Gospel Story Finder

Whether it be the movie It’s a Wonderful Life, carolers, hot cider, evergreens, turkeys, snow, presents or just that special smell in the air, something at Christmas forces the hearts of people all over the world to turn and reflect on what it is they are grateful for. For me it is a special Christmas in 1986.
In July of that same year, I had been in a diving accident while on vacation with my family at Lake Powell in southern Utah. After I was life-flighted to the nearest hospital in Grand Junction, Colorado, the doctors diagnosed my injury. The damage was severe and permanent. I had broken my neck and was paralyzed from the chest down. I lost complete control of my legs and partial control of my arms. I could no longer walk, stand, comb my own hair, or feed myself. I could barely breathe or speak.
I remember the first night I was in the hospital. I was scared. I had what seemed to be a thousand doctors and nurses who would come and examine me and then go into the corner and talk about it in private. They took X-rays, gave me shots, and brought me waivers to sign and explained my injury to me. All this, while I came in and out of consciousness.
A few days later, while I was getting my daily medication, I pulled my nurse aside. I told her that although I was aware that my injury required a long hospital stay, I needed to know how long, and I also needed to know when I could go home.
The nurse turned to me solemnly and said, “Well, Jason, if you work hard, maybe you’ll get to go home before Christmas.”
Christmas! I thought. You’ve got to be kidding! That’s six months from now! I can’t stay here for six months! Besides, what’s this maybe stuff? I’ve got to be home for Christmas.
It was then I decided that no matter what the cost, I would be home for Christmas. Little did I know that achieving this goal would mean hours and hours of therapy and days and days of work.
The months that followed were filled with sweat, blood, and tears. I sweat during physical therapy where I spent days trying to lift an ounce and weeks trying to sit up again. I bled when I was given a tracheotomy to help me breathe, and traction to support my neck. And I cried myself to sleep, wondering if I would live through the night. The only thing that made it all worth it was that I was working for something. I was working to go home. All I wanted was to go home, and I knew that the only way to get there was to get well.
There were many times I wanted to give up, days when I just didn’t think I could lift another weight, or even have the strength to push myself back to my room. Frustrated, I would convince myself that the task was too difficult, that I couldn’t work anymore, and that it was impossible anyway. I would think about all of the hours that I had yet to work, and how bad my body ached now. I would be discouraged that the progress seemed slow and the routine repetitious. I looked around me, and it didn’t seem that anyone else was all riled up about getting out, and so I wondered what I was all excited about. But then, I would think of home.
I would remember the smell of my mother’s kitchen, the family around the table eating treats after Dad’s family home evening lesson. I would remember my sister laughing at everything her brothers said, and family prayer around the downstairs couch.
It was then that I would pray for the strength and the power to continue to work. Heavenly Father answered my prayers and gave me the motivation to fight another day and regain the power to go home.
Finally, I was discharged. I would be home for Christmas.
In many ways, this Christmas was just like any other Christmas. My little brothers woke up at 4:30 A.M. to see if Santa had come yet. When they found that he had, they waited outside of my parents’ room anticipating the glorious time when Mom and Dad would say it was okay to open the gifts. Finally, the go-ahead was given. The boys scrambled downstairs to the tree. The boys got their action figures, my sister got clothes, and I received the stereo I had hoped for.
With the festivities over, my Dad took a moment to gather us all together. He began to talk about the importance of Christmas while we sat amidst the piles of wrapping paper and boxes. We were more concerned with the spoils of the day than what Dad was talking about, until he asked each child to take a minute to talk about the favorite gift they had received that day.
The frivolity that once filled the room was instantly replaced with a quiet somberness. As Dad went around to my brothers and sister, each of them, who had earlier been so concerned with their physical gifts, answered with the same response. They said, “Our best present is to have Jason home again.”
With tears in my eyes, I had to agree. It felt great to be home.
It was a Christmas to remember, and as I begin to reflect on what made it so special, I realize that although still very ill, I felt a kind of health that I had not felt for some time—the health that comes with a grateful heart. I was grateful to be home.

