Gospel Story Finder

“She can’t see! The fever has left Sister Stratton completely blind!” The news swept rapidly through the little pioneer town of Virgin, Utah. Sister Emily Amanda Gardner Stratton, beloved Primary president in the Virgin Ward, had lost her sight following a sudden illness. She had lovingly and faithfully served the children in this southern Utah town for 15 years, and she had helped many of the ward members in times of trouble. Now she needed help. But what could the children and ward members do?
The local doctor had done everything he could for her and had advised her family to take her to the nearest hospital, which was in St. George, Utah. He said her only hope of seeing again was to receive the help available at the hospital.
For weeks, the doctors in St. George tried every treatment they knew, but nothing worked. When their last treatment failed, Sister Stratton sent word that she wanted to come home.
The children and Primary workers in Virgin had prayed diligently for her recovery. When they learned the doctors had given up, they were even more determined to do whatever they could to help their dedicated Primary president.
Someone suggested they hold a special fast for her. The children knew that if they fasted and prayed with faith, Heavenly Father would help Sister Stratton in ways they could not. Heavenly Father would hear their prayers and answer them according to His will.
It was difficult to go all day without food, but even the youngest Primary children fasted and prayed for their beloved leader.
That evening, they all met at the tiny meetinghouse to close their fast with prayer. Afterward, they felt great peace and joy and knew that Heavenly Father had heard their prayers. The sunset was glorious, casting rays of red and gold throughout the western sky as they went to their homes.
A few days later, Sister Stratton’s wagon creaked as it rolled along the dusty road toward Virgin. The children and Primary leaders hurried to greet her and tell her of their special fast.
“What time was your fast meeting, children?” Sister Stratton asked.
“It was at sunset!” one child exclaimed.
Sister Stratton sat back. Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke. “At sunset on that day, I was sitting in a chair by the west window of my hospital room. As I looked up, I saw the sunset for the first time since the fever stole my sight. Yes, children, I can see!”
The loving prayers and faithful fasting of the Virgin Ward Primary had been answered with a miracle. For the rest of Sister Stratton’s life, she was blessed with perfect eyesight.

My name is Rylan Smith, and I am six years old. I live in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. I like all sports, but I like to ride my bike best. My story started in the spring, when I realized that my old bike was too small for me. It seemed like all the other children my age on our street were getting new, bigger bikes, and I really wanted a bigger bike too.
One day my mom and I were visiting our neighbor, Kathy. We were talking about bikes, and Kathy told us that they had a bike big enough for me that her son had outgrown. She said that I could try it out, and if I liked it, we could buy it. I took it for a test drive and really liked it. All it needed was a new seat and a new back tire. We decided to get it, and I helped pay for it with my own money.
One weekend the young men in our ward were doing a service project to help the Primary children fix up their bikes for summer. We were going to be gone that Saturday, but Royden, one of the young men, said he would come over to my house and fix my bike for me. He knew a lot about bikes. He changed the seat and tires. He even put a bell and a water bottle holder on my bike. Finally my nearly new bike was ready!
I rode over to my friend’s house to show it to him. Another boy was there, and I thought they would both be happy for me. To my surprise, they said unkind things to me and made fun of my bike. They really hurt my feelings. My friend even put a stick through the spokes of my tire so I couldn’t ride away. This made me angry. I wanted to call them names, to be mean to them, and to never play with them again. I felt very sad inside as I took the stick out of the spokes and rode home.
When I got home, I told my mom what had happened. She said that I had made a good choice in not being unkind to the boys. She said that when you are in a difficult situation, it is always best to think about what Jesus Christ would want you to do, and do that. She told me that sometimes when people are unkind to you, the best thing to do is just ride away, like I had.
But then I had another choice to make. Should I not be friends anymore because my feelings had been hurt, or should I try to be more like Jesus Christ by being kind, forgiving, and friendly to my friend? I chose to be kind and keep being a good friend.
The next day I rode my bike over to my friend’s house and asked him if he wanted to play and ride bikes. He said yes. We had fun together, and we are friends again. Making the right choice made me feel good inside.

Scott had asked. He had begged. When he was in first grade he’d worn out the dog pages in our encyclopedias. He’d bought books on dogs, too, and read them from cover to cover. (Scott could do that because he’d been reading since he was four.) But he never got a dog.

Daddy and Mother explained to him a dozen times maybe how dogs belonged in the country, how they were a nuisance in the city, and how it wasn’t fair to dogs or people to have dogs cooped up. “And besides,” they’d finally say, “Tom wanted a dog once, and he had to learn that a boy can’t always have everything he wants.”

Scott begged a whole yearful, but all he got was a rabbit. He kept him a few months and then gave him to Uncle George’s kids who live on a farm. But I didn’t want a rabbit. Rabbits don’t love you back the way a dog does. Scott’s rabbit hopped away without a backward glance when we turned him loose in Uncle George’s field.

“Joey’s dog would have howled his head off if he’d been turned out and left like that,” I said as the rabbit disappeared behind a haystack.

