Gospel Story Finder

“While Dad was attending Ricks College, he was home ill one day when a lovely girl came to their house to see his father about a job. Dad remarked at the time that ‘Ida was the one—I saw her come through the door that day and knew she was the one for me.’”

Thirty-six years ago I served a mission in southeast Mexico. At that time there were no stakes, with the largest cities in the mission having only two branches. There were limited opportunities for education and much poverty. With two or three exceptions, all the missionaries were from the United States.
I remember the people of the Nealtican Branch. All buildings in the town were made of adobe, except the Catholic cathedral and the LDS chapel. I remember standing in the small adobe house of the branch president. It had a dirt floor, windows with no glass, and a rug hanging over the entryway. There was no furniture in the house. His family had no shoes.
But they were a happy people. He told me that they had sold everything they had to buy bus tickets to the Mesa temple, where they were sealed for time and all eternity. Many of the branch members had done the same thing.

Walking Hawk moved slowly toward the fire in the center of the village and took a place in the shadows behind the other novice warriors. He tried not to look across the fire at Standing Elk, Eagle Claw, Buffalo Horn, or the other boys his own age who now had taken their places with the men.
Walking Hawk barely heard the talk at the council meeting. His impatience made all other thoughts grow dim. Perhaps if he hadn’t gone with the hunters in search of wild horses, he, too, would be sitting there with the men. A picture of the splendid young roan mare that had been his pay for helping in the horse hunt, however, filled his mind so that he wasn’t too envious of the other boys’ new position of manhood.
Most of the boys who had proven themselves during his absence had killed only antelope or deer, not the great buffalo.
Walking Hawk sat up straighter. That was what he would do. He would not settle for less than a buffalo. Then it wouldn’t matter so much that he hadn’t been among the first.
With the vow bright in his heart, Walking Hawk listened to the words of Long Arm, one of the most famous leaders among all the Sioux.
“The buffalo no longer come to this place as they have in the past,” Long Arm said. Then he paused, glancing around the circle of faces turned toward him. No one spoke.
“The season grows late for securing meat and hides and all else that the buffalo provides for our people. Winter will be upon us before we are prepared. We cannot wait any longer. Tomorrow we must go to the west in search of the buffalo.”
A murmur rose from the men in the circle, for there was danger in going farther west into Crow country, the land of their enemies.
Seeing nothing but a few straggler buffalo during the next three days, the Sioux’s hopes quickened when scouts reported signs that a large herd had been in the vicinity not many days before. The women were pleased when Long Arm announced that a more permanent camp would be made near the ragged, gray bluffs where they would have cover and shade. From here, the scouts would search for the buffalo herd and signal the men to ride out for the hunt.
It was barely dawn when the hunt leader rode out with a few of the most experienced scouts in search of the herd. For those left at camp, the day passed slowly. The waiting was hard for everyone.
Without really tasting it, Walking Hawk ate the supper his mother set in front of him that evening. He walked to the horse herd to watch the animals graze along the stream, and then came back to the tepee to sleep.
Early the next morning Walking Hawk stepped from the tepee. He could not stand this inactivity any longer. He had decided to slip away from the camp to find and kill a straggler buffalo. If no herd were found, he, at least, would have proved himself in his own hunt.
As he had on many mornings in the past, Walking Hawk searched the horse herd for his roan mare.
Impatience pushed at him but still he took time to rub the pony’s coat with a bunch of grass until it gleamed in the first morning light. He casually glanced around at the hunters who had now returned to the village for their morning meal.
Walking Hawk moved slowly, as though he were leading his pony to the stream for water and the better grass growing near there. At the stream, he mounted and sat astride his pony, studying the clouds overhead and the ripples in the water. Then pressing his heels in slightly, the roan started walking downstream. Once around the bend, Walking Hawk crouched forward and dug his heels into the pony’s sides.
He felt a strange uncertainty about running away without telling even his father about his plan. But when he returned with a buffalo, they would all be proud of him.
