Gospel Story Finder

One of the greatest lessons in devotion to the gospel came when George T. Benson received a mission call. “I was about thirteen years of age when father received a call to go on a mission. He went, leaving mother at home with seven children. The eighth was born four months after he arrived in the field, but never did we hear a murmur of complaint from Mother; she was so supportive of Father.

“The letters we received from Father were indeed a blessing. They seemed to us children to come halfway around the world, but they were only from across the country. There came into our home, as a result, a spirit of missionary work that has never left it.

“Father returned home and while we would sit each day milking the cows, he would sing over and over again, ‘Ye Elders of Israel,’ ‘Israel, Israel, God Is Calling,’ ‘Come All Ye Sons of God,’ ‘Ye Who Are Called to Labor,’ until I learned every word of several of these great missionary songs. Today I don’t need a songbook when we sing these great songs that Father sang to us morning and evening.”

May I give you an example of a Korean brother who heard the Savior’s voice? Brother Choi had left his wife, two children, and his mother for nine months. One day our missionaries were tracting in the city of Kwang Ju, Korea. They found his family. The family began to study with the missionaries and were baptized shortly.

The missionaries started the family home evening program with this family.

One day the seven-year-old daughter purchased a Book of Mormon from a missionary and sent it with her simple, yet beautiful testimony to her daddy. Two missionaries took that book to her father and bore their strong, firm testimonies of the truthfulness of the gospel and the importance of the family. Her father wondered why these people were so concerned and kind to him and his family. When evening came, he began to read, and heard a familiar voice of the Lord. He was so inspired and found it to be true. And also he found the testimony written by his daughter. I would like to share it with you, brothers and sisters. She said:

“Aboji, Aboji, Aboji (which interpreted is “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy”), I want to have family home evening with you! Please come back! We love you! I love you! I need you! I want you to read this book! Heavenly Father loves you!”

Brother Choi was so inspired and magnified by reading the Book of Mormon and touched by it and touched by his daughter’s testimony that he asked the missionaries to baptize him. Therefore this family was reunited, and Brother Choi is now the bishop of the Kwang Ju Third Ward. He sits in this hall today, a living example of one who heard the Savior’s voice from the Book of Mormon.

It wasn’t enough for Manila, Philippines, institute students to just learn the word—they wanted to go out and share it. So they put together a musical show, emphasizing the scriptures and education, that was designed to help parents and youth apply gospel principles in their lives.
The students gave up their summer free time to rehearse and perform, but said it was worth it to see the audience reaction—some were touched to tears. The group toured Metro Manila and the nearby provinces with their variety show. “All our efforts have been paid off by the wonderful feelings we’ve had,” said one participant.

About a month after her baptism, Milly met Jonathan at school.
“The first day that I met her, I asked her what she was doing and she said she was going to the temple,” says Jonathan. Right from the start he knew she was a different kind of girl.
Although throughout their friendship Milly would talk to him about the Church, Jonathan wasn’t really interested. Finally, she decided to invite him to a youth dance.
“I just loved the whole spirit of things there,” he says. “They were good people having fun in a good way.” He enjoyed it so much, he told her he was going to come to church with her the next day. And he just kept coming.
“It’s really incredible,” says Milly, “just the change that happened, even in his outward appearance. He cared more about what he did outside of school. It was just a turnaround.”
When he came to church, things began to look and sound familiar to Jonathan. “Little things started sticking out to me the second week, especially the sacrament,” he says. “I was thinking, ‘Wow! This all looks really familiar.’”
The bishop looked him up in the Church’s records, and it turned out that Jonathan was already a member! Jonathan, his mother, and his brother had all been baptized when he was 11.
“I just did because my mother did, and the same goes for my brother.” Jonathan’s family stopped attending church a month after their baptism. “It really didn’t mean much to me because I didn’t know much about the Church,” he says.
But when Milly invited him back, the Church began to mean a lot to him. “Coming back, I never felt out of place,” he says. He was welcomed warmly and ordained to the priesthood when he was 14. Before he went on his mission to Rio de Janeiro, Jonathan was a member of his ward’s Young Men presidency.
And how has living the gospel changed his life?
“How hasn’t it? It was a complete 180. There was so much potential in me that I never would have realized.”

I once visited a mission in southern Europe. I arrived on the day a new missionary was preparing to return home at his own insistence. He had his ticket to leave the next day.

