Gospel Story Finder

The members of our ward in the Grand Junction Colorado Stake were taught the true meaning of service as we witnessed a new deacon pass the sacrament for the first time. I never thought I would be a witness to such a humbling event that had most of the members shedding a tear or two.
Brother Braden Anderson bowed his head during the sacrament prayer then looked up to get ready to pass the bread to his section of the ward. He was helped by Brother Renner as he reached to take the tray of bread. You see, Braden Anderson has cerebral palsy, which makes it difficult for him to move, talk, or reach for a tray.
As I saw a big smile cross his face, I looked immediately to our good bishop, Braden’s father. I saw the face of Bishop Anderson turn from anxiety to gratitude that his son could fulfill his duties as a new deacon.
I heard some members whisper to each other, “Look at Braden. He’s smiling, wow! He’s fulfilling his duties.” I saw some other members take off their glasses to wipe away the tears caused by understanding the important lesson that unfolded before our eyes.
For me, Braden’s strength lifted me up so much that there was not room for tears—just the excitement of knowing that he was doing something others would have deemed impossible. Though he had help from Brother Renner, it was Braden who was doing his duties as a deacon.

As I once again set foot upon the field and walked once more a jungle path, in my mind I heard again the stutter of the machine gun, the whistle of shrapnel, and the clatter of small arms. I saw again the bronzed, youthful faces of friends who “gave the last full measure of devotion” (Abraham Lincoln, Gettysburg Address). And I thought of one in particular and one day—a single day, April 3, 1966, Palm Sunday, the Easter season—42 years ago almost to this very day.
Our infantry battalion had been in Vietnam for several months. I was a lieutenant, the leader of a rifle platoon. We were involved almost constantly in combat operations. That day dawned with our battalion deep in hostile territory. Very early we sent out a reconnaissance patrol of about 10 men. One of them was Sergeant Arthur Morris. Several of the men were wounded in a firefight, including Sergeant Morris, who received a slight flesh wound. Eventually the men of the patrol limped back to our lines.
We radioed for a medical evacuation helicopter. Loading the wounded men on the chopper, I urged Sergeant Morris also to get aboard. He demurred. Again I urged him. Again he demurred. Once again I admonished him. Once again he refused. Finally I said, “Sergeant Morris, get on that chopper.”
He looked at me, his eyes earnest, pleading. “Please, sir,” he said, and then these words that will forever haunt me: “They can’t kill a tough old bird like me.”
The entire scene is etched in my mind like a battle tableau: the jungle clearing; the impatient, throbbing rotor blade of the helicopter; the pilot looking at me expectantly; and my friend begging to stay with his men. I relented. I waved away the chopper with its lifeline to Tomorrow. Before the sun had set that very day, my dear friend Sergeant Arthur Cyrus Morris lay dead upon the ground, felled by hostile fire. And echoing in my mind over and over again, I hear his exclamation, “They can’t kill, they can’t kill, they can’t kill …”

It was really late, and my sister was asleep, but I was still up reading. I held my book and flashlight under the covers. If Mom or Dad came to see if I was still awake, I could switch off my flashlight, close my eyes, and they’d never know I wasn’t really asleep.
I just couldn’t put my book down yet. It was full of scary stories, and I had to know what happened next.
Scritch, scritch. I jumped. What was that sound? It was coming from my window. It sounded just like in the story I was reading, where a girl was hiding from a ghost in her house.
I shivered as the sound came again. Scritch, scritch, meow. I slowly let out my breath. It was just our cat scratching the window. Maybe it was time to put the book down and go to sleep.
I stuck my bookmark between the pages and hid the book under my pillow. Then I switched off the flashlight. Now it was totally dark. The bed creaked as I rolled over. What was that shadow in the corner? Had that been there before?
I pulled the covers up over my head and tried to fall asleep. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl in the story. What would I do if a ghost was in my house?!
Ghosts aren’t real, I told myself. It’s just a story. I kept telling myself that, and finally I fell asleep.
The next day was a book sale at school. I’d been saving up my chore money for weeks. When it was my class’s turn, I went straight to the scary stories.
At the bottom of the stack was a book with an old picture of a creepy house. “I bet it’s haunted,” I told my friend Julia. I tucked it under my arm and found two other books to try.
That night I started my new books. I read straight through the first one. You had to read scary stories fast. If you thought about something scary for too long, it just made you more scared.
But the next day, as I started reading the book with the haunted house, I did stop to think. I’d been reading scary stories for days. I’d hardly set the books down. I’d hardly even left my room. And my brain was full of lots of scary things. I thought about ghosts and people getting lost in the woods and monsters that tricked and ate you. All that stuff made me scared—even while sitting in my safe room with the sun shining through the window.
I set my book down and took a deep breath. These books didn’t make me happy. They didn’t make me feel good. I was sad about lots of things, and these books just made me feel worse.
I closed my eyes and leaned against my bed. Dear Heavenly Father, I prayed, I don’t think these scary books are very good for me. Please help me know what to do and to be strong enough to do it.
When I opened my eyes, I looked down at my new books. “I don’t need these,” I said. It was time to find something that made me feel happy, not scared and sad.
Turn to page 20 to find some great books to read!
I picked up the books and pulled the rest of my scary stories off my shelf. It was a lot of books. But I carried them all to our recycling bin. I felt much lighter as I dumped them in.
And when I walked away, I didn’t look back.