Walking Hawk had ridden quite a distance without seeing game of any kind, by the time the sun was straight overhead. He decided to ride only as far as the next rise with the stunted trees, and then he would turn back to camp.
Halfway to the trees, Walking Hawk quickly pulled the pony to a halt. Moving from the protection of the trees were two buffalo cows and a partly grown calf. They had not caught sight of him yet and the wind was in his favor.
Sliding off his pony’s back, Walking Hawk paused just long enough to fit an arrow to his bow. Then he ground-reined the pony and crept forward alone.
He would shoot the young cow since the calf was old enough to be weaned. The other cow was too old and tough. Walking Hawk was just about to let the arrow fly, but he paused for a moment. Had he seen a movement beyond the buffalo? His heart jumped like a startled coyote when he realized what the movement was.
In his excitement at seeing the buffalo, Walking Hawk had not been careful and had moved above the horizon line.
Now he had been seen by Crow warriors!
The horsemen were still some distance away, down the west side of the ridge. But they rode swiftly toward him.
The buffalo were forgotten as Walking Hawk bolted for his pony. Sensing his fear, the mare was in motion almost before he had mounted. With this much head start, he hoped to outrun the Crows to the camp.
Then suddenly Walking Hawk’s head reeled, for he recognized the mistake of his thinking. He must not ride toward the camp. To do so would give away the location of his people and make them easy prey for their enemies.
Swallowing his fear, Walking Hawk headed the pony off at an angle from their camp. He glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see that the riders had not yet topped the ridge. Is it possible that they haven’t seen me, he wondered.
Twice more he glanced back. Five warriors had ridden into clear view.
Walking Hawk rode on all through the afternoon, beyond the time of dusk and into the night. Though his pony breathed hard, it did not falter. His heart sang with gratitude for such a fine animal.
At last, Walking Hawk brought his pony to a halt. Though there was no sound of his pursuers, he knew that they could be very near just waiting for morning to resume their chase. But now he and his pony must have rest. He wondered if he had come so far that he would be unable to find his way back to the camp.
Morning came quickly and as Walking Hawk scanned the horizon in all directions, he felt certain that he had lost the five warriors who had followed him all the previous day.
Though he was becoming faint from hunger, Walking Hawk climbed on his pony and rode toward camp. Dusk was settling like a heavy robe over the land when he caught sight of the familiar line of bluffs ahead. The camp was so well hidden that, without previous knowledge, he would never have guessed its location.
Walking Hawk swallowed hard at the rough command of a sentry who rose up from among the rocks with his bow and arrow poised.
“It is Walking Hawk, son of Red Feather,” he struggled for words. “I—I have returned.”
“You have brought concern to your family and danger to us all,” the sentry scolded him.
The sound of their voices brought Walking Hawk’s father in long strides. His face was dark with anger.
“Care for your horse,” Red Feather commanded. “And then you shall explain the worry that you have brought to your mother.” He strode away as quickly as he had come.
Walking Hawk wanted to make the task of caring for his pony stretch on for a long time, but he dared not. Never had he seen such anger on his father’s face.
Red Feather’s anger did not lessen as Walking Hawk told of his strong wish to become a successful hunter, of his plan for at last achieving it, of his near success, and then of the coming of the Crow warriors.
“So careless!” his father exploded. “Surely, my son would not be so foolish about his own safety or that of his people. Failing to creep carefully to the top of a ridge when in enemy country is unbelievable!”
As his father spoke, Walking Hawk began to realize the seriousness of his act. He tried to swallow the shame that rose bright in his heart. But he could not look at his father. Now he understood that the laws of his people were not just unreasonable rules set down by adults. His act had been a selfish one.
His father put Walking Hawk’s next thought into words. “No one among us has the right to bring danger to himself if it could also bring danger to our people. There can be no safety for any of our people unless each one accepts responsibility for the welfare of all.”
Walking Hawk nodded seriously. “When at last a buffalo herd is sighted,” he said, “I shall stay behind to help guard the camp. It is what I wish.”
Red Feather looked surprised. But as he left the tepee, his heart swelled with pride. Now Walking Hawk was indeed becoming a man!