For me, parenthood has been a refiner’s fire. My weaknesses seem to come out as I become stressed, sleep deprived, worried, or upset. Of course, parenthood’s blessings make up for those moments, but I have found that I have a temper. It’s humiliating to admit, but I used to yell or throw things to get my children’s attention.
I would resolve time and again not to lose my temper, but I would still lose it in times of stress. Heavenly Father knew I needed something dramatic to help me.
One evening after a long day of bottling peaches, I put on the last batch and decided to take a short nap. I was sure I would wake up in time to take the bottles from the steamer.
I didn’t.
My husband, Quinn, and I were startled awake by the sound of exploding jars. I ran to the kitchen and saw shattered glass and gluey peaches over every surface of the room. Apparently, the steamer water had evaporated, heat and pressure had built up, the top of the steamer had blown off, and six of seven peach jars had exploded.
“I think I’ll clean this up in the morning,” I said.
Bad idea.
By morning the hot peach muck had solidified into hardened, glass-filled mounds all over the kitchen and dining room. The plastered peach-glass tidbits had even found their way behind countertop appliances and into every nook and cranny, including behind the fridge.
Cleanup took several hours. I had to soak the glass-filled mounds with wet paper towels and then try to wipe them up without cutting myself.
As I cleaned, a familiar voice whispered to me: “Mary, when your temper explodes, as did these jars, you cannot easily fix things. You cannot see where and how your anger hurts your children and others. Like this mess, that hurt hardens quickly and is painful.”
Suddenly, the cleanup took on new meaning. The lesson was a powerful one. Like my anger, there was no quick cleanup. Weeks later I was still finding little clumps of peach rock embedded with glass.
I pray that someday my patience will become as great a strength as it was a weakness. Meanwhile, I am grateful that the Lord’s Atonement is helping me better control my temper so that I can spare my loved ones any more messes caused by exploding anger.

I remembered when I first came to Foggia, a little town in southern Italy. It was only my second city, and the Manzos were about the first people I met. Even I could tell they were special. Rita and Salverio Manzo and their two children were the kind of family missionaries dream about. A warm, close feeling was present in their home. They didn’t have much money, but that didn’t seem important to them. They were always generous, inviting us to eat more often than they could afford.
It seemed like Satan was aware of how fine the Manzos were too, because right from the beginning, he worked to keep them out of the Church. As they progressed spiritually, their trials became more and more difficult. Their children got sick. When they tried to share their new knowledge with their family and friends, they suddenly quit visiting. When the Manzos went to the homes of people who previously had been close to them, the reception was chilly. Italians are family people, so that hurt them more than they would allow us to see. Each evening we left their home convinced that the worst was over, only to find that something else would happen the next day. They had financial problems. They found themselves arguing about things that never bothered them before. Neighbors told them that the missionaries brought them bad luck and they should stop seeing us.
Brother Manzo had been out of work for some time. He finally found a job, and things seemed to be looking better for them. The day he got his first check was the day we taught him about tithing. For some time he sat looking thoughtfully around his home. You could almost see his thoughts: This little check is all I have. It’s not enough as it is; yet you want me to give part of it away. How can I do it? I must feed my children. Surely the Lord would understand that I can’t pay this tithing. We were afraid that this would be the one trial too big for them. Finally he looked at us and said, “If the Lord requires us to pay this tithing, we will pay it.”
“Sister. Sister Johnson! Hey! You’re sure a long ways away! Are you still worrying about Brother Manzo?” Sister Bullen asked.
“I, well, yes I am. How did you know?”
“Because you’ve been studying that page for about 15 minutes,” she said with a smile. “Why are you so upset?”
“I just don’t think that someone who is as good as Brother Manzo should have to start out as a deacon. It’s like they don’t think he will stay with it, so they don’t trust him with anything else.”
Sister Bullen liked to joke around, and she kidded me a lot, but she was really serious when she asked, “Do you think that Brother Manzo is too proud to be a deacon?”
“No, he’s not too proud. But he’s a grown man, and he’s so dignified and kind of shy. I don’t want him to be embarrassed to be passing the sacrament with all those little boys. After all he has been through, I think he deserves to be a priest.
She smiled at me. “I think he’ll be okay.”
Sitting in the chapel on Sunday, I felt a little nervous again. The deacons were standing around the table, waiting to pick up their trays. Brother Manzo towered over the rest of the deacons. I noticed he was wearing a new white shirt and a tie. He was watching carefully to make sure he did the right things.
As he turned and reverently carried his tray of bread toward us, I could see that his face was shining. He caught my eye and smiled warmly. I looked down at my scriptures. They were open to the 26th chapter of Matthew, and I read verse 26: “And as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, and said, Take, eat …”
I couldn’t see the words through the tears in my eyes. It had been me, not Brother Manzo, who needed to learn about the priesthood! I felt a squeeze on my arm, and Sister Bullen smiled at me and winked.
I guess there’s no such thing as being “only” a deacon.

