Gospel Story Finder

When enemies of the Church saw this increase in temple activity, they renewed their determination to drive the Mormons away. They obtained a warrant for the arrest of Brigham Young and eight other Apostles. On December 23, government officials went to the temple to arrest Brigham Young. Knowing that they were coming, Brigham knelt and asked for guidance and protection so that he could “live to prove advantageous to the Saints.”
Soon afterward he noticed William Miller in the hall. He proposed a plan to Brother Miller who was about the same height as President Young.
Brother Miller put on President Young’s cloak and left the temple in his carriage. The waiting marshals thought that he was Brigham Young and arrested him. They took him to the Mansion House, where friends and relatives of Brigham went along with the masquerade. Miller was then taken to Carthage and held until someone who knew Brigham told them that they had the I wrong man. In the meantime Brigham Young and the others had gone safely into hiding.

It was a long process for Sukardi of Indonesia and his family to find closure and hope following the 2004 tsunami that devastated the coasts of Southeast Asia.
“We thought it was the end of the world; it was unbelievable,” said Sukardi, looking back to December 26, 2004, the day a massive underwater earthquake struck off the coast of Indonesia, causing a tsunami that killed more than 225,000 people in 11 countries. “But we are alive, and we are together, and we are happy.”
Sukardi, like thousands of others, lost family members and friends, his home, land, and nearly his life. After being washed away with the tsunami, he managed to grab hold of a coconut tree and cling to it as he waited for the floodwaters to recede.
Joined by family members, each with similar survival stories, Sukardi now resides in a home built with the help of Latter-day Saint Charities, an arm of Church Humanitarian Services, as part of the Church’s efforts to assist tsunami survivors.
The Church’s emergency relief efforts during the months immediately following the tragedy provided commodities such as food, hygiene kits, medical supplies, and clothing. Because of members’ significant donations, the Church began planning longer-term relief. As part of that long-term effort, fishermen and carpenters were given jobs constructing more than 130 replacement fishing boats. Men were hired to use large, wide-tracked backhoes to help reconstruct the dikes around shrimp farms. Sewing machines, looms, hand tractors, and other tools were donated to encourage a return to self-sufficiency.
“All of the first year was focused on reestablishing livelihood and helping individuals get back to work,” said Brett Bass, director of Church Humanitarian Services. “Then we looked at our resources, identified the most pressing needs, and refocused our efforts on permanent reconstruction.”
The Church’s efforts included constructing community centers, homes, schools, medical clinics, and clean water systems—all made possible by a tremendous outpouring of humanitarian generosity. In the time of need, Church members from around the world contributed to help make these efforts possible.
The Church’s monumental efforts in Indonesia concluded in December 2007. Major projects included building 902 homes and 3 community centers, constructing 15 schools, building 3 fully equipped health clinics, rebuilding a hospital wing, and completing 24 village water projects.
Abdul Samad lived in a hastily constructed community barracks for two and a half years before he and his family moved into their new home. He lost his wife and her mother in the flood but now hopes to make life better for his remaining family, three daughters and a son.
Each of the 902 homes built and donated is 44 square meters. The hundreds of recipients frequently said they believe their homes were the best homes built, that they would pass them on to their children and grandchildren. They loved the colors used and the tile on the floors and expressed gratitude for having something solid and reliable in their lives again.
“When the earthquake hit and the tsunami followed, the first thing they did, if they were in their house, was run outside,” said Jeff McMurdo from International Organization for Migration, which partnered with the Church to build homes. “From the moment it started, they were running. So when they get the keys to a house, they are able to get some measure of closure to the whole tragedy of the tsunami experience.”
The Church continued rebuilding efforts by partnering with Islamic Relief and the Adventist Development and Relief Agency to build 15 schools, along with training new teachers and developing curriculum and education support systems.
Many of the area’s teachers were killed in the tsunami, creating a significant teacher shortage. Kamaruzzaman, a teacher from Banda Aceh, is one of just two surviving teachers from his school. With the loss of buildings, teachers, and children, the education system operated in a very makeshift fashion until these new schools were constructed.
“They have been going to a temporary building for school—a community hall where there are about 40 students in the room,” said Kamaruzzaman, who is now a head schoolmaster of a newly built school. “The students now have a better school that’s more helpful to learning. They now have a more hopeful future.”
Each school building was furnished with desks, whiteboards, and libraries to provide a quality learning environment for children. As more teachers became available, an emphasis was put on training and developing new curriculum.
Herliana, an education coordinator for Islamic Relief, said she is very proud to be a part of this project. “There were no schools; there were few trained teachers left,” she said. “This has been a great contribution to the communities. Together we are making a big difference in the lives of the children, teachers, parents, and families.”
Fauziah, an animated and smiling woman, is now a water operator for her small village near Bireuen in Aceh Provence. In this position, she keeps records and collects water-usage fees from those who use the community’s new water system.
In partnership with International Relief and Development, the Church completed 24 village water projects that consisted of renovating wells, installing storage tanks, improving sanitation, and upgrading delivery systems. These efforts are providing clean water to 20,000 people.
“Before, it was hard to get good water and it took a long time to go get it,” said Fauziah as she expressed gratitude to have access right outside her home. “Now our children will be healthier and will have a better future.”
Bath and laundry facilities were also built in the villages, and residents received training on how to take care of the facilities and keep them clean.
While each village also received personal hygiene training, the more elaborate efforts to improve healthcare moved forward with the completion of three fully equipped health clinics and the rebuilding of a hospital wing.
“This is much-needed,” said Syarman, a community leader in the Bireuen district, where access to medical care previously required a 15-kilometer walk. “Our people will be able to get needed medical assistance near their homes. It is better than before, and we are grateful.”
The Church also arranged training for doctors and medical staff and provided needed medical equipment.
For Bill and Linda Hamm of Anchorage, Alaska, USA, the work presented a personal challenge: they were called to serve as humanitarian service missionaries to oversee tsunami relief efforts in Indonesia. “We were exhilarated by the challenges and overwhelmed by the opportunity,” Brother Hamm said.
This opportunity was also extended to Jim and Karen Greding of Thousand Oaks, California, USA, a couple called to oversee the completion of the projects after Brother and Sister Hamm’s 18-month mission concluded. With the assignment to be present and to check on the work being done, these individuals acted as representatives not only of the Church, but also of the many individuals who made contributions.
“We were to oversee the quality of the work and to make sure the money allotted for projects was being used properly,” Sister Greding said. Church representatives were present at every stage of the process, an act that, combined with their funding methods, distinguished the Church from other organizations.
“We regarded our finances as sacred funds and made every effort to see these funds used efficiently and not be wasted,” said Bill Reynolds, director of field operations for tsunami relief. “Many organizations provide funding and wait to see what is happening through infrequent reports. We provided sequential funding that relied on benchmark expectations that we personally oversaw. The organizations we worked with knew that if we said we wanted something done and in a certain way, they needed to meet those expectations.”
The Church focused on helping Indonesia and its people take a simple step forward, a step away from tragedy and pain, a step toward reestablishing life. While these efforts played just a small part among the many individuals and organizations that offered aid to the tsunami victims, the missionaries were able to share their love, the love of the members, and the pure love of Christ.
“We were not permitted to proselyte, but we were representing the Lord and tried to share our testimonies through our work by being kind, polite, or simply by smiling,” Sister Hamm said. “Sometimes we had the opportunity to explain where the funds came from, and we told about our prophet and how he called for a 24-hour fast, with the money that would otherwise be spent on food to be donated to a special fund. I think the Spirit bore witness and they understood that there were individuals around the world who loved them.”
Evidences of the tsunami are still very much apparent, but the people have expressed gratitude for every effort that has been made on their behalf.
“This is simply an experience you can never forget, and anyone who travels to these areas will not be able to miss the evidences of destruction where the land became sea permanently, where so many lost their lives and loved ones,” Sister Greding said. “But many who were suspicious of Christians have changed their hearts. Some stared at us, but most in their limited English said to us, ‘Thank you, mister.’ We heard that often.”