It was a big deal when our high school basketball team advanced to the state championship game. Basketball was my passion; I was always looking for an opportunity to play in a game or shoot hoops with my friends. I was among the starting five my senior year.
We were in the locker room getting ready to warm up for the big game when I opened up my gym bag to pull out my jersey. My heart sank; where was my jersey? Did a teammate hide it? Was this some kind of joke? I looked around the locker room hoping someone’s body language or actions could confirm it was just a tease, but to no avail. Reality sunk in. I knew I had left my jersey at home.
My teammates started to realize something was wrong. Everyone’s attention was on me when I uttered the words, “I don’t have my jersey.” Months and months of practice and training were about to be washed down the drain because of my mistake.
Just as I was about to accept my fate, I heard a quiet yet familiar voice from the other side of the locker room. “Here is my jersey.” It was the voice of my younger brother. I could play after all! What a sacrifice for my younger brother to make as part of the championship team. Instead of being able to receive recognition for his hard work and practice, he sacrificed so that I could play.
My brother injured his knee the following year and was not able to play again during high school. He felt that he hadn’t accomplished much in basketball, but his sacrifice means so much to me.

After I was baptized, I had a lot of hard times with my family. Sometimes they wanted me to stay home on Sunday, but I would choose to go to church instead. Most of the time it was hard trying to keep on the covenant path.
Some of my family members have been against the Church and have told me that I made the wrong choice to join. When they tell me this, these words come to my mind: “I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ live. I know that the Church is true.” These thoughts have helped me hold on to the truth.

“Daddy,” Richie whispered into the darkness. “Daddy, are you awake?” The bedroom was silent. “Daddy!” he whispered fiercely.
Dad awakened with a jump. The small figure in the darkness startled him. “Oh, Richie,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“Daddy, I had a scary dream,” Richie said, his bottom lip trembling.
Dad got out of bed quietly so that he wouldn’t wake Mom. He took Richie’s hand and led him down the hall. After flipping the light on in Richie’s room, he sat down and lifted Richie onto his lap.
“Now, tell me about your dream. What scared you?” Richie told the dream to his dad. He felt safe and warm in his father’s arms.
“I can see why you were scared, Son. But it was just a dream. You’re safe, and Mom and I are just down the hall. Let’s say a little prayer so that you’ll feel better.”
Richie knelt next to his father and buried his eyes in his arms. He quietly asked Heavenly Father to keep him safe and to help him feel better.
When Richie finished his prayer, Dad got up and gave him another hug. Richie smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”
Dad tucked him into bed. “I love you, Richie. Good night.”
Richie snuggled into his covers and fell asleep.