It was early Halloween morning. The sun hadn’t come up yet, so it was still dark outside. I was trying real hard not to be scared. Dad had asked me to feed the calves their hay while he finished milking our three cows. I was just gathering an armful of loose hay, when I saw the biggest, blackest bird standing on top of a hay bale about halfway up the stack.
The bird had an old, wrinkled, bald head and a long, skinny tail that went almost halfway to the ground. I didn’t believe in witches or ghosts or goblins, but I could see that this was a real monster kind of bird.
I turned around, tripped over some baling twine, and fell right on my face. I just knew that big bird was going to swoop down and carry me away, so I got up as fast as I could and started running.
When I got to where Dad was milking, I was breathing so hard that I couldn’t talk. Dad said that my face was as white as a frog’s belly and my eyes were as big as buckets.
When I finally caught my breath, I shouted, “There’s a huge monster bird on the haystack! It’s bigger than an eagle, and it’s really ugly. It must be a Halloween bird.”
Dad listened to me and nodded his head and finished squeezing the last drops of milk out of our cow Kick-a-Pooh Daisy. When he had finished, he hung his bucket of milk on a nail and said, “We’d better go have a look at this ‘monster bird.’”
By then the sun was starting to peek over the mountains, and things were a little lighter. When we got to the haystack, that old bird was still there—right on top of the hay bale—but I could see it better now. It was big all right, but it didn’t scare me this time. Its long, skinny tail was now spread into a shape like a great big fan. My monster bird was just an old turkey—the hugest one I’d ever seen!
When Dad and I climbed up on top of the hay, that old turkey didn’t even try to fly away. He just stood there looking at us, his tail spread and his big chest sticking out. Dad picked him up and said that he might weigh as much as forty pounds.
We carried the turkey down to the chicken coop and put it inside with the chickens. Then we called Mom and my sisters, Jana Lee and Sarah, and my little brother, Jared, to come see it.
“That’s probably Brother Reeves’s turkey,” Mom said.
Brother Reeves was our neighbor who raised hundreds of turkeys, so Mom called him. When he came over, he looked at the turkey and nodded his head. “Yep, it looks like one of mine,” he said. “One of the doors on the turkey truck must have jarred loose, and it probably jumped out when the truck went out this morning. That’s one of my biggest toms.”
“A tom?” I asked.
“Yep. That’s what you call a male turkey. Do you have your Thanksgiving turkey, Aaron?” he asked me. I shook my head. “Well, you do now. That is, you do if your dad will let you keep him.”
Dad had a big smile on his face, and said, “If Aaron will take care of him, he can keep him and feed him and we’ll have him for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I’m going to call you Turkey Tom,” I said to the turkey. “And you’re going to come to our Thanksgiving dinner.”
“He’s going to be the dinner,” Brother Reeves said with a chuckle.
Our family had never raised our own Thanksgiving turkey, so I was sure proud of Turkey Tom. Every day after school I rode the bus home, changed my clothes, and did my chores as fast as I could so that I could go out and watch Turkey Tom. Sometimes my friends came over, and we watched Turkey Tom strut around. Then he’d poke in the dirt, looking for bugs and things.
The chickens were pretty mean to Turkey Tom at first. They didn’t play with him, and when it came time to eat, they pushed him aside and wouldn’t let him get any grain or mash. I would take a handful of grain and hold it out to Turkey Tom, and he learned to eat right out of my hand.
After a while he started to follow me around. Even when I went to feed the calves or to take the scraps to the pigs, he would come right behind me, strutting along with his big chest out.
Every day I liked Turkey Tom more and more. And though I knew better, soon I had made a pet of him. He was my friend, and I decided I didn’t want to eat him for Thanksgiving dinner. You just can’t eat your friends for dinner, even if they are turkeys.
One day when Dad was out milking, I asked him, “Why do we have to have turkey for Thanksgiving dinner? Why don’t we just have hot dogs or hamburgers or something?”
“Well, I guess we could eat anything we wanted,” Dad answered. “But the Pilgrims had turkey, and we’ve always had turkey, and you yourself said that turkey was your favorite meat.”
“But that was before I found Turkey Tom,” I said. “I just don’t know if I can eat him, even if Brother Reeves did give him to us for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“What would we do with him if we didn’t eat him?” Dad asked. “A turkey isn’t good for anything if you don’t eat it. You can ride a horse. Cows give milk. You get wool from sheep. Dogs can watch your house and property. Chickens lay eggs. What good is a turkey? All it does is eat. Why keep Turkey Tom unless you can eat him?”
I thought for a minute and then said, “We could keep him for a friend. Your friends don’t lay eggs or give milk or wool or anything like that. They’re just your friends, and they make you feel happy. That’s why you keep them. Couldn’t we keep Turkey Tom for a friend, because he sure makes me happy?”
Dad rubbed his nose the way he does when he’s thinking hard, then shook his head and said, “I don’t think so, Aaron. If we didn’t want that turkey for Thanksgiving, we should have given him back to Brother Reeves. No, Aaron, we’d better have Turkey Tom come to Thanksgiving dinner and be the main dish. That’s what he’s for.”
I kept taking real good care of Turkey Tom, and he got bigger and fatter and prettier than ever. But I sure felt sad—I didn’t want anything to happen to my best friend. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to eat any turkey this Thanksgiving if it was Turkey Tom.
The day before Thanksgiving Dad told me that it was time to get Turkey Tom ready. When I asked him what he had to do, he said that he had to chop off his head, pull off all his feathers, put him into the oven, and roast him.
I felt rotten all that day, I couldn’t even listen when Miss Long read us a story about the Pilgrims. And when she gave us each a cookie shaped like a turkey, I gave mine to my friend Nathan. All I could do was think about Turkey Tom losing his head and all his fluffy feathers.
When I got off the bus that afternoon, I didn’t run into the house and change my clothes and hurry out to do my chores. There wasn’t any hurry to get my chores done, because Turkey Tom was gone, and I couldn’t play with him anymore. As I walked into the kitchen, I saw mom working on a great big turkey. It didn’t have a head, all of its feathers were gone, and it was hollow inside. It didn’t look like Turkey Tom at all, but I knew that it was.
Dad fed the chickens that night and the next morning because I just couldn’t go out to the chicken coop, knowing that Turkey Tom wouldn’t be there.
On Thanksgiving Day I just sat around and thought about Turkey Tom. I could smell all the good things Mom was fixing, but my mouth didn’t water like it usually did. The only water I felt was in my eyes.
Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Dan and Grandma came over to have dinner with us. They tried to make me happy, but it wasn’t any use. When we all sat down at the table, I couldn’t look at any of the food because right in the middle of it was Turkey Tom, all brown and ready to eat. Then just before we said the blessing on the food, Dad looked at me and said,” Aaron, I almost forgot to invite one of our friends to dinner. Wait a moment, and I’ll be right back.”
After just a minute the front door opened, and there stood Dad with Turkey Tom in his arms! I stared at Turkey Tom and then at the brown turkey on the table.
Dad had a big grin on his face, and he winked at me and said, “That’s one of Turkey Tom’s cousins. He’s not proud like Turkey Tom. He’s right happy to be somebody’s Thanksgiving dinner.”
I jumped up from my chair and ran to the front door and gave Turkey Tom a big hug. “Do we ever have to eat him?” I asked my dad.
He started to laugh so hard that Turkey Tom almost shook out of his arms. “Aaron,” he said, “yesterday I went out with the ax to fix Turkey Tom for dinner and he looked up at me as if to say, ‘How can you do this to your son’s friend?’ Well, that sure didn’t make me feel very good. So I put the ax away and asked Brother Reeves if he would sell us a turkey that we could eat.”
“And we don’t have to ever eat Turkey Tom?” I asked again. “Even if he doesn’t lay eggs?”
“I guess if he can be a friend, that’s good enough for me. I always told you that Turkey Tom was coming to Thanksgiving dinner, and here he is.”
That was my very best Thanksgiving. Mom’s food never tasted so good, especially the turkey, and when I was all fat and full, I went out to the barn and strutted around with my friend Turkey Tom.