The young members of the Staines England Stake were studying the life and teachings of Jesus Christ when their teacher presented a lesson on parables with a new twist: based on experiences in their everyday lives, the students were to write their own parables.
Bishop David S. Baxter of the Kingston-Upon-Thames Ward, the course instructor for the young adults, explained that members of his class followed Christ’s example of looking at life around them and drawing analogies between what they saw and spiritual truths.
Both the students and the teacher were so satisfied with the parables written that they had them printed and stapled together in a booklet. Some of the parables included:
“The Manager and the Firm,” by Ivan Holding of the Addlestone Branch. This tells of a manager who left strict instructions about running the business with his assistants when he left on vacation. The assistants didn’t follow his instructions but tried to do things their own way. When the manager returned, he was angry because his workers hadn’t followed his guidance.
“The Parable of the Musician,” by Tom Smith of the Kingston Ward. Presented in his parable are two music students, one who practiced diligently and one who didn’t. The musician who didn’t practice was eventually dismissed from school.
“Parable of a Little Boy,” by Jill Greenfield of the Slough Ward. Jill wrote of a woman who watched a lady on the other side of the street send her five-year-old son to school alone each day. The woman thought the mother was negligent until she found out the mother was staying home to take care of another child who was an invalid.
“The Parable of the Centrifuge,” by Caroline Vincent of the Staines Ward. Described here are the difficulties encountered by a technician who tried to service the centrifuge himself instead of having a factory authorized service representative do the work. As a result he voided his warranty. “Anyone could have the (servicing) handbook, but only one company had the authority,” the story said.
Bishop Baxter says he plans to use the parable writing lesson again in the future.