Tommy and Betsy were down at the creek scrubbing the breakfast dishes with clean white sand when they heard Brigham Young call the Saints to the central square. They barely had time to rinse the dishes in the boiling water their mother had ready before the five thousand people at Sugar Creek camp gathered to hear what Brigham Young, their leader, had to say. His message was brief: “I propose to go forward on our journey. Let all who wish, follow me.”
Tommy was jubilant. He grabbed Betsy by the hand and whirled her around, saying, “We’re going out west. At last we’re going out west.” Suddenly he stood still and said, “We can’t go out west now! Pa isn’t here.”
Tommy’s mother could see the disappointment in his face. “Your father will probably be here by noon tomorrow,” she said. “He expected to finish up his work in St. Joseph today, and if we have everything ready, we can leave as soon as he arrives.”
Tommy felt better, and by the time President Young gave the signal for the long train of five hundred wagons to start moving, he and Betsy happily waved good-bye to many of their friends and neighbors. When the wagon train was out of sight, they hurried back to ask Mother what they could do to get ready to go.
“You can churn,” Mother told Betsy.
The wooden churn was like a small barrel with a lid on it. Through the hole in the center of the lid Betsy pushed the handle of the dasher up and down until the cream was churned into yellow butter.
While Betsy was churning, Tommy filled the water barrel and secured it to the outside of the wagon so the family would have fresh water to drink when they could not camp by a spring or near a river. As Tommy was coming up from the creek, he saw a wagon drive into camp.
“It’s Pa!” he cried, and he dropped the bucket he was carrying and ran to greet him.
“Can we go out west now you’ve come?” questioned Tommy. “Over half of the people have already gone.”
“I’ll have to finish my churning before we can go,” said Betsy.
“And we must wait until the bread is baked,” added their mother.
Tommy’s father laughed. “I guess we won’t be going this afternoon,” he answered. “I bought another wagon and yoke of oxen in St. Joseph. That’s why I was able to return today; the men I went with won’t be back until tomorrow. The wagon is loaded with corn and wheat, and we must fix a cover to put over it.”
“Who’s going to drive the new wagon?” asked Tommy.
“I think your mother can drive it,” replied Father.
“I could drive it,” said Tommy.
Tommy’s father did not reply for a moment; then he said, “I think you could. We’ll let you try.” And before the oxen were unhitched from the wagon, Tommy’s father taught him how to hold the reins and how to crack the whip so as to startle the oxen but not to hurt them.
Tommy was so anxious to drive the oxen that he worked all afternoon so they could be sure to start early the next morning. He soaked in the creek the six strips of special wood his father had brought from St. Joseph. When they were soft and pliable, he helped Father secure them to one side of the wagon box, bow them over, and secure them to the other side. Together they lifted the big canvas cover up and over the top of the bows and stretched it tightly before securing it to each side.
Afterwards Tommy helped his father make a long deep grub box, and together they secured it to one side of the wagon. The small chicken coop Father had brought from St. Joseph was attached to the other side for the six hens he had brought with him. Betsy hoped that one of the hens would want to set so they could have some baby chicks.
Betsy and her mother packed the grub box with the dishes and the food they would use each day, then hung the big iron kettles on the outside of the wagon. When the dough was ready, Mother rolled some of it into loaves and Betsy made some biscuits to be baked over red hot coals in the dutch oven. When the biscuits were light and fluffy and toasty brown and the family was just getting ready to eat supper, the sound of music filled the air.
“It’s Pitt’s Brass Band!” exclaimed Tommy.
“So it is,” cried his father. “Let’s invite some of them to share supper with us.” He grabbed Tommy’s hand and started running toward the Nauvoo Road. Most of the two thousand people left in Sugar Creek joined them to greet the band.
When the band leader saw Tommy’s father, he handed him a trombone. Tommy was happy when his father started to play, for it reminded him of the good days in Nauvoo when Father was still a member of the band, before he had sold his trombone. The band marched straight to the square and the people followed like a giant parade, keeping step to the music. After the band members had eaten a warm meal, they gave a concert in the square.
The next morning Tommy got up especially early. He was too excited to sleep, thinking about driving the oxen. Finally the wagons were ready and he climbed onto the seat by the side of his mother to wait for the signal that would start the small train of thirty-two wagons toward the West.
At last the signal came. At that moment the band started to play, and with a flip of the reins and a crack of the whip, Tommy’s wagon began to move. The people in the wagons started to sing, and they did not stop until they reached the main camp of Israel ten miles away.

Elder Wright’s companion was Samuel Mulliner; they baptised many in central Scotland. He proselyted alone in the north of Scotland from 24 December 1839 to 28 January 1840, and from 7 August to 20 October the same year, and from 1 July 1841 to 7 September 1842.
On 7 August 1841 Alexander Wright first met Peter Farquhar, a 60-year-old farmer, at his home at Hill of Mennie, Belhelvie, a 10-mile walk from Aberdeen. Peter’s wife Mary Valentine had died age 59 on 10 April 1840. It was the second time he had become a widower.
On 3 December he again met Peter Farquhar at Belhelvie, and the next day set off to preach in many villages north of Aberdeen, sleeping under the stars when he could not find lodgings. He returned to Belhelvie on 10 December and met Peter Farquhar, and on 30 January 1842 baptised him there; Peter was the first person to join the Church in the north of Scotland.
Peter Farquhar’s last meeting with Elder Wright was on 6 September 1842.
No other baptisms in the north of Scotland were recorded by Elder Wright and records available for the Aberdeen Branch (Scotland) British Mission do not record any baptisms prior to Peter Farquhar.