May I tell you about a young man who had the courage to hearken. Elder Marion D. Hanks introduced us to Jay nearly twenty years ago at general conference. Elder Hanks described a twelve-year-old deacon whose body suffered from muscular atrophy. His loving father carried him as he passed the sacrament, gathered fast offerings, and went about his Scouting activities.
The remainder of Jay’s story exemplifies inspiration and courage. His body continued to suffer the ravages of his disease while his mind continued to be inquisitive and very bright. Because of his disease, Jay was unable to attend high school but rather had home study. He loved seminary and attended regularly. He was one of the speakers at his seminary graduation, addressing his classmates from his wheelchair. Jay’s positive approach to life and his cheery, radiant disposition were uplifting. Jay loved to attend dances. He made his wheelchair dance. He enjoyed music and often sang the hymns of the Restoration in beautiful, clear, melodic tones.
More than anything, Jay loved the Lord. When he turned nineteen, he wanted to hearken to the prophet’s request that every young man serve a mission. By this time, Jay spent much of his time on a soft mat on the living room floor of his home. Much of the muscle tissue of his body had wasted away. He desperately wanted to serve a mission. He found a way to serve in spite of his handicap. While lying on his back on the floor, he painstakingly prepared, with the help of some friends, over 150 copies of the Book of Mormon with his picture and testimony. They were sent to friends serving missions around the world for distribution. Jay received a letter from President Kimball expressing gratitude for his service and courage in hearkening to the call to missionary service.
Thanks to “angel” parents, Jay attended college. He was pushed by his dad from class to class. At times it was necessary for him to lie on a table at the rear of the classroom. He was an excellent student, receiving distinguished grades in difficult courses. Jay passed away three years ago, but his splendid example of one who courageously hearkened lives on.

On the opposite end of the continent, in the world’s southernmost city of Ushuaia, Argentina, the promise of eternal families caught the attention of Amanda Robledo and her husband, Ricardo. Following the death of her mother, Amanda visited different denominations, hoping the teachings of Jesus Christ could heal her heart. When missionaries later found the couple and taught them that families could be sealed together, Ricardo felt the Holy Spirit and sought baptism. Amanda was similarly touched but remained uncertain due to rumors she had heard. Eventually, her love for her family and desire to be with them forever convinced her to join the Church and be bonded to them through temple ordinances.

Several years ago, Wayne Lewis, of Washington, USA, published his life story. He gave copies to all of his children and grandchildren. “This was not done for the benefit of anyone but my family, to encourage them to write about their life experiences,” he says. Not long afterward, Wayne suffered one stroke, then another. “After the strokes, my counselor discovered that writing stories about my life was actually helping diminish the stresses brought on by brain injury, so I have continued writing about my life.” Now 88 years old, Wayne adds, “I would encourage everyone to write their life story. Act now, and use any format you think will be read by those you love.”

First, you will likely be found out. Then you must work extra hard to make up for losing the trust of your teachers and your parents. One young woman was very nervous about going to college. The first essay she turned in to her freshman English class was one she plagiarized (copied from another source). Her teacher recognized the essay she had copied from and confronted her. The student spent the rest of the semester trying to make up for her cheating. Even when she did well on an essay she wrote herself, her teacher was always a little suspicious.

