Gospel Story Finder

Two weeks after my baptism, my stake president called me as the leader of the young single adults in my stake (though I had to ask him what a stake is). In another two weeks, I was organizing a regional singles conference. This was the best singles conference in the history of the Church, because I met my wife there.
One year later we were married. We have been happily married for 38 years now. We have four children and 10 grandchildren, and all the blessings we have are because of a decision we made. Before we married, I asked her, “Will you support me in being absolutely 100 percent obedient to the living prophets?” She said, “Yes.”

As missionaries in the Argentina Buenos Aires South Mission, my companion, Elder Allred, and I received a referral card to contact a family from Russia. When we found the house, the woman recognized us as missionaries and invited us in to meet her family.
We quickly realized the Balva family understood very little Spanish, and it was difficult for us to understand them as well. From their broken Spanish, we gathered that they had been in Argentina only a short time but were eager to learn about the Church. We adapted the first lesson into simplified Spanish, and the family flipped through their two Russian-Spanish dictionaries as we slowly taught our message, but we weren’t sure how much of it they really understood.
After making an appointment to return, we walked home, discussing how difficult it had been to convey the meaning of our message. We wondered if the family would understand the other lessons any better or if they would get frustrated and ask us to stop coming.
We returned to visit the Balva family the following day to see how they were and if they had begun reading the Book of Mormon and praying to know of its truthfulness. To our surprise and joy, they excitedly showed us a paper on which they had written in Spanish the principles we had taught them. They also shared with us what they had read in 3 Nephi 11 regarding the Savior’s visit to the American continent, assuring us that they had understood all we had discussed the day before and that they were excited to learn more.
Over the next few weeks my testimony was strengthened as the Holy Ghost witnessed to the Balva family of the gospel’s truthfulness and enlightened their understanding in Spanish. Heavenly Father knew the desire of their hearts and recognized the sincerity of their prayers to find truth. Together, the Balva family, Elder Allred, and I experienced the joy described in D&C 50:22: “Wherefore, he that preacheth and he that receiveth, understand one another, and both are edified and rejoice together”—not because we spoke the same language but because of the universal language of the Spirit.
The Balva family introduced us to another Russian family, whom we were also privileged to teach. Both families made covenants with Heavenly Father by entering the waters of baptism not long after we met them.
I am a witness that the words of President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) are true: “The influence of the Spirit is the most important element in this work. If you will allow the Spirit to magnify your callings, you will be able to work miracles for the Lord” (new mission presidents’ seminar, June 25, 1986).

One day Joseph played a game of ball with some of the young men in Nauvoo. The Prophet’s older brother Hyrum saw him. Hyrum had a great love for his brother, and he didn’t like to see people given a chance to find fault with him. Hyrum was afraid that if people saw Joseph having fun with the young men, they might think this wasn’t what a prophet should do.
After the ball game, Hyrum approached Joseph and said that such conduct was not proper for a prophet of the Lord. He spoke out of love, wishing to guide his brother.
The Prophet looked lovingly at Hyrum. He knew Hyrum was concerned about him, and he trusted and often listened to the advice of his older brother. But this time Joseph simply answered him in a mild voice. “Brother Hyrum, my mingling with the boys in a harmless sport like this does not injure me in any way, but on the other hand it makes them happy and draws their hearts nearer to mine; and who knows but there may be young men among them who may sometime lay down their lives for me!”*
The Prophet Joseph was right. When persecution again started for him, two young men in Nauvoo risked their lives to discover the Prophet’s enemies and their plots against him. The young men showed how much they had come to love the Prophet by how much they risked their own safety for his. Joseph Smith dearly loved children, and they loved the Prophet too.

“The area conference was truly wonderful,” a third letter said, “a wonderful experience to all the Filipino Mormons here. I cried when the President first entered the hall and the congregation started to sing ‘We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet.’
“We live not far from Manila. We just planned traveling home every night after the conference. Well, last Monday the conference ended at almost 10:00 p.m. We were really flying to reach home before the curfew bell at 12:00. We were still having our journey when our back tire got flat, so we had to stop. Lucky we stopped, because a Filipino constabulary told us that we’re not supposed to travel any more tonight. So we stayed in the gasoline station until 4:00 a.m. till the curfew was off. We went back to Manila again the following day for the balance of the conference.”