We sat together in the mission president’s home. The missionary told me about his challenging childhood, of learning disorders, of moving from one family to another. He spoke sincerely of his inability to learn a new language and adapt to a new culture. Then he added, “Brother Andersen, I don’t even know if God loves me.” As he said those words, I felt a sure and forceful feeling come into my spirit: “He does know I love him. He knows it.”

I let him continue for a few more minutes, and then I said, “Elder, I’m sympathetic to much of what you’ve said, but I must correct you on one thing: you do know God loves you. You know He does.”

As I said those words to him, the same Spirit that had spoken to me spoke to him. He bowed his head and began to cry. He apologized. “Brother Andersen,” he said, “I do know God loves me; I do know it.” He didn’t know everything, but he knew enough. He knew God loved him. That priceless piece of spiritual knowledge was sufficient for his doubt to be replaced with faith. He found the strength to stay on his mission.

Our third child, Charlie Ben, was born with one of the varieties of cerebral palsy. He was never able to sit up or stand; while he said words from time to time, sustained speech was beyond him. As his age of baptism approached, we carefully considered whether he was accountable.
We knew from many behavioral clues that he did understand how to be kind, how to give and receive love, and how to make his wishes known. We also worked out how to baptize him—my wife’s brother would hold him in the font as I said the baptismal prayer, and then together we would put him under the water.
We were blessed with an inspired bishop who interviewed Charlie Ben and emerged with a firm belief in his faith and accountability. The baptism went forward as planned.
We were surprised when the baptismal service was packed with people, many of whom we didn’t know all that well. But Charlie Ben knew them all; they were his friends.
When I read the June 2020 issue of the Ensign, with several excellent articles about dealing with disabilities, those events of 1992 came to mind, especially as I read an essay titled, “Is My Child with a Disability Ready to Be Baptized?”
My wife and I realized it would have been a great help and comfort to us during Charlie Ben’s lifetime to have the advice and encouragement provided by these Church magazine articles, and that they could be a resource for the many Church members who face similar quandaries.

My father did not come from a traditional family and was raised by his aunt. He had nothing more than a third grade education. However, once he married and had children, he wanted more for his family. He envisioned a better future for his children than what he had. While he had little secular education, he had great hope that his children could have a better future in America. With this hope for a better future, he left Samoa for America. Although he was a skilled businessman, he did not speak English, which made finding comparable work in America quite challenging. Rather than securing a similar job as a businessman, as his first job, he was a dishwasher. He eventually found a career as a machine operator for a mattress company. Throughout the years he often worked more than one job at a time. All was accomplished because he protected the vision or hope of providing a better life for his family.

When I was 20 and in the military, I had a friend named Brent. He was four-years-old. His father, Bob, was an Air Force fighter pilot with 120 missions in Vietnam to his credit. Whenever Brent would not behave as his father wished, his dad would say teasingly, “If you keep doing that you will grow up to be a bomber pilot”—the worst possible curse for a fighter pilot’s son!

That encouraged Brent until he was 15. One day his father tried the old line again and Brent responded, “I don’t care! I’ve never wanted to be a pilot of any kind.”

With wisdom, his father added, “Then be who you will be, but be Christlike as you do it.” The fighter pilot father knew something about the process of working toward perfection, of becoming more like Christ. He was a returned missionary. He had married a worthy young woman in the temple. He had served where called in the Church. He was striving to keep the commandments.

Bob’s closest brush with death was while making a bombing run into North Vietnam in 1966. His F-4 Phantom jet, fully loaded to knock out an important enemy bridge, was shot out of the sky by a ground-based cannon. He got the aircraft turned around and did not eject from the cockpit until the last possible moment. That strategy got him ever closer to the friendly borders of Thailand.

On the ground he ran from the enemy soldiers and their dogs for 36 hours until he was rescued by a helicopter gunship. While running back toward Thailand, he prayed that he would see his young bride and baby again. But, if captured, he would try to be like the Savior. His faith would allow him to exercise courage.

It was never easy for any of them. Bob has worked hard in his service as a stake president. Paul has worked diligently to be a good young father. Mom has dealt with many crises in her life. They all have tried to face their obstacles in a Christlike way. Pain, hurt, and dread have been a part of their lives. It was part of Christ’s life, too!

Bob doesn’t fly jets anymore. He is now serving as a mission president. Paul is now a stake missionary. Mom has never danced professionally, though she has used her musical talents on numerous occasions. She is now serving a full-time mission with her husband. Each has lived a good and faithful life.

My friend, the former four-year-old, is a returned missionary, recently married, and now continuing his education. He did not grow up to that “awful curse” of becoming a bomber pilot. He is growing up wanting to become like the Master.