Second, cheating takes away the satisfaction of doing well in your classes. Nothing will give you more confidence in your abilities than doing well in a class by studying hard. One young chemistry student found out that someone in his chemistry lab had the answer book for all the lab experiments they would be assigned that semester. It seemed like the whole class played around in the lab and then filled in the correct answers while he did his lab work without cheating. He was made fun of, but in the end, when the class was assigned individual projects for their final grade, he was way ahead because he had actually learned the things he was supposed to have learned.

Third, and perhaps most important, cheating damages your spirit. When you are in tune with the promptings of the Holy Ghost, it is fairly easy to tell right from wrong. But each time you cheat or lie or cover up errors, you start to believe your rationalizations. You begin to think that there really are good reasons for you to cheat or to bend the rules in your case. But no matter how you fool yourself, it doesn’t make it right. And the cost to your spirit is high. Your ability to hear the promptings of the still, small voice telling you right from wrong will diminish. You can become spiritually numb, as it says in 1 Nephi 17:45, “Ye were past feeling, that ye could not feel his words.” [1 Ne. 17:45]

The things you learn about being honest in schoolwork apply to the business world as well. As you move into the working world, if you give good honest value in services and products for the money paid you, then you can truly say that you deal honestly with your fellowmen.

I witnessed the righteousness and power of God in great glory, received through faithfulness to covenants and ordinances, in the life of a Church member who experienced the heartache of divorce. This sister’s spiritual and emotional distress was heightened by a sense of unfairness associated with her spouse’s violation of covenants and the breakup of their marriage. She wanted justice and accountability.

As this faithful woman was struggling with all that had happened to her, she studied and pondered the Savior’s Atonement more intently and intensely than ever before in her life. Gradually, a deeper understanding of Christ’s redemptive mission distilled upon her soul—His suffering for our sins and also for our pains, weaknesses, disappointments, and anguish. And she was inspired to ask herself a penetrating question: since the price already has been paid for those sins, would you demand that the price be paid twice? She realized that such a requirement would be neither just nor merciful.

This woman learned that binding herself to the Savior through covenants and ordinances can heal the wounds caused by another person’s unrighteous exercise of moral agency and enabled her to find the capacity to forgive and receive peace, mercy, and love.

This was not your typical Sunday morning. On this particular February Sunday, members were encouraged to gather after sacrament meeting, and some leaders even ended services early, sending volunteers to help their neighbors.
Over 150 youth and adults from the La Crescenta California Stake gathered with shovels, wheelbarrows, and their bright yellow Mormon Helping Hands vests to help move mud. Torrential rains, combined with mountains of earth exposed because of burned-off vegetation, had sent rivers of mud down residential neighborhoods in their area. Homes had three to four feet of mud surrounding them and several feet of mud inside as well.
Volunteers cleared pathways though the mud so that homeowners could get to their belongings and salvage what had not been destroyed. Katie Callister, a Mia Maid in the La Canada Second Ward, said, “I really wanted to help shovel the mud out of the damaged homes, but when I got there I saw the terrible destruction. Seeing the residents’ faces turn from devastation to gratitude was such an amazing experience. It made me feel so happy to know that I was helping someone so much and at the same time serving the Lord.”
Tons of mud, rock, debris, and people’s belongings were moved that day by the youth and adults wearing those yellow vests. Many residents commented that they were touched that teenagers would give up their Sunday afternoon to help strangers.

One day my companion and I gave a tour of the Smith family farm to a young family from Ireland. They were recent converts of only two years.

As we stood in the reconstructed log home where Joseph Smith and his family lived in the spring of 1820, my companion and I recounted the important events in Joseph’s childhood that led him to enter a grove of trees to pray to know which church he should join. We shared with them Joseph’s experience when Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to him and answered his prayer. We then asked them how they had felt when they first learned of Joseph Smith and his First Vision.

I expected them to express the same feelings most people share—that they felt a burning in their heart or that they knew that it must be true because the Spirit they felt was just so powerful. Instead, they said they felt it was “inconveniently true.” That made us pause for a minute. We asked them to explain what they had meant.

They told us that things had been good for them before they heard the gospel, and the idea of changing their comfortable lifestyle seemed like an inconvenience to them. But when they received a spiritual witness that it was true, they knew they had to make a lifestyle change.

Their interesting and sincere testimony impressed us. Because they really had a testimony of Joseph Smith and the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, they were willing to make inconvenient changes in their lives and join the Church. They did so because they knew those changes would be the best thing for their family!

Many years ago in Cuzco, high in the Andes Mountains of Peru, Elder A. Theodore Tuttle and I held a sacrament meeting in a long, narrow room with a door that opened onto the street. It was night and it was very cold.

While Elder Tuttle spoke, a little boy, perhaps six years old, appeared in the doorway. He was naked except for a ragged shirt that went about to his knees.

On our left was a small table with a plate of bread for the sacrament. This ragged street orphan saw the bread and inched slowly along the wall toward it. He was almost to the table when a woman on the aisle saw him. With a stern toss of her head, she banished him out into the night. I groaned within myself.

Later the boy returned. He crept along the wall, glancing from the bread to me. He was near the point where the woman would see him again. I held out my arms, and he came running to me. I held him on my lap.

Then, as something symbolic, I set him in Elder Tuttle’s chair. After the closing prayer, much to my sorrow, he darted out into the night.

When I returned home, I told President Spencer W. Kimball about him. He was deeply moved and spoke of it in a conference talk. He told others of it and said to me more than once, “That experience has far greater meaning than you have yet come to know.”

