Gospel Story Finder

In order to maintain her commitment to the gospel and build her spirituality, Sister Lawson set some standards for herself when she moved to Kununurra that she has maintained ever since. She reads two or three chapters from the standard works daily, systematically working her way through each of them. She also reads every piece of Church literature she can get. “I subscribe to all the Church magazines,” she says.
Twice each month, she receives a phone call from the Relief Society president in the city of Darwin, 700 kilometers away—the center of Church activity in Australia’s vast Northern Territory. The phone calls are a welcome morale booster, as are the photocopies of lessons from the Relief Society and Sunday School manuals which are also sent.
Normally, Sister Lawson has an opportunity to take the sacrament only once every six months. When she can get the time off work, she travels to Darwin for district conference—a weekend trip that costs her an average of [U.S.] $350 for air fares. Occasionally, the mission president or another priesthood holder travels through the town, and Sister Lawson often takes that opportunity to ask for a blessing.

One cold winter night many years ago in a little village in Spain an old man named Pedro and his wife, Joanna, sat in front of a cozy fire in their home. They owned enough to be very comfortable, but instead of giving thanks to God for the benefits they enjoyed, they spent much of their time wishing for the good things their neighbors had.

“This wretched little house of ours is only fit to house a donkey!” cried Pedro. “I wish we had a fine house and farm like our neighbor, Diego!”

“His house and farm are good enough for them,” answered Joanna. “But I would like a mansion such as the one of Don Juan de la Rosa.”

“Then there’s that old donkey of ours,” went on Pedro sullenly. “Good for nothing—nothing at all. He cannot carry an empty sack! I wish I had Diego’s strong Andalusian mule!”

“O, aye!” said Joanna. “Diego’s mule is better than our donkey, but I’d like a white horse with trappings of scarlet and gold like the one of Doña Isabella. It seems that some people have only to wish in order to get a thing, but I’ve never had such luck. How wonderful it would be if we had but to speak to have our wishes come true!”

Scarcely were the words out of Joanna’s mouth when there on the hearth before the old couple stood a beautiful little lady. She was only eighteen inches tall and her dress was white and filmy and full of opal tints as though made of smoke. A smoky veil floated down from a crown of sparks on her head. In her hand she had a little golden wand and a single spark glowed on the very tip of it.

“I am Fortunata,” said she. “I have heard your complaints and have come to give you what you desire. You may have three wishes, one for each of you, and the third you shall agree upon between you. I will grant that last wish in person when I return at this time tomorrow.”

Then Fortunata sprang through the flames and disappeared. The old couple were delighted at the thought of having three wishes come true. They began to think of what they most wanted in all the world. Wishes came swarming to them as thick as bees to a hive. There were so many that came crowding to the minds of the old couple that they could not agree offhand on just which three to wish for. So they decided to put off their decision until the next day, and they began talking of different things altogether.

“I dropped in at Diego’s this morning,” said Pedro, “and they were making black puddings. Um! but they smelled good! Diego can buy the best of food. He does not have to put up with the poor food we have to eat!”

“True! True!” said Joanna. “I wish I had one of Diego’s puddings this very minute to roast on the ashes for supper!”

The words were hardly out of Joanna’s mouth when suddenly on the hearth appeared a delicious black pudding! The woman’s eyes opened wide in surprise, but Pedro jumped up in a rage. “You foolish woman!” he cried. “You have used up one of our precious wishes to ask for nothing more than one poor little pudding! It makes me so angry that I wish the silly pudding were stuck fast to your nose!”

Then before the words were hardly out of his mouth the black pudding flew across the room and fastened itself to Joanna’s nose. The old man shrieked in surprise and Joanna screamed with horror. She shook her head as hard as she could but the pudding clung fast to her nose!

“See what you have done, you foolish man!” she wailed. “I made a poor wish but it hurt only myself. Look what you have done to me!”

Then the dog and cat, sniffing the delicious odor of the pudding, came leaping up, springing and pawing to lick the pudding from Joanna’s nose!

“Down! Down!” shrieked Joanna, as she tried to drive the animals away. “For our third wish we must ask that this miserable pudding be taken off my nose!”

“Don’t ask that!” cried Pedro. “What of the new farm I wanted? Think of the palace you wanted.”

“I don’t care about that anymore,” Joanna insisted.

“Let us wish at least for a fortune,” Pedro pleaded. “Then you can have a golden case set with jewels to cover the pudding on your nose!”

“No,” said Joanna. “All I want is to be rid of this awful nose.”

“Then we shall be left just as we were before!” sighed Pedro.

“And that is all I desire,” Joanna said. “I see now we were well enough off as we were!”

No matter what Pedro said, nothing could change Joanna’s mind. And so at last they agreed.

On the following night little Fortunata rose from the flames and asked them to tell her their third wish. They answered both together, “We wish only to be as we were before.”

And immediately their wish was granted.

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.

