Gospel Story Finder

“We love to study the gospel together,” Esther says. They joined the Church after the missionaries came to their home in 1954. “Eternal marriage impressed Palle, and I was struck by the plan of salvation.”

They took the discussions for a while in 1956, and Palle felt spiritual promptings when he read Nephi’s writings. Then one day, without mentioning it to Esther, he was baptized. Soon, Esther noticed a difference in him and asked, “You’ve been baptized, haven’t you?” After more missionary lessons, she was baptized, too. Since then, she has served as Relief Society president twice, and he has presided over both the branch and the district, as well as serving as Fredericia’s first bishop.

Their baptisms occurred just a little more than a hundred years after the first baptisms in Denmark in August 1850, after Elder Erastus Snow had opened the Scandinavian Mission. Today, Denmark has two stakes and 4,100 members.

To some, this young woman may not look like she would have much to contribute. She was 17 at the time of the diving accident that rendered her quadriplegic—paralyzed from the shoulders down. She has spent the last 50 years in a wheelchair. After the accident, she was depressed and angry, experienced suicidal thoughts and religious doubts. However, during occupational therapy, she learned to paint with a brush between her teeth, and began selling her artwork. To make a long story short: since then, Joni Eareckson Tada has written over forty books, recorded several music albums, become an advocate for people with disabilities, has a radio show, and is a popular Christian speaker.

An interviewer asked her recently, “At the time of your diving accident, you were just 17 years old. If you could speak to the young woman you were at that age, what would you most want to say?” Listen to her answer:

“As a young girl I was so distracted . . . [and] enamored [of] . . . the world. . . . I had so many options. If I could go back, I’d take myself by the shoulders and shake them and say, “Look at me, Joni, listen: Love Jesus more, obey him more. Follow him more closely—not at a distance. Don’t second guess the Holy Spirit’s whispers and convictions in your heart. Don’t make your own decisions without checking in with God—follow him much more closely.”

Her answer to the next question is also revealing: “How do you feel as you reflect back over the past 50 years?”

Joni said, “Just the other day I was reading 1 Peter 5:10, where Peter says, ‘But the God of all grace, who hath called us unto his eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that ye have suffered a while, make you perfect, stablish, strengthen, settle you.’ Honestly, I’m amazed that the last 50 years feel like only ‘a little while.’ Maybe God does that when we finally do love Jesus more, when we finally do follow him more closely. Maybe he erases . . . all the despair, all the depression of the past when we learn how to trust God. He pushes into the background all the terrible times of anguish, and he brings forward the highlights—the moments of hope, peace, and growth. As I look back over 50 years, I just see God at work.” [4] Despite formidable challenges, Joni learned to use the gifts she was given to lift and bless others. At the same time, those efforts helped her work toward fulfilling her own divine potential.

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

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

Object lesson time!

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

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

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

I once asked a man in a fireside group what he would like to do more than anything else if he could just do whatever he wanted. His face lit up, he sat on the edge of his chair, his hands came to life, and he told me that he’d just love to have a whole room full of power tools and bring all the kids in the neighborhood in to help them build birdhouses, playhouses, chicken coops, or anything in the whole world they wanted to build. He loved kids; he loved tools; he loved building things; his whole face was aglow with it. I asked him what he was studying at school; the light went out, and he told me he was studying to be a civil engineer. Why? Because his father was one, it paid good money, and so on. I knew he had the capability of being a good civil engineer, but I asked him, “Have you ever thought about teaching shop instead and spending all day working with power tools and teaching kids how to build things?” He just about fell off his chair. His mouth hung open. His eyes lit up again. It had simply never occurred to him to take stock of what he really liked to do, of what really mattered to him in choosing a career. He had never stopped to think that his wonderful love for young people might be there for that kind of a purpose. He had decided the biggest part of the rest of his life with his eyes closed.

Recently, while driving in a city unknown to us, I inadvertently took a wrong turn, which led my wife and me onto an express highway for endless miles without being able to turn around again. We had received a kind invitation to a friend’s home and worried that we would now arrive much later than we were expected to.
While on this highway and desperately looking for a way out again, I blamed myself for not paying better attention to the navigation system. This experience caused me to think about how in our lives we sometimes make wrong decisions and how we must live with the consequences humbly and patiently until we are able to change our course again.

Ulisses:
When I was called to serve as bishop, I had to think if I would be able to fulfill my duties at home and with my calling. Emilia and I talked about it and we realized that we could do this together if we put our trust in God.
Serving my family has always spiritually uplifted me. Although we do not have as much alone time as a couple, we are close to each other spiritually. We are closer as a family. The whole time we have seen the hand of the Lord helping us. He has showed us miracle after miracle. We are truly blessed.

