Gospel Story Finder

A passage from the novel Les misérables illustrates how priesthood holders can treat those individuals viewed as strangers. Jean Valjean had just been released as a prisoner. Exhausted by a long voyage and dying of hunger and thirst, he arrives in a small town seeking a place to find food and shelter for the night. When the news of his arrival spreads, one by one all the inhabitants close their doors to him. Not the hotel, not the inn, not even the prison would invite him in. He is rejected, driven away, banished. Finally, with no strength left, he collapses at the front door of the town’s bishop.
The good clergyman is entirely aware of Valjean’s background, but he invites the vagabond into his home with these compassionate words:
“‘This is not my house; it is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not demand of him who enters whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry and thirsty; you are welcome. … What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me [your name], you had one which I knew.’
“[Valjean] opened his eyes in astonishment.
“‘Really? You knew what I was called?’
“‘Yes,’ replied the Bishop, ‘you are called my brother.’”

“Should we turn back or move ahead?” This was the question that dominated the thoughts of the pioneer company on the night of 3 December 1879. Church President John Taylor had called this group of pioneers to settle the San Juan Mission, in the southeastern part of what is now the state of Utah. But at this point in the trek, there seemed to be no clear answer on how to proceed.
The pioneers were camped at 40-Mile Spring, located on a high plateau. Silas S. Smith, the president of the company, realized how serious their situation was. Camped in some 80 wagons were nearly 250 men, women, and children. Hundreds of cattle were also part of the caravan. Winter was upon them, and they had too few supplies and other resources to remain at this encampment until spring.
President Smith sat in his tent and deliberated with other leaders. Turning back seemed impossible. Behind them, to the west, heavy snows had buried the road through the Escalante Mountains, as well as any foliage the livestock could eat. Besides, the pioneers took seriously the calling President Taylor had given them to settle the San Juan Mission, which was part of President Brigham Young’s original plan to establish settlements throughout much of the West. Who among them would refuse such a call?
Ahead of the pioneers, to the east, lay more than 300 kilometers of rough terrain with no road and little water. A decision to go forward would force them to travel through Hole-in-the-Rock—a crevice in the west wall of Glen Canyon at a high plateau above the Colorado River. It was a dangerous shortcut, but the only other trail was more than 600 kilometers long. An exploring party’s report had been pessimistic. Going through Hole-in-the-Rock would mean taking wagons and cattle on a trail that dropped 610 meters, one-third of that drop at a 45-degree angle.
Most felt it was impossible. After much discussion, one of the men made the motion to leave the decision to “President Smith and the Lord.” A unanimous vote reflected the faith of those present that the Lord would inspire their leader.
The next morning, President Smith called a meeting to announce the decision to move ahead. “The miracle of this decision went through the company like an electric shock,” wrote Kumen Jones, a member of the group, “and all was good cheer and hustle.” In the meeting, many bore testimony in support of moving ahead. Someone began to sing. Others joined in, and soon the chilly December air rang with “The Spirit of God like a fire is burning!” (Hymns, 1985, number 2).

One situation featured the Donald Mabey family. Brother Mabey had moved his family from Salt Lake City to North Bay, Ontario, because of a business transfer by his company. Don was an elder in the Church but had been less than fully active in priesthood callings. He was about thirty-five years of age at the time and had a lovely family. The North Bay Branch was a struggling unit desperately in need of priesthood leadership. When I attended that branch and recognized this fact, I held an interview with Brother Mabey and said to him, “I am calling you to serve in the presidency of the North Bay Branch.”

He replied, “I can’t do it.”

I asked, “Why?”

He answered, “I have never done it before.”

“That’s no hindrance,” I responded. I took fresh hope from Don’s name, Mabey, and the words of a once-popular ballad, “Please don’t say no—say maybe.”

Brother Mabey said yes. Today he is a high priest living here in the West. All of his family members have entered temple doors and have received temple blessings.

Brett was excited. He had just gotten a letter from his big brother Tony. Tony was a missionary. Before Tony left, Brett promised him that he would do missionary work too.
Brett, did you know that when you serve others, you are doing missionary work? I can’t wait to hear about all the missionary work you are doing. Love, Tony
Mom, I want to serve others so I can do missionary work like Tony. What can I do?
I know Mrs. Hampton could use some help raking her leaves on Saturday. Would that be a good way to do missionary work?
Yes! Then I could write Tony and tell him all about it.
The next Saturday, Brett sat down to write Tony a letter.
Dear Tony, I hope you are having as much fun as I am doing missionary work. We helped Mrs. Hampton today in her yard. She gave us a plate of cookies. Dad asked her if she wanted to come to church with us, and she said yes. Love, Brett
Brett folded the paper and stuck the letter and one leaf from Mrs. Hampton’s yard inside an envelope.
I can be a missionary too!