Photograph by Randy Clegg
Opportunities to create new and uplifting activities can come anywhere and anytime. For example, a group of young men camping in Goblin Valley State Park (south-central Utah, USA) found a creative and exciting way to share the gospel: they buried some treasure.

Their modern-day treasure hunt was made possible with geocaching, where, with the use of a global positioning system (GPS) device or mobile phone, all you need is a set of numbers to help you find an exact location even in the middle of nowhere. The standard practice in geocaching is to take what you find when you reach your destination, usually something small such as an inexpensive toy, and then leave something else for the next person.

These young men were learning about geocaching on their campout. They wanted to create an official geocache of their own, but with a twist. Instead of taking and leaving small objects, they wanted visitors to read (take) and mark (leave) scriptures.

“I’ve looked at a lot of geocaches in the past, and I’ve never seen anything like this before,” says John B., 16, one of the young men in the group.

Each member of the group marked a favorite scripture with his name next to it in a single copy of the Book of Mormon. John also included his testimony along with written instructions to those who will visit the geocache in the future.

The young men then placed the Book of Mormon in a weatherproof container surrounded by rocks and made note of the GPS coordinates. They have high hopes that this geocache, which they registered online, will be visited for many years to come.

“It was a lot of fun,” John says. “This was a way for us to share the gospel.”

These young men led out—being “the first on the dance floor”—by sharing scriptures that strengthened them and inviting others to follow their lead.

Years ago, when I was serving as a new bishop in Bountiful, Utah, I received some wonderful advice from a good friend and experienced priesthood leader. I shall quote him as best as I remember it.

“When I was a new bishop,” he said, “I used to sit on the stand in sacrament meeting and look out over my congregation. I would notice a new family sitting near the back and think to myself, ‘Oh, that must be the Jones family who just moved in by the Browns. I wonder what we could call them to do.’ But after I had been a bishop for a year or so,” he went on, “I would sit on the stand and look out and see a new family, and say to myself, ‘Oh, a new family. I wonder what problems they have?”

At first I thought his statement was a bit of an exaggeration. When he said that everyone had “problems,” I thought he was talking about “spiritual problems.” But as my service as a bishop continued, I quickly learned something. I could drive through my ward and point to virtually any house and name a problem that family, or individuals in that family, were facing. Aging parents; wayward children; some kind of health crisis; depression or anxiety; mental health challenges; a crumbling marriage; family members struggling with addiction; loss of employment and the resulting financial crisis; The list of possibilities is virtually endless.

In just a few moments, we will listen to our beloved prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, a man of undaunted faith in Jesus Christ, a man of hope and peace, loved by God but not spared from the wounds of the soul.

In 1995 his daughter Emily, while expecting a child, was diagnosed with cancer. There were days of hope and happiness as her healthy baby was delivered. But the cancer returned, and their beloved Emily would pass from this life just two weeks after her 37th birthday, leaving her loving husband and five young children.

In general conference, shortly after her passing, President Nelson confided: “My tears of sorrow have flowed along with wishes that I could have done more for our daughter. … If I had the power of resurrection, I would have been tempted to bring [her] back. … [But] Jesus Christ holds those keys and will use them for Emily … and for all people in the Lord’s own time.”28

Last month, while visiting the Saints in Puerto Rico and remembering last year’s devastating hurricane, President Nelson spoke with love and compassion:
“[This] is part of life. It’s why we’re here. We are here to have a body and to be tried and tested. Some of those tests are physical; some are spiritual, and your trials here have been both physical and spiritual.”29
“You have not given up. We are [so] proud of you. You faithful Saints have lost much, but through it all, you have fostered your faith in the Lord Jesus Christ.”30
“By keeping God’s commandments, we can find joy even in the midst of our worst circumstances.”31