I have never forgotten that little street orphan. Many times in South America I have looked for him in the faces of the people. When he comes back into my mind, others come with him.

Over the years, I have wondered what President Kimball meant when he reminded me of that street orphan in Cuzco and repeated, “That experience has far greater meaning than you have yet come to know.” One day he added, “You held a nation on your lap.”

Now in my 78th year, I understand what President Kimball was seeing; I know what he meant. That boy in Cuzco and the one in Japan and the other children about the world profoundly influence what I think and how I feel and what I pray for most earnestly. I constantly think of little children and their parents who struggle to raise them in ever more perilous times.

A convert since May 1970, twenty-one-year-old Linda Lee MacArthur lives in New York City, is a member of the Manhattan Ward, New York Stake, and has been part of the New York City Ballet Company for eight years. Although she had no burning desire to join a church two years ago, she became friends with “a very special Latter-day Saint girl, Diana Bradshaw,” who was also in the ballet company.
“At that time in my life,” said Linda, “the most important thing to me was a new dress. I had my own apartment and wanted to be chic in all I did. Things were fine until I became very sick and began to feel a religious need. Then, coincidentally, my Mormon neighbor invited me to a parent-youth night production and I became interested in the Church.”
Linda likes to tell of her ballet career and what means the most to her.
“I’ve been in ballet a long time. I started to learn when I was three years old and living in Dorchester, Massachusetts. As a child I also took up drama and singing and performed in off-Broadway productions such as Peter Pan. It was my mother who prompted me, but I didn’t begin to study ballet seriously until I moved to New York when I was eleven. I was asked by the New York City Ballet Corporation to be an apprentice for The Nutcracker, but I didn’t appreciate the honor and wanted to go home for the summer to enjoy swimming and have fun. The following year I was given the same opportunity; I accepted and began my professional career. I apprenticed until I was thirteen because it was unheard of to have anyone so young in the company. But when the company went to Europe, I got a chaperone and became an official member of the team.
“My European tour taught me a lot. I saw extreme luxury and poverty side by side. I gained an appreciation for my country and our way of life. It was all very exciting, and other neat opportunities came my way, such as an interview for Ladies’ Home Journal, because I was the youngest in the company.
“A great deal of self-discipline is needed in ballet. Having been an actress, dancer, and singer, I find dancing the most demanding profession of all because it takes so much of one’s time and is physically exhausting. I didn’t realize this when I first began studying. My main concern was to get into the company, but once I had made it, I found it even harder, especially since I was still in school. It was very difficult for me to keep up in school even though I went to a professional children’s school in arts and theater. I was still very young to be absent so much because of performances and rehearsals.”
Linda has a special feeling for theater and arts in general because she feels that it’s the best way she can express herself. Dance involves her total movement and expression of emotion, and she advises everyone to find the field of personal exposition that suits him best.
“My life has changed most drastically since I’ve been a member of the Church. Had I not found the truth, I wouldn’t now have the things that are important, like spirituality and the gospel. I’m not dancing very much anymore because dance takes up so much of my time that I’m not able to do the church work I feel I need to. The MIA program in particular means a lot to me, and I’m privileged to work with youth that I love dearly. Living the principles of the gospel is now my daily goal. The worst conflict between the Church and my profession is the time schedule. If I were performing, I wouldn’t be able to go to church on Sunday or to MIA. Being a new convert, it’s important for me to be there. Spiritually there is no conflict. I haven’t found the people in the theater to be wild and mysterious as they sometimes are portrayed. I think you get more of that in show business and musical comedy. Girls in our company range from sixteen to twenty-five years of age. They’re just out of school and are very dedicated. They don’t have time for the outside world, so it’s not a very wild kind of crowd.
“I often question whether I can be a Mormon and remain successful in my field. I hope it will be possible, yet I feel it’s important to have a family and raise them in the Church. That means more to me than my career. A couple of years ago I wouldn’t have given up dance for anything, but my idea of a good Latter-day Saint woman is one who is dedicated to her home and family. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to completely stop dancing after having been in the theater so long. I probably will always have the desire to perform. That’s the kind of conflict I haven’t yet resolved. I hope that if I live the gospel, the Lord will bless me with enough time to do both the way I want to.”