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

“Wow, did you see that catch?” my seven-year-old son, Weslon, exclaimed in delight. He wished aloud, “I’d sure like to meet some of those guys.”
As family members of a high school varsity cheerleader, we frequently found ourselves at football games. My husband, Rick, and I and Weslon became involved in the games as well as in watching our daughter, Mitzi. Football heroes had blossomed in Weslon’s impressionable mind by halftime of our third home game at Round Valley High School in Eagar, Arizona.
Battling my own shyness, I determined to help this stargazing, bashful boy. “We’ll go talk to some of the guys,” I told him after the game. I then towed my son onto the field into the crowd. We approached one of his heroes and tried to offer congratulations. The young man breezed by, aware only of himself and two chattering girls who had cut in front of us to reach him. The next player mumbled “thanks” without breaking stride as I told him “good game” and tried to tell him he had an admirer.
Reluctantly, we approached the last player, wary of another snub. As I told him what a good job he had done, Ty Workman stopped in his tracks, football helmet in hands, flashed a smile of nice white teeth and said, “Thank you very much!”
Encouraged, I plunged into telling him of Weslon’s admiration. Ty’s black hair and handsome face dripped with sweaty exertion as he listened. He extended his hand to shake Weslon’s and said, “Thanks buddy. What’s your name?”
My son quietly said, “Weslon,” and ducked his sandy blond head to examine Ty’s cleats.
I told Ty, “Weslon likes the way you catch passes.” Ty beamed at him and said, “Thanks a lot. I’m really glad to meet you, Weslon, buddy.”
Mitzi went to school the next day and told Ty, “My little brother thinks you’re pretty neat.” From that point she relayed messages between Ty and Weslon. Soon the two boys became real buddies. After each football game they could be found together with Ty’s arm draped around Weslon, chatting about the plays. We attended every football game, even those out of town.
As we became acquainted with Ty, we found he was popular with everyone—young and old. He didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs, and he had good moral values. He encouraged Weslon to avoid harmful things and often repeated his favorite phrase, “Stay close to the Lord.”
Several weeks into this friendship, Mitzi came home from school with some disturbing news. Her face a mask of disbelief, she said, “This is so sad. Ty has MS—you know, multiple sclerosis. They said he might not live longer than a year.” Weslon’s face fell as we told him what MS was. A heavy silence came over us as we realized the gravity of Ty’s illness.
In the next few months Ty had several attacks requiring hospitalizations. He lost lots of weight but forced himself to shine on the football field. Ty, along with Mitzi, was also a member of Show Choir, a singing and dancing group. He made it to many taxing practices and performances between hospital stays.
Late one evening we received a call from Ty’s dad. “Ty’s pretty sick. I think it would help him if Weslon could visit him at the hospital tomorrow. He’s blind and paralyzed from the waist down.”
After the phone call, Weslon disappeared into his room. He came out a little later, green eyes glittering with tears, and said, “I said a prayer for Ty.”
The next morning we visited the hospital bearing gifts bought with Weslon’s savings. Ty greeted Weslon with a cheery, “Hi buddy! How are ya doing? I can’t see anything but shadows where you are,” he told us.
“We brought you a few things, Ty,” I told him, trying not to let him hear the fear in my voice.
“Thanks a lot,” Ty said, his dark eyes looking our way but not focusing. During our visit my words were cheerful, but my heart felt bruised as I watched the two buddies talking.
We were amazed when the hospital released Ty a few days later. He went home with his eyesight and with the feeling in his legs gradually returning. Soon he was back in school.
Our family spent a lot of time with Ty through the next few months. Laughter and camaraderie warmed our home during Ty’s visits. He would talk with Weslon about lots of things, always reinforcing his slogan, “Stay close to the Lord.”
Soon after Christmas, Ty was flown to Phoenix for hospitalization. While he was there, he went into a coma. Just when we decided we should take Weslon on the long trip to Phoenix because the doctors didn’t expect Ty to live, we got a call. Ty had come out of the coma!
Following his release from the hospital, Ty’s parents took him to a specialist in California. After many tests the doctors ruled out multiple sclerosis. Numerous additional tests found Ty to be suffering from a virus that attacked the nervous system during times of stress or exhaustion. We were jubilantly relieved! He was still a sick young man, but now he knew how to avoid the debilitating attacks, and best of all a fatal forecast had been removed.
In spite of his many absences from school, Ty was well enough to graduate with his classmates in May. During the summer Ty held down a job and practiced for the Arizona state high school all-star game. He was one of four chosen from our region. Weslon was invited to practices, and we made the long trip to Prescott, Arizona, for the all-star game. Ty was down to 122 pounds after his illness. He was the smallest in weight on both teams, but his famous catches helped bring his team to victory.
After the game, he came jogging off the field, sweat streaming but beaming that wide, white smile. Ty got his buddy by the shoulders and they chatted about the game as I took pictures. He told Weslon, “Stay right here. I have to go get something.” A little later he came dashing back. In his hand was his all-star cap. He told Weslon, “I want you to have this. Thank you for coming to my game, buddy.”
Ty has been an inspiration to many. He was awarded the first “Ty Workman Award” at Round Valley High School. This award is presented each year now to a student conquering adversity.
December 1987 came and with it Ty’s call to the North Carolina Charlotte Mission. I took six tissues to Ty’s farewell service. In his talk he mentioned, “I have a little friend here that is really special to me. He is Weslon Whiting.” I should have taken 16 tissues!
Ty has filled an honorable mission. He continued to remember his little buddy, writing letters in the same spirit as he used to talk to Weslon. Instead of thinking of the joy he has brought to a small boy he turns it around. One sentence will ring in my mind for a long time. “Weslon, you’ve been a big help in my life, more than you’ll ever know.” With each letter he sent to his little buddy he enclosed a dime or a quarter for Weslon’s missionary fund.
Three years have passed since Ty was not expected to live. I thank this exceptional young man for giving me faith in a younger generation. And I thank him for providing my young son with a shining example of a true hero.