Like many other 16-year-old seminary students throughout the world, Kim Tae Whan, a Korean member, had studied Luke chapter 10, Christ’s parable of the Good Samaritan.
One morning Tae Whan asked his mother, “Mom, will you prepare for me another lunch today?” Mrs. Kim prepared another lunch, thinking that her son was growing so fast that he needed a little more to eat. Every day afterwards she would prepare an extra lunch for him to take.
One day Dr. Kim received a telephone call at work from a close friend.
“Hello, Dr. Kim. How is your family?
“They’re fine!” replied Dr. Kim cheerfully.
The two friends talked back and forth until Mr. Lee blurted out, “Are you sure your family isn’t having any problems lately?”
Pausing, Dr. Kim answered quizzically, “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Dr. Kim, I saw Tae Whan down on the corner selling newspapers the other day.”
“You saw what? Are you sure?”
“I’m positive! I was just concerned about your family’s welfare and wanted to check with you.”
Dr. Kim sat that afternoon in the office puzzled, wondering why Tae Whan would do such a thing and not say anything to anyone. That night after dinner, Dr. Kim quietly waited for the opportunity to talk to his son. Finally he said, “Tae Whan, could I speak to you for a minute?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Son, I got a call today from Mr. Lee. He said he saw you downtown selling papers the other day. Is that true?”
Tae Whan answered sheepishly, “Yes, Dad, but I did it to help a classmate. He didn’t have a lunch so I’ve been giving my extra one to him. And for every paper we sell, we earn 40 won (8¢).”
“Son, why are you doing this? You should have asked me first.”
“But, Dad, every time I help my friend, I feel I’m becoming more like the Good Samaritan. Besides that, I want to help my classmates who aren’t as fortunate as I. I’m not really doing that much. I read about it in my seminary manual and felt it was the thing I ought to do.”
Tae Whan knows the meaning of the Savior’s commandment: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbour as thyself.” (Luke 10:27.)

I went through a period when I had been involved in some bad things that I knew required a confession to the bishop. I was very fearful of going through with what I knew was right. Instead of just confessing, I quit going to church because I didn’t feel comfortable there. I quit praying because I felt unworthy. I got involved in other more serious activities that would also require a confession.

Please believe that no matter what you have done, no matter how scared you are of going to the bishop, living with it by yourself is a lot worse than confessing. My bishop told me that nothing could make my Heavenly Father change the way he feels about me. No matter how terrible the act, he will always love the person.

Actions taken by the bishop are for your benefit. Being asked to not partake of the sacrament or go through a period of probation might seem harsh, but it will be most beneficial to you if you accept it as something that will be helpful.

Please don’t live with your secret alone. Go talk to the bishop. He is your friend. The feeling you will get from knowing that you have done the right thing is wonderful. Your bishop will not change his love for you. And more importantly, Heavenly Father will never stop loving you. Please don’t let fear rule your life. I know it is a big step, but if I can come back from the terrible things I was involved with and feel the love of Heavenly Father and my bishop and my family, and myself, you too can feel good again. Please make a call, set an appointment, and go through with it.

Name withheld

“Look at this window!”

Randy came back to reality. He was standing in front of a men’s clothing store. In front of him in the display window was a mannequin wearing a light jacket. There was a poster which read, “Men of action prefer Brock Jackets.”

“Just look at this!” the clerk pointed. “You’ve got fingerprints all over my window. What if everybody put their hands on it, hey? What then?”

“It’d get messy,” Randy answered philosophically.

“Don’t get smart with me! Look at this mess! You smeared ice cream on it too, didn’t you?”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Well somebody did.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Who do you think has to clean up this mess anyway? Me, that’s who. So quit mucking up my display window!”

Randy reached down and picked up his trumpet case and walked away.

He was on his way to a music lesson.

Mr. Janowski’s living room had a high ceiling and a cracking linoleum floor. Stacks of music cluttered every table and chair. Even the fishbowl, complete with a small goldfish, sat precariously on top of a stack of music on the coffee table.

Randy ran through the trumpet exercises while Mr. Janowski sat back in an ancient overstuffed chair with one hand over his eyes. Randy often suspected that Mr. Janowski slept through part of each lesson, except that whenever he made a mistake, Mr. Janowski would call out, “Flat!” or “Sharp!”

The doorbell rang. Randy stopped while Mr. Janowski answered it. A father and his daughter appeared in the doorway.

“I’m Mr. Reynolds. I talked to you on the phone about starting my daughter with flute lessons. We just moved into town.”

“Oh yes, I remember. Come in. What was your daughter’s name?”

“Michelle.”

Randy whispered the name to himself. It was the most beautiful word he’d ever heard.

As they came inside, Randy stood up, hoping for an introduction, but Mr. Janowski ignored him. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll explain how we work the payments for the lessons.”

The two adults left the room, leaving Randy and Michelle alone. He watched while she took the flute out of the case and assembled it.

A minute later she happened to drop her lesson book. He lunged across the room to pick it up—knocking over the music stand, which hit the coffee table, causing a large stack of music to slide to the floor. The fishbowl nearly fell too, but he grabbed it at the last second. Finally he reached her book on the floor and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she smiled. “Now let me help you pick up things.”

On hands and knees they picked up the scattered sheet music. He was close enough to sense a delicious smell. He closed his eyes and sniffed.

When he opened them again, she was staring at him.

“Probably my shampoo,” she said.

He nodded his head and went back to work.

When they finished, she walked back to her flute.

He followed, staying within sniffing range.

She picked up her flute and, unaware he was so close, quickly turned around.

He had to duck to avoid being hit by the end of the flute as she swung around. Falling sideways, he crashed into the coffee table, knocking over another stack of music. The fishbowl fell to the floor and shattered. The goldfish flopped helplessly on the soggy music.

He scooped it up in his hands and desperately looked around for some water.

“I’ll go find a bowl in the kitchen,” she said, then left.

Time was running out for the goldfish. Then he saw the open bathroom door.

In the bathroom, he closed the drain to the wash basin, turned on the water and gently dropped the fish in. Then he looked in the mirror and practiced saying the word Michelle.

She returned with a large soup pan. He plunged his hand into the water, splashing water on himself, but coming up without the goldfish.

“Maybe if we let a little water out, it’d be easier,” she suggested.

He placed his hand on the drain mechanism, preparing to open it a little at a time.

At that moment Mr. Janowski and Michelle’s father returned to see the floor covered with water-soaked music, the fishbowl broken, and Randy and Michelle looking with great interest into the wash basin.

Randy began to gently ease down the drain handle.

“WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?” Mr. Janowski yelled.

Randy’s hand jerked downward. He looked over at the two scowling adults. When he looked back at the wash basin, the goldfish was gone.

“Young lady, I want an explanation!” her father said abruptly.

“We leave you two minutes,” Mr. Janowski raged, “and look what you do!”

“It wasn’t our fault!” Randy said. “If there hadn’t been so many stacks of music, it would never have happened!”

Mr. Janowski picked up the broken fishbowl. “Where’s my goldfish?”

“It’s not dead,” Randy said.

“Then where is it?”

Randy looked sadly into the empty wash basin. “On a long voyage.”

“You dropped my goldfish down the drain?” Mr. Janowski asked.

“It wasn’t our fault! We were trying to save its life. Besides, it’s only a goldfish.”

“OUT OF MY HOUSE! NEVER COME BACK! NEVER AGAIN LET YOUR SHADOW DARKEN MY DOOR! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN! NEVER EVER AGAIN!”

“What about next week?” Randy asked.

“YOU ARE A NUMSKULL! GET OUT OF HERE!”

Randy shrugged his shoulders and returned to the music room to put his trumpet in its case.

“It wasn’t my fault!”

“GET OUT OF HERE!”

That night at supper, sandwiched between a lively discussion by his brothers and sisters, Randy quietly announced, “I won’t be taking lessons anymore from Mr. Janowski.”

“Why not?” his mother asked.

“He kicked me out of his house and told me to never come back.”

His father raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

The phone rang and it was for his father. Randy quickly finished eating and went to his room to study.

An hour later he brought the hall telephone to his room, looked up Michelle’s number, and phoned her.

“Hello,” her father answered.

“Is Michelle there?”

“No—would you like to leave a message?”

“Okay.”

“What’s your name?”

“Randy.”

“Randy?”

“I met her this afternoon—at her music lesson.”

“Oh you,” her father said, sounding angry again.

“I’ll just call back.”

“Don’t call tonight—it’ll be too late by the time she gets back.”

“Maybe tomorrow then.”

“Suit yourself, but she’s very busy with school.”

There was a long frigid pause. “Okay, bye.”

At eight thirty his father came in, sat down on the bed, and said, “I’m interested in knowing what happened at your music lesson today.”

Randy told him the story.

“It might be nice if you went back and apologized to Mr. Janowski.”

“Dad, he doesn’t want to see me again. Besides, it wasn’t my fault—it happened because of his messy room. If I go back, he’ll just get mad all over again and start yelling.”

“Maybe you could buy him a new fishbowl and a goldfish.”

“It wasn’t my fault. You should’ve seen where he had the fishbowl. It’s a wonder it hadn’t fallen off before. I’m not apologizing for something that’s not my fault.”

His father looked at him for a long time, then said, “Okay.”

Randy was puzzled. It wasn’t like his father to give up so easily.

His father stood up to leave, then asked, “Hey, aren’t you hungry? How about if we go for a pizza.”

…

“You still want me to go back and apologize, don’t you?” Randy asked.

“And you still feel you shouldn’t have to, don’t you? Let me ask you a question—under what circumstances can you ever imagine yourself apologizing to anyone?”

“When I’m in the wrong.”

“You mean when you’re entirely in the wrong. When there’s nobody else you can point to and say it was partly his fault too—when you’re 100 percent in the wrong.”

“Yes,” Randy said, “then I’ll apologize.”

“It’ll never happen.”

“But why should I apologize for something that isn’t my fault?”

His father looked at him for a long time, then asked, “What do you know about Mr. Janowski?”

“He teaches music lessons.”

“Does he have a wife? Any children or grandchildren?”

“I’ve never seen anybody else at his house.”

“So maybe he lives alone.”

“I guess so.”

“Maybe he never married, or maybe he was married and his wife died.”

“Maybe—all I do is take trumpet lessons from him.”

“He’s not a young man, is he? Maybe he’s been alone in that house for 20 years. Does he have a dog?”

“No.”

“I wonder why he kept a goldfish, don’t you? Did the fishbowl have a filter system on it?”

“No, it was just a bowl.”

“That means he had to change the water every day. Why do you suppose he went to the trouble?”

“Dad, I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s just imagine. Maybe he kept it for company. Maybe it gave him something to care for. Maybe he imagined the fish liked music. Maybe sometimes he talked to it, or had a name for it. On Christmas maybe he dropped a little extra fish food in the bowl. But now it’s dead.”

“Maybe not—if it can swim through the pipes to a lake.”

“But it’s gone. I wonder if he’ll buy another one, don’t you?”

“They don’t cost much. He could afford it.”

“Maybe he’ll decide not to bother—then he’ll be completely alone.”

Randy sat and looked at his last slice. He wasn’t hungry anymore. They left.

“You really think he cared about a goldfish?” Randy broke the silence on the way home.

“I don’t know—but he could have. One thing though—he knows you didn’t care about it very much.”

Several blocks of silence passed by.

“Dad, I can’t apologize to him,” Randy said painfully.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Buy him a new fishbowl and a goldfish and knock on his door. Two words, Randy, that’s all I ask—I’m sorry.”

“But that’s admitting it was all my fault.”

His father sighed and shook his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“We go through life pretending that somewhere a grand court is convened with every misunderstanding, and that it issues an official decision, ‘He was in the wrong’ or ‘It wasn’t his fault.’ And we play out our life for that imaginary court, making our defense before it every day of our life, justifying our mistakes, minimizing our errors. Well, the court doesn’t exist. And much of the heartache in the world comes, not only because of sin, but also because we hurt each other’s feelings.”