Photograph by Christina Smith
I love the temple because it’s a place where you can truly feel the Spirit. It’s a place of purity where you can really feel the love of Christ.
I had the opportunity to live in the United States for a year. After I got there, for a while I was really lonely. I missed my family and my home, but I struggled with more than just that. I didn’t have a lot of friends at school, I was having a hard time with the language and culture, and I had a little trouble with the family I was living with.
Even at church I sometimes felt alone. I felt like going home. I really wanted to see my family again.
But I started to think about Jesus Christ and how He suffered for me. I prayed, and God comforted me. Where I was staying, the temple was so close—just six minutes away. So I decided to go to the temple once a week, and that really was a blessing in my life.
Things began to change. I found some good friends, and God made it possible for me to continue to the end of my time away from home. I know that I felt comfort because of Jesus Christ. He gave me help and strength, and that gave me courage. People sometimes think that the Atonement of Jesus Christ is just about repentance. But Christ is also a source of great comfort. I know I can’t possibly understand everything He endured, but He understands me.
Yona C., 17, France

My husband and I were assisting our daughter and her two sons at the airport, where they were preparing for their return flight home. We helped our daughter as she juggled luggage, located passports, and managed an active three-year-old. Tommy, our one-year-old grandson, was fast asleep in his stroller until he awakened abruptly. He panicked as he struggled to take in all the noise, bright lights, and general chaos.
I saw his expression and knew what was about to happen, so I cried out to my daughter. She quickly stooped down, cupped Tommy’s face in her hands, met his gaze, and lovingly said, “Hello, little lamb.”
In an instant his furrowed brow, turned-down mouth, and tensed-up shoulders relaxed as his whole body sighed with relief. He gave a little smile before his heavy eyelids closed again. His fear was replaced by a calm assurance and a peace that seemed to envelop him. It was a small but powerful manifestation of the trust Tommy had in his mother. Her familiar touch, voice, and presence comforted him.

Another commitment to follow the pattern during those college years was to actively be involved in home evening group meetings and activities. I can tell you that habit had a direct positive impact on my life and the lives of my children—literally. It was in my home evening group that I found their dad—my true love. Where would our children be today if I had skipped out on home evening? Because I was following the pattern at that time in my life, I was also prepared to be sealed with him in the House of the Lord.

As I stood in the family circle above the baptismal font, I watched our little grandson Clayton walk timidly down the steps with his daddy. Raising his arm to the square, his father said the baptismal prayer, then buried him in the water that sloshed and splashed around them.
After the last song had been sung and the closing prayer said, the families of the newly baptized children reverently left the meetinghouse. Later, as we celebrated the occasion, one of the children looked up from his ice cream and asked, “Grandma, were you baptized in shiny blue water?”
“No,” I chuckled. “When I was baptized, we didn’t sit in draped, carpeted rooms with soft music and inspirational talks. No one wore white coveralls and there weren’t clusters of relatives standing above a tile font.”
“Tell us about it, Grandma,” the children pleaded. And so I told them my story.
Well, you see, Hurricane was just a pioneer town in Southern Utah when I was little. We planned for me to be baptized in the Hurricane Canal on my birthday. I was so excited I could hardly wait. And then, just four days before my birthday, the canal broke.
The farmers were frantic. Peach orchards and hayfields were dry. Every man in town went up the river with his pick and shovel to help fix the break, but it was a bad one. The day before my birthday, I climbed the slope to the canal, hoping to see just one trickle of water. Instead, the hot, dry winds had caked and cracked the mud in the bottom, curling it up into little clay dishes. “Oh mama, what shall we do?” I asked. “How can I be baptized when the canal is dry?”
“You can always go to the hot sulphur springs, like your sisters did,” she suggested.
“But their birthdays were in the winter. We’d scald in July!”
Mama knew better than to suggest postponing the date. It was family tradition for each of us to be baptized on our eighth birthday.
“Let’s see what other choices you have,” Mama said. “Come with me.”
The cow’s watering trough was just outside the corral under the apricot tree, with a hole in the fence for the cows to poke their heads through.
“You could be baptized here,” she said. I regarded the long strings of floating green moss and shuddered. “You can scrub the trough with the broom and fill it with fresh water from the cistern.”
“But Mama …” I wailed.
“If being sorry would fix the canal, the water would be running in it now,” she said, cradling me in her comforting arms.
I had heard Uncle Ren say that the canal might be mended by sundown, so just before dark I climbed the bank, hoping to see the frothy head of the stream. But the cracked clay was only curled deeper. Heavy of heart, I trudged home and plopped down on my bed in the peach orchard, where we slept in the summertime. Looking up at the evening sky I watched the first stars appear. “Please, Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “help the men get the water in the canal by tomorrow.”
I wasn’t surprised when a short time later I heard a little splash of water coming through the headgate high on the bank above our house. Scrunching my feet under me, I sat on my heels and listened. The sound grew until it was the full-grown tumble of water splashing over the rocks and, finally, rippling through the ditch past our place. The canal had been fixed before sundown, but the water had miles to race before reaching town.
“Oh thank you, Heavenly Father,” I whispered. Then I hugged my pillow and drifted to sleep, lulled by the merry music of laughing, tumbling water.
By the next afternoon, all of the debris and froth from the new stream had washed itself on through the canal and the water ran placid and smooth. I put on my clean white nightgown and Uncle Ren Spendlove came in his faded bib overalls. Mama walked to the canal with us. Sitting in the shade of the willows along the bank were my playmates and cousins, waiting. Uncle Ren stepped down the slick muddy side into the water then, reaching up, gave me a hand. Ripples of light danced on the stream, and a few willow leaves glided like canoes through the mottled shade. The wind held its breath as Uncle Ren said the baptismal prayer. I felt the rush of water in my ears, and he brought me up blubbering. He held onto me until I had caught my breath. Then I noticed everyone watching and smiling at me and I felt wonderful and loved.
“Mama, I’m baptized!” I exclaimed. Reaching for my hands, she pulled me up beside her. She had said that baptism was a sacred ordinance, and when she hugged me, dripping wet as I was, I knew it was true.