Something was different about nine-year-old Heidi after school that cold afternoon. Instead of flinging her jacket when she walked in the door, she carefully hung it on the hook. Rather than pouncing at the refrigerator like a hungry tiger, she stared quietly out the window as if she were looking at something far beyond the border of the yard.
“Well, hi there!” Mom said, trying to get her attention.
Like a person awakened from a dream, Heidi looked at her mom and smiled. “Oh, how was your day, Mom?”
Mom wiped her hands on her apron and studied Heidi’s face. “My day was fine. How was yours?”
“Well … ,” Heidi began slowly, “it was … different.”
“I believe you. You seem to be light years away.”
“Well, maybe not that far. But as least as far as Arkansas.”
“Arkansas is a long way from California. What started you thinking about Arkansas?”
Mom cut an apple into four pieces and offered one to Heidi, who cradled it in her hand.
“There’s a new boy named Billy coming from Arkansas to join our class tomorrow. My teacher told us his parents were both in a car accident. His mother died, and his father is in a hospital and probably won’t survive, either. Billy was sent here to California to live with an uncle.” Heidi looked down at the apple she was holding. “Can you imagine being that boy, Mom?”
“No, but you’re really trying to, aren’t you?”
Heidi nodded. “I just wish there was something I could do for him. He’s going to feel really alone tomorrow.”
“I’m sure there are some things you can do to help. Let’s think of some.”
“I can smile at him.”
“Good idea.”
“I can show him around the school and tell him about our classroom routine.” Heidi put her chin on her hand and looked up at her mother. “But it isn’t enough. Isn’t there something special I can do?”
“Well, there is something special we can do for Billy. Something that just might be enough.”
“What?”
“You and I can fast and pray for him. We can ask Heavenly Father to bless him to feel at peace in his new home and at his new school. We can also pray for his father. What do you think about that?”
Heidi thought for a moment about fast Sundays. She had been taught that fasting would help her feel the Spirit, but she usually just felt hungry and grumpy. She hesitated, but then something inside let her know she would be OK. She smiled at her mother. “Let’s do it.”
Just then, Heidi’s 13-year-old brother, Chris, entered the kitchen. Hearing Heidi’s last sentence, he asked, “Do what?”
Mom briefly told Chris about Billy and explained their plan. Chris said, “I’ll fast with you.”
“Wow! Really?” Heidi asked.
“Yeah, sure,” he answered, reaching for some cookies. Stopping his hand just above the cookie jar, he asked, “When do we start?”
“After dinner,” Mom answered.
The next day, Heidi came home looking a little pale—but happy.
“Wow! I thought fasting on Sundays was hard! Try playing kick ball and watching everyone else eat lunch! But I think our fasting and prayers helped Billy.”
“Good! Tell me about it.”
“Well, when I smiled at him, he smiled back at me. The other kids were nice to him, and he made friends with a couple of boys by the end of the day.”
“That’s great,” Mom said.
“And then—it was weird,” Heidi added. “You know how some of the kids’ bad language has been bothering me lately?” Mom nodded, and Heidi continued, “Well, it was amazing, because I heard those same swear words, but for some reason, they couldn’t get inside my mind. It was as if my brain was protected all day from getting dirty! Neat, huh?”
“That’s wonderful, Heidi,” Mom said, smiling.
“I’m really tired, but I feel happy. I hope Billy feels as peaceful as I do right now.”
Mom gave her a little hug. “I have a feeling he does.”
When Chris came home, he flopped into the nearest chair and let his heavy backpack thud to the floor. He leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. “When do we eat?”
“Let’s finish our fast with a prayer. We’ll have dinner soon,” Mom suggested. “But first, tell me how your day went.”
“My body felt pretty weak, but I kept thinking of Billy, and that helped,” Chris said. “Missing a couple of meals isn’t so much if it helps him feel better.”
As the three of them knelt to say one more prayer for Billy, Mom put her arms around her children’s shoulders. Was it her imagination, or had her children both grown a little taller that day?