One day recently, about noon, I was urging President Kimball to have some lunch and then take a nap. He resisted, and I indicated that if he didn’t do as I suggested, Sister Kimball might scold me. He looked up at me and with a chuckle and a sly grin said, “Well I’d rather have her scold you than me!”

The entire family enjoys drama. They put on skits, puppet shows, and brief musicals during family home evenings and for summer activities. One of their favorite skits was a Western, which they did for a Primary talent show in Emmett, Idaho. Nicholas liked it because he got to fall into a pie tin filled with whipped cream. Ashley liked it because she had a beard made of chocolate—yum! Sometimes they wear animal noses and play zoo.

Frieda, who lives in Hamburg, Germany, needs special medical care that her family can’t provide. So she lives in a facility where she can receive proper treatment. She keeps in touch with her children and enjoys the associations in her retirement community.

Jared’s thumbs flew over his video-game controller. This was it! He was finally going to beat his big brother!
Trees and rocks flew past on the TV screen as Jared’s car zoomed into the last stretch of the final lap.
BAM! Travis’s car came out of nowhere, pushing Jared’s car off the racetrack. A second later, Travis flew across the finish line.
“Yes!” Travis said. “Still the champ!”
“That wasn’t fair!” Jared said. “I want a rematch.”
“That was a rematch,” Travis answered with a laugh. “Face it, little bro. I’m a blast from the past made of nothin’ but fast!”
Usually Jared liked joking around with Travis when they played video games. But this time he didn’t feel like laughing. “Let’s race again,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Travis asked. “You seem kind of mad.”
“I’m not mad!” Jared said loudly. “Come on. One more race.”
Travis shrugged. “OK. But last one.”
By the end of the second lap, Jared’s car was in third place. His heart started thumping harder. Then halfway through the final lap, he finally caught up with Travis’s car. It was now or never! Jared’s thumbs flew as he did his best passing move.
BAM! At the last second, Travis crashed into Jared’s car, sending it off the track—again!
“Aaaugh! Not again!” Jared felt anger filling up inside him like a water balloon ready to pop. He threw the controller down and jumped off the couch. Then he ran and kicked the wall next to the TV.
CRUNCH!
Jared stared down in disbelief. He pulled his foot slowly out of the hole in the wall he’d just made with his foot.
“Whoa,” Travis said. “That’s not good.”
Suddenly Jared’s anger vanished. Now he was just plain scared. Not only about what Mom and Dad were going to say but because he’d never felt that mad before. And all over a dumb video game!
“Hey, bro. I’m sorry,” Travis said. “I wasn’t trying to be mean.”
“It’s not your fault,” Jared said. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
Jared spent the rest of the afternoon dreading the time when Mom and Dad would get home from their date. What would he tell them? He couldn’t even explain it to himself. He went to his bedroom to pray. He asked for forgiveness and for help in knowing how to talk to Mom and Dad.
As soon as he heard their voices, Jared ran out to meet them. “Mom! Dad! I’m so sorry!”
Dad stopped laughing. “Sorry for what?”
Jared showed them the wall and explained what had happened.
“We’re glad you told us the truth,” Mom said. They all agreed that Jared would do extra chores to help pay for fixing the wall. That was only fair.
Dad’s face softened. “The wall isn’t what has me worried. Can you help me understand how you got so angry?”
Jared tried to put into words how he’d felt when he kept losing over and over.
“It sounds like you started feeling really frustrated,” Dad said. “Do you think it might be a good idea to cut back on video games for a few weeks?”
Jared nodded. That made sense. Maybe he and Travis could go on more bike rides.
“We love you,” Dad said, pulling Jared into a hug. “If you have any more problems like this, we can figure it out together.”
Jared said a quick prayer after Mom and Dad left the room. “Thank Thee for helping me talk to Mom and Dad.”
He felt a warmth spread in his heart. This is the best feeling I’ve had all day, he thought. Things are going to be OK.