Sister Allred was smiling wistfully when I looked at her again.
“What are you thinking about, Sister Allred?” I asked.
“Oh, I was just thinking about my son, Todd. When we had our farm, he was the best milker of all. I always told him that he’d grow up to be a great missionary.”
“What’s milking got to do with missionary work?” I asked.
“Milking a cow is pretty impossible unless she’s ready to let down her milk. Usually a cow will let down her milk when she’s contented and calm—maybe after a little grain feeding or someone washing her udder or when there’s a little soft music in the barn. Todd was gentle and patient not only with the cows but with everybody. I knew that he would be such a gentle, loving missionary that people would naturally let down their barriers against believing the gospel. Todd was gaining a strong testimony of the gospel too.”
“So where did Todd go on his mission?” I asked.
Sister Allred replied quietly. “One day when Todd was just about your age, he and his dad were delivering a load of cattle to a farmer. On a steep grade, the cattle suddenly shifted to one side, and the truck veered on the icy road and rolled into a ravine. Todd and my husband both died.”
“Oh!” we said together. Then we were silent, listening to the soft sounds of the last of Betsy’s milk filling the bucket.
“When I started teaching you,” Sister Allred continued, “I thought that maybe I’d be helping prepare some missionaries, after all.”
No one said a word until I asked, “Sister Allred, why did you say today was a special day for you?”
She smiled. “Today is Todd’s birthday. He would have been nineteen.”

On a different trip, Joe, my third son, got caught in a huge backwash behind a giant boulder. Usually the body is heavy enough that you sink down below the waves and wash, and the current pulls you under the backwash and away from danger. However, in Joe’s case the water washed him into the backwash, which threw him like a top back into the hole. This happened over and over, and we feared for his life, but Joe did not panic. He remembered that Dale had told him he would wash through, and so Joe let himself drop down into the water and eventually washed through.