I was born in Rigby, Idaho, a farming community of about 2,000 people. About four miles outside of town was a small junkyard. Rigby had a junkyard man, a little old Danish immigrant who couldn’t speak English. He didn’t have a name that I can remember; we just called him the “junkyard man.”
He not only ran the junkyard; he lived there. His home was made of plywood scraps and other junk he had gathered from the yard. He didn’t have any electricity and he lived all alone, except for some dogs to keep him company.
A few times each year he walked four miles into town for groceries. Most people respected him because he worked hard and did a good job. My dad’s mother was a Danish immigrant, so Dad always had a soft spot in his heart for the old man. Whenever we went to the dump, Dad would take him groceries, cookies, or other goodies.
Well, I remember one day when I acted like a real chicken toward the junkyard man; it was a Sunday in 1965. Somehow Dad, who was the bishop, got the junkyard man to come to church that day. I was about 13 years old. I felt real cool sitting there in church in my turtleneck shirt and 100 percent polyester suit, but then it happened. Dad brought the junkyard man to the bench where my family was and sat him down right next to me! I could hear my friends laughing. I was so embarrassed I didn’t even look at the man during sacrament meeting.
After the meeting, I left as fast as I could. Outside, my friends and I really started pecking at the junkyard man, and I was the worst. I told the boys that as the old man sat there I saw “cooties” crawling out of his clothes. I told them he smelled like trash, that his weird wool pants had moth holes in them, and all sorts of other insulting things. The more my friends laughed, the bigger I felt, and the more I “pecked” at him in our conversation.
Of course, he didn’t hear any of this. But about three weeks later, on a particularly cold Idaho night, the pipe of the old man’s coal-burning stove in his house broke. The house filled with thick, sooty smoke and he died in his sleep.
I don’t tell you this story to make you feel sorry for the old man, because his life was not really sad. He was a good man who contributed something to his community and made his own way. The sad part is that I remembered the mean things I said, and it was too late to apologize. I had picked on the old man only because he was different.

Early in our married life when Sister Nelson and I lived in Minneapolis, we decided to enjoy a free afternoon with our two-year-old daughter. We went to one of Minnesota’s many beautiful lakes and rented a small boat. After rowing far from shore, we stopped to relax and enjoy the tranquil scene. Suddenly, our little toddler lifted one leg out of the boat and started to go overboard, exclaiming, “Time to get out, Daddy!”
Quickly we caught her and explained: “No, dear, it’s not time to get out; we must stay in the boat until it brings us safely back to land.” Only with considerable persuasion did we succeed in convincing her that leaving the boat early would have led to disaster.

For Donath Banamwana, his life’s path was very clear to him from an early age. His family was Catholic, the predominant religion in his home country of Rwanda. “Most Rwandan’s are very religious and over half of them are Catholic,” Donath noted.
It was a tradition in his village that every family would have at least one priest and he was very happy to take that responsibility for his family. “From the time that I was very young all I ever wanted was to be a priest,” he said, adding that all his education and life preparation was in anticipation of spending his life serving God in the priesthood.
During his late teenage years, he became confused by some of the things he heard and the feelings of doubt that continued to consume his thoughts. “I realized that I could not continue on this path, and I was devastated. I had spent my entire life preparing for this, and somehow God was preparing me for something else,” he said. But he did not know what path to take.
Donath struggled to determine what he would do with his life. Almost in desperation he decided that he would become a soldier in the Rwandan army. This was devastating for his family who were still disappointed that he had chosen not to enter the priesthood, and they were determined to do whatever it took to make sure he didn’t become a soldier.
They sent Donath to the Rwandan capital of Kigali where he had an uncle he could stay with. They hoped that he would take some time to think about his decisions. He got a job and settled into the area with his uncle’s family. One Sunday, his uncle asked him if he would like to attend church with him and his family. “I asked him what church and he said, ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’” He told his uncle he had never heard of this church but would like to attend.
He noticed how friendly the Church members were in the Kigali 3rd Branch. He wasn’t used to that type of church experience. “The opening hymn was number 136, I still remember the number, ‘I Know that My Redeemer Lives.’ It had a tremendous impact on me, I really didn’t hear or understand much else at the meeting. I had to find someone who could tell me what that song meant.”
He began meeting with the missionaries and having discussions with his uncle and began to recognize the truth of the gospel. He had moved back with his family, and going to church was very difficult because they lived nearly 10 hours away from the Kigali Branch. He was able to attend church a couple of times per month and made the decision to be baptized. He was baptized in the Kigali 3rd Branch, Kigali District in 2018.
Donath knew that he wanted to serve a mission and began preparing himself. After years of working toward this goal, Donath was called to serve in the Accra Ghana Mission in early 2022. Elder Banamwana served a very successful mission, finishing his last few months as an assistant to President Ben Beeson and Sister Julynn Beeson, mission leaders in Accra.

Even when we have the right perspective, waiting can be hard. But I have learned that patience is more than just waiting. I have learned this from my brother Andrew and his wife, Brianna, as they have dealt with being unable to have children. Although their hopes were crushed when they learned they wouldn’t be able to have children, they found new hope through the prospect of adoption—but that still meant more waiting.
I hesitate to use the word wait when referring to them because that word often has very passive connotations. For them, waiting doesn’t mean biding their time until a child comes—patience is so much more than that.
Andrew said, “So much of adoption is in the Lord’s hands, not ours. But it makes us feel good to have something we can do to work toward our goal of having children in our family.” Whether it’s through blogging, sharing their contact information with friends and family, or getting involved with local groups of adoptive parents, they try to “do all things that lie in [their] power” (D&C 123:17), and then they put their trust in the Lord.
After years of waiting and praying, they were able to adopt a beautiful baby girl named Jessica. As they held her in their arms, years’ worth of disappointment and discouragement faded away. For them, she was and is a miracle.
Five years have now passed since they adopted Jessica, and for the last four years, they have been trying to adopt another child. The waiting has begun again. Brianna told me, “People often remind us that whenever a child is meant to come to our family, it will come. We know they are right, but we also know we can’t just sit still as we wait. We have to have faith that it will happen but also move forward, live our lives, make plans for our future, have fun, and enjoy being together.”
Waiting is hard, but Andrew and Brianna have taught me to choose to be happy today. It’s so easy to think, “I will be happy when __________,” but we miss out on so much of what life has to offer by postponing our happiness. Even though we sometimes have to put our desires aside to submit to the will of our Father, that doesn’t mean we have to also put our happiness aside. His love can provide strength, fill voids, and instill hope.