The day progressed better than I thought it would. Snow fell throughout the morning, giving way to an afternoon of windy sunshine. I heaved a relieved sigh when my geometry test was postponed a day. I hurried home after school to tell Topie good-bye.
Mom met me at the door. She held a dish towel in her hands. Her cheeks were wet. Why had she been crying?
“Honey,” she said, “I tried to get them to wait until you came home from school, but they left with Topie an hour ago. I know how much you wanted to say good-bye. I’m sorry, Honey. I’m so sorry.”
I felt numb and strange and sort of broken. “I’ll be okay,” I said. “I’m going to go up to my room for a while.”
I sat on my bed for a long time. I stared out the window at the ring I used to ride in and the homemade jumps Dad built for me. I stared at distant hoof prints in the mud and the bit of snow that hadn’t quite melted. There wouldn’t be any snow in California. I stared at the green and yellow wallpaper Mom had found on sale and we had hung together. I stared at everything that I would be leaving behind.
Suddenly the door cracked open and, before I could say anything, Rob was next to me on the bed.
“Why aren’t you at baseball practice?” I asked.
“I thought you might want to do something,” he said. His little boy eyes looked soft.
That’s when it hit. I didn’t just cry. I sobbed. Tears for my beautiful horse, my ugly hair, and all of the changes that jerked me so fast and hard. Rob’s hand on my shoulder moved up and down with my gulps. When I quieted, Rob turned to me.
“I’m thinking of someone,” he said.
He was playing the guessing game, a silly game we played on long car trips. By asking yes and no questions a player had to guess who the other player was thinking about. The person in mind could be rich and famous, alive or dead, or the kid next door. The only rule was that all of the players had to have heard of that person. You got a point for each question you asked and the lowest score won.
We played for a long time, our voices trailing the air. In the back of my mind I realized that my little ten-year-old brother was missing his Little League practice in order to be with me, in order to keep my mind moving and to give my soul something to grip other than loneliness. Rob beat me by one point.
“Hey, this isn’t fair,” I forced a smile. “When you were a little kid I used to let you win whenever we raced. You could at least let me win one today.”
“That’s too much to ask!” Rob laughed. “But I will let you have the mashed potatoes first tonight!” I managed a real smile. We raced down to dinner and tied.