Grant was only six weeks old when his father, H. Grant Heaton, was called to preside over the Southern Far East Mission. Unlike most children in the United States, Grant spoke his first words in Chinese. His little sister, Lisa Lee, who was born a year and a half after the family moved to Hong Kong, also learned Chinese first.
The mission home was filled with happiness until March 1958, when Grant was three years old. One day his neck became stiff, and there was pain in his chest. Soon he could not walk on his legs. President and Sister Heaton asked the missionaries to fast and pray for their son, but still his condition grew worse.
Grant’s father gave him a special blessing before taking him to the hospital. After tests, the illness was diagnosed as paralytic polio. The doctors said Grant would soon need an iron lung to help him breathe. Polio is not common among the Chinese, however, and the only iron lung in the country was being used by a British sailor.
By the end of a week in the hospital, Grant was completely paralyzed. Only his eyes moved, and the little body that had seemed healthy just a week before was quickly wasting away.
One morning Sister Heaton was with Grant. It was so hard for him to breathe that she thought surely he would soon return to our Heavenly Father. Two men came to the hospital that morning. They represented the Chinese Saints who had held a special fast and a prayer meeting the day before.
Both men had been members of the Church less than a year and neither held the priesthood, but they wanted to help. They asked permission to pray for Grant. Sister Heaton readily agreed and bowed her head to join them. She felt the faith of these humble Chinese men as they knelt beside Grant’s bed and prayed that this little boy’s health might be restored.
As they rose to their feet and left the room, Grant’s mother followed them down the hall. She thanked them and then went to the refrigerator where special food for Grant was stored.
Just as she opened the door, a familiar little voice called from down the hall and she turned around quickly to see Grant coming toward her.
“Look, Mommy,” he exclaimed with a happy smile. “I can walk!”
The doctors were amazed, but when the polio symptoms did not return, they let Grant go home. President and Sister Heaton and the missionaries gratefully acknowledged the power of the Lord and the faith of the Chinese Saints in behalf of their son.
Grant is now eighteen and lives with his family in Salt Lake City, Utah. He doesn’t remember his illness in China. His strong legs that helped him make the football team and wrestle for his high school don’t remember either!
Not long after the Church was organized in 1830, the General Authorities thought of sending missionaries to China. It was not until October 1852, however, that three elders left Salt Lake and arrived in Hong Kong on April 27, 1853. They had many problems and were not successful in converting anyone. Before long they returned to Utah.
In January 1921 David O. McKay, who was then an apostle, and Elder Hugh J. Cannon visited China. It was at this time that Elder McKay dedicated all of China for the preaching of the gospel. Now there are three missions for the Chinese people: Hong Kong, Singapore, and Taiwan. Although the first missionaries were very discouraged, later ones have had thrilling experiences in China. “I Can Walk!” is one of them that took place in Hong Kong.

A true story from Nigeria.
Gift leaned against the edge of the boat and watched with wonder as the water slapped its sides. She reached down toward the waves, the spray gently tickling her arms. This was her favorite journey. She and her family were on the way to Grandfather’s village, and with each moment, she moved closer to a world more wild and free than the city she was leaving behind.
In the city, Gift blended in. She was one in millions. Sometimes that felt nice—to just be herself, without anyone caring too much about what she chose to wear or do. But in her grandfather’s village, it was different. There, Gift was unique. She was a princess—the granddaughter of a wise king.
After two hours, the boat docked. The longest part of the journey was still ahead: six hours by bus. She knew she would be tired, but soon she would be with her grandfather again. That made it all worth it.
It was a bumpy ride. Gift tried to pass the time by looking at cloud shapes she saw out the window and watching the beautiful land blur past. The sun was beginning to set when the bus pulled to a stop. Finally! Grandfather! Gift leapt from the bus and ran to the village house.
She searched inside for Grandfather. She searched the inner courtyard, where her mother had kept goats as a child. She searched the bedrooms, where at night she’d have to close the windows to keep out the mosquitoes. She searched the yard behind the house, where she’d worn the robes of royalty—bright scarves and a paper crown—to attend the village council.
There, Gift saw Grandfather peacefully sitting on a bench, overlooking the family garden. Gift smiled.
“Grandfather!” she called.
Grandfather stood and opened his arms wide. “My dear girl,” he whispered as he wrapped her in a warm hug. “Sit and rest with me.”
“I’ve missed you,” Gift said.
“I’ve missed you more. I’m glad you are here.” Grandfather paused for a moment and then asked, “Do you know how special this garden is?”
Gift shook her head.
Grandfather pointed to the tree in front of them. “This is the family tree,” he said. Gift noticed that it looked old and strong.
“The tiles on the ground around the tree have the names of our ancestors. We must always remember our family.”
Gift didn’t recognize many of the names on the tiles. How could she remember someone she didn’t know? “Tell me about them, Grandfather,” Gift said.
Grandfather read the names one by one and told Gift the stories of her ancestors. As he spoke, Gift realized that in some ways, these were also stories of her. She had a lot in common with these family members she had never met.
In that moment, Gift understood something important. It wasn’t just the waves and the land that made her feel free here. It was a connection to her family that she felt in this village with Grandfather.
Grandfather told stories until the stars danced in the sky.
Finally, Grandfather sighed. “We’d better go inside.”
“Just one more moment,” Gift said.
Gift walked to the tree and gently touched its bark. Then she looked at the tiles on the ground, remembering the story of each ancestor. One day, she would visit the temple and perform sacred ordinances for them. Because of them, she was here now. She’d do her part to return the gift they’d given her.
Grandfather reached out his hand for hers, and Gift took it. With one final look back at the family tree, Gift headed inside, where more of her family were waiting to greet her.