On my street lives a little boy known as the Sidewalk King. This little boy cruises the neighborhood on his black and gold plastic racing tricycle, living in his own world of make-believe and heroic deeds. One of his favorite things to do is to back that little vehicle up against his house and then—gathering up all the power and energy at his command—shoot dangerously out onto the street. Then, pulling handlebars around hard, he pedals back again. Nearby neighbors can’t help but hear him.
His parents, understanding more than he does about the dangers involved, have warned him and pleaded with him. Not long ago, his father found it necessary to give his young son a strong chastising to help him understand how dangerous it is to ride out in the street. As he ran into the house he sobbed to his parents, “You just want to ruin all my fun.”
To the mind of a four-year-old, that is exactly what it appeared. But, oh, how wrong he was. His parents weren’t trying to ruin his fun; they were trying to keep him from harm, perhaps even death. Freedom to him was largely doing what he wanted without restraint and interference.
I know of another little boy who came home from school one day long ago to find a rented piano in the house. “What’s this piano here for?” he asked his mother.
“It’s for you,” she replied.
“For me?” he asked. “Why for me?”
“Because,” she said, “you are going to take piano lessons.”
He said he didn’t want to take piano lessons. But she had already arranged for a teacher.
Well, this little boy began to miss a few lessons. One day his mother asked, “How was your piano lesson?”
He said, “Fine. I’m doing pretty well.”
“That’s interesting,” she said. “I just talked to your teacher, and she hasn’t seen you for a while.” He had been caught. He didn’t know what the punishment would be, but he knew it would be bad. Then his mother said, “Just for that, you may not take piano lessons.”
He tried to look punished, but inside he was very happy with her decision. Mother, he thought, you have hit on the perfect punishment. I hope you use it often. Within his heart he felt that he had just been liberated. He was free from practice, free from lessons, free from discipline, routine, and regimentation—free from all that seemed to limit his freedom.
When he grew to be a man, he was sitting one day in a church meeting during which a woman was to sing a solo. When her time to perform came, she walked up to the podium and announced, “My accompanist could not come today. I need someone to accompany me.” Looking over the congregation, she saw a man who used to teach piano. “Will you accompany me?” she asked him. The man came forward, and she handed him the music.
As he watched this happen, my friend who had avoided music lessons thought, What would I have done if she had asked me? If she had asked me, I would have been free to do only one thing: to say no. Suddenly, he realized that what he had assumed to be one of the great liberating moments of his life—when his mother said, “You may not take lessons any more”—was in fact a moment of bondage, not freedom. As he sat in that church meeting, he might as well have been handcuffed, for he could not have played the piano if he had wanted to. The other man was free; he could choose to play or not to play. Ultimately, then, freedom is more a matter of capacity and ability than of permission.
Too often, we believe the myth that we are free to do whatever we want to do. True, most of us are free to develop any ability or skill we choose; but until we develop them, we remain in bondage to our own lack of capacity. Even in lands of great political freedom, I fear that many of us live in bondage. Misunderstanding the principle of freedom, we lead lives of limited capacity and, thus, diminished choice. We tell ourselves that the only mason we are not doing certain positive, productive things is that we don’t want to. If we don’t play the piano, for example, we like to think it’s because we don’t want to. Actually, we don’t play because we are not free to. Remember, if we are only free to choose one thing—that is, not to play—we are not really free.

He describes his introduction to the gospel: “Elder Pulsipher opened with prayer. He knelt down and asked the Lord in the name of Jesus Christ for what he wanted. His manner of prayer and the influence which went with it impressed me greatly. The spirit of the Lord rested upon me and bore witness that he was a servant of God. After singing, he preached to the people for an hour and a half. The spirit of God rested mightily upon him, and he bore a strong testimony of the divine authenticity of the Book of Mormon and of the mission of the Prophet Joseph Smith. I believed all that he said. The spirit bore witness of its truth. …
“Liberty was then given by the elders to any one in the congregation to arise and speak for or against what they had heard as they might choose. Almost instantly I found myself upon my feet. The spirit of the Lord urged me to bear testimony of the truth of the message delivered by these elders. I exhorted my neighbors and friends not to oppose these men, for they were the true servants of God. They had preached to us that night the pure gospel of Jesus Christ. When I sat down, my brother Azmon arose and bore a similar testimony. He was followed by several others.”
Three days later, after carefully searching the Book of Mormon, he was baptized on 31 December 1833. He wrote: “The snow was about three feet deep, the day was cold, and the water was mixed with ice and snow, yet I did not feel cold.”