Parley P. Pratt told of the suffering of his family in those first months in the valley. He wrote of the invasion of insects, of the drought, and of how he and his family worked constantly to encourage their gardens to grow. He also wrote that many of the people had to go with bare feet for several months, keeping their moccasins for only special occasions. Sometimes they had only a little flour and some cheese.
“In this way,” he wrote, “we lived and raised our first crop in these valleys. And how great was our joy in partaking of the first fruits of our industry … to redeem the desert … and to make her hitherto unknown solitudes blossom as the rose.”

I was a child in Korea in 1950 when the Korean War broke out. Our family had to leave our home in Seoul and move to the countryside. Things were hard for my parents—can you imagine trying to raise a family during a war? People were not properly fed because of the war conditions, and my mother became very sick from an unknown disease. Sometimes when the pain came, she would just be helpless. In my mind I can still hear her screaming because of the pain, and I still feel how awful it was not knowing how to help her.
One day an herb doctor told me that if I got a certain kind of herb for my mom, it would cure her. Another man told me where I could find this plant. So, because of the love I had for my mom and my sympathy for her pain, I set out early one morning, without telling anybody, in search of this plant. My bicycle was very small and beat-up, with tires that didn’t fit. The road I had to travel was about 20 kilometers long; it included two steep hills, a creek, and a mountain. I had only the name of the plant and the general area in my mind. To me the trip lasted almost forever—up and down, up and down on a dirt road. I found the general area, and when I explained to a man what I was looking for, he told me I needed to go to the home of one of the leaders in the community, who grew the plant in his garden for decoration.
It took me many more hours to get there, but finally I found the place and the plant, and I explained to the owner the purpose of my trip. He said, “Yes, it is true, that plant cures that kind of pain.” Even though I didn’t have any money, he gave the plant to me. I was so happy that I cried! I thanked him and very carefully tied the plant onto my little bicycle. I bowed many times to him for his kindness.
I started back home, down the mountain and across the little creek. About halfway up the first hill, my bike got two flat tires. I wasn’t a Christian then, and I didn’t know about the gospel, but I knew that there was a God who was the creator of all things. I said my own kind of prayer, as I had hundreds of times that day, and I know Heavenly Father heard me. He loves all his children, no matter what religion they are or what they believe. He answers our prayers if we are sincere and honest and say them with a righteous desire.
Heavenly Father answered my prayer that day, and I was able to make it home. When I arrived, exhausted and hungry, it was night; the trip had taken me the whole day. My parents had been terribly worried, even angry, especially because there was a war going on and it was dangerous. I quickly explained what I had done, and I showed them the plant. Then my dad cried, my mom cried, and I cried again. My mom was cured. She lived until 1991, the year I was called as a General Authority.
I don’t believe that it was only the plant that cured my mother. I believe it was mostly a blessing from Heavenly Father. That experience helped teach me the principle of prayer. It is my testimony that if we love God and do according to his teachings, nothing will be impossible if it is according to his will.

But life will never be the same. Some people, particularly children, who see her for the first time are frightened. For a friendly little girl who remains the same inside despite the changes on the outside, the rejection can be devastating.
Sage was playing outside one day when a child came upon her. Unprepared for the experience, he ran away screaming, “Monster! Monster!” It hurt, but Sage understood. “The kids used to laugh at me,” she says. Do they now? “Not at school. Sometimes people stare when we go to the store.”

To illustrate, may I share with you an experience which took place several years ago when Sister Monson had been hospitalized because of a fall. She asked me to go to the supermarket and purchase a few items. This was something I had not done before. I had a shopping list which included potatoes. I promptly found a grocery cart and placed a number of potatoes in it. I knew nothing of the plastic bags in which produce is normally placed. As I moved the cart along, the potatoes fell out and onto the floor, exiting through two rather small openings in the back of the cart. A dutiful clerk hurried to my aid and called out, “Let me help you!” I tried to explain to her that my cart was defective. It was only then that I was told that all the carts had those two holes in the back and that they were meant for the legs of children.