Many years later, in 1873, Kitty, the wife of this great man, Jonathon Napela, contracted leprosy. She was a beautiful and noble woman in the early days of the Church in Hawaii. Today modern medical knowledge has advanced so that this disease is no longer fatal, but at that time, there was no cure for this dreadful disease. In order to prevent the spreading of this disease, once you contracted it you were forced to live on one of the seashores in the leper colony on Molokai. The lepers were taken there by boat. The sailors were so afraid of this disease that they pushed the patients into the sea, forcing them to swim to shore.

Because his wife had to go to Kalaupapa, the leper colony, Jonathon, too, wanted to go. He took her hand and they went there together. Why would he do this? Because he loved her so much! He knew that life is eternal and love is eternal, even through days of “sickness and health.”

History records that this valiant and giant man of God worked in the leper colony and fought to obtain government assistance for the lepers to have a more comfortable place to live. He was a giant in the pure love of Christ for his own people. Oh, I can almost hear the words of Paul to the Corinthians when he said, “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal” (1 Cor. 13:1).

This good brother later contracted that same disease and died even before his wife passed away. She followed him two years later.

“The challenge,” announced Brother Anderson to our institute class, “is to carry a copy of the Book of Mormon with you at all times while on campus. And hiding them in your purses and backpacks doesn’t count,” he added with a chuckle.
Piece of cake, I thought. How hard can it be to carry around a Book of Mormon?
Faithfully, I stacked the Book of Mormon on top of my books, hoping it would attract attention. It did. One look at the trumpeting angel sent most people running for cover. No one wanted to hear about my book or my religion. Not until Lifesaving 101, that is.
My lifesaving class was a small one, mostly competitive swimmers and divers. It was there that Chris*—tan, blond, and built like Mr. Atlas—asked to see my Book of Mormon. My heart thumped wildly as I handed him the book.
“Do you know what it says in this book?” he shouted, waving it over his head. Instantly, all eyes were on him. “It says that there are eight-foot-tall men on the moon who wear long black coats and stovepipe hats. And they all have 20 wives!”
Some missionary tool this is, I thought, as I considered trying to squeeze my 5-foot, 8-inch frame into the two-foot space beneath my desk. What would my teammates think of me? No sooner had that thought appeared when a scripture from the Bible forced it out:
“For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ: for it is the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth” (Rom. 1:16).
I met Chris’s haughty stare with a challenge of my own. “If you can show me where in the Book of Mormon it says anything like that,” I said, “I will leave the LDS church.”
A united gasp rose from the class, followed by a deafening silence. Chris shuffled furiously back and forth through the pages of the Book of Mormon. Finally, thrusting the book back at me, he retreated to his seat, defeated.
I then bore fervent testimony of the Book of Mormon and of the prophet Joseph Smith to Chris and to the rest of the class. No one talked to me much that afternoon during swim practice, except for a quiet guy named Dorian. “May I see your book?” he asked.
Three years later, as Dorian and I knelt at the altar in the Washington D.C. Temple and were sealed for time and all eternity, I was grateful for the challenge of an inspired institute director, grateful too for a prophet of the Lord who challenged us to read daily from the Book of Mormon.

Many years ago, while attending a stake conference, I noticed that a counselor in the stake presidency was blind. He functioned beautifully, performing his duties as though he had sight. It was a stormy night as we met in the stake office situated on the second floor of the building. Suddenly there was a loud clap of thunder. The lights in the building almost immediately went out. Instinctively I reached out for our sightless leader, and I said, “Here, take my arm and I will help you down the stairway.”
I’m certain he must have had a smile on his face as he responded, “No, Brother Monson, give me your arm, that I might help you.” And he added, “You are now in my territory.”
The storm abated, the lights returned, but I shall never forget the trek down those stairs, guided by the man who was sightless yet filled with light.