I’ll never forget the first time I saw a meal made of sea biscuit broken into milk. I had called at Uncle Brigham’s tent—I had always addressed him by that title—where he was just taking some for dinner, and he invited me to have a bowl; but I declined, with thanks, and a feeling of wonder how he could relish it. When it came to sitting down daily to milk and water porridge and crackers in it, it became so nauseous that hunger could not tempt me to eat it. —from the writings of Helen Mar Whitney

Such an example is the story of Mervyn Sharp Bennion; I would like to take just a few moments to tell you about it.

Mervyn Sharp Bennion, who became one of the renowned heroes of World War II, was born in the small village of Vernon near Tooele, Utah. He grew up in a faithful Latter-day Saint home and was taught by his parents and according to the scriptures the principles of faith, reverence, respect and regard for others, confidence in himself, a strong sense of right and wrong, and an understanding of the full measure of his purpose of life. Because of his excellent reading ability as a result of studying the Bible as a small boy, he became an outstanding student. He attended school in a one-room log schoolhouse in Vernon; there were usually thirty or more pupils in all grades from the first to the eighth, ages six to twenty-five, with one teacher in the one-room schoolhouse. There was little time for instruction, but they were taught the attributes of a good character and wholesome habits, and they developed their personalities in this one-room schoolhouse with plays and programs in which everyone participated.

Near the close of his high schooling, Mervyn Bennion took a competitive examination and was admitted to the Annapolis Naval Academy. There he continued his character and personality development, resulting in his being number one in his class for the first three years; however, in his fourth year, he dropped back to third in his class because he was tutoring as free service some of the other midshipmen who were having difficulties. He was a sought-out companion and developed all the wonderful attributes of an outstanding young man, this product of a humble Mormon home and a one-room schoolhouse. Upon graduation from Annapolis he was awarded the sword offered every year by the Daughters of the American Revolution for excellence.

Mervyn Bennion continued through the usual duty assignments of a young naval officer, growing in stature and ability and always living close to the Lord. He married Louise Clark, the eldest daughter of President J. Reuben Clark. They had one child, Mervyn, Junior. In his various naval assignments he was called to be Chief of the Bureau of Ordnance in Washington, D.C., a distinguished position. This was after he had commanded a number of ships.

Even though he would be on duty assignment for only a brief period, he was always active in the Church and would always seek out a little branch of the Church somewhere in the world and attend the meetings. But while living in Washington he became a counselor in the branch presidency and later in the first bishopric of the Chevy Chase Ward. They needed priesthood leaders in those early days; they were particularly short of priesthood home teachers, and even though Mervyn was heavily involved at the Navy headquarters, he was completely devoted to his Church calling with all of the time available. As an example, he had thirty home teaching families to visit and made it a point to visit each one every month. Everyone who came in contact with Mervyn Bennion in the Church or in the Navy felt of his great spirit and devotion, because he knew so well his purpose in life and his responsibility.

His last assignment was as the commanding officer of one of the Navy’s largest battleships stationed in Hawaii, the U.S.S. West Virginia. Our country was then at peace. Commanding officers of large ships usually had free time for social life and personal affairs; however, Captain Bennion, because of his dedication and love of his country and his built-in desire to serve well and faithfully, was careful with the use of his time. As an example, on December 6, 1941, a Saturday, Captain Bennion was invited to have dinner in the Honolulu home of President and Sister Ralph Woolley, then president of the Oahu Stake. After a pleasant evening, the Woolleys suggested that Captain Bennion stay overnight and go to Sunday School with them the next morning. But he said that his place was on his ship.

The following morning, Sunday, December 7, 1941, at a few minutes before eight o’clock, Captain Bennion was in his cabin shaving, preparing to leave the ship to go to Sunday School and fast meeting in Honolulu, when a sailor on watch from the bridge dashed in to report a Japanese air attack approaching. Captain Bennion instantly gave the command, “Air attack! To your battle stations!” Then he ran to his own, the conning tower on the flag bridge.

In a few minutes torpedo planes flew in close, letting go torpedoes that struck the U.S.S. West Virginia in rapid succession. Almost immediately bombers flew overhead and hit the U.S.S. West Virginia. Captain Bennion, anxious to see what had happened to his ship, stepped out the door of the conning tower; he had scarcely taken two steps when he was hit by a splinter from a bomb. This splinter tore into his body, and a fragment hit his spine and his left hip. He fell to the floor. Instantly his plight was observed and the pharmacist’s mate came to place a bandage over his abdomen and to try to ease the pain, but it was clear to him and undoubtedly to Captain Bennion that the wound was beyond any hope of mending, though the captain did not say a word to indicate that he knew of this serious condition.