One of Sister Redd’s “jewel” times was at the birth of her first child, a son. But within three months the trials and tests of this life soon closed in. Both mother and child were afflicted with polio. Anxieties were high and prayers were intense. Brother Philip Redd, her husband and now area director of seminaries and institutes in Southeast Asia, was preparing within the month to begin his career as a full-time seminary teacher. “We felt we had really tried to do what was right and that we were doing what the Lord wanted us to be doing. We had faith that the Lord would bless us even in our afflictions.”
Our Father in Heaven has told us that his people must be tried and tested, even as Abraham who was commanded to offer up his only son (see Gen. 22:1–4; D&C 101:4). And so it was that this faithful couple was tested. Their prayers were answered, but only partially. Sister Redd was healed and left without any ill effects from the dread disease, but her precious child, her only son, was stricken with crippling paralysis in his leg, his arms, and his back. The brightness of a happy time had quickly faded. The scratches and bites of life became a painful reality. Brother and Sister Redd were forced to give up their child to the professional care of the children’s hospital over a 160 kilometers away where he could receive special attention. Even after a year he was still very weak and progress remained slow.
Three long anxious years, and the concern for her child only increased. The divine nature of a true and righteous mother, with all of the pure emotions inherent in the sacred role of motherhood, swelled within her aching heart. “I just wanted so desperately for him to be well,” she whispered. “It was so hard not to be able to tuck my little boy in at night. His life was vital to us.”
One night at the very peak of her anxiety, this young mother rose from her bed, went into the other room, and talked to her Father in Heaven. She had remembered an incident in her own childhood. A great and noble woman had prayed in behalf of her afflicted husband and requested that, if the Lord were willing, she be allowed to carry her husband’s infirmities so that his service to the Lord would not be restricted. This sister, almost immediately, became stone deaf and remained so throughout her life, while her husband, miraculously healed, became a spiritual giant, a man of God, and a powerful leader in building the kingdom of God in that area. With the memory of this incident in her heart, this faithful mother supplicated the Father in her son’s behalf, asking if she might take her son’s infirmities upon herself. Of this incident she concluded, “I returned to my bed and went to sleep.”
Even though her baby remained in the hospital, there were still some happy, “jewel” times. Another little boy was born and then a little girl. In time the afflicted child became stronger and stronger, and he learned to walk with braces. Eventually he was able to leave the hospital for a time, allowing this little family to be together at home for Christmas.
While there were ample reasons for quiet rejoicing, the scratching, biting times were painfully evident. Gradually over the following months Sister Redd became anxiously aware that she was losing the feeling in her hands and her feet. While diapering her baby, she would often stick the safety pin into her thumb unknowingly. When she noticed the blood, her growing concern increased. She sensed a frightening paralysis creeping over her entire body. It was very difficult for her to handle her little new baby and the responsibilities of her young family. As the months and years continued, there were both struggles and blessings along the way. Braces were laid aside and her little son managed to make his way to school. These blessings were acknowledged with humble gratitude, deeply expressed. But suffering severe headaches and with no feeling in her hands or feet, the young mother of three cried out for help. The support of family and friends seemed not enough. “People were good, so very, very good,” she gratefully recalled. “But being restricted physically, not being able to take care of those you love, is so very difficult.”
At this time a team of specialists determined that it was probably multiple sclerosis that had afflicted her body, leaving her so painfully handicapped. The thoughts of her future gave cause for great anxiety. “That was years ago,” she said. Sister Redd, now a beautiful, healthy, and active woman, vibrant in countenance and testimony, radiates a spirit that has been purified through struggle.
She spoke of the day she and her devoted husband, seeking first the will of the Lord in all things, sought counsel from a friend who had been the supervisor of seminaries and was now a General Authority. “He told us that he didn’t think the Lord meant for me to give my life. He gave me a blessing, explaining that the Lord had accepted my offering in behalf of my child. He promised me that I would live. But it is not we who regulate the magnitude of our tests or determine the time of relief,” she explained. “We do not receive a witness until after the trial of our faith (see Ether 12:6), and our Father in Heaven will make that determination.”
The very hour one might expect relief may be the moment in which the Lord will take count of our endurance and our faithfulness. Following the blessing, Sister Redd’s condition worsened, and on the 25th of October she was confined to bed. She had to be fed, and “I couldn’t even brush my teeth,” she explained. “My good husband and I talked about the purpose of life and death, and we prayed that we could accept whatever the Lord had for us. At that time we felt that everything would be all right.” Drawing strength from each other, these young parents were tested and were found “willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon [them], even as a child doth submit to his father.” (Mosiah 3:19).
On the 20th of December Nedra Redd was flown to the hospital in Edmonton, Alberta. There she received further tests. After two long, anxious days, the doctors confirmed the probability that it was not multiple sclerosis that had afflicted her entire body, but rather a very deep and serious brain tumor at the base of her skull. It appeared to be inoperable. In her weakened condition, the possibility of surgery was considered a high and frightening risk. But the doctors explained that she would have only two weeks to live if they didn’t remove the growth. It was seriously impairing her breathing and would soon cut off her rapidly diminishing flow of air. The situation seemed desperate. One doctor offered counsel, suggesting that if they wanted to risk surgery, they would surely want to wait until after Christmas. But Sister Redd reached into her reservoir of strength, filled in large measure by the blessing she had received from their friend the General Authority. Courageously this young couple made their decision. “Surgery was scheduled for Christmas Eve,” she said. “We felt our Father in Heaven was beginning to answer our prayers,” she whispered. “On Sunday night my cousin, who was the stake president, came to give me a blessing. He told me later that when he gave me that blessing, he literally felt the strength flow from him.” The power of the priesthood was again activated in her behalf.
Anxious family and friends waited through the nightlong vigil following the surgery. Dawn broke forth; it was Christmas morning. The tumor had been removed. All was quiet as the moments ticked on in that hospital room. Her future hung in the balance. “I had a very special thinking time as I regained consciousness,” Sister Redd explained. It was in the twilight time between life and death that the gifts of life came back to this faithful woman on that Christmas morning. They returned one by one with enough space between each to allow time for cherishing and savoring. Such gifts, such jewels, such priceless jewels!
“I’m all right! I didn’t die in surgery! I’m alive!” was her first realization. “But everything was black, and I couldn’t hear anything. I tried to speak, and I couldn’t speak. I thought, ‘I’m blind. I can’t hear. I can’t speak. But I am alive.’ I can remember such a surge of gratitude that I was alive, and then I sank into unconsciousness again. When I realized later that I was conscious again and that there was a sort of grayness around me, I thought, ‘I am not totally blind. I can see some light.’ I can remember praying and telling my Father, ‘Thank you. I’m alive and I’m not totally blind.’ I couldn’t have lived in darkness. So I gave thanks again. Then I realized I could see Phil’s face. My husband was talking to me, but I couldn’t hear him. But,” she said with intensity, “I could see him. I was grateful that I could see his face.
“Soon I realized I could hear him speaking to me, so I prayed again and gave thanks that I could see and hear. I thought, ‘I can’t speak, but it’s enough. I can see and I can hear.’”
Sister Redd, reflecting on her deep gratitude for those precious gifts on that Christmas morning, shared the ecstasy of her final treasure. “The doctor was there. I had been trying to speak. I heard him ask my husband, ‘Can she speak?’ He shook his head just slightly. ‘I was afraid of that,’ the doctor said. ‘We had to destroy quite a bit of her vocal chords to get the tumor. I was afraid she would not be able to speak.’”
With a happy tone in her clear, full voice, Sister Redd recalled her thoughts at that moment: “‘Oh, so that’s it.’ I thought. ‘I can’t talk. But I can hear and I can see.’ I had such a deep feeling of joy and gratitude. Then the doctor put his finger on the hole in my throat where the tracheotomy was and said, ‘Now try.’ I could make sounds! I knew I was not mute. It was such a good feeling. We knew the Lord had blessed us.
“It was Christmas morning. Phil had spent the night with me when I needed him so much. With my whole soul filled with gratitude and thanksgiving, I asked him to go home and be with the children. It was a wonderful Christmas.”
From the deep reservoir of faith and courage, carved out by times of trial and suffering, Brother and Sister Redd rejoice. “It is such a comforting feeling to know that there is nothing the Lord can’t do or won’t do for you if it is for your good.” They have made this discovery: “The Lord is in the everyday things, not just the eternal, glorious things. It’s like the comparison between the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ and quiet background music. He is in both, and knowing that provides a continuous awareness of happily-ever-after times in all of life.”