Roland Denny, a Navajo student on the Church’s Indian Placement Program, has two families. And he tries to make the best of both worlds in which he lives. During the school year he lives with the Alan Mecham family in Salt Lake City, where he attends Hillside Junior High School. He plans to be either a doctor or a dentist when he grows up. For now, when he isn’t doing schoolwork or practicing the piano, Roland enjoys swimming or playing baseball.
An active member of the Parley’s First Ward deacons quorum, Roland can be counted on to pass the sacrament and to collect fast offerings. In the Mexican Hat Branch, where he passes the sacrament in the summer with his brother Brent, members live so far apart that they must bring their fast offerings to church themselves. And because it is an area where daytime temperatures often soar to well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, drinking water must be drawn from deep wells, put into fifty-five gallon drums, and hauled by pickup trucks to the homes.
Bobby Denny, Roland’s father, attended Navajo Community College at Tsaile, Arizona, and for fourteen years was director of instructors in the Navajo Adult Education Program. Brother Denny is first counselor of the Mexican Hat Branch. Alice Denny, Roland’s mother, is a trained nurse and works for the Utah Navajo Development Council. She has worked in leadership positions in her branch Relief Society. The Denny family was elated last year, when Roland, his three brothers, and his two sisters were sealed to their parents in the Jordan River Temple.
When Roland returns to his natural family in Mexican Hat for the summer, he keeps busy with family chores and his flock of chickens, ducks, and turkeys. He also started a snow-cone business last summer to earn some spending money. In July he and other Mexican Hat youngsters participate in the Mad Hatter’s Fling, a riotous, four-mile-long race down the San Juan River. They ride inner tubes, homemade boats, or anything else that will safely float.
Sometimes, when the open-air shade house in the garden at home doesn’t provide enough comfort for sleeping, Roland’s family makes an excursion to Cedar Mesa, a cool, wooded area to the north of Monument Valley, where Roland’s grandfather, Julius Denny, lives. A traditional Indian herbalist, Grandfather Denny is also a miner and a rancher. Roland likes to help him with his herds of Rambouillet sheep, Charolais cattle, and Angora goats. Roaming the vast reaches of Monument Valley, with its gigantic, storied sandstone formations, helps Roland understand and appreciate the Creator’s wondrous handiwork.

Gandía, a tiny town in southern Spain, lies nestled against an inlet of the Mediterranean Sea. It is a picturesque village of orange groves, fishing boats, and tourist shops. As a full-time missionary in the Spain Barcelona Mission, I was transferred there in December 1993.
A few months later as Easter approached, I was charmed to see Gandía blossom into spring. The clouds lifted, the skies lightened, and the streets filled with women stopping to chat on their way to and from market. Local festivities included marching bands, parades, and special masses at the little cathedral. And at dusk the air was saturated with the scent of orange blossoms.
My companion and I had become good friends with one of the members in the Gandía Branch, a woman named Doris Kessler. One day she said with a smile, “I gave a Book of Mormon to my neighbor Concha, and she wants to meet you.”
After arranging to visit, we knocked on Concha’s door. A weak voice invited us in. The tiny rooms were dark; windows and shutters were shut tight to retain the inadequate warmth of a small gas heater. A gooseneck lamp illuminated the face of a woman who lay in pain, shivering with cold.
Many years earlier, Concha had suffered a bad fall, breaking bones in both legs. The doctors put screws in her ankles to strengthen them, but additional falls had forced her to accept permanent bed rest. “If you fall again,” the doctors warned, “we will have to amputate.” So except for trips to the grocery store on the ground floor of her building, Concha stayed in bed. She grew discouraged as she gained weight and lost strength.
Like the vast majority of the people of Spain, Concha Femenía Martí was born a Catholic. But in her mature life she had begun to explore other religions. She had enthusiastically accepted a Book of Mormon from Sister Kessler, and now my companion and I began to share the doctrines of the gospel of Jesus Christ with her. Light literally replaced darkness in the little apartment as the words of the discussions touched her heart. Her body relaxed, and her face began to shine.
Concha studied the scriptures, prayed humbly and fervently, and accepted truth upon truth. A member of the branch agreed to stop by for her on Sunday mornings so she could attend Church meetings. She accepted the invitation to be baptized and began saving coins in a little plastic container to make a trip to the temple.
Unfortunately, the Sunday before her baptism, the person who had agreed to pick her up was so busy with other responsibilities he forgot to go after her. We hurriedly found someone else with a car to go, but he did not get far. There in the parking lot stood Concha, gasping and perspiring and leaning heavily on her crutches. She smiled as we ran up to greet her. “I knew something must have happened,” she said. “But I wanted so much to partake of the blessings of the gospel—I wasn’t going to let anything stop me!”
She was not the only person to benefit from her attendance that day. As the members bore their testimonies, many of them expressed gratitude for Concha’s conversion and commitment and rededicated themselves to the Lord.
Three months after her baptism, Concha was sustained as the branch Relief Society president. She continues to prepare for her trip to the temple and shares her testimony with others whenever she can.
When I think about springtime, the Atonement of Jesus Christ, and new beginnings, I always think of Concha and the day she stood on the sidewalk beaming with testimony. I also remember how she looked on a later day—the day she joyfully rose from the waters of baptism, having partaken of that very sacred symbol of rebirth.