As soon as the wound was given the simplest of dressing, Captain Bennion sent the man below to work with the wounded and refused to be attended further while there was work to be done for others. As men and officers came to him, he briefly asked what was transpiring and gave orders and instructions to meet the conditions as they arose. Only two lives were lost from that ship’s complement that morning: Captain Bennion and one seaman. The wounded were attended to promptly and evacuated from the ship with dispatch.

Captain Bennion was courageous and cheerful. His spirit was reflected in the conduct of his crew. He resisted all efforts to remove him from the bridge with a firmness and vigor that astonished his officers. He talked only of the ship and the men, how the fight was going, what guns were out of action, how to get them in operation again, who was wounded, what care the wounded were receiving, and how to evacuate them from the ship.

At about nine-thirty a.m. fire broke out, cutting off the escape of Captain Bennion and two others. The officers tied him onto a ladder and tried to lift him out, and with some great difficulty and with the ship on fire they carried him up to a navigation bridge to a corner at the rear that seemed to be free from smoke. But Captain Bennion told them to leave him and to save themselves if it were possible. They made him as comfortable as they could.

On the battleship alongside, most of Captain Bennion’s men watched the lone, whiteclad figure lying on the navigation bridge of the ship. A young ensign, Delano, deeply touched by Captain Bennion and deeply attached to him, watched for hours. He said that twice in the first half-hour after Captain Bennion was left alone he saw him stir, rise up on his elbows, look about, and then drop back. The grandeur of this heroic death scene as it unfolded profoundly moved the men of the stricken fleet, and the executive officer of the ship wrote,

“Be assured, Mrs. Bennion, that every person in the West Virginia shares your grief. We are all proud to have served under Captain Bennion and his kindness, cheerfulness and courage will always be remembered by all of us who had the privilege and pleasure of being under his command.” . . .

Thus closed in glorious death a naval career without fault or blemish. [Howard S. Bennion, Mervyn Sharp Bennion: One of the Lord’s Noblemen, p. 19; hereinafter cited as Bennion]

The following morning, when the superstructure had cooled off sufficiently to permit, Captain Bennion’s body was removed from the ship. The spot where he lay had been untouched by fire. Some remarked that he was protected from the fire because he wore a special type of underwear.

The president of the United States, Franklin D. Roosevelt, at that time posthumously awarded Captain Bennion the Congressional Medal of Honor. A camp in the Farragut Naval Training Station in northern Idaho was named Camp Bennion. On July 4, 1943, a destroyer launched at the Boston Navy Yard was christened the U.S.S. Bennion by Louise Clark Bennion. Admiral David Sellers wrote to Sister Bennion, “His complete unforgetfulness of self and devotion to duty to the last has set an example that will serve as an inspiration in years to come to the officers and men of the United States Navy” (quoted in Bennion, p. 20). His dying conduct is now cited in naval training classes as one of the outstanding examples to be found in all United States naval history.

“The most important of all his characteristics was his constant and sincere desire to keep the commandments of God,” wrote his bishop. “He did not think of himself overly righteous, but his sincerity and his ever present desire to live in accordance with God’s laws and to perform the full duty required of him, impressed all who knew him” (quoted in Bennion, p. 20). His characteristics, his purpose, his desire, his faith, his conduct were steadfastly the same. Of course, he had grown in stature and in influence, but inherently he was unchanged. He was started out on the right path by his parents in a little Mormon town, and he kept going straight ahead, his purpose clearly identified. He influenced many, many lives for good. He was a great and devoted member of this Church. We honor his name, his family, and his good works.

Years ago an elderly brother came to his bishop. For 57 years this man—active and faithful in every other way—had carried a burden of sin and guilt for a transgression committed in his youth, never quite able to confess it to his bishop.
Hearing the brother’s confession, the bishop felt a wave of compassion and love for the old gentleman—also a great sadness that this wonderful man had not received the miracle of forgiveness years ago.
“You’ve carried this terrible burden for over 50 years,” said the bishop. “When you walk out of this office, I want you to leave it behind. Tonight, for the first time in 57 years, you don’t have to carry it anymore.”
The brother was wracked with great sobs of relief and joy. “Oh, bishop,” he said, “if only I’d had the courage to confess this years ago. I’ve wasted my whole life carrying a burden the Lord didn’t want me to carry.”
As he walked out of the bishop’s office, he seemed somehow to be about six inches taller.