President Charles W. Penrose used to tell the story of an officer on the Titanic who stated that there was no fear of “God, man or devil,” because the Titanic was built so solidly that it could readily withstand collision with other ships or contact with any other force, including icebergs. The Titanic was in fact three football fields in length, 12 stories high, and built of the finest steel. On that fateful night of April 14, 1912, other ships warned of ice ahead. Yet the Titanic continued to increase her speed, cutting through the cold Atlantic Ocean. By the time the lookouts sighted the iceberg, it was too late. The Titanic could not turn out of its way in time, and the iceberg scraped along the starboard side of the ship, creating a series of punctures. Two hours and 40 minutes later the brand-new Titanic sank to the bottom of the ocean. Over 1,500 people were drowned.

They were married in 1996. Just a few months later, Ruth’s father passed away.
“His death was the cause of a severe depression in my life,” Ruth explains. “You never get over losing a loved one. You always feel the loss.”
In 2001, Richard’s mother died. Again, the loss brought much sorrow. But over the years, Richard had matured in his knowledge and testimony of the gospel, and that provided a comforting perspective.
“Because of the gospel,” he says, “I understood a little bit about how my mom was doing. I shared Alma 40:11 with Ruth and explained what happens to the spirit when it leaves the body. This was a great comfort to us both.”