Next the clerk took my list and helped me find each item. Then she said, “You are Bishop Monson, aren’t you?”

I answered that many years earlier I had been a bishop. She continued: “At that time I lived on Gale Street in your ward and was not a member of the Church. You made certain the girls who were members contacted me each week and took me with them to Mutual and other activities. They were fine young women whose friendship and kindness touched my heart. I want to let you know that the fellowshipping you arranged for me led to my being baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. What a blessing this has been in my life,” she said.

I made my way to Church College of Hawaii, a university owned and operated by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Now known as Brigham Young University–Hawaii Campus, CCH is where I found my testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ and made the pivotal decision to become a member of His church.
CCH is also where my typing skills helped me to earn a bachelor of science degree in business education, with a minor in secretarial sciences. I also picked up a teaching certificate, and for my first job after university, I became the typing teacher.
I taught typing and various business-related subjects at the Church-owned high school in Pesega, Samoa, and then at Kahuku High when I returned to Hawaii a few years later.

Every marriage has incidents that can become private, lighthearted signals to each other. One of ours began many years ago when Dan told me of an idea that had come to him. We’ve both forgotten what it was, but I must have abruptly squelched it, because he paused, then said, “Well, for just a minute there, I thought it was a great idea.” Now, whenever one of us feels put down and says, “Well, for just a minute there, I thought … ,” we both laugh, and the message is clear and friendly.

That afternoon, orders came from firemen to evacuate the mission home so it could be dynamited and razed in an effort to clear a fire line. Drawers, beds, rugs, furniture, record books, and suitcases went onto a horse-drawn dray that took them to a small park two blocks away. Here the load was placed in a compact pile and covered with a carpet, under which some of the elders tried to sleep that exciting night. The fine organ recently given to the branch by the mayor and other friends was safely stored with one of the members.
On Thursday, as the fires and dynamiting continued, the Robinson family and several other Saints relocated in Golden Gate Park—a day late for the scheduled picnic! There they were better off, they knew, than other homeless members camped in Jefferson Square, where sanitary conditions were abhorrent. For food, the Saints took turns waiting in bread lines which ran four abreast and blocks long; two or three loaves per person was the limit—if supplies outlasted the line. A special pass allowed President Robinson to cross the bay to Oakland for bread, bringing back “two suitcases full each day, distributing the same to the women and children in greatest need in four parks we visited.”

I think often of another boy. We met him at a seminary graduation in a remote city in Argentina. He was well clothed and well nourished.

The students came down the aisle up to the stand. There were three rather high steps. He could not make the first step because his legs were too short. He was a dwarf.

It was then we noticed marching behind him two stalwart young men who stepped forward, one on either side, and lifted him gracefully to the podium. When the service was over, they lifted him down again and then marched out with him. They were his friends and watched over him. This boy could not reach the first step without being lifted up by his friends.