Randy thought about Mr. Janowski changing the water every night for the goldfish. Did he really talk to it?

“Randy, there’s no loss to your manhood to say you’re sorry. It’s not even admitting guilt. Go ahead and learn to lessen the hurt of those around you. That’s what the Savior would do—you know he would.”

They pulled into the driveway and sat for a minute. Finally Randy grinned. “The pizza was just a plan to talk to me, wasn’t it?”

His father laughed. “How can you argue with me when I’m paying ten dollars for you to gorge yourself?”

The next day after school Randy went to a store and asked the clerk for the happiest goldfish they had. After 15 minutes of trying to please Randy, the clerk reached in with a net and pulled out a fish. “This is the happiest one we have,” he announced with an air of finality.

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me,” the frustrated clerk said.

An hour later, Randy knocked on Mr. Janowski’s door.

“I told you never to come back here again!” Mr. Janowski fumed.

Randy thrust out the new fishbowl with a goldfish swimming around in it.

“Mr. Janowski, I’m sorry.”

He watched the anger melt on Mr. Janowski’s face.

“Come in.” They went inside. Mr. Janowski cleared off a place on top of the piano for the fishbowl, got some fish food, and scattered it in.

“I think I’ll call him Otto.”

“Otto that’s a good name. Does he look happy to you?”

“You’re right. He is happy, isn’t he?”

That night Randy knocked at another door. Michelle’s father opened it and scowled. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” Randy said.

Mr. Reynolds looked at him strangely. “You came to apologize?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“Michelle,” her father called out, “we have company.”

When she showed up, he said it again. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled warmly at him. He stayed for popcorn, and they invited him to go waterskiing with the family in the summer.

There’s magic in some words, he thought as he walked home. For instance, take the words I’m sorry—and also the word Michelle.

“Then there was the time on the bus. (The girls and boys teams ride together.) I was reading the Book of Mormon. I have a big quadruple combination, and it was kind of conspicuous. One of the guys who had been living in Utah said he’d never seen a Book of Mormon before and wanted to see it. He started looking through it and asking me questions about it. Before long, the whole back of the bus was involved in a discussion about the Book of Mormon. It was as if a curtain had been drawn between the front of the bus and the back, because up in front they were telling dirty jokes.”
Jodi has been known to “give out copies of the Book of Mormon like crazy.” She always carries a spare in her bag with her soccer uniform, bringing comments like, “It’s nice to see someone who really lives her religion.”
“People have said good things about the way I play soccer,” said Jodi, “But that’s really the best compliment I’ve ever been paid.”
No, there was never a question about playing on Sunday—not even in this tournament. But making her teammates understand was another story.
“Look,” she tried, “if I don’t play on Sunday, sure, I’ll disappoint my team, and I feel bad about that. But if I do play on Sunday, I’ll disappoint so many more. I’ll disappoint myself, because I’d be breaking a promise. I’d disappoint my parents, who know how important that promise is to me. I’d disappoint my cousins, who don’t play on Sunday because of my example, and I’d disappoint my seminary teachers, who have taught me better. But most important of all, I’d disappoint God. I just can’t do that.”
It was a great explanation, but it didn’t do Jodi much good. All Saturday night the team tried to convince her to play. They made fun of her. They called her every name they could think of. Finally, at about midnight, Jodi called home in tears. It wasn’t that she was tempted to give in. It’s just that she felt so alone.
Her parents listened. Her parents understood. Both her mother and father got on the phone and had a prayer with her. After they hung up, they called an old friend in the Bay area and asked her to give Jodi some support.
The next morning Jodi got up and got dressed—in a dress, which she wore as she stood on the sidelines watching her team play. They ended up tying their opponents, 1–1, and afterwards, many of her teammates apologized for being so critical of her.
The team ended up tying for third in the tournament, which was better than they’d ever done before. Jodi thought this would be a good note on which to end her soccer career, even though she was a junior in high school and could play for one more year.
“I’ve achieved just about everything I wanted to with soccer,” Jodi said. She had been ranked as the number one goalie in the state and had been scouted by a number of universities, but when they heard of her policy on Sunday play, they lost interest. “I’d like to try to develop some other talents now—things like music and acting. Plus being on the seminary council will require a lot of time,” Jodi said.
So Jodi’s senior year in high school will be a busy one, despite the lack of soccer, the sport she’s dedicated so much to for so long. She says she won’t miss it too much and that the things she’s learned from it will help her in other parts of her life.
“‘To everything there is a season,’ and the soccer season is over,” said Jodi. “I have no regrets. Because of soccer, many missionary doors have been opened. The Lord has blessed me, and others through me. I haven’t gone unrewarded. I’ve been humbled, pushed, and just about everything else, but I learned that I can stand up to it. The Lord knows he can count on me, and I know I can count on myself.”
Jodi couldn’t be happier knowing that she didn’t let one little game spoil all that.

One day we had a special devotional about the Savior as part of our early-morning seminary class. The girl who was conducting bore her testimony of Christ, then asked each of us to share our feelings. Our teacher, Brother Pratt, added his testimony and said we each needed to know that Christ died for us individually.

As I listened to the others bear their testimonies, it occurred to me that I wasn’t really sure I had a testimony of the Savior. I had always attended church and seminary classes. And I thought that Jesus Christ was Heavenly Father’s Son and an example to follow. But I didn’t really know him to be my Savior—someone essential to my salvation.

I managed to say a few words in seminary that morning. And then I spent the next several days pondering over the experience and praying to know for myself. I received a warm feeling that the Church was true and that I should live its teachings. I felt good about that answer and decided that having a basic testimony of the gospel and living the standards of the Church would be enough. But I still didn’t understand the need for a Savior.