Every time my family goes to visit Grandpa, he pinches his fingers at me and says, “Come here and let me tweak your nose.”
I say no, and I hide behind Grandma.
Dad laughs, and Mama gives Grandpa a hug.
When Grandpa’s not looking, I sneak up and tweak his nose.
Then he says, “Grandma and your mama are fixing a delicious supper, and you can’t have any.”
“Yes, I can,” I tell him.
“No, you can’t. Everybody’s working for their supper today. Your mama’s cooking and your dad’s wiring the new ceiling fan. You’re the only one who doesn’t know how to work,”
“I know how to work,” I tell Grandpa. “I help Dad in the garden.”
Grandpa says, “You’ll have to show me.”
We pick up a little basket from the garden shed.
In the garden, Grandpa ruffles the straight row of radish leaves. “These strawberries look big enough to eat,” he says.
“Those are radishes,” I tell him. And I pull one to show him.
“No. They’re strawberries,” he says. He wipes the radish clean, snaps off the root, and takes a bite. “Oh, it’s sweet. Have one.”
I laugh and say, “I don’t like radishes.”
Grandpa laughs too. He always tells me radishes are strawberries.
While I pick radishes, Grandpa pulls green onions.
When the basket is half full, he says, “Take these to Grandma. We’ll have radish sandwiches for supper.”
I run to Grandma with the basket. I tell her, “Grandpa says we’re having radish sandwiches for supper.” I try not to make an awful face, but I can’t help it.
Grandma and Mama laugh. Mama says, “He told me the same thing when I was little.”
“Honey,” Grandma says to me, “we’re having chicken.”
I feel much better about supper. Grandpa tells me, “Chicken takes a long time to cook. I think I’ll go to the park and swing.”
“You don’t swing,” I say. “I do.”
When we get to the park, Grandpa asks, “Are you ready to watch me swing?”
“You can’t swing,” I say. “You have to push me.”
“Push you? I’d rather sit on a park bench.”
“OK,” I say. “Sit on a bench. I’ll push myself.”
Grandpa sits and watches as I stretch toward the sky, going higher and higher. “Who taught you that?” he asks when we’re walking to the car.
“Mama taught me.”
“How could your mama teach you that?” Grandpa asks. “She doesn’t know how.”
“Yes, she does,” I tell him. “She said you taught her.”
“I bet she won’t teach you to play baseball.”
“She’s already teaching me.”
“When your mama was in grade school, she played baseball in this park.”
“That must have been a long time ago,” I say.
Grandpa’s quiet on the way home. When he stops the car, I ask, “Are you very old, Grandpa?”
“Sometimes,” he says, “but not when I’m with you.” He reaches across the car to me. “Come here and let me tweak your nose.”
I jump out of the car and run to the house. Grandpa follows me with his arm stretched out and his fingers pinching.
When we get to the back door, I let him catch me and tweak my nose. Then I run in the house, holding my nose and hollering, “Grandpa tweaked my nose!”
And everybody laughs.