The first addresses the finished quality of being easily entreated, which means to be approachable and accessible, to accept good counsel, and to have a listening, attentive ear.

Thirty-three years ago a brand-new missionary arrived in my missionary district. He brought with him his guitar. Our mission president, Bruce R. McConkie, suggested that he leave it in the mission home and pick it up in two years. I watched as he struggled briefly with taking another simple step toward finishing the quality of being easily entreated and then watched him take that small step. Five years ago my calling with the 19 BYU stakes involved me in the reorganization of one of them. This same individual, now an experienced priesthood leader, was assigned as part of his training to accompany a member of the Twelve to the reorganization. Again I watched, and this time saw him easily and anxiously glean principle after principle taught by the member of the Twelve. I appreciated his now-refined quality of being easily entreated. I wondered how crucial each of his small, earlier steps were. I also wondered what spiritual illness might have claimed him had he not learned to fit into that earlier unfinished quality by making spiritually intelligent eternal choices that reduce vulnerability.

Margaret could feel her face getting red as the math teacher wrote the grades on the blackboard. Twenty scores had already been posted and hers was still lower. He kept on writing—forty-one, thirty-nine, and thirty-eight.
No one knew that she was the one who had a score of thirty-nine, but to be next to last was embarrassing just the same. Margaret closed her eyes and wished she were far away.
Just then the bell rang and class was over. Margaret gathered up her books and started home. But instead of going straight home to her house she stopped by Mr. Tucker’s yard where he was carefully turning over the garden with a shovel.
“Well, if it isn’t Meg!” he called. Just those few words from Mr. Tucker made Margaret feel better.
“Hi, Mr. Tucker! It’s such a nice spring day that I knew you’d be out here.”
“You know me pretty well, don’t you? Put your books down and visit awhile.”
Margaret watched the dry brown earth become a rich black as the shovelfuls were turned over.
“How was school today?” Mr. Tucker asked as he wiped his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.
“All right, I guess. Anyway, it’s almost over for the year.”
“How are you doing in English?”
“Good,” Margaret answered.
“And you’re still doing well in science and art?”
“Yes.”
“Then I guess the long face is for math.”
“That’s right,” Margaret answered, disgustedly. “As a matter of fact my score was next to the lowest in class today.”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Tucker said, stopping his work for a few minutes to talk about Margaret’s problem.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “Numbers just don’t make much sense to me. I’m afraid I’ll never understand them.”
“Well, now, I know you pretty well, Meg,” Mr. Tucker told her. “You’ve always done well in school. Most things seem to come easy for you, and so I know you’re going to be able to lick your problem with math.”
Margaret watched the soil as Mr. Tucker went back to turning it over. “You’ve come across something that isn’t easy, Meg,” he continued. “But now you’ve found a challenge, it can be pretty exciting to meet it head-on and prove you can master it.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Meg said. “Instead, I’ve just become upset until I sometimes feel as though I just hate it, especially since I’ll probably have to go to summer school if my grades don’t get any better.”
“Would that be so bad, summer school I mean?” asked Mr. Tucker. “Seems to me that might be a pretty good place to put in some hours. We didn’t have anything like that when I was a boy.”
“Well,” Meg replied. “Summer school is great if you can take the things you want. I guess the trouble is that I don’t like math any time of the year.”
“Math’s important, Meg.”
“I know. That’s what Mom says, but I guess I haven’t learned to like it yet.”
Mr. Tucker turned the last of the dry, brittle earth into crumbly black soil. “There, now I can get to planting.” He wore a twinkly kind of smile that Margaret had often seen, but only when he was working in the garden. She’d wondered about that certain smile but had never found a good answer for it.
The next week school ended and Margaret had only one week of vacation before summer school. Every day she walked down to watch Mr. Tucker weed and water his tomatoes and corn and peas. She watched his gray head bent over a tomato plant, searching for new weeds. And she wondered why he bothered with such a little garden.
“It’s not much of a garden this year,” Mr. Tucker admitted, reading her thoughts one day. “I used to plant this whole backyard.”
“Why do you work so hard anyway?” Margaret asked. “You usually give most of the vegetables away.”
Mr. Tucker had that same twinkly smile on his face as he answered. “It’s nice to be needed. And some folks depend on my vegetables, just like I’m depending on you to learn to like math.”
“I’ll try,” Margaret promised. And math lesson by math lesson the first week slowly passed. Summer school wasn’t half as unpleasant as she had anticipated.
She studied hard but on the first test she only scored fifty-eight.
“I’m afraid I can’t make a better grade,” Margaret told Mr. Tucker, showing him her red-checked paper.
“Yes you can!”
“I tried so hard. And look!”
“But you’ve only been going a week,” Mr. Tucker reminded her. “You’ll probably score in the sixties next week.”
And so before each test during the summer Margaret worked and studied a little harder. Slowly her scores began getting better and Mr. Tucker’s tomatoes grew bigger and riper.
“The day my first tomato is ready to pick you’ll get a hundred on your math,” he predicted.
Margaret laughed. “I’m working at it,” she said.
“And working isn’t so bad, is it? Still hate math?”
“Only a little,” Margaret answered, and the answer surprised even her.
“That’s my Meg!”
The next Monday when the math teacher wrote the scores on the board, there was only one hundred—Margaret’s. She had worked very hard all summer and was so pleased with the results that she smiled all the way to Mr. Tucker’s.
“Guess what?” she shouted.
“You got a hundred,” Mr. Tucker said matter-of-factly.
“How did you know?”
Mr Tucker held up a bright red tomato. “Easy,” he said, “my first tomato is ripe.” Then they both laughed.
“Here, this one is yours,” he said. “It’ll make a great sandwich for lunch.”
Margaret noticed his twinkly smile again as he put the tomato in her hands. Now she understood about the smile and without even a mirror, she knew she wore the very same kind of smile. Suddenly she realized that the “something” that Mr. Tucker was smiling about was the feeling that comes when a person has a feeling of accomplishment.
“Thank you,” she said, “and if this tomato tastes as good as the feeling of finally earning a hundred in math, it’ll be a great sandwich. You know,” Margaret added, “it’s almost like magic what a little work can do.”
Mr. Tucker nodded in agreement. “There’s not really much magic in this old world,” he said. “But it’s a great feeling when you’re a part of making something almost magical happen.”