Patrick’s six-year-old arms were full, with a bag of books, crayons, and paper in one hand; his stuffed dog, Muffin, in the other hand; and his pillow squashed between his arms, blocking most of his view.
“Hey, watch out!” his eight-year-old sister, Madeline, said as he bumped through the hall.
“Sorry.” Patrick’s voice was muffled by the pillow, which somehow got into his mouth when he tried to talk. He reached his chin up high, then pushed the pillow down a little so he could see the front door better. When he reached the car, Dad unloaded the things from Patrick’s arms.
“It looks like you’ll be plenty comfortable all the way to Florida with this big pillow and Muffin to keep you company,” Dad said.
“I can’t wait to get to Grandma and Grandpa’s house! I hope that it doesn’t rain, so we can play outside every day.”
Dad laughed. “I hope it doesn’t rain on the way down, either, because it’s no fun to drive in the rain!”
“OK, Dad, I’ll say a prayer for no rain all the time we’re gone to Florida!”
Dad patted Patrick’s shoulder. “Patrick, I’m happy that you understand that you can pray for the things that are important to you.”
“I learned in Primary that sometimes Heavenly Father doesn’t give us everything we want but that we can still get a good feeling that He is watching out for us and doing what will help us. That’s what Sister Lawrence said.”
“She’s right,” Dad said. “I’m very glad that you go to Primary. We’ve learned a lot of new things since joining the Church, haven’t we?”
“Yes, but I want to really join! I can’t wait until I am baptized, like you and Mom and Madeline!”
Dad rumpled Patrick’s hair. “Your eighth birthday will be here sooner than you think,” he said. “And when you are baptized, I think you will know more than anyone else in our family did when they got baptized! You’ll have had almost two years with wonderful Primary teachers like Sister Lawrence, and almost two years of family home evenings to help make you very wise.”
Patrick helped Dad put the bag of books and papers under his seat in the car, and Muffin on the seat beside the window. “Dad, do you think Grandma and Grandpa will come to my baptism?”
Dad’s face looked serious, and he pulled Patrick onto his lap. “Grandpa and Grandma feel sad that we don’t go to the church they go to anymore. They don’t understand about how the Holy Ghost gave us the warm feeling inside and let us know that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true church.”
“If Grandpa and Grandma could have the missionaries come to their house, then they could have the Holy Ghost give them a warm feeling inside too. Then maybe they would want to join the Church.”
“Maybe so, and that would be wonderful. Right now they have asked us not to talk about the Church to them. But it is really important that we show them that we still love them very much, even if we don’t go to their church anymore. Can you help us do that, Patrick?”
“Sure. It’s easy to show Grandpa and Grandma that I love them. They’re nice!”
Everyone had brought everything they wanted to take to the car, and Dad found places to pack it all in. “All aboard!” he called into the house. Everyone piled into the car. Dad said a prayer for safety as they traveled, and they were off.
It seemed to take forever to drive to Grandma and Grandpa’s. Sometimes Patrick played with Muffin and showed him all the things out of the window. Sometimes he read his books or worked on puzzles. And sometimes the whole family listened to music and sang along.
Mom had brought tapes of Primary songs, and Patrick and Madeline sang along with the ones they knew.
Patrick loved to sing what he called the “rainbow song”* especially. Whenever mother played it, he sang the first verse so loudly that no one could hear anything else.
He hadn’t learned all of the second verse yet, but Patrick knew that it talked about being baptized and about how clean he would feel after he was baptized. When the song was done, he couldn’t keep his feelings in. “I can’t wait to get baptized!” he yelled.
After a whole day of driving, a night at a motel, and another day of driving, Patrick’s family at last arrived at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
In the next few days, Patrick had a great time visiting with cousins and his grandparents and playing in the field and stream behind his grandparents’ house. His cousins helped him build a dam in the stream, and Grandpa helped him capture some insects from the field and keep them in a jar until dinnertime. Then they let them all go.
Before Dad and Mom tucked him and Madeline in at night, they read the Book of Mormon together and had a family prayer.
Each night the person saying the prayer asked that Grandma and Grandpa would feel better about the Church and not be angry anymore. But the day before the family was to leave, it looked as though Grandma and Grandpa would just keep feeling bad about it.
That afternoon, Patrick sat at the kitchen table. He drew a big rainbow on a piece of paper. As he colored it, he sang, “I like to look for rainbows whenever there is rain! I like to look for rainbows whenever there is rain!”
“That’s a great picture, Patrick,” Grandma said. “And you even made up a song about it!”
“Nope. It’s a song I learned at church.”
“Oh.” Grandma stopped smiling, and she turned to put the dishes away.
“Do you want to hear the rest of the song?”
“No thanks.” Grandma didn’t even look at Patrick or his picture anymore.
Patrick went over to her. “Grandma, even though you don’t like the Church, can I sing the song? I like it a lot. It’s my favorite song, and I always feel happy when I sing it.”
“OK.”
Patrick sat down again by his picture and sang the whole first verse. “‘I like to look for rainbows whenever there is rain And ponder on the beauty of an earth made clean again. I want my life to be as clean as earth right after rain. I want to be the best I can and live with God again.’”
Grandma came over and sat in the chair beside him. “Patrick, why did you say that I don’t like your church?”
“Because Mom and Dad said you don’t want us to talk about it.”
“Is that what they teach you at your church, that you want to do your best so that you can live with God?”
“Yep. And we should choose the right, especially after we’re baptized. Then we can go to live with Heavenly Father.”
Grandma picked Patrick up in her lap and gave him a hug. “Patrick, I like my church. I couldn’t understand why your family would want to leave it for another church. But if your church teaches you to choose the right and to want to live with Heavenly Father, and if it teaches you beautiful songs that help you feel happy, then I think I should let you talk about it if you want to.”
“That would be great, Grandma! Then we could tell you how the Holy Ghost gave us a warm feeling inside and helped us want to be baptized!”
“Well, maybe so, but right now maybe you could just teach me that beautiful rainbow song!”
“Sure!” He gave Grandma the biggest hug he could.

Prior to my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I associated for many years with another Christian denomination. There, the notion of prophets and apostles was a thing of the past. Discussion about topics such as modern revelation or living prophets and apostles were prohibited.
In 1995, I was still working on my understanding of this doctrine when President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) visited London. We were invited to a special meeting at Wandsworth Stake center. There, something indescribable happened which strengthened my testimony of a living prophet. As the company started entering the chapel, my attention was immediately drawn to President Hinckley, and I had an overwhelming feeling as if a voice spoke to me saying “This is the living prophet on the earth today. He is the mouthpiece of the Savior”. I am grateful for that personal experience. This became an anchor to my understanding of the need for a living prophet and the importance of following his counsel.