Then, several years later, after I had moved from home, I faced a serious crisis that left me with deep emotional and spiritual pain. Without the necessary faith in Christ to guide me, I felt lost and alone. I had stopped praying sometime earlier and had just recently decided that I would no longer go to church.

Just at that point in my life, my home teachers, Dan and Terry, came by. I was a little embarrassed because I hadn’t been to church that day and had no good excuse for my absence. The Spirit told them that something was seriously wrong, so they persisted in presenting a lesson that seemed to be especially for me. They visited with me for a while, and when it was time for them to go, they offered a powerful prayer. The Spirit lingered after them for a short time, and I felt more hopeful than I had in a long time.

I wanted that Spirit to remain. I gathered up the remnants of my faith and offered a prayer. Because I hadn’t been praying for a while, I had no real hope or expectation of an answer. But as I knelt and prayed, a black cloud lifted, and I felt an overpowering warmth come into my heart. Complete love and understanding filled the room. I was surprised at the depth and strength of the Savior’s love—how well he knew me!

There was no room for misunderstanding or doubt as he lovingly empathized with my challenges. All of a sudden, words came into my mind, telling me where I could improve. And the Savior promised me all the help I would need. I learned that there is indeed a loving Heavenly Father and a Savior, Jesus Christ, and that they know each of us as individuals. I also learned that they will give us the help we need as we extend our faith in them. And I knew that, no matter what, we must always pray.

Although I still had problems to overcome, I knew the Savior was there, ready to help. I have never felt completely alone with my problems since. I can now say, along with the hymn, “I know that my Redeemer lives.” And I am grateful.