Many years ago I served as a mission president. I had 450 wonderful, dedicated missionaries. When we returned home to Salt Lake City after three years, my dear wife and I were a little surprised one evening as we ran a tally on our missionaries, only to find that there were some sister missionaries who had not as yet found an eternal companion. We determined we would do what we could to help out. I said to Sister Monson, “Frances, let’s plan with a purpose and invite three or four of our lovely sister missionaries to our home. We’ll have an activity where they can tell us who of all the single returned male missionaries they would like to have invited to a little fireside in our home. Then we will show pictures of the mission, and we will arrange the seating so that they can become well acquainted with one another.” This was done, and I might say that the four girls whom we invited eagerly responded to the challenge.

In shoe boxes we maintained individual five-by-seven-inch photographs of every missionary. We had four such boxes, with missionary pictures in each. As those four girls sat around our living room, I said to each of them, “Here is a gift. Thumb through your box of pictures and tell me which of all the pictures represents the young man whom you would most like to have invited to come to this fireside.” My, that was an interesting scene. I think that the only way I could adequately describe it is to ask a question. Have you ever seen children on Christmas morning? We went forward and invited the chosen four young men to join these four young ladies in our home, and we had a glorious evening. At the conclusion of the evening, I noticed two of them slowly walking down our driveway, and I said to Sister Monson, “This looks promising.” They were walking very close together.

It wasn’t long afterward that I received a telephone call from the young man. He said, “President Monson, do you remember that I promised you if I ever fell in love, I would let you know?”

I said, “Yes, sir.”

He continued, “President, I have fallen in love.”

I replied, “Good. With whom?”

He said, “You’ll never guess.”

I was discreet; I didn’t guess. I said, “You tell me.” And he named the sister missionary with whom he walked side by side and hand in hand from our party that evening. They have now been married for 42 years and have five children and many grandchildren.

In the fall of 1825, an acquaintance of the Hales, Josiah Stowell, hired young Joseph Smith and others to dig for silver. After a month of digging and finding nothing, Joseph persuaded Mr. Stowell to quit digging. While Joseph was working for Mr. Stowell, Joseph and his father boarded with the Hales. That’s when Emma met Joseph.
Over the next year, as Joseph and his father worked at various jobs in the area, Joseph and Emma talked in the evenings after work. She was an excellent cook and had a delightful sense of humor, which Joseph probably enjoyed.
Joseph soon decided to marry Emma. He told his parents: “I have been very lonely ever since Alvin died [three years before], and I have concluded to get married, and if you have no objections with my uniting myself in marriage with Miss Emma Hale, she would be my choice in preference to any other woman.”1 Joseph’s parents, pleased with his choice, invited Joseph and Emma to live with them after the marriage so they too could enjoy Emma’s company.
About 15 months after they first met, Joseph and Emma married, and Joseph worked that summer on his father’s farm.