Many in the Chyulu area desired to join the Church, but because Chyulu was so isolated, the mission leaders decided to limit membership until sufficient local leadership was developed. Among those who came to church weekly were two men from another village. They rode their bicycles two hours each way. When they requested that they and others be allowed to be baptized, President Brown granted their request on condition that only the two men and their families be baptized. However, since African villages are often made up of large extended families, 40 jubilant converts arrived to be baptized.
Due to a lack of water in Chyulu, arranging for the baptisms was a challenge. President Brown and a missionary couple had made the arduous journey from Nairobi to Chyulu by truck, hauling baptismal clothing and a water storage tank to be used as the baptismal font. In Chyulu local brethren spent five hours pumping and hauling water six kilometers over “the rockiest of roads.” Then brethren knelt in the water around the outside edge of the tank so the water was deep enough for each of the candidates to be immersed. Following the baptism, the new members bore their testimonies. They expressed deep gratitude for the gospel, especially one sister who had been attending church for 10 years. They sang hymns of praise as they traveled home in the dark and the rain.8

The next morning, Sunday dawns warm and sunny, with a sky full of puffy white clouds. Buenos Aires is a beautiful city of broad, tree-lined boulevards—think of it as Paris with palm trees. Later in the morning, sidewalks and parks will fill with people out for a stroll. For now, some of the busiest places are the LDS chapels, like the one in the suburb of Belgrano. Here you meet young people like Federico Casco. His dad was going to the United States on business, and Federico had the chance to go along and visit Disneyland. Instead, he stayed home so he could have four years of perfect attendance at seminary. Now he’s graduated, and he says, “It was a light in my life. It helped me obtain a stronger testimony and helped me decide to go on a mission.”

Going on missions is not easy for Argentine youth. The economy is just starting to improve after years of high unemployment and super-high inflation. There are very few jobs available for young people under 18, so saving money is tough. On the bright side, without part-time jobs, friends have more time for each other and for Church service.

Mauro Berta is first counselor in his ward Sunday School and an assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. Florencia Gomez is Young Women’s secretary and teaches the Stars in Primary. And Guillermo Pitbladdo is Sunday School president. Sunday night finds them at the Pacheco chapel with other friends from their stake.

These are not just recent converts, clinging to seminary to learn about their new faith. Many of them come from second- and third-generation Latter-day Saint families. They have been taught the gospel in their homes. But Diego Griffith says, “Everything I had not learned during the fourteen years that I have been a member of the Church I learned in four years of seminary. That’s where I started to become more familiar with the scriptures and where I learned about the promises of the Lord.”

Besides, as Debora Walker points out, when you are a teen, there seem to be lots more temptations around, and without seminary “it would be much more difficult to resist those temptations.”

Maybe Juan José Zopetti sums it up best: “Seminary helps me primarily to increase my testimony of Jesus Christ—his love and his mission.”

That restored knowledge of Jesus Christ—his mission and commandments—that’s the gospel. That’s what Elder Ballard sent rolling forth across a whole continent nearly 70 years ago. And here at the center, where it began, LDS youth are making sure the wave is still building.

In addition to the summer farm work, Franklin’s father kept him busy at home. To make sure he didn’t run out of jobs around the house and to develop his sense of responsibility, his father had coops and runs for fifty chickens built in the backyard. Franklin had to feed and water the chickens, keep the coops clean, and gather the eggs. Since there were more eggs laid than the family needed, he was allowed to sell the extra eggs and keep the money. Brother Richards said, “I’m grateful that I had a father and mother who taught me the joy of working, the value of spending less than I made, and the importance of paying my tithing.”
Back then tithing was paid to the bishop’s storehouse, sometimes in kind, meaning eggs, wheat, or other farm produce. During 1908, when Franklin was only eight years old, he paid $7.50 in tithing on earnings of $75.00. He still has the bishop’s storehouse receipt. In those days $75.00 was a large amount of money. It represented a lot of hard work.

A few years ago, my wife and I served as a resource to a little inner-city branch of the Church. Our meetings were held in one of the most troubled neighborhoods of a large eastern city.
One Sunday, right in the middle of the branch sacrament meeting, a woman walked in the door off the street. A homeless woman, she was wearing dirty, ragged clothes, and she was coughing, choking, and blowing her nose into a filthy handkerchief. In a loud, hoarse voice, she said, “I want to sing! I want to pray!” and walked right to the front row, sat down next to a member who was wearing a white blouse, leaned against her, and laid her head on her shoulder. The member immediately put her arms around this guest and held her in her arms throughout the remainder of the meeting.
It happened that the speaker had been talking about the parable of the Good Samaritan as the woman came in. As this woman coughed and choked, the speaker continued telling of the parable. As he came to the end of his talk and was quoting a relevant scripture, suddenly, in a loud voice, this homeless woman finished giving the verse that the speaker had begun.
In talking of this after sacrament meeting with the speaker, we thought it had probably been a long time since someone had affectionately put an arm around our visitor. We wondered what better illustration you could have of the parable of the Good Samaritan than what we had just seen, and we were reminded of the Savior’s words that preceded His telling of that parable, “Thou shalt love … thy neighbour as thyself” (Luke 10:27).