Beth, Blondie, Freckles, Beauty, and Dolly went on a backpacking trip. But on their backs they carried Amy, Linda, Jennifer, Heidi, and Cherish.
Beth, Blondie, and crew are the four-legged, half-ton-with-mane-and-tail variety of backpackers; but even though they see the trail from a slightly different angle than their human cargo, they know the mountain trails as well as anyone. They know how to pick their way down a rocky trail because they hate to slip on the loose rocks. They remember the spots where they have stopped to camp for the night. They know how to work a little slack into the reins so they have a chance for a quick bite of succulent mountain grass. They know how good it feels to roll in the dust after their humans have removed the saddles and saddlebags. Even though they enjoy getting out on the mountain trails, they are only horses, more intent on their next mouthful of grass than the beauty of a panorama of rugged mountains, blue sky, and snow-fed lakes. Those beauties are left for their riders to enjoy.
And the beauties of the Tetons, a range of mountains slicing the border between Wyoming and Idaho, were not lost on the girls from the Idaho Falls Idaho East Stake. They chose to spend three days on horseback as their Summiteer trip. The Summiteer program is the adventure-laden fifth year of the Young Women camp certification program. Girls are encouraged to plan and carry out an activity themselves, using the things they have learned about organizing and camping during their four years of the Campcrafter program.
It was a gorgeous morning in August when the girls met to carpool to the mountains. In reviewing how the activity got started, Susan Butikofer, Summiteer leader for the stake, said that the girls wanted to go horseback riding or winter camping, both ambitious undertakings. She said the girls got together to make their decision. “I backed clear off,” said Susan. “If these girls are here after four years of Campcrafters, they want to be here. The leaders aren’t pulling them along anymore. At this age, these girls have so many things keeping them busy, they have to have a real desire, and some have made a real sacrifice to pursue their Summiteer.”
It took extra effort to arrange for the trip. Every girl who participated in the horseback Summiteer trip was working a summer job and had to arrange to take the time off without pay. Also they were inventive about the ways they came up with the fee to pay for the rental horses. One girl gathered earthworms to sell to a fisherman’s bait shop to earn the fee.
The first morning of the trip was spent saddling the horses and consolidating equipment into small bundles to be packed on the mules. Then everyone was assigned a mount. For the inexperienced, coming eye to eye with the animal she would be responsible to saddle, curry, hobble, and keep under control for the next three days was a daunting moment. But the horses knew what they were doing even if the girls didn’t and put up with the fumbling fingers, the jerking reins, and the indecisive directions given by their riders. The horses fell into line behind the lead horse regardless of the directions given by their riders as they headed up the trail. The girls were soon to learn who really was in charge on this trip and that they were just along for the ride.
It was a glorious summer day. The air at that mountain altitude was crystal clear. The sky was such an intense blue that it was a subject of debate whether it was closer to the color of robins’ eggs or more like a tropical sea. The meadows were alive with wild flowers, every color and kind—columbines, Indian paint brush, bluebells, purple lupine, buttercups. Although the valley was in the heat of summer, here in the mountains, it was spring. It was soon obvious that the horses needed little direction while on the trail. This made it easy for the girls to absorb the scenery with names as colorful as the places themselves—up Fox Creek, past Death Canyon, along the Teton Shelf, down the Sheep Steps, into Alaska Basin, and on the Skyline Trail.
As the trail climbed, the trees began to thin out. Tall stands of pine were separated by stretches of rocky meadows. Water seemed to gush from every crevice, and clear, cold streams joined together to form high-running creeks. With the sun, the flowers, the water, the scenery, and the good company, it was nearly as perfect a day in the mountains as it could be.
But there were saddle sores in paradise. At the end of the day’s ride, when at last the camp spot for the evening was selected, there were some mighty groans, some bent backs, and some crooked legs as the girls dismounted. But no matter how tired the girls were, the first concern was to take care of the horses. Saddles were removed, bridles carefully coiled, and hobbles attached. “Come on, come on, just move your other hoof over here.” Linda Garner, of the Idaho Falls 38th Ward, was talking out loud as she struggled to get her horse to put his front legs close enough together to fasten the hobbles, a small girl trying to coerce a large animal into cooperating.
After setting up camp and getting dinner started, it was time for a treat. Custom-made snow cones were just the thing to cool down and quench thirst. The crushed ice was gathered from the remnants of a nearby snowfield. Punch mix was prepared at double strength and poured over the snow. No machine could chop the ice more perfectly than nature had already done.
That evening a full moon rose over the mountains like a spotlight. It was so bright that the girls didn’t need flashlights to find their way around camp.
By the second day, the girls were old hands at preparing their horses for the day’s ride. Jennifer Goodell of the Idaho Falls 38th Ward saddled her horse and wandered up the hill from camp and sat down to watch the early-morning light play among the peaks. It was a time for a moment’s introspection as she absorbed the beauty of nature and the feeling of oneness with our Creator.
The second day offered some unexpected challenges. The group had to negotiate a section of steep loose shale, and there were mushy snowbanks that would be too dangerous to ride across. The girls walked down the trail, leading their horses across the snowbanks, staying uphill in case their horses started to slide. Everyone was careful and made it across safely.
By now, some of the inexperienced riders were feeling more comfortable on horseback. Cherish Haroldsen of the Idaho Falls 41st Ward had never been on a horse until this trip. She was given a gentle horse, and she soon got into the rhythm of trail riding. She just tied her reins to the saddle horn and let her horse find his own way. “I figure the horse knew where to put his feet better than I did,” Cherish said. “As long as another horse is in front of him, he does real good. But just try to make him do something the others aren’t doing. He’s like a teenager. He follows peer pressure.”
The group entered a beautiful basin where snow-fed lakes connected by small waterfalls descended like huge stairsteps. The trail faded and disappeared altogether as it led across flat, slick rock. By this time, the girls were gaining confidence and, instead of following the lead horse, they spread out in groups of twos or threes, picking their own ways across the rock. But they soon found that taking off on their own didn’t always work well. What looked like a good way to go often led to the edge of cliffs or into an impossible thicket of trees that forced them to turn back and retrace their routes.
A forest ranger had gone over the trail before and had marked the best way across the slick rock with small pyramids of stone. These markers, or cairns as they are called, were easy to spot and if followed led safely across the section where the trail was obliterated. The girls found they could not rely on their own instincts or observations to select a good path. They found they had to trust the one who had gone on before to show them the best way. The girls started talking about following the cairns. “This is like our leaders giving us lessons about how to live our lives,” said one. “Yes,” said another catching on to the symbolism, “it’s like learning to follow the prophet. By listening to him, we can follow the right trail even when we can’t see where it leads.”
On the final day, the girls were busy packing the mules and saddling their horses. Heidi Hicks, of the Coltman Second Ward, settled into the saddle and said, “It doesn’t hurt as bad this morning.” Indeed, the girls were becoming toughened to riding, but it was time to head home.
The downward trail was rough. It was very steep, eroded in spots, and had plenty of rocks to trip up even the most surefooted horse. But things went well. When a horse slipped, its rider hung on or slipped a foot out of the downhill stirrup in case a hasty dismount was called for. Horses and girls came through like troopers. Heidi summed up the feelings of many when she said, “If we had done that the first day, we would have been in tears.”
At the end of the trail, the horses were anxious to get back to the corral, and the girls were again thinking about the activities awaiting them in the valley. But the impact of the trip was not overlooked.
As one leader said at the last night’s campfire, “Many of you will be taken to faraway places to serve in the Lord’s kingdom. You’ll always remember these beautiful mountains and your home nearby. Bathe in the beauty, and pay attention to it.”
The Summiteer program is designed to allow girls to use what they have learned in Campcrafters in planning and carrying out their own activities. It is easy to draw parallels to life. Girls are taught correct principles about outdoor life and about living the gospel. They find that in both, if they follow the markers, the cairns along the trails, set out by wise leaders who have led the way, they can find the correct paths.

There will be times in your service when you won’t have the remarkable and visible success of that young elders quorum president. That is the time when you will need to be confident that the Lord, knowing you would do your part in the work, called you through His authorized servants. Having faith in the call from the Lord’s servants was crucial in the missionary service of my great-grandfather Henry Eyring.

He was baptized on March 11, 1855, in St. Louis, Missouri. Erastus Snow ordained him to the office of a priest shortly thereafter. The president of the St. Louis Stake, John H. Hart, called him to serve a mission to the Cherokee Nation on October 6.1 He was ordained an elder on October 11. He left on horseback for the Cherokee Mission on October 24. He was 20 years old and a convert of only seven months.

If any priesthood holder had a reason to feel unqualified or unprepared, it was Henry Eyring. The only reason he could have had the courage to go was that he knew in his heart that God had called him through His authorized servants. It was the source of his courage. That must be the source of our courage to persevere, whatever our callings in the priesthood.

After Elder Eyring had served for three difficult years and upon the death of the mission president, Henry was nominated and sustained as president of the mission in a meeting held on October 6, 1858. He was surprised and as shocked as a new deacon would be. He wrote, “It was quite unexpected to me to be called to that responsible office but as it was the will of the brethren I cheerfully accepted, feeling at the same time my great weakness and lack of experience.”2

The now-President Eyring traveled to the Cherokee, Creek, and Choctaw Nations in 1859. Through his efforts, the Lord “added,” as Henry recorded, “a number to the church.” He organized two branches but noted that “very few are alive in the cause.”3

A year later, Henry was faced with the difficult reality that the political leaders among the people he was serving no longer permitted the Latter-day Saint missionaries to do their work. As he pondered what he should do, he recalled the instruction from his previous mission president indicating that he should prolong his mission until 1859.4

In October of that year, Henry wrote to President Brigham Young for direction, but he did not receive a reply to his question. Henry recorded, “Not being able to hear anything from the Presidency of the Church, I called upon the Lord in prayer, asking him to reveal to me his mind and will in regard to my remaining longer or going up to Zion.”