Brent ran downstairs, his little sister, Lindsey, following close behind. “Mom!” Brent cried. “Lindsey won’t leave us alone!”
Brent’s best friend, Clint, had come over to play. The boys were playing with Brent’s fire truck and putting out the fires in the skyscrapers they had built out of blocks. “Lindsey always wants to do what we’re doing,” Brent said. “Why can’t she go away?”
“Brent, please be nice to your sister. She just wants to spend time with you,” Mom said.
“But, Mom, she always wants to tag along. Can’t she do something else for a while?”
“How about if we color together, Lindsey?” Mom asked. Lindsey nodded.
“Thanks, Mom,” Brent said as he started back up the stairs.
“Don’t forget, Brent,” Mom called after him. “You and Clint have practice for the Christmas program in less than an hour.”
“OK, Mom,” Brent replied.
“Mommy, why doesn’t Brent like me?” Lindsey asked, tears forming in her eyes.
“He does like you,” Mom said. “But sometimes he just wants to be with his friends. Brent loves you very much, even if he doesn’t always show it.”
A little while later, Mom took Brent and Clint to the church to practice for the Christmas program. Brent was excited. He was going to play Joseph this year. Before, he’d always been a sheep or a shepherd or a Wise Man. That was neat, but this year would be the best ever.
“OK, we’re going to practice the scene at the inns,” Brother Mitchell said. “Joseph and Mary, take your places. Innkeepers, it’s time.”
The Primary children hurried to their places onstage as Joseph and Mary approached the first inn.
“Please, do you have a room that we could stay in for the night?” Brent asked. “My wife is going to have a baby very soon, and she needs a place to rest.”
“I’m sorry. There’s no room,” the innkeeper said.
“Come on, Mary. Let’s try another place,” Brent said. They walked to the next innkeeper. “Hello, sir. We’ve come a long way, and my wife is going to have a baby very soon. Do you have a place where we can stay?”
“No, we’re all full. There’s no room.”
Brent went to the next innkeeper and knocked on the door, then the next, and then the next. The answer was always the same.
“There’s no room.”
“No room.”
“No room.”
“I’m so sorry, Mary,” Brent said. “Let’s try this one last place.” He turned and knocked on the door. “Sir, please, we’re very far from home, we have no place to go, and my wife is going to have a baby very soon. We’ve tried every inn in town. Do you have anywhere that we could stay?”
“I’m sorry. We’re all full.”
Joseph and Mary turned away slowly, looking sad. “I’m sorry, Mary,” Brent began. “I don’t know what—”
“Wait! Wait just a moment,” the innkeeper called after them. “Maybe I have a place after all. Come with me.” The innkeeper led them to the stable with cows, sheep, and other animals. “It’s not much, but you can stay here if you like.”
“This is wonderful,” Brent said gratefully. “Thank you very, very much.”
* * * *
A few days later, Clint was at Brent’s house again. They were playing in a big box, pretending it was a fort that protected them from invaders. But Lindsey kept bothering them, asking if she could come inside too.
“Lindsey, why don’t you go do something else? Can’t you see that there’s no room for—” Brent stopped mid-sentence. He thought of the words that he’d heard just a few days before: “No room, no room, no room.” He thought of Joseph and Mary and the baby Jesus, who meant so much to all of them. Then he looked at his little sister.
“I’m sorry, Lindsey. Of course there’s room for you. There’s always room for three.”

“President Lee once told of a woman in New York who approached him concerning her nonmember husband. Her spouse wanted her to attend parties that were far below Church standards. President Lee advised her that whereas a woman should follow her husband, she need not follow him to hell. The husband, upon hearing this from his wife, was, like your parents, extremely resentful.

“Let your parents know how much you love them and appreciate their offer but also that the Lord has said that sacrament meeting is the most important meeting we have to attend. Being the only member or active member of a family is sometimes a lonely ordeal. But if we seek to do the Lord’s will over the conflicting desires of loved ones who don’t or won’t understand, he will bless us. He certainly blessed the lady from New York. A few months after she had revealed the advice of the prophet, her ‘resentful’ husband was baptized.”

My former stake president once shared an experience that made me think about media safety in a new way. It all started when his family began hearing noises in the middle of the night.
“We’d run downstairs from our bedrooms but never saw anything,” Brent Butler said. “Some mornings we’d go downstairs and find the cat food bag toppled over on the kitchen floor.”
The family also began noticing a musty smell, which wasn’t unusual given that they live in a canyon. But then they found animal droppings behind the couch. One night after their oldest daughter returned from a date, she went to the kitchen and turned on the light. Then she screamed, “There’s a skunk in the house!”
When Brother Butler ran downstairs, he saw the biggest skunk he had ever seen. As his daughter jumped on the couch, the skunk ran down the stairs to the basement.
“Apparently, the skunk had wandered into the garage, climbed through a hole around a water shutoff valve, and got behind the basement staircase,” he said. “From there he found his way into the basement. He would come upstairs at night, eat cat food, and go back down.”
Brother Butler had seen the valve hole, but he thought it was too small to worry about. “I was wrong,” he said.
Then he shared this interesting observation: “If we’re not careful, metaphoric ‘skunks’ can sneak into our phones, computers, and televisions. They can surprise us and our children. Cyberspace offers lots of wonderful things, but we have to work to keep out uninvited guests like pornography, harmful social media, and other dangers.”
After she screamed, Brother Butler’s daughter called for her parents.
“It’s important that we have a close relationship with our children so that if a cyber skunk does show up, our children will come to us,” Brother Butler said.