I recall a President of the Church, now deceased, who visited his daughter in the hospital following a miscarriage.

She was the mother of eight children and was in her early forties. She asked, “Father, may I stop having children now?” His response was, “Don’t ask me. That decision is between you, your husband, and your Father in Heaven. If you two can face him with a good conscience and can say you have done the best you could, that you have really tried, then you may stop. But, that is between you and Him. I have enough problems of my own to talk over with Him when we meet!” So it is clear to me that the decisions regarding our children, when to have them, their number, and all related matters and questions can only be made after real discussion between the marriage partners and after prayer.

Our second daughter, Yelyena, was born in Minsk on January 6, 1999. Igor had a steady job now, but we still didn’t have enough money to go to the temple. Gradually we saved, however, and at the end of August 2000, we took the children to Germany. Igor has relatives in Kaiserslautern, and we stayed with them.
Early on the morning of September 2, we began our journey to the temple in Frankfurt. Although the trip was very tiring and included two transfers, we were full of enthusiasm and joy. We are grateful to all the temple workers, the temple president, and also the sisters who watched our daughters while we went through the endowment session. That was an unforgettable day! It is difficult to put into words the feelings we experienced there, but they were very good.
After the endowment session, we went into the sealing room, where Yelyena was already crying (it was her nap time). I hardly heard any of the sealing ceremony because of the crying, but we were very happy anyway. That was the most wonderful trip of our lives because we were in the house of the Lord.

Fatima skipped down the street. She was walking home from school with Mamá. She hummed a song while she skipped.
“Ms. Lopez asked us to learn a song,” said Fatima. “Can you teach me one?”
Mamá smiled. “Of course!”
When they got home, Mamá and Fatima sang songs together. They sang lots of songs. But they hadn’t sung her favorite one.
“Can I sing a Primary song?” Fatima asked.
“Sure,” Mamá said.
Fatima sang “Families Can Be Together Forever.” She practiced the words with Mamá. Then she sang it alone. She sang it until she got all the words right.
At school, Fatima was excited to share her song with her class.
“Does someone want to share their song?” Ms. Lopez said.
Fatima raised her hand. “I will!”
She stood up and smiled. “I have a family here on earth. They are so good to me,” she sang.
While she sang, Fatima felt happy. And she remembered the whole song! Everyone in her class clapped.
After class, Mamá came to pick up Fatima. Ms. Lopez spoke to Mamá.
“She sang a beautiful song. And she didn’t seem scared at all.”
Fatima smiled. So did Mamá.
“We sing beautiful songs every week at church!” Fatima said.
“You can come with us anytime,” Mamá said.
Ms. Lopez smiled. “Thank you.”
Fatima sang as she walked home with Mamá. She liked sharing a song with her class. Singing made her feel happy.
This story took place in Guatemala.

Just the thought of someone actually reading what I wrote distorted my journal entries. For example, here’s what really happened:
I lost the election for sophomore vice president by the widest margin in our school’s history. I can’t think of one good reason why anybody would vote for Carol instead of me. I felt so rotten that I cried all night.
But here’s how it appeared in my journal account:
Running for student-body office was a real growing experience for me. I’m so glad Carol won. She’s a wonderful girl.