Until last month, Heath Edwards had one killer of a schedule. Each weekday morning during the school year Heath’s alarm would go off at 4:30 A.M. That’s 4:30 in the morning. The sun isn’t even close to being up at 4:30, school isn’t for another three hours, and the temptation to push the snooze bar is a real one. That is unless you happen to be a world-class swimmer with designs on making the 1996 United States Olympic team. If you want to swim in the Olympics, you don’t stay under the covers.
So Heath, a 17-year-old from Columbia, South Carolina, would leap—okay, he’d roll—out of bed and get ready for another trip to the pool. Harbison Recreation Center, located about a mile from the Edwards’s home, has been kind of Heath’s home away from home for the last five years. If he wasn’t at his parents’ house, the first place you’d want to check is at Harbison, where there is a better-than-average chance you’d find Heath either in the swimming pool or in the weight room.
Thirty minutes after getting up to another dark morning, Heath, his close friend Elizabeth Peake, and the rest of the Harbison Aquatic Team members would jump in the pool, and that’s how each weekday would begin.
After the 90-minute workout, Heath and Elizabeth would go to the Dutch Fork Ward building for their 6:45 seminary class. There’s no need to call it early-morning seminary. If 6:45 is early morning, what does that make 4:30? Brother James Daves’s class would end around 7:30, and Heath and Elizabeth would go their separate ways. Heath would hop in the family’s Plymouth Horizon, run home, knock down some breakfast, and then head to Irmo High. Meanwhile, Elizabeth would go across town to Lexington High. The just-completed 1993–94 school year was the fourth year Heath had this schedule. It was Elizabeth’s first.
“I used to go to the pool and then go home before going to school,” Elizabeth remembers. Of course that was before she became a member of the Church. And it’s Heath’s, uh, fault Elizabeth added an extra hour to her already-busy schedule.
“You know how a lot of guys cuss?” Elizabeth asks. “Well, Heath wasn’t like that. And he was really nice to everyone. He was just different from any guy I’d ever met. But I didn’t know he was a Mormon at first.”
She soon found out. And before long, Heath was inviting Elizabeth to ward parties and dances. Then one Sunday Heath took Elizabeth to the Dutch Fork Ward sacrament meeting because his mother was singing. “I liked church a lot. I liked how members would bear their testimonies, and how the congregation would give the sermons. I eventually started going with him every Sunday,” Elizabeth says.
The more she heard and saw, the more interested she became. Eventually, Elizabeth requested that Heath arrange for her to be taught by the missionaries. After listening to the missionary discussions for several weeks, Elizabeth asked Heath, who had just been ordained a priest, if he would baptize her.
“When Elizabeth got baptized, it was probably the most spiritually uplifting experience I’ve ever had,” Heath says. “It was too great to describe when I baptized her. And I know Elizabeth knows this Church is true. It’s a great feeling to know I introduced her to the Church because of the way I acted.”
That’s how Elizabeth came to add an extra hour to her morning routine, a routine that ended for Heath last month when he graduated from both Irmo High and from seminary.
Next month, Elizabeth will begin her senior year of high school, but it will be different. She’ll have her usual 4:30-in-the-morning routine. She just won’t have Heath there with her. In August, Heath will leave Columbia for his freshman year at the University of Georgia. He’s accepted a swimming scholarship at the Athens, Georgia, school, and is a prized addition to the Bulldog swimming program. How valuable is this guy? Last year, Heath had the fastest 200-yard butterfly time in the United States for his age group (17–18), and he also recorded the third fastest 100-yard butterfly time.
He was the 200 butterfly national champion in 1993, and finished second in 1992. He’s competed in the United States Olympic Festival, and he was recruited by several different universities. A lot of college swimming coaches wanted Heath to swim at their schools, and he had a huge decision to make when it came to choosing a college to attend. In the next two years, he’ll be making a few more decisions.
In November of 1993, Heath signed his letter of intent to attend Georgia, and he’s already committed to swimming for the Bulldogs through the 1995–96 season—his sophomore year. If things work out according to plan, he’ll be competing in the 1996 Summer Olympics in nearby Atlanta, Georgia. After that, he wants to go on a mission, whether he makes the Olympics or not.
“I’m definitely planning on going on a mission. Right after my sophomore year, depending on how close or how far I am from making the Olympic team, I’ll talk to my parents about what I’m going to do about a mission,” Heath explains.
Although a full-time mission is still a few years away, Heath’s current timetable hasn’t stopped him from sharing the gospel anyway. Elizabeth is an example of that, and so is Elizabeth’s mother, Sandy. Fourteen months after Elizabeth’s September 1992 baptism, Heath baptized Sandy.
“I knew Sister Peake felt the Spirit. She would always come to church with Elizabeth or when my mom invited her. Then she came to me one day and told me she wanted to get baptized. Nobody else knew,” Heath says. “She wanted to surprise Elizabeth and everybody else.”