Rebecca Swanston, a 12-year-old member of the Mt. Zion Baptist Church, had a speaking part in this year’s program. She participated with two LDS boys, Jean Gonzalez and Jason Godwin. Rebecca’s lines were about the lives of prominent African Americans and their contributions to society. Rebecca will remember those important facts, but she will also remember her new friends.

“I probably wouldn’t know Jason and Jean if we hadn’t done this program,” she says. “We’ve had a great time. I can’t wait for next year’s Black history program.”

Members of the choir rejoice that they are singing in “the Lord’s choir.” Duffie Hurtado, who has been singing in the choir for the past ten years, remembers, “After the choir sang at the dedication of the Washington D.C. Temple visitors’ center, we had the opportunity to be greeted by President Spencer W. Kimball, who shook our hands and thanked us for singing. At that point in my life, I was making some really serious decisions, and because of personal problems I was having, I felt it might be best if I left the choir. When I reached President Kimball, he took my hand and said, ‘This is the Lord’s choir, and this is where he wants you to be.’ I hadn’t told him I had a problem, or asked for his counsel. He just knew. With the other choir members around me in the line he just shook hands and said hello or thank you or God bless you. But when I stopped that’s what he said, and I will never forget it. I know that that man was a prophet of God, and I am so touched that the Lord would answer my prayers in such a special way.”

My mother, Madeline Bitner, was another great influence in my life. In her youth she was a fine athlete and a champion sprinter. She was always kind and loving, but her pace was exhausting. Often she would say, “Hurry up.” And when she did, we picked up the pace. Perhaps that was one of the reasons I had quick acceleration when I played football.
My mother had great expectations for her children and expected the best from them. I can still remember her saying, “Don’t be a scrub. You must do better.” Scrub was her word for someone who was lazy and not living up to his potential.
My mother passed away when she was 87 years old, and I think about her often and miss her more than I can say.