About four months into my mission, I began to experience pain—not only during physical activities like riding my bike or morning exercise but also when I was sleeping or doing personal study. I began rapidly losing weight. Even drinking water made me sick. Doctors’ tests could not determine what was wrong. I had no parasites or viruses. My mission president, my missionary companion, and I were all confused by my deteriorating health.

During the month that followed, I maintained faith that surprised even me. Although I felt frustrated, I was convinced that if I kept working harder, biking faster, and speaking my broken Chinese to everyone I saw, that God would miraculously heal me. I believed the stories of Christ’s healing the sick and raising the dead, and I believed wholeheartedly that He would do the same for me—a weak but enthusiastic missionary. Then one Sunday while my companion and I were biking to the Church meetinghouse to meet an investigator, the pain and convulsions throughout my body became unbearable. When we arrived at the meetinghouse, I asked the elders to give me a blessing, which helped. As the days passed, priesthood blessings became more frequent and so did prayers for healing.

It was the darkest day of my mission when I awoke one morning in the fiery Taiwanese heat and realized that I could not even move my body enough to get out of bed. At that moment I knew that I would not be able to be a missionary for much longer. My mission president came to visit me, and we counseled together. We talked of all the possibilities, and after much prayer and many tears, the Spirit confirmed that I needed to return home and focus on getting well.

When President N. Eldon Tanner presided over the West European Mission some years ago, his slogan was “Have a good time.” One day he said to a group of missionaries in Germany, “I would like you all to have a good time.” After the meeting, one of the missionaries came up to him and said: “President Tanner, I don’t think that it is quite fair for you to tell the missionaries to have a good time. You know, the only way they can have a good time is to do their work.” President Tanner said, “Well, go have a good time.”

September 9—Today wasn’t the best. I didn’t have anyone to sit by at lunch. I missed an easy question on the geography quiz. Also our team lost at kickball. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have any friends at this school.
I wish we hadn’t moved here. I don’t have anyone to talk to. That’s why I’m starting a journal. People in books always seem to have journals. I’ve heard stories from pioneers’ journals. I don’t know if I’ll ever do anything amazing, but it’s nice to talk to someone. Hope I can keep this up! Gotta go. Mom’s calling me for dinner.
P.S. I do feel a little better now.
I closed my journal and went to set the table.
The next day was just as bad. When I came home, I felt like I might explode. Instead I went to my room, opened my journal, and started writing. I dumped all those feelings out. I felt better this time too. After that, I wrote every few days. I wrote about everything. It was like I was writing my own book!
October 21—Guess what? I made a friend! Her name is Claire, and she’s new too. We both like board games, and we don’t like geography. I think I’m going to invite her over for family game night on Friday.
I love my journal. I like writing when I feel mad or worried because it makes me feel better. I also like writing about the good things that happen because then I can remember them.
Guess what else? I have a book report due next week. Wish me luck!
Little by little things started getting better. I still got picked last for kickball, but I had a few friends, and I joined the math team. I wrote about all of it. Soon I wasn’t writing just to complain, I was writing to a good friend—me!
And before I knew it, sixth grade was over. When I came home from the class party, I had quite a few signatures in my yearbook—all from new friends I had made. I pulled out my journal, plopped down on my bed, and wrote my last entry as a sixth grader.
June 15—Today was the last day of sixth grade. Next year I’ll be in seventh grade! I’m nervous about that, but I know I can write when I get scared or when I feel like everything is going wrong. I just went back and read my first entry again. It was so sad that I almost laughed! I’m glad I have it. It shows how much I’ve grown up this year! I’m glad I’m not so angry or sad anymore.
When we moved here, I felt like I would never be happy again. But now when I read my journal, I can see how much Heavenly Father has blessed me. He helped me make new friends and learn hard things. I wonder what’s going to happen next year!

I attended a seminary graduation in Omaha, Nebraska. The speaker, again a young man, described this experience.
“Each morning I awoke to the sweet voice of my mother calling out, ‘John, John, time to get ready for seminary!’ The year rolled on and the mornings grew cold and wet and dark; still the happy voice of Mother would sing out, ‘John, John, time to get up for seminary!’” Then he added, “I learned to hate that sound!”
But then, choking back the tears, he thanked his mother for what she had given him. And I think only later did he realize that she had to be up first every morning.