Tracy sat very still. She was almost five, but it was very hard to sit quietly. Today was supposed to have been a special day. Tracy and her mother had planned to go to the zoo! They had been all ready to go when the phone rang. Mother had answered and had listened for a long time before she finally said good-bye. She was crying when she turned to Tracy and said, “Honey, I need to talk to you.”
Now Tracy and Mother were visiting Sister Abbot, and Sister Abbot was crying. Tracy’s mother said, “Sister Abbot, I know how hard it must be for you. I’ll be happy to listen if you want to talk, or to help in any other way that I can.”
Sister Abbot put her arm around her three-year-old son, Jimmy, and cried harder. She hardly seemed to have heard Tracy’s mother.
Tracy watched, feeling uncomfortable. She knew that her mother was a visiting teacher and that Sister Abbot was one of the women whom she visited each month. Earlier Mother had told Tracy that Jimmy’s brother, Alan, had died that morning. Tracy knew about dying. Her cousin, Marnie, had been hit by a car last year, and she had died two weeks later. Tracy had cried and cried. Mother had told her that this life was only part of Heavenly Father’s wonderful plan. Tracy remembered that she had wanted to be with Marnie again right then, but her mother had explained that we all have to wait until the right time.
As Tracy thought about this, Sister Abbot said, “Why would God want to punish me so? First my husband, now my son.” She began to cry even harder.
Then Tracy spoke. At first no one heard her, so she spoke a little louder. “He loves me,” she said.
“What?” Sister Abbot asked, between sobs.
“He loves me,” Tracy repeated, looking at Sister Abbot.
“Who loves you, child?” Sister Abbot said, looking confused.
“Heavenly Father,” Tracy replied.
Sister Abbot looked puzzled, so Tracy tried to explain. “My cousin Marnie died last year, and Mommy told me that death isn’t forever. Heavenly Father loves me, so He let Jesus die so that we could all live again and be with Him.”
Sister Abbot still looked puzzled, so Tracy tried again. “He must love me very much to let His Son die so that we can all be together.”
Tracy looked at her mother. Her mother smiled at her with tears in her eyes. Sister Abbot had stopped crying and seemed more calm. She hugged Tracy and her mother before they went home.
The next Sunday, in testimony meeting, Sister Abbot went up to the pulpit and told everybody how grateful she was for a visit from a little girl who knew that her Heavenly Father loved her.

While accompanying President Dieter F. Uchtdorf to Eastern Europe last year, I marveled at the faith and courage of the Saints. One priesthood leader in Ukraine told us of being called to the branch presidency in the spring of 1994, only six months after his baptism. This would require becoming public with his faith and helping to register the Church in the city of Dnipropetrovs’k. It was at a time of uncertainty in Ukraine, and openly showing faith in Christ and in the restored gospel could mean difficulty, including the possibility of losing his job as a pilot.

The priesthood leader told us, “I prayed and prayed. I had a testimony, and I had made a covenant. I knew what the Lord wanted me to do.”31 Courageously, he and his wife went forward with faith, unashamed of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The two youngest sons of Walter and Gaylene Woodring of Hacienda Heights, California, have received their Eagle Scout awards. All five Woodring sons have now achieved that rank. To honor their father, who recently passed away, the Woodring sons donated and erected a flag pole in front of the stake center, landscaped the surrounding area, donated the large flag on the pole, and attached a bronze plaque that said, “Walter H. Woodring, father of five sons—five Eagle Scouts.”

I asked him what stood out in his mind as the singular moment in President Monson’s ministry. I expected him to mention the meeting in Görlitz, the dedication of the country in 1975, the organization of the first stake, the dedication of the Freiberg Temple, or the meeting with Herr Honecker, East Germany’s highest Communist official, when President Monson asked permission for missionaries to enter the country and other missionaries to leave the country to serve in other lands. Given the death squads that patrolled the wall, the query sounded almost ludicrous, but Herr Honecker responded, “We have watched you all these years, and we trust you. Permission granted.” Which one of these events would Brother Burkhardt choose?

Tears began to flow down his cheeks as he responded: “It was December 2, 1979.” I couldn’t register in my mind a major event attached to that date. “Tell me about it,” I said.

“It was the day President Monson came to East Germany to give my wife, Inge, a blessing.” President Monson had a weekend without an assignment, and he flew from the United States to Germany for just that purpose. Sister Burkhardt had been in the hospital for nine weeks with complications from surgery, and her condition was deteriorating. President Monson had recorded in his journal, “We joined our faith and our prayers in providing her a blessing.”8 He had gone thousands of miles with his only free time in months—to the rescue.