Jimmy Weston munched on a handful of jelly beans as he walked home from school. “Sometimes I wish Dad wouldn’t get transferred so often,” he muttered, kicking at a loose stone on the sidewalk.
Rolf rode by on his bike. “Hiya, Shorty!” he shouted.
Jimmy liked Rolf, but he hated being called Shorty. He wondered what it would feel like to be as tall as the other guys in his new sixth grade class.
He finished the last jelly bean and went into his house through the back door. A note from his mom invited him to have some fresh cookies that she’d baked. It also reminded him to stack the last of the boxes used for moving and to sweep out the garage.
Jimmy had finished a cookie and was just changing his clothes when the phone rang.
It was Mrs. Cobb, his teacher. “Jimmy, I know you’re new in town,” she said, “and you probably haven’t heard about the fall parade we help with each year.”
“No, ma’am,” Jimmy replied.
“Our class has been asked to do something special this time. I’m asking my students to try to come up with some ideas.”
“I’ll try to think of something, Mrs. Cobb. Thanks for calling me.”
Moving and stacking the empty boxes didn’t take Jimmy long, and he had almost finished sweeping the garage when his mother turned into the driveway. He gave one last push to the broom, then tossed it into a corner. As he did so, a long stick fell toward him.
“Hey, Mom,” Jimmy called as he pulled another stick from against the wall, “what are these things?”
His mother had her arms full of groceries. Glancing over her shoulder, she replied, “Oh, I’d almost forgotten about those. Here, Jimmy, help me carry some of these sacks into the house, and I’ll show you what they are.”
Mrs. Weston pushed open the back door, and they quickly put the groceries away. Then they went back to the garage.
“Those are the old stilts that your father had when he was your age. I didn’t remember that we still had them. Why don’t you try them out?” Mrs. Weston held the stilts upright. “Stand up on this box,” she said. “It’s about even with the footrests of the stilts.” She held the stilts steady. “Now, put your feet into the stirrups.”
Jimmy laughed as he fitted his feet into place. “It’s kind of like mounting a horse,” he said.
Mrs. Weston said, “Keep the stilts parallel and tight against your legs as you pick them up and move forward—it’s much like walking.” She steadied Jimmy as he moved slowly around the garage. Then she took her hands away, and he was on his own.
“Hey, Mom, this is really neat! I’m tall … like a giant!” he whooped. Clumping around the garage, then up and down the driveway, Jimmy felt like a king looking over his lands. “How do I get down?” he yelled as he moved toward the house.
“Go to the side of the back porch, Jimmy,” Mrs. Weston coached, “and get off there just like you got on.”
Jimmy carefully slipped his feet out of the stirrups, stepped onto the porch, then carried the stilts back into the garage. “Wow, Mom, I’ve never felt tall before. That was great!”
That night after supper Jimmy practiced walking on the stilts again. It was even easier the second time.
Three days later Mrs. Cobb asked Jimmy and Rolf and four other children in the class to stay after school for a meeting. “Have any of you come up with some ideas for the parade?” she asked. “It’s only ten days away.”
“We could make a float again this year,” Rolf suggested halfheartedly.
“Or we could dress up in costumes,” one of the others said.
As Jimmy sat listening, he suddenly thought of something different that they could all do. “Why don’t we each make a pair of stilts? We can wear long jackets and go as giants.”
He stopped, wondering if the others would think his idea was silly. But they weren’t laughing; they were looking at each other and nodding excitedly.
“Sounds like a great idea, Shorty, but how do you make them?”
“We can work on them in our garage,” Jimmy said, trying to forget that Rolf had called him that name again. “My dad has a pair that he used when he was a boy. We can use them for our pattern.”
Mrs. Cobb smiled. “It sounds like a really different idea, Jimmy. A good one too. Thanks.”
On the way down the hall after the meeting, Rolf playfully punched Jimmy’s shoulder. “I guess if you get up on those stilts, I can’t call you Shorty anymore.” He grinned.
Jimmy grinned back. “That would suit me just fine, Rolf,” he said.
Munching jelly beans on the way home, Jimmy realized that he didn’t feel short anymore. Maybe it wasn’t his height that had made Rolf change his mind about the nickname, but the fact that he had been willing to help the rest of the group, regardless of what they called him. He felt as tall as any of them now.
The next few days were busy with sawing, hammering, and sanding. Finally six pairs of stilts were ready for the parade.
The childrens’ mothers had all gotten together and made matching long jackets and tall hats.
The day of the annual event was bright and sunny. Bands played, there were decorated bikes and fancy floats, and marchers threw sticks of gum and candy kisses as they passed by the kids. But the biggest cheers were for six striding giants in fancy long jackets and tall hats, grinning and nodding to the crowd.

One evening, I met with my boss to discuss my situation and the goal I wanted to achieve (i.e. serving a full-time mission). After listening to me, he set a condition: If I would forgo my dream and stay with him, he would do everything for me. I knew he could do that. He had good intentions when he set this condition. He was very close to me, and I had become like a son to him. He trusted me more than some of his brothers. For me, the Savior‘s call was the most important thing. I, therefore, declined the offer. He even sent people to plead with me, but it was all in vain because I was determined to serve a mission.

Finally, I went to Abidjan to apply for my passport, during the COVID-19 pandemic. Along the way, we had to get off the bus and walk for miles to cross certain areas. We even had to walk through the forest during the trip.
There were all sorts of issues with getting a passport, but by God’s grace, I got mine.
After about a year of working on my mission application, I gave it to my bishop to submit it to the stake president. To my utter surprise, my bishop lost the file containing my passport and medical records. This was a huge ordeal for me. That night, I got on my knees and cried my heart out, pleading with God to make it possible for us to find the file. After my prayer, I told Heavenly Father that if we did not find the file, I would work on another application no matter how long it would take.
A few weeks later, a miracle happened: my file was found at the premises of my stake president’s company. The security guard had been keeping the file all this while since he did not know the owner.
This experience strengthened my faith in Christ, that He is mighty to save.
After receiving the file, we gave it to my stake president to fill it out and submit online. However, the file was not submitted online for nearly two months, and it was at this point that I felt like giving up. When I told my girlfriend that I wanted to give up, she replied with a statement that I had made at the beginning of our relationship, that nothing and no one could stop me from serving a full-time mission. I regained hope, called my stake president, and followed up with strict monitoring. When the application was submitted, I quit my job to better prepare for my mission. At one point, I ran out of food and was supported by my girlfriend.
Finally, my call came. I was called to serve in the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan West Mission with President and Sister Lewis. I was so happy I had attained my goal. I had to go to the training center in Ghana, but due to the COVID-19 pandemic, I had to undergo my training online. There again, I paid for an internet bundle out of pocket until I ran out of money. A few days later I informed my trainer that I would have to stop taking the course for lack of money. Surprised by what he had just learned, he sent a message to my stake president, and the problem was resolved. I then proceeded with my training as planned.
I experienced adversity from the beginning of my preparation till the end. I am grateful for having kept the faith and for the hand of God that supported me during those trying times.
After my mission, I married that young girl who stood by me through it all. We now have a child who makes us so happy. I testify that as much as we shall put our trust in God even so much we shall be delivered out of our trials, and our troubles, and our afflictions, and we shall be lifted up at the last day. (See Alma 38:5.)