As a direct consequence of Elder Doug Himstreet’s missionary service, two parents, six children, six sons and daughters-in-law, 23 grandchildren and one great granddaughter have been blessed by having the gospel in their lives. We are still in touch with Elder Doug Himstreet and his wife, Celestia. They attended my eldest son’s wedding and came to the temple with us to see them sealed.

It worried me when I noticed that my good friend was not coming to church anymore. Her close friend, I found, had recently passed away, and she was beginning to doubt. One day I invited her to a party with some girls from church. I made it a goal to bring up the Church once. After the others left, we talked about various Church topics that I would have never thought to talk to her about. I learned that by doing my part, the Lord will take care of the rest. All we need to do is open our mouths (see D&C 28:16).

Rebecca T., 16, Washington, USA

Grandma’s the one with the homemade bread,
and the beautiful quilt upon her bed,
and elegant needlepoint dining chairs.
She knitted the booties the baby wears,
embroidered the pillowcases under her head,
sewed the exquisite gown for the day she wed.
Of course, she’ll do all these things for me!
But when she’s gone, then what will become
of the talents I never learned,
never worked at, and never earned?
Lost! And when my children ask,
“Can you teach me this special task?”
I’d hate to say, “I can’t do that—
or crochet, knit, crewel, quilt, or tat.”
I can’t make special things for home or kids;
if grandma didn’t do it, nobody did!
I must confess as I rant and rave,
all I can work is the microwave!
I better start now so I can be
the very best grandma you’ll ever see.
This verse, a shawl, and granny glasses were given to each young woman of the Las Vegas 27th and 42nd wards as they entered the Relief Society room one special day last summer. The Young Women and Relief Society of the 42nd Ward (Las Vegas Nevada Paradise Stake) sponsored an evening of displays, workshops, fun, and refreshments in an effort to inform and motivate the young women about the arts of handwork. They were shown the basics of needlepoint, embroidery, crewel, quilting, knitting, crocheting, and tatting, and were encouraged to seek help from family, friends, and the Relief Society sisters in their own wards in developing those skills. Refreshments afterwards included home-baked bread, butter, jam, and milk.
Carol Burke, Relief Society president from the 42nd Ward, summed up the goals of the evening best by explaining, “An heirloom can only be handed down to one child or grandchild, but a creative talent can be passed on to an entire generation to enrich and beautify their lives.”

One sentence in my patriarchal blessing thrilled me: “You will be called to preach the gospel in the world.” I had a lifelong desire to serve a mission, and so when I heard that sentence, I felt that I would have that opportunity.
When it was time for me to serve a mission, the United States was involved in a war and only a few young men were actually allowed to serve missions. The rest were expected to serve their country in the war if they were drafted.
At that time, all prospective missionaries were interviewed by General Authorities as well as by their local Church leaders. I went through the interview process, and because of that sentence in my patriarchal blessing, I thought I would be called on a mission. I was terribly disappointed when I was notified that I was required to serve my country instead.
I often thought about that sentence in my patriarchal blessing. When and how will I be called to preach the gospel? I asked myself. Today, of course, as a General Authority, I am preaching the gospel all over the world. I can see now how that promise is being fulfilled. But when I was younger, I often wondered.

When a sister in our ward started coming to church again after six years, my mother told my brothers and sisters and me that we should be friends with the sister’s two children. Their dad had died just a year before, and they were still very sad. One of the children, Evelyn, was a little younger than I am.
Mama asked me, “Monahra, will you be Evelyn’s friend? Heavenly Father has asked you to be a member missionary. Be loving and friendly, and be sure that she is not left alone.”
I told Mama that I would, and since that day, I have tried to be a member missionary for Evelyn. Because I want to be a full-time missionary when I grow up, I am trying my best to be a missionary now.
Evelyn is a great friend, and she smiles a lot now. We play, go to Primary, and sing hymns together. Sometimes we have family home evening together at her house. I know that Heavenly Father is happy because I have tried to be a member missionary and a friend. I am grateful to have Evelyn as a friend.

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar.
Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
In those days my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several such dolls were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree. “Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction.
“I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”