As I was learning from my own true-life experience, I stood alone in my bedroom a few days after the operation, preparing to go to church. I held a tie in my hand and thought, Now what am I going to do with this silly tie? I thought about having my mother help me but soon rejected the idea, knowing she couldn’t go on my mission to tie my ties and otherwise care for me. I simply had to fend for myself. With patience, I tied my tie, and although I used my teeth a little, I learned that I could do it and do it well. That day, a window was opened to my mind where I could clearly see that with patience, faith, and determination, I would be able to handle almost any challenge I would face.

And in honor of Martin Luther King Jr., who was recently listed in Ted Stewart’s The Mark of a Giant2 as one of seven people who changed the world, I start with an example from his life that so clearly highlights these principles. Look for courage, action, and grace as I read his words:
Almost immediately after the [bus boycott] started we had begun to receive threatening telephone calls and letters. They increased as time went on. . . .
One night . . . I couldn’t sleep. It seemed that all of my fears had come down on me at once. . . .
. . . I had heard these things before, but for some reason that night it got to me. . . . I went to the kitchen and . . . I sat there and thought about a beautiful little daughter who had just been born. . . . I started thinking about a dedicated and loyal wife, who was over there asleep. And she could be taken from me, or I could be taken from her. And I got to the point that I couldn’t take it any longer. . . . With my head in my hands, I bowed over the kitchen table and prayed aloud . . . : “Lord, I’m down here trying to do what’s right. I think I’m right. I am here taking a stand for what I believe is right. But Lord, I must confess that I’m weak now, I’m faltering. I’m losing my courage. Now, I am afraid. . . . I have nothing left. I’ve come to the point where I can’t face it alone.”
It seemed as though I could hear the quiet assurance of an inner voice saying: “Martin Luther, stand up for righteousness. Stand up for justice. Stand up for truth. And lo, I will be with you. Even until the end of the world.”
I tell you . . . I heard the voice of Jesus saying still to fight on. He promised never to leave me alone. At that moment I experienced the presence of the Divine as I had never experienced Him before. Almost at once my fears began to go. My uncertainty disappeared. I was ready to face anything.3

Because my parents were busy providing for all five of my brothers and sisters, I developed at a young age a self-motivated attitude towards Scouting.*
As I entered high school, I faced the decision of whether to complete my Eagle Scout. As I talked to my friends, they ridiculed the idea of finishing my Eagle.
One day I watched President Thomas S. Monson give a talk on TV on the importance of achieving the rank of Eagle and how much it helps young men. His words motivated me to try my hardest despite what my friends thought about getting my Eagle. So from that day on I made a goal for myself. I knew from that moment on that with the Lord’s help and my willingness to work hard, I would reach my goal.
Because my parents weren’t forcing me to get my Eagle, it was something I decided in my heart that I was going to do. Even though Scouting wasn’t popular in my particular culture, I followed the guidance of my counselor, and at the end I knew that sticking to this goal made me a better person.
If we follow what the Lord wants us to do and stick to positive goals, He will help us through any situation. This experience taught me that no matter what obstacles or challenges come my way, the Lord will help me overcome my shortcomings and weakness (see Ether 12:27). It doesn’t matter what background we come from or if we are rich or poor. We can achieve our goals because we have the Lord by our side.