“How can I get on the bus with the rest of the choir? A ‘III’ on my solo—the most horrible, embarrassing thing that ever happened to me in all my 18 years! How can I ever face anybody again?”
As a senior in high school, I had looked forward to my solo at the state high school music festival as just about the most important event of my life. I had faithfully toiled through all the necessary preparation, including voice lessons and long, hard hours of practice. I had gone the extra mile—and then some. I was ready to savor the fruits of my labor. If I needed any additional assurance of success, I had even lent my music to some girls who had forgotten theirs and was thus in line for a reward as a good Samaritan. Most important, I prayed for help just before my turn to perform, and I knew the Lord wouldn’t let me down.
I couldn’t believe it when I was given a “III” instead of a “I” or at least a “II.” I was crushed and humiliated. Fighting back angry tears, I came to the conclusion that the Lord had deserted me. I returned to Pocatello bearing my disappointment and bitterness like crimson banners. I would not be comforted. I didn’t want to be comforted.
The next Sunday was the Primary children’s program in our ward, and I led the children in singing some of the songs. The children sang so beautifully that for a moment I forgot my pain in the warmth of the experience, but afterward the feelings of shame and betrayal returned. The following day I was surprised to receive a letter from my high school choir director’s wife.
“Dear Judy,
“You most certainly turned in a performance today! I looked at the people as the children sang, and they were enthralled. Not one of the girls who got better ratings on their solos could ever dream of making those kids sing the way they sang for you. When you were leading them, you forgot all about yourself and relaxed, and you looked radiant. I could hear you singing along with them, and it was lovely.
“I know it’s hard for you, but please try to believe that your talents far outweigh the more obvious ones that the world makes so much of. I have grown fond of you in the last year, and it really hurts me to see you disillusioned and unhappy. The Lord loves you and has many wonderful things waiting for you. It will be a shame if you are too blinded by your own desires to recognize them when they come. Please have faith in those who love you and believe them when they tell you that the things that seem to matter the most sometimes turn out to matter least.
“I’ll never forget how proud I was of you today or how you thrilled me and all who were there with the beautiful way you handled the children. I have already forgotten what ratings those soloists received, but I will never forget a young lady whose sweet, loving spirit can make children sing like angels.
“Judy, today you rated a ‘I.’“Love, Mona”
I will be forever grateful for that good sister. Her wise letter taught me some important things that day 11 years ago. It taught me that everything is more beautiful when done for others. It taught me that service is more important than recognition. It taught me the importance of waiting and trusting. It taught me that no contests are held to judge the most important talents of all.
But in the end I learned more from her than I did from her letter. By reaching out, unasked, to a troubled young girl, she taught me that when she signed her letter “Love, Mona,” it wasn’t just a formality, it was a whole approach to life.
I have tried to live up to the rating she gave me that day.

Every Sunday in a small town in Argentina, a group of people met under a tree to read the scriptures and learn about the gospel. Some of the people were members of the Church. But many of them hadn’t been baptized, and they really wanted to be!
They had a problem, though. They lived far away from other towns. No Church leaders had come to visit their town for some time.
Then they heard that some missionaries were in a town about four hours away. They all gave money so one man could buy a bus ticket to the town where the missionaries were. When he got there, he waited at the bus station. He thought that would be the best place to find the missionaries.
After a few hours, he saw two young men. They were the missionaries! He told them about the people in his town. So the missionaries and the mission president planned a trip to meet these people.
On the day that the mission president and the missionaries came, many people gathered together to meet them. Now those who hadn’t been baptized yet could get baptized. After teaching them the lessons, they were ready!
The closest river was very far away, so they pumped water from a well and filled up a portable swimming pool. It took three hours to fill the pool! In all, 27 women, men, and children got baptized that day. They were filled with joy!