My experiences have encouraged others to speak up about offensive material. A friend confided that her daughter was embarrassed to wear her dance group’s costumes. Her daughter had even seen members of the audience avert their eyes during her group’s number. I suggested that my friend encourage her daughter to talk to the dance instructor. She did. We were both pleased when the instructor ordered costumes that enhanced rather than detracted from subsequent performances.

One of the most powerful experiences I’ve had with this feeling was in my search to find a house to purchase. I was single and had been contemplating buying a house for several years. I told my realtor what I was looking for, and she did an excellent job of finding houses that fit my description. She would show me houses, but I would turn them down because they didn’t feel right. She started asking me what I disliked about each one so that she could better show me homes that would fit my needs. Unfortunately, I couldn’t articulate very well what was missing.
Finally, one afternoon we walked through a house that wasn’t as nice as some of the others we had seen. It was a little more expensive than others. It fit my description for what I had said I wanted but not as perfectly as some we had seen. Nevertheless, after walking through it, I told my realtor I wanted to put in an offer. She seemed somewhat surprised at my willingness to act so quickly. Considering my reluctance through previous months, she was right to be surprised. But the feeling that this was where I needed to live was almost overwhelming. I didn’t feel a need to stop and think about it.
I put in an offer, and the sellers accepted my bid, despite the fact that it was not the highest offer they had received. I told my family that I knew I was supposed to live in that house, though I didn’t know why.
I found out why I needed to live there fairly quickly. I met a woman in the singles ward within a month of moving in. A little over a year later, we knelt across the altar in the temple, where we were sealed as husband and wife.
The Lord truly moves in mysterious ways. I had no idea that He was leading me toward eternal marriage when He helped me choose a house. All I knew was that I was being guided to take this step, and now I can see that that guidance came from His Spirit.

It was almost pajama time when Mom poked her head into the living room. “Quick—get your coats on!” she said, smiling.
Alan and Terry looked at each other. “It’s dark out. Don’t we have to go to bed?”
“Bed? When the moon rises and the night calls? Don’t be silly!” Mom laughed as she bundled them into coats.
Keys jangled in their father’s hand as the family hurried outside. Their breath left hazy trails overhead as they ran to the car through the autumn night, frost tickling their noses. The moon was like a huge golden apple that followed the car as it wove down winding roads to the sleepy town below.
“Where are we going?” Terry asked.
Dad’s cheery whistle from the front seat and Mom’s chuckle was their answer.
They stopped at the town park, streaked by moonlight through half-bare trees. The breeze rustled branches, shifting the silver-edged shadows of ancient maples.
Dad and Mom leaped out of the car, giggling, and scurried among the trees.
The empty park beckoned to Alan and Terry. They stepped out, and the ground rustled with maple leaves—knee-high in places.
Where were their parents?
They heard footsteps; then a shower of leaves broke over both children—skittering down jackets and clinging to hair.
“Gotcha!”
A shout of laughter, and a sudden glimpse of Mom and Dad—running hand in hand. Ducking behind a maple tree.
“Follow me!” Alan cried, scooping up an armload of crisp ammunition. He chased the laughter, Terry at his heels, her arms filled with the fall harvest.
They split up and circled the tree.
“Hah!”
Leaves flew.
Flying footsteps crunched.
High laughter joined low, rising to be captured by half-gloved tree limbs. The night exploded as silver light caught reds, oranges, and yellows flung into the air. Shadows gathered and scattered everywhere. New leaves tacked to the ground to be tennis-shoe tromped, then hand-tossed.
Mom chased Alan chased Terry chased Dad chased Mom.
Caught in crisp clouds of captured leaves.
Then, at last, leaves no longer flew but were heaped high, reaching skyward. Mom, Dad, Alan, Terry fell and rolled into parent-pile, child-pile, family-pile.
Corn-flake crunch.
Crinkle.
Crackle.
Chuckle.
Rustle.
Rest.
The golden moon was sliced in half by a cloud.
Yawn.
The family wound their way to the car, still chirping their delight, and tumbled inside.
Crunch, rustle.
Captured leaf-bits complained from coat collars and pants pockets, from ponytails and tennis shoes.
The car grew quiet as it slithered up the hill through the cozy-darkening night.
Home.