He continued: “The following dream was given to me in answer to my prayer. I dreamt I had arrived in [Salt Lake] City and immediately went to [President Brigham] Young’s office, where I found him. I said to him: ‘[President] Young I have left my mission, have come of my own accord, but if there is anything wrong in this, I am willing to return and finish my mission.’ [In the dream the prophet] replied: ‘You have stayed long enough, it is all right.’”

Henry wrote in his journal, “Having had dreams before which were literally fulfilled I had faith to believe, that this also would be and consequently commenced at once to prepare for a start.”

He arrived in Salt Lake City on August 29, 1860, having walked most of the way. Two days later, he walked into the office of President Brigham Young.5

Henry described the experience in these words: “[I] called upon [President] Young, who received [me] very kindly. I said to him, ‘[President] Young I have come without being sent for, if I have done wrong, I am willing to return and finish my mission.’ [Brigham Young] answered: ‘It is all right, we have been looking for you.’”

Henry described his joy, saying, “Thus my dream was literally fulfilled.”6

His joy came from a confirmation that the Lord had been working with and watching over him. He learned what is true for all of us—that the Lord’s servants are inspired to know the Lord’s will. And Henry Eyring had confirmed what I know as well: that the prophet, as the president of the priesthood, is inspired of God to watch over and care for the Lord’s servants and to call them.

In 1959, I received that invitation. I did not even know of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At a dance, I met a young lady who was raised in the gospel. I was attracted to her. She said to me, “You know, I could never consider marrying you unless it were in the temple.” I responded to that invitation and was taught the gospel. She is now my eternal companion. I will ever be grateful that was the invitation she extended to me, for it has transformed my life.

Before commencing my first semester at Brigham Young University, I had the opportunity of visiting Bourton-on-the-Water, a small village in the English Cotswolds. Replete with honey-colored houses, bridge-crossed brooks, and sheep-trodden meadows, the town represented all things quintessentially English. While wandering through the narrow streets along the Windrush River, I entered the Church of St. Lawrence. I thought that no one else occupied the silent church, but I soon noticed an elderly woman in a dark wool suit and sensible shoes sitting in the third pew from the altar.
At first I thought she was praying, but upon closer inspection I realized that she was doing needlepoint, so I felt more comfortable approaching her. We sat together for some time talking about everything from the local tourist sights to the latest tabloid embarrassment of the royal family. As we talked I became intrigued by her handiwork. She explained that she was making a prayer cushion like the dozens hanging from brass hooks on the pews around us. She carefully described the entire process–from the type of materials used to the time and patience required for completing such an undertaking. As a budding young economist, I asked her how much such an endeavor cost.
“I buy the materials for 30 pounds,” she replied.
Next I asked how much she charged for the prayer cushions.
“The church buys them for 20 pounds each,” she said.
Now it doesn’t take an economics major to do a profitability analysis of this cottage industry. As I puzzled over her 10-pound loss and obviously irrational economic behavior, she responded with a somewhat bewildered smile, saying, “Oh, but you mustn’t think in that way!”
Awkwardly I considered her admonition before responding that all that really mattered was that she derived a great deal of pleasure from her efforts. By saying so I graciously restored her economic sensibility. Again she looked at me with the same smile. I could almost hear her say in response, “Oh, but you mustn’t think in that way either!”
Not knowing how to think, I said good-bye and excused myself. It wasn’t until some time later, long after I left the Church of St. Lawrence and the Cotswold hills, that I understood her primary motivation. Her labors were not a profit-maximizing investment decision; neither were they necessarily an exploration of her passion. Rather, she consecrated her needlepoint prayer cushions as a simple gift to her God and her fellow parishioners. Therein lay the importance of her act and her fulfillment in the action.
I’m confident that for the Cotswold woman, seeing her prayer cushions used every week in church gave her great satisfaction in knowing that she’d done some good in her corner of the world. However, I’m also sure that she never imagined that six years later and 5,000 miles away, her attitude of consecration would continue to inspire an economics student whom she probably doesn’t even remember.

It was a cloudy day at the end of the summer. My friend Iveta and I were going to the older part of our city. We had been doing missionary work for quite a long time, finding members of the Church who had been converted before World War II. During the Communist rule in our small country of Czechoslovakia (now the Czech and Slovak republics), many of the Church members had died. But we had a list of names and went in search of the few remaining members of the Church.
We met a woman who told us her parents had been LDS before they passed away. We decided to visit her and ask what she knew about the Church—we thought she might be interested in the gospel, or would perhaps be able to refer us to others who had been related to Church members. When we got to her home we discovered that her grandmother was still living. She was so happy to see us—she was a Church member! She told us lots of stories about the Church before the war. Then she showed us an old picture of the Salt Lake Temple.
“I’m 93 years old,” she said. “For almost 50 years, I have been waiting for the missionaries to come back to our country again. I knew they would come before I died. Once, I thought they were at my door, but I quickly realized they were not from our Church. I didn’t feel the same spirit from them that I had felt with our missionaries 50 years ago. I sent them away.”
Her words gave me reason to think about my own life. Would I be able to distinguish the Spirit so easily after 50 years without contact with the Lord’s church? My heart was full of gratitude to Heavenly Father for leading us to this wonderful woman.
On our most recent visit, I brought her some Church magazines and we talked for a while.
“After the Church wasn’t allowed to meet any more, the police came to our house very often and took all the gospel teaching materials we had,” she said. “But I was able to preserve one book. I have been reading it all these years, and it has helped me in my life. It tells how the world should be.”
Then she took a book from her table and showed it to me. It was the Articles of Faith by James E. Talmage. I was amazed. I had never read the book, but I had a strong testimony of the good it had done in this woman’s life.
Doing missionary work in my spare time that summer taught me many great lessons. I now understand that the Lord will never forsake those who believe in him.