I am reminded of the grandfather who got on the airplane. As he went down the aisle looking for a seat, he came to an attractive woman, and he said, “Are you a grandmother?” And she said, “Yes, I am.” So he passed her up. He went on and repeated it again. Finally he asked a lady, “Are you a grandmother?” And she said, “No, I am not.” He said, “May I sit down? I want to talk about my grandchildren.”

Prophets help my testimony to grow. I love to read about the prophets and learn about their lives and how they were committed to following Jesus Christ. One story I love is about Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918). He was returning to Salt Lake City with several missionaries when a mob approached them. They shot their guns and cursed and yelled. The leader jumped off his horse and shouted, “We will kill anyone who is a Mormon!” All the other missionaries ran into the woods, but Joseph F. Smith stood strong. The man held a gun and asked, “Are you a Mormon?” Joseph F. Smith stood up even straighter and said, “Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through!” The man was surprised. Putting the gun away, he shook Joseph’s hand, and said, “Well, you are the pleasantest man I ever met! I’m glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.” Then he rode off and didn’t bother them again.1

My mind tuned in and out as the teacher explained the finer points of perspective drawing. I tried to concentrate, but to no avail. My mind kept wandering.
My thoughts were interrupted by the girl sitting next to me. She was tapping my shoulder, wanting to borrow an eraser. I complied and watched my eraser terminate an entire line of notes from her drawing pad.
As she handed it back, I noticed the eraser. It was gray, made of kneaded rubber, malleable and stretchy. These erasers seem to be a bit of magic. They never wear out; they just keep cleaning up your mistakes, no matter how dark. They’re better than any kind of eraser I’ve ever used.
Then a forceful thought came to me: how this small, gray eraser paralleled repentance. I recalled the words to a scripture in Isaiah: “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool” (Isa. 1:18). Perhaps Isaiah’s plea for repentance would have been more easily understood if it went, “Though your sins be as graphite …”
Well, maybe not, yet I imagined the pre-earth life; all of us going to earth at our appointed times, to the college of life to become artists. All of us needed to create some wonderful work of art. But upon arriving at the college of life, none of us knew the first thing about art. We had to learn to draw, and while learning we would all inevitably make mistakes. This is where the Savior came in; he made it possible for each of us to have our own eraser to correct our mistakes.
Suddenly I heard people moving around me. I came out of my meditation. Class was finally over. As I gathered my materials, I heard the teacher say: “The best artist is the one who can see his mistakes and correct them.”
The day’s lesson was well learned.

Some of Benjamin’s acquaintances felt the same way. “People wanted me to believe that we were too young, that my soon-to-be wife should complete an education first, and that if we got married, it would mean that we would have children, which we were also too young for,” he says.

Although Ane and Benjamin believed in the gospel’s emphasis on family and marriage, others not of their faith did not generally share this priority—at least not for young adults. “People in my town are strongly focused on education and work,” Ane explains. “This is good, but it does not leave much room for family—or religion.”

Benjamin says, “I had always thought that the right thing to do was to return from my mission, find someone I liked, then loved, and then, after having made a decision to marry and having received a witness from the Holy Ghost, get married. It seemed so simple to me, but suddenly everything had become confusing, dark, and difficult.”

Both Benjamin and Ane were concerned about the advice and opinions given by their friends. For a whole year they struggled to decide on the right time to get married. They knew that ultimately the most important guidance would come from the Lord, so they spent much time searching the scriptures and words of the prophets for talks about family, marriage, and education.

Benjamin never experienced a particular turning point in which he realized that marriage was the right decision at that time for him. Instead, he says, “I realized that I had to go back to the basics. Why was I here? What was my purpose on earth?”