Fourteen-year-old Jason said the closing prayer at the conclusion of our Sunday School class. It had been one of my most successful lessons, and I kept my eyes shut a moment longer to add my own words of gratitude. The boys unfolded their lanky bodies from the chairs and ambled out of the classroom.
Jason paused as he passed me. “That was a good discussion, Sister Udy. It really made me think.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Jason. I enjoyed it, too. I’ll see you next week.”
I packed my lesson book and scriptures into my tote bag and made my way along the congested hallway toward the foyer.
“Sister Udy! Sister Udy!” A voice rose above the babble. I turned to see Brother Richardson, the Sunday School president, frantically waving at me as he tried to maneuver through the crowd.
“Sister Udy, I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but I haven’t had a chance,” he said as he guided me into an empty classroom. You’ve been doing a wonderful job with your Sunday School class.”
“Thank you.” I smiled.
“That’s why we feel we can ask you to take another student,” he continued. “You know that the Housman family recently moved into our ward, and we really haven’t known where to put Deedra until now. We think she would fit well into your class.”
“Deedra?” I stammered. “But she must be at least eighteen years old. Shouldn’t she be in with the adults?” Or in Primary? I thought. Anywhere but in my class.
I knew about Deedra—knew that she was intellectually impaired and that she talked out loud during the sacrament and sang all the hymns at the top of her lungs. I knew that some girls made fun of her. The boys simply ignored her. What would this eighteen-year-old girl have in common with a class of lively fourteen- and fifteen-year-old boys?
“You know that there are no other girls in my class this year,” I reminded Brother Richardson. “And the boys tend to be a little rowdy at times. Don’t you think Deedra might be more comfortable somewhere else?”
Brother Richardson smiled reassuringly. “No, no,” he said kindly. “We think that you will be the perfect teacher for Deedra.” He looked at me expectantly, then added, “Of course, it’s up to you.”
I sighed. “Of course Deedra is welcome in my class.”
Brother Richardson beamed. “I’ll tell her parents,” he said happily. “She’ll be there next Sunday.”
I knew she would. Deedra was never absent. My heart sank as I thought about the lesson I had already been preparing for the next class. How could I ever keep the boys’ interest if I had to teach on Deedra’s level too? The boys were used to lots of questions and discussion of scriptures. Deedra couldn’t even read.
Maybe she won’t like the class. I comforted myself with the thought. Then they’ll see that it is wrong for her.
The next Sunday morning dawned bright and fair, but the beautiful day failed to lighten my spirits. My prayers were perfunctory—my heart just wasn’t in them.
After Sunday School opening exercises, I hurried to my classroom. Deedra was already there, horn-rimmed glasses tilting crookedly across her freckled nose.
Deedra’s face broke into a wide grin when she saw me. “Hi, buddy,” she said as she bounced out of her chair to give me a hug. “Can I help you?”
I smiled in spite of myself. “You can move the chairs if you want. I like them in a big circle.”
She was busily moving the chairs as the boys walked in. They looked at her warily. “Here,” said Deedra, pointing to Jim. “You can sit in this one, buddy.” She set the chair down. Jim sat. One by one, Deedra assigned each of the boys a seat. Then she sat herself down, facing the boys. She smiled at me. “I did a good job,” she said.
“Yes, … thank you,” I replied. I introduced her to the subdued boys and began my lesson.
Deedra was quiet while the boys responded to the questions. The discussion became animated as the class attempted to determine the function of each member of the Godhead.
“And what does Jesus do?” I finally asked Deedra. She looked up. “He loves me,” she replied.
I stopped for a moment, stunned. “That’s right,” I said. “He does.” I slowed the pace of the lesson, aiming more questions at Deedra. She responded simply but with unerring accuracy. She knew the things that mattered. I pointed out to the boys that her answers were correct, even if they weren’t what we expected. The class ended before we knew it, and Deedra gave me a hug as she left. This time I hugged her back.
I can’t say that the following weeks were easy. Often Deedra became bored, and sometimes the boys grew restless. But gradually they loosened up and began to exchange friendly banter with Deedra, who could hold her own.
“I want to sit next to Jim,” Deedra announced one Sunday. Jim’s ears reddened as the boys teased him, but he good-naturedly made a place for her. After that, Deedra always sat with the boys instead of across from them. Whoever was her choice for the week would share his scriptures with her and be on her team if we had a game. No one ever complained. Deedra was as much a part of the class now as anyone else.
January was almost here, and most of my class would be moving on. I sought out Brother Richardson.
“Would you like me to keep her another year?” I asked.
He gently smiled at me. “You’ve done a good job with Deedra. But I’ve already spoken to her and her parents, and we think she’s ready to go on.”
A feeling of disappointment overcame me. I hadn’t realized just how much I had grown to love Deedra, with her cheerful spirit and ever-ready hug. “I’ll miss her,” I said sincerely.
“I told you that you were the perfect teacher for her,” Brother Richardson said.
“No,” I said softly. “I was the one who learned the lesson this year. It was Deedra who was the perfect teacher.”