It’s like visiting Buck Roger’s control room. There are knobs and dials everywhere. On one wall hang maps of the earth, zoned into sections labeled with letters and numbers. On another wall, cards emblazoned with cryptic codes record locations where transmissions have been acknowledged—Holland, Italy, Antarctica, Gambia, the Indian Ocean.
At the control panel, the 18-year-old engineer twists the dial governing the tower’s signals. He has heard a CQ, a general request for anyone listening to respond. Aiming his beam in the proper direction, he taps out Morse code on an electronic keyer, and the dots and dashes identifying him as K3TA flash around the world.
K3TA is not a refugee who used to wander the galaxies with Artoo Detoo and See Threepio. And the scene described above isn’t a passage from an old science fiction novel. What is going on is an everyday occurrence in the life of Michael St. Clair, a priest in the Potomac Ward, Washington D.C. Stake, who is a ham radio operator. K3TA is a code that identifies the station he operates.
The station is located not on some exotic starship but in his bedroom. And the 100-foot tower is in the backyard. But from that bedroom transmitting and receiving station, Mike has spoken with people from more than 200 countries.
“I’ve talked to just about every country a person would normally think of,” Mike says, “except China. They haven’t allowed amateur radio there for a long time. But I read in a radio magazine that they might start it up again.”
If they do, Mike may be able to check off another name on his list of places he has talked to. The American Radio Relay League (ARRL), the organization of ham radio operators in the United States, publishes a list of 330 contactable “countries,” and Mike hopes to some day reach all of them. The list includes a lot of locations not normally classified as nations. “For example, Hawaii counts as a separate country as far as radio is concerned,” Mike explains. The list also includes remote locations which are either unexplored or undeveloped. “To make contact with a place like that, you usually have to wait for an expedition from outside to travel through.”
Just the same, Mike’s activity has brought him recognition for having confirmed contact with so many people in so many places. He has earned the league’s WAS (“Worked All States”) award and has qualified for the DXCC (“Distance Century Club”) award. WAS is a recognition given to amateur operators who have talked to someone in each of the states in the U.S. DXCC is awarded to those who have confirmed contact with operators in at least 100 foreign countries.
To receive the DXCC, Mike has to receive a card from each of the places contacted, then make application to the league. “The cards take a long time to come in, because they go through a central bureau. Sometimes they don’t arrive until a year after you talk to someone.” So, although Mike has talked to people all over the globe, he’s still waiting for two more cards before he can technically earn the DXCC. It’s just a matter of time before the cards finally arrive.
Like enthusiasts of any sport or hobby, amateur radio operators love to have contests to sharpen their skills. And Mike has done well in contests, too. The contests involve contacting as many stations as possible during a certain amount of time. “During the longer contests, I might contact as many as 5,000 operators,” Mike says. “The real reason for contests is to improve your skill as an operator, and it does take a lot of skill.” Contests range from 4 hours on one day to 96 hours spread over two weekends, though most contests are for either 48 straight hours or for 36 hours during a 48-hour period. “It gets tiring, but I keep going. That’s part of the excitement.”
There are domestic contests (within the U.S.) and international contests. “I’ve never won a world contest before,” Mike says, “but I’ve placed in the top 50.” Mike has made special arrangements not to compete on Sundays and is also lobbying to have Sunday contests eliminated. “I think it is good for my radio friends who are not members of the Church to know that I consider my standards more important than winning a worldwide contest,” Mike says.
Mike’s interest in amateur radio (the term ham is a nickname for the same thing) began while he was young. “We set up an electric train in the basement when I was about five, and I started figuring out how it ran. I’ve been working with wires ever since.”
His uncle is a ham in Columbia, South Carolina, and he has given Mike a lot of support. They talk to each other once a week. Another uncle in Ephraim, Utah, is also on the air and contacts Michael from time to time.
“Lots of operators are willing to help, to give advice,” Mike says. “And there are classes and books available. Just meeting a lot of friends builds your technical background, if you go to club meetings. I’ve learned a lot from talking to people on the air, too.
“My uncle gave me a home-built transmitter, which I used along with a receiver I built from a kit. You can get a novice (beginner’s) license from the Federal Communications Commission (FCC), and with less than $100 worth of equipment, be operating a Morse code station.”
Mike got his novice license in August 1975, received his general license eight months later, his advanced license “a couple of months after that,” and now holds the highest license, the extra class license. There is one other license, the technician license, but it is used mostly for business communication, and higher licenses have the same privileges, so Mike bypassed it.
A novice licensee is allowed to broadcast only in Morse code. If he attains a higher license, however, he is allowed to broadcast his voice. “I started out memorizing Morse code,” Mike says. “Then I had a record with a very slow code speed, and I practiced off the air. Once I got on the air, I didn’t have any interest in receiving from a record. The main thing that pushed me to learn code was foreign stations sending it faster than I could receive, so I kept on pushing.”
There is usually not a language barrier, since most operators speak English, Mike explains. “But it’s nice to know a few basic words from their language, too. I’ve learned a lot about other countries, and I’ve had a chance to practice my Spanish.”
Mike has learned a lot about many things because of his involvement with amateur radio. He learned about family love as his parents, brothers, and sister helped with construction of the tower: “It’s a sacrifice for my parents to let me have it, and we’ll probably take it down while I’m on my mission. But everybody sure pitched in to help me build it.”
Mike paid for the tower himself, mostly from money he earned on his paper route. That taught him how to budget and how to work for what he wants. He also had to obtain building permits and file applications with the county in order to have permission to erect the tower. “I had to decide where the guy lines should go, how big of a tower to put up, draw the designs, and make the calculations all on my own. Now I know how the permit system works in case I ever want to build a home or remodel.”
At least with the tower in the backyard, it’s easy to tell friends how to find the house.
Mike’s experience in electronics paid off when he obtained a job as an engineer at a local FM radio station. It has also allowed him to help at Church dances because he can record high-fidelity dance music. He is wiring speakers to the cry room and the nursery at his meeting house as a service project.
But his greatest joy in working with radio has been the opportunity it has provided for him to help people contact each other. “I have handled relaying messages back into the U.S. for a lot of people. Washington, D.C., is a popular area for ham radio messages because a lot of people from the State Department and other government bureaus overseas want to keep in touch with their families. They may be in Africa or they may be scientists in Antarctica, like the one who told me it was -90° F. the day he called. I have a friend whose family is living in South America, and he comes over every Wednesday night and we use the radio to talk to them.”
Though he has never been involved in sending emergency messages with the radio, Mike is also aware that often ham stations are used when other forms of communication are blocked. “I will be glad to help if I ever can,” he says.
His radio has also provided an opportunity to talk to people about the Church. “I lead into it some way, and they’re usually pretty curious,” Mike says. “I had a conversation with a strong Catholic from California once, and it was over the air so anybody could listen in. When I contact anyone from Utah, I always ask them if they’re members of the Church. I belong to a local radio club, and I’ve made a lot of friends there, too. One of them seems very interested in the Church, and I think he might make it all the way to becoming a member.”
In addition to his love for radio, Mike is involved with photography, swimming, working with the full-time missionaries, home teaching with his father, kicking the soccer ball around with his brothers, helping his brother Greg with his aquarium, and fulfilling his quorum responsibilities as second assistant to the president.
He plans to attend BYU starting this fall and study electrical engineering and math. He hopes that some of his brothers (Jeff, 12; Kent, 9; Greg, 16; and newborn Scott, 3 months) or his sister (Mary, 4) will also get interested in ham radio so that he can share his experience with them (although they do all talk with their uncles on the air already). “I hope to keep in touch with the family via amateur radio while I’m away at BYU,” he says.
Mike’s greatest goal right now, however, is to go on a mission. It doesn’t matter exactly where he gets sent, he says. Chances are he’s already spoken to somebody who lives there.

