayed fervently and sincerely with as much faith as he could find within him. When he finished his prayer, he waited for an answer. Nothing seemed to happen. Disappointed, he rode slowly on, saying to himself at the time, “No spiritual manifestation has come to me. If I am true to myself, I must say I am just the same ‘old boy’ that I was before I prayed” (New Era, Jan. 1972, 56).
A direct answer to this prayer was many years in coming. While serving a mission in Scotland, Elder McKay received a powerful spiritual manifestation. He later commented, “Never before had I experienced such an emotion. … It was a manifestation for which as a doubting youth I had secretly prayed most earnestly on hillside and in meadow. It was an assurance to me that sincere prayer is answered ‘sometime, somewhere.’” (David O. McKay, 50).

Early in 1846, when Henry was 17, the Saints had to leave Nauvoo. For the wagon trek across Iowa, Jonathan C. Wright hired Henry to be a chore boy and drive an ox team. Henry liked this job, except for Brother Wright’s restriction that Henry walk his horses but never run or race them.
While Henry was camped with the Wrights at Council Bluffs, Iowa, a United States army recruiter arrived. “I had told my comrades that he would not get a man,” Henry said. But President Brigham Young called a meeting in a brush-covered bowery and asked that 500 men enlist for the Mexican War. Henry felt impressed to answer the call, so he joined the army. Mr. Wright, upset at losing his hired hand, “was wrathy and said that I could not go.” But Henry went. He was not yet 18 as required by the government, “but as I had nearly got my growth in height I passed without difficulty.” Besides, nobody asked him his age.