It’s a giggle, a chortle, a wonderment of clowns. The large classroom in the Shriners Hospital for Crippled Children is warm with children and bright with laughter. Clowns blossom here and there in their rainbow wigs and giant smiles. Reflected double in the large eyes of each child, they glow with an unearthly light.
The children have already laughed and shouted through exploding balloons and pin the tail on the clown (with the biggest, sharpest pin in the world). Now it’s time for clown bowling. The clowns form themselves into a wedge. A nurse is called on to bowl. She takes a large ball from among the hospital toys and sends it flying at them. It looks like a sure strike. But clowns jump and lean as the ball whistles harmlessly through them. Now a little girl has the ball. Sitting in her wheelchair, she pushes it at them as hard as she can, but it dribbles weakly off her lap and barely reaches the clown pins. The little bowler sighs, underestimating clown magic. As the ball gently nudges the foremost clown he flies backwards as if struck by a locomotive, knocking down a second clown who ricochets into a third. The whole clown wedge explodes like a grenade. Strike! The children cheer. The nurse hints at a fix but is shouted down. When clowns are present, children always win.
With this wild bunch of clowns, it’s one crazy thing after another. The children shriek and giggle and clap their hands at each new outbreak of silliness. Even the teenage patients who are trying hard not to be sucked in cannot help smiling. For a few moments at least, no one is thinking about operations or needles or pain.
When the official performance ends, the clowns come down and move among the patients, making balloon animals and objects—dogs, cats, swords, giraffes, airplanes. They’ll try anything the kids request, and even the failures are good fun. They also draw clown stars on the children’s faces. Before each star is drawn, the child must raise his hand and make a solemn vow that he will not wash it off until forced to do so by a nurse.
All too soon the good times must end. The fun-loving nurses who have laughed and cheered right along with their patients begin taking them away for medical treatment. The children invent delaying tactics, stretching out the moment as long as they can. One little girl hugs a clown tight for a moment, then looks into his eyes. “I love you, clown,” she says.
The clowns are as high as kites. They keep their costumes and their faces on as they leave the hospital. It’s 14 degrees below zero here in Spokane, Washington, but to them it feels like spring.
Passersby stare at them in wonder. Clowns!
The clowns pile into two cars and drive off to a well-earned hamburger. Motorists along the way, especially little ones, gape in wonder as they see the two carfuls of smiling and waving clowns. At several stoplights clowns spill out onto the snowy road and race around in a Chinese fire drill.
At the hamburger joint, children at other tables (including 40- and 50-year-old children) giggle and goggle as real clowns eat mortal food.
The hamburger munchers react to the unexpected clowns much as they might respond to a stray unicorn. There’s a double take, then a prodding of nearby ribs, a subtle jabbing of thumbs. “Look, a clown!” “Don’t stare!”
As the clowns eat they share experiences from their hospital performance. They have made many such visits. Hospitals and clowns seem to go together. After all, if laughter is the best medicine, these guys are physicians. They can cure sadness with smiles, tears with giggles. If you’re suffering a mirth defect, they’re the specialists to visit. They’re crazy. They’re magic. They’re clowns.

A particularly special moment occurred one morning while a group of youth were in the temple. A couple entered the baptistry and asked the youth if they would be willing to perform the proxy baptisms for the woman’s sister who had passed away. Tears flowed down the couple’s cheeks as they watched a priest and young woman enter the font and perform the proxy baptism. The Spirit could be felt by everyone in the baptistry as the Holy Ghost bore witness of the importance of the work being done.

Several years ago my family was going through a difficult time. My parents had separated, and our family began to forget God’s love.
To our great fortune, one of my mother’s friends saw our need to draw closer to God and introduced us to the full-time missionaries. As they taught us the gospel, we realized that God had a plan for us, and despite our many challenges, He had not abandoned us. After we had come to understand these principles, my mother, sisters, and I decided to be baptized.
As we attended our Sunday meetings, our testimonies of the gospel grew. I soon desired to serve a full-time mission. It was not an easy decision, however, because I was the man of the house. My mother needed my help. Moreover, I began to receive many job offers and was accepted by several universities. I concluded to ask God for help and direction.
After praying, I turned to my scriptures and came upon the following verses:
“Wherefore, your family shall live.
“Behold, verily I say unto you, go from them only for a little time, and declare my word, and I will prepare a place for them” (D&C 31:5–6).
In that instant I strongly felt the Spirit and knew that what I had read was Heavenly Father’s word to me.
Not long after that experience, I received my mission call. Before being set apart as a full-time missionary, I made a promise to my Heavenly Father that I would do His will as a missionary—that I would work diligently and sacrifice my all for Him. The only blessing I prayed for was to see my family together again someday.
My first year as a missionary was challenging, but my companions and I worked with all our hearts. About this time I received a marvelous letter from my mother telling me that my father had returned home! At that moment I remembered the promise I had made to God, and I recalled His promise in the Doctrine and Covenants: “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise” (D&C 82:10).
Several years have passed since my mission. Today my family and I still find joy in the gospel and through our covenants with God. I know that He lives. I know that He loves us. I know that He sent His Son to save us. I also know that when we make promises to Him and are faithful to those promises, He is faithful to us.