I remember, early in the days of nuclear engineering, when we were experimenting to confirm some of the hypotheses. One day I was in an area where a swimming pool had been built, and down deep in it were aluminum plates with uranium-aluminum contents arrayed. Three of us were taking turns at the controls, and I remember the thrill of excitement that came to me as we moved the control rods. I happened to be at the control panel when the count-rate meter indicated that the reactor had gone critical; and as I looked down into the pool I could see that shirinkoff radiation, the iridescent blue indicating that in fact there was a controlled chain reaction. That may not appear much to you now with today’s familiarity with physics, but it was a scientific thrill for me.

Later, we experimentally measured cross-sections of materials to determine their nuclear constants. We used a beam of high-energy neutrons from one of the graphite pile reactors, deflecting it with a crystal into experimental apparatus. A young janitor approached the experiment evidencing total disdain for what we were doing. He did not understand it nor did he want to understand it. In kind of an accusatory way he indicated that we were just wasting time, kidding people, doing that which had no real meaning. To show his disdain he reached up to touch the crystal that deflected the beam and to whirl it. Had he not been stopped, that powerful, dangerous beam of high-energy neutrons would have sprayed the room. His if-you-can’t-see-it-taste-it-smell-it-feel-it-hear-it-then-it-doesn’t-exist attitude is all too prevalent in the world today when we talk about things of God, things that really matter.

Nick and Jake love their family home evenings, spent with their brother and sisters, Matt (17), Becky (12), and Annie (2). They take their turns preparing lessons and organizing activities. One special evening was spent up in the mountains on the edge of the city. After a lesson by Dad, they all went for a hike and came upon some fresh bear tracks! Maybe the West isn’t so tame now, after all! Nicholas and Jacob enjoy being a part of it and love being members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

My younger brother is silly, has a great imagination, and cares about others. He is one of my biggest fans when I perform on stage. He also has some special needs. He is very small for his age and struggles with reading, writing, talking, and sometimes understanding others. He is also deaf.
One day at play practice, I walked up the stairs to get to the stage. I heard someone say something mean about kids with disabilities. Everyone started to joke and laugh about it.
I know they didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, but I got really sad and ran to find a place to hide. As I was sitting in my hiding spot, a grown-up sat by me and started to talk to me about the play. I started to feel better.
When it was time to go home, I told my mom what happened. She told me that it’s OK to walk away from something that makes me feel bad and that it’s OK to talk to a grown-up about my feelings.
Sometimes people don’t understand how it feels to have special needs or to know someone who has special needs. I want to be an example of love and kindness.

In this regard I cannot help but think of my dear sister, Susan B. Stapley. When she graduated from BYU with a degree in French, she was uncertain about how she wanted to use her degree. She was also concerned that she was not married.

Eventually she did meet a wonderful man, Michael Stapley, and they married. Children and heavy Church assignments for her husband came early in their marriage.

Susan poured her talent and energy into the demanding, challenging work of raising her children. At the same time, she was fully supportive of her husband in his work and Church callings. Together they raised eight outstanding children. Their sons and daughters have served missions in seven nations in Europe, Asia, and Latin America.

Today my sister is serving with her husband as he presides over a mission in Argentina. By the time they complete their mission, they will have led and loved some 570 missionaries from eighteen nations.

This extraordinarily bright and talented ­sister, wife, and mother is—among other things—gifted musically and speaks four languages. Yet there were occasions when the overwhelming demands of raising a family led her to question how much good she was doing. At times the loud voices of the world drowned out the still, small voice that whispered that her job was important. Sometimes there were even other voices, such as the one that said, “Mom, don’t you ever feel bad that you went to all the work of getting a college degree and then didn’t do anything with your life?” Twenty years later that same voice is saying, “Mom, how did you ever manage to do it all?” Today it would be impossible to overstate the influence she has had and will have.

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.