In a message of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s Music and the Spoken Word, a story was told about an elderly man and woman who had been married for many decades. Because the wife was slowly losing her sight, she could no longer take care of herself the way she had done for so many years. Without being asked, the husband began to paint her fingernails for her.
Photo illustration by Jupiterimages/liquidlibrary/Thinkstock
“He knew that she could see her fingernails when she held them close to her eyes, at just the right angle, and they made her smile. He liked to see her happy, so he kept painting her nails for more than five years before she passed away.”3

One day on the school bus, Rachel Chase and Lauren Smith, both in the Acworth Ward seminary, were talking about what a good seminary lesson they had that day. Curtis Clinch repeated something his pastor had told him about the Latter-day Saints being one of the fastest growing religions.
Rachel agreed and said, “It kind of makes you think, doesn’t it, Curtis?”
He answered, “Yeah, it kind of does.”
Rachel asked, “Do you want to come to seminary with us?” Instead of Curtis answering, Heidi Hetzer, another friend who had been listening to their conversation, surprised them by saying, “Oh, I do.” Rachel arranged to pick up both Curtis and Heidi, and they have been going ever since—especially after their baptisms a couple of months later.

Curtis had a similar experience, although he thought Rachel was kidding when she invited him to seminary. “She asked me again and came and picked me up. I really liked it. The lessons are powerful and very detailed. Everyone is really welcoming. I didn’t mind waking up early.”
Curtis’s mother didn’t think he would keep it up. When he continued to get up by himself, she came and checked out seminary. “She said it was good and supported me.”

My office in the Relief Society Building has a perfect view of the Salt Lake Temple. Every night, as regular as clockwork, the outdoor temple lights turn on at dusk. The temple is a steady, reassuring beacon just outside my window.
One night this past February, my office remained exceptionally dim as the sun went down. As I looked out the window, the temple was dark. The lights had not turned on. I felt suddenly somber. I couldn’t see the temple spires I had glimpsed every evening for years.
We, or people we love, may temporarily go dark. In the case of the Salt Lake Temple, the facilities manager, Brother Val White, got a call almost immediately. People had noticed. What was wrong with the temple lights? First, the staff went in person to every electrical panel in the temple and manually turned the lights back on. Then they replaced the batteries in the automatic power supply and tested them to find out what had failed.
It’s hard to get the lights back on by yourself. We need friends. We need each other. Just like the temple facilities staff, we can help each other by showing up in person, recharging our spiritual batteries, repairing what went wrong.