One girl who was introduced to the gospel by Mutual was Candace Read of Colorado Springs, Colorado. She says that when she was 15 she wanted to find a friend she could trust not to swear around her. She met Kimberly in algebra class. Kimberly invited Candace to eat lunch with her friends. Candace says, “I really liked all of them. They all seemed so good-natured and free of the distasteful things of the world. Kimberly invited me to come to Mutual. All of these friends that I knew from school would be there. Of course I went. I loved the way Mutual made me feel.”
From there, Candace was invited to meet the missionaries. She learned to pray, and she learned of the truthfulness of the gospel. When it came time for her to marry, she married in the temple, and she and her husband have six children, all actively working on gaining the blessings of the gospel. Candace says, “I am so grateful to have a friend who set a good example for me that I might have these blessings in my life.”

Last year a dear family friend passed away. Lucile was 89 years old and had been a widow for more than 20 years. She was not a rich woman, she was not famous, and most of the world knew nothing of her passing. But her family knew. Her neighbors knew. The members of her ward knew. For all who had experienced her love, her death had left the world a diminished place. During her years as a widow, Lucile had endured difficult challenges, including the death of a beloved grandson and infirmities brought on by age. But Lucile continued to nourish everyone she knew with her spirit, with her baked goods, with her quilts and afghans, with her humor and goodwill. And she loved to work in the temple. One spring day in 1981, she wrote in her journal: “This morning at 3:30 a.m., as I was walking up the path to the temple, I watched the flag gently blowing in the breeze and looked at the beautiful sky and thought how happy I was to be there. I felt sad for all the people who [were] sleeping and missing the awakening of a beautiful day.”

Most of us don’t think the world is “awakening” at 3:30 in the morning, and we’re perfectly happy to roll over in bed about then and allow Lucile to feel sorry for us. But what an attitude! Only a flow of goodness from within could explain it. Did she possess this purity of spirit at 15, at 25, or even 55? I don’t know. In most cases, it probably takes a lifetime of listening to the Holy Ghost before we know God’s voice so well and before we trust in the living waters enough to taste them throughout the entire day—especially a day that begins at 3:30 a.m. But I believe the living waters sustained Lucile during those long years when she might have given way to self-pity, and her life, her spirit, became nourishment to everyone she knew.

Mr. Samuels smiled as he carefully steered the big school bus along the busy streets. It was the first day following a holiday vacation, and he was glad that the bus was running smoothly. When he had entered it this morning, he’d discovered that one of the rear windows had been left open. There were twigs and dried grass on the floor, but he found no signs of any damage.
A little later Eric and Steve, third-graders at Lakeview School, were sitting together near the rear of the bus. Suddenly they saw a pigeon flying alongside it.
“That pigeon wants to ride with us,” said Steve.
“He’ll have to get a bus pass,” Eric joked.
When the bus stopped for traffic lights, the pigeon perched on a tree branch in easy view of the boys’ closed window. When the traffic moved forward again, the bird kept pace with the bus.
“It not only wants to ride this bus, it also wants to sit in our seat,” Eric said, laughing.
The pigeon began squawking as it flew. People on the street turned and stared. Motorists in passing cars pointed at the funny sight. Some of them honked their car horns. The children on the bus howled with laughter.
“Maybe it sees its reflection in the window and thinks it’s another bird,” said Steve.
Eric waved his hands at the pigeon. “Shoo, bird! Fly away! You’re causing a traffic jam.”
The determined pigeon kept flying alongside them.
When the bus finally arrived at Lakeview School, Eric reached under the seat to get his books. “Mr. Samuels!” he shouted. “I’ve solved the mystery! There’s another pigeon under the seat, and it looks as if it’s been building a nest, because there’s a lot of grass and twigs down here.”
“So that’s it,” the bus driver replied. “I see now—they must have come in through the window I found open this morning. I guess the birds wanted to make their home in our bus. But they can’t live here, that’s for sure.”
Eric and Steve ran to get Mrs. Kappas, the principal, and Mr. Carter, the school custodian. Soon Mr. Carter brought a ladder, and Eric slipped a piece of cardboard under the partially built nest and handed it to Mr. Carter. Then the custodian climbed the ladder and carefully placed the nest on a sheltered ledge under the eaves of the school-house.
“I hope the pigeons will like it there,” Steve told Eric.
At recess time the children saw that the pigeons did like their new home. Busily they swooped back and forth, carrying bits of this and that to finish building their nest.
Eric noticed that one pigeon seemed to be resting a great deal between swoops. Turning to Steve, Eric said with a grin, “Well, I guess if I’d flown as much as that pigeon has this morning, I’d be tired too!”

Marta dug a hole in the dirt. She put a tomato plant in the hole and patted the dirt around it. Then she planted some round onions. Next, Marta carefully put watermelon seeds in the dirt.
Marta gave the garden water every day. Finally the garden was ready. Mom picked tomatoes. Marta pulled onions out of the ground. Dad carried a watermelon into the kitchen. Mom used the tomatoes and onions to make sauce for spaghetti. Dad cut the watermelon into sweet, juicy pieces. Marta said, “My favorite foods are the ones we grow!”