As he searched the scriptures and the words of prophets and apostles, Benjamin turned to Heavenly Father in prayer. He also received priesthood blessings. “It became clear to me that I was sent to earth to return to God with my family,” he says. “There was no greater work or other task to supersede that. It’s in ‘The Family: A Proclamation to the World.’ If I knowingly disregarded this and did something else, I would be disobeying God’s commandments.

“Once it was revealed to me that what I had been taught all my life was so true that it had priority over others’ opinions, I felt enlightened. I decided to follow what I had been taught.”

Ane and Benjamin were married on July 16, 2009, in the Stockholm Sweden Temple. “When the day of our temple sealing arrived, I felt such peace,” Ane says. “It was all very simple. Beautiful. No worldly trappings. It felt so good to be with my parents and siblings in the temple—and with Benjamin. It was a time filled with true love.”

Benjamin agrees. “God has guided my life in such a way that I have been taught to put Him first,” he says. “For me, it wasn’t a choice between family or education; it was family first and education at the same time. Other decisions are the same. It isn’t God or nothing. It is God first; then everything else follows.”

A noted columnist, Erma Bombeck, described an experience which reminds us that little things can mean a lot. She recounted a frustrating morning of numerous phone calls and interrupting conversations before leaving for the airport.
And then she said, “[At last] there were thirty whole beautiful minutes before my plane took off—time for me to be alone with my own thoughts, to open a book and let my mind wander. A voice next to me belonging to an elderly woman said, ‘I’ll bet it’s cold in Chicago.’
“Stone-faced, I answered, ‘It’s likely.’
“‘I haven’t been to Chicago in nearly three years,’ she persisted. ‘My son lives there.’
“‘That’s nice,’ I said, my eyes intent on the printed page of the book.
“‘My husband’s body is on this plane. We’ve been married for fifty-three years. I don’t drive, you know, and when he died a nun drove me from the hospital. We aren’t even Catholic. The funeral director let me come to the airport with him.’”
Erma said, “I don’t think I have ever detested myself more than I did at that moment. Another human being was screaming to be heard and in desperation had turned to a cold stranger who was more interested in a novel than in the real-life drama at her elbow.
“All she needed was a listener—no advice, wisdom, experience, money, assistance, expertise or even compassion—but just a minute or two to listen. …
“She talked numbly and steadily until we boarded the plane, [and] then found her seat in another section. As I hung up my coat, I heard her plaintive voice say to her seat companion, ‘I’ll bet it’s cold in Chicago.’
“I prayed, ‘Please, God, let her listen.’” (Erma Bombeck, “Are You Listening?” If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries—What Am I Doing in the Pits?, New York: McGraw-Hill Book Co., 1978, pp. 197–98.)

For 50 years, another sister yearned for a relationship with her father. “Growing up,” she says, “there were my brothers and my dad, and then there was me—the only daughter. All I ever wanted was to be ‘good enough’ for my dad.
“Then my mom passed away! She was my only liaison between my dad and me.
“One day,” the sister said, “I heard a voice say, ‘Invite your dad and take him to the temple with you.’ That was the beginning of a twice-a-month date with my daddy to the house of the Lord. I told my dad I loved him. He told me he loved me too.
“Spending time in the house of the Lord has healed us. My mom could not help us on earth. It took her being on the other side of the veil to help mend what was broken. The temple completed our journey to wholeness as an eternal family.”
The father says, “The temple dedication was a great spiritual experience for me and my only daughter. Now we attend together and feel our love strengthen.”

This experience is familiar to those who have been involved in translating the scriptures from English into other languages. It happens over and over:
A young Armenian holding a copy of the Book of Mormon only recently translated into his language approaches a member of the team who assisted with the translating: “Thank you,” he says. “I have read the Book of Mormon in English. I have read the Book of Mormon in Russian. I have read it in Ukrainian. But until I was able to read it in Armenian, I did not truly understand it. When I read it in Armenian, it finally made sense. It was like coming home.”

Conversion didn’t come overnight for Elder Wakolo, and over the first eight years of the couple’s marriage, he met with many missionaries. “I completed the [missionary] discussions four times in eight years,” he said. “I have 24 missionaries.” It was a simple question from one of those missionaries about the name of the Church that changed his mind about baptism. “The Church needs to be named after its owner,” he said. “That was it for me.”