Not long ago, Jason was visiting San Diego, California, USA, for a cancer treatment. Even though it was a hard time for him, Jason says, “The morning of my flight I prayed to have a chance to share the gospel with someone who was prepared.”

He took a taxi to the airport and started a conversation with the driver, Robert. Pretty soon Jason expressed his faith in God and shared that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “Robert got excited and told me he had seen our temple near the freeway,” Jason says. “He had prayed and asked to learn more about our beliefs. I told him his prayer had been answered.”

Jason offered to introduce Robert to the missionaries, and he readily agreed. Jason used the “Send a Referral” feature on the Member Tools app to send in Robert’s information. A few months later, Jason received a message from missionaries in San Diego. “They informed me that Robert was baptized the day before. It was awesome!”

The Savior’s love, which shines through this Christmastime experience of President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency, can brighten our lives all year long.
One winter day as Christmas approached, I thought back to an experience from my boyhood. I was eleven. Our Primary president, Melissa, was an older and loving gray-haired lady.
One day at Primary, Melissa asked me to stay behind and visit with her. The two of us sat in the otherwise empty chapel. She placed her arm about my shoulder and began to cry. Surprised, I asked her why she was crying. She replied: “I don’t seem to be able to encourage the Trail Builder [now Blazer] boys to be reverent during the opening exercises of Primary. Would you be willing to help me, Tommy?”
I promised her I would. Strangely to me, but not to Melissa, that ended any problem of reverence in that Primary. She had gone to the source of the problem—me. The solution was love.
The years flew by. Marvelous Melissa, now in her nineties, lived in a nursing [home] in the northwest part of Salt Lake City. Just before Christmas, I determined to visit my beloved Primary president. Over the car radio, I heard the song “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” I reflected on the visit made by wise men those long years ago. They brought gifts of gold, of frankincense, and of myrrh. I brought only the gift of love and a desire to say “Thank you.”
I found Melissa in the lunchroom. She stared at her plate of food, teasing it with the fork she held in her aged hand. Not a bite did she eat. As I spoke to her, my words were met with a blank stare. I took the fork in hand and began to feed Melissa, talking all the time I did so about her service to boys and girls as a Primary worker. There wasn’t so much as a glimmer of recognition, far less a spoken word.
Two other residents of the nursing home gazed at me with puzzled expressions. At last they spoke, saying: “She doesn’t know anyone, even her own family. She hasn’t said a word in all the time she’s been here.”
Lunch ended. My one-sided conversation wound down. I stood to leave. I held her frail hand in mine, gazed into her wrinkled but beautiful countenance, and said: “God bless you, Melissa. Merry Christmas.”
Without warning, she spoke the words: “I know you. You’re Tommy Monson, my Primary boy. How I love you.” She pressed my hand to her lips and bestowed on it the kiss of love. Tears coursed down her cheeks and bathed our clasped hands. Those hands, that day, were hallowed [made holy] by heaven and graced by God. The herald angels did sing. Outside the sky was blue—azure blue. The air was cool—crispy cool. The snow was white—crystal white.
How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heav’n.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.*
The wondrous gift was given, the heavenly blessing was received, the dear Christ entered in—all through the doorway of love.
(See Ensign, October 1996, page 7.)

Finally, I hope you will be joyful. My first international assignment as a counselor in the Young Women General Presidency came just a few weeks after my call. Ron and I traveled to the Caribbean Area. I admit to being quite nervous—I just didn’t want to mess anything up! Elder Jose L. Alonso, who was a counselor in the Caribbean Area Presidency, accompanied us as we visited six islands over a period of ten days. To say it was an incredible experience would be a vast understatement. At the end of our trip, I asked Elder Alonso what I could do differently as I moved forward in my new calling. I knew I had much to learn, and I hoped for some helpful, honest feedback. After some coaxing, he finally threw his hands up over his head and, with a big smile on his face and an animated voice, he said, “Enjoy! This is the gospel of Jesus Christ, and it is the gospel of joy.” He then suggested that as I meet with members of the Church throughout the world I remind them of this divine truth and to live and serve with joy!

In addition to personal growth, the clowns have been rewarded for their hard work with wonderful memories. “The first time we visited the hospital, we were all scared to death. We weren’t sure how we were going to work with crippled children. But they really responded, and it was a wonderful experience. When we finished we asked the nurse if there were any children who hadn’t been able to come.
“She took us to the room of a boy who had literally had his face ripped off in a car wreck. It looked like his face had been run through a meat grinder. He was so self-conscious that he wouldn’t come out of his room.
“So we were very careful. We walked in and said ‘Hi, we missed you. We wanted to give you a special balloon.’ At first he was really timid. But then he started to respond. And I was so proud of the clowns. They didn’t look away from him. They looked right at him and let him know that they cared about him.
“By the time they were finished, that boy was talking. He was friendly. He knew that he was somebody important, and that there were three or four clowns in that room who cared about him. He told us about his upcoming surgery, and we all wished him the best. It was one of the most giving experiences of our lives.”