Once again the neighboring communities came to resent the Saints because of their strength, prosperity, and political influence. The Nauvoo Expositor, a local newspaper, added to the Saints’ trouble by printing lies about the Church leaders.

On June 10, 1844, a group of men under orders from the city council destroyed the newspaper’s press. Joseph and some of the other brethren were charged with inciting a riot, but were later found not guilty.

Governor Ford wanted Joseph to be tried again at Carthage, Illinois.

Joseph felt that if he went there, he would probably be killed, so on June 23, 1855, he rowed across the Mississippi River to avoid arrest. In a letter, Emma pleaded with him to return and surrender. Joseph also learned that some of the Saints were calling him a coward for leaving. “If my life is of no value to my friends,” he said, “it is of none to myself.” He returned to Nauvoo, and on Monday, June 24, he and the others charged in the case went to Carthage to surrender.

When they got to Carthage, they were released on bail until a circuit court judge could hear the case. Joseph and Hyrum went to talk to Governor Ford. While there, they were re-arrested on charges of treason.

Joseph and Hyrum were again jailed; John Taylor and Willard Richards went with them.

On June 27, 1844, shortly after 5:00 P.M., a mob rushed up the jail stairs to the room where the prisoners were being held. The culprits tried to break through the door, but were unable to. Shooting through the door, they hit Hyrum, who fell, saying, “I am a dead man.”

Joseph went to the window where he was shot twice from inside the building and twice more from outside. He fell out of the window to the ground and died. John Taylor was shot four times and lay under a bed, severely wounded. Willard Richards was not injured during the shooting.

After the martyrdom, John Taylor wrote, “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it. … He lived great, and he died great in the eyes of God and his people; and like most of the Lord’s anointed in ancient times, has sealed his mission and his works with his own blood. …” (D&C 135:3).

When Carl Hendricks, who’d been home from the California Fresno Mission for two days, realized the problems people were having with cleanup, he called a local radio station and offered his services. Soon after, he got so many phone calls that it kept him busy cleaning up from early morning till late at night for over a week. He recruited his brother Gary, 16 (and newly elected student-body president of his high school), and another friend, Skip Behar, to help.
“It was dirty, but I really enjoyed it,” said Carl. “We were having a good time.”
The trio came to be known as “The Mormon Boys” in a trailer court of retired people where they spent much of the week cleaning up. And while they cleaned roofs, patios, and walkways, they talked to people about the Church.
“We were just out to help people,” said Gary Hendricks, “but we got a good chance to talk to people about the gospel. Our main goal, however, was to help get the ash off the roofs. People were worried about their roofs caving in from the weight if it rained.”
One of the elderly people they helped, Charles Royce, said those three changed his attitude about young people today. “I don’t know what we would have done without their help. These young people are tops and really know how to work. They don’t fool around any. They gave me a good impression of the younger generation, that they’re not all bums. You Mormons do a nice job.”

“One. Two. Three. Pull!” The pullers jerk the handles surrounding the walrus skin blanket outward, sending 17-year-old Karmy McKay soaring high into the air. The spotter yells to the pullers and tugs the blanket to guide them to where Karmy will come down. She wobbles a bit, but manages to land on both feet. She grins, gamely ready to try the blanket toss again. Tourists applaud their approval.
Entertaining tourists is just one facet of Karmy’s day. Like many Latter-day Saint teens, her schedule is busy. She has a summer job, attends church meetings, helps around the house, works out, spends time with her friends, and plans her future. But Karmy does all this in a small, predominantly Inupiat Eskimo village north of the Arctic Circle.
Karmy and her brother, Kris, 16, are the only Mormon teens for hundreds of miles. There are 15 members in the Kotzebue Branch, and seven are members of the McKay family.
Rising early, Karmy pedals down the main dirt road to work at the village’s hotel, waving to everyone she meets. “That’s one of the things I like about living here,” says Karmy, who wears a kuspuk, a colorful print cotton parka, over her clothes. “You know everybody.”
Most summer days in Kotzebue are overcast and gray. The village is almost an island on a narrow neck of land surrounded by water, and is only 200 miles away from Russia. There is no movie house or swimming pool for Karmy and her family to go to. The teen center—with a TV and video games, several small playgrounds, and a ball field—does provide additional options for summer activities.
Mainly, though, kids provide their own entertainment. When they have free time, Karmy, Kris, and the other McKay children (Mindy, 11, Levi, 9, and Logan, 8), like to ride their bikes over the dirt roads. There are no mountains or trees here, just rolling tundra, covered with tiny low-lying plants. There are wildflowers of every hue. A constant breeze helps dissipate the clouds of mosquitoes and no-see-ums, a gnat with a particularly nasty bite.
Karmy, of Canadian-Yugoslavian descent, likes the small community. “Everyone here is friendly,” she says. “I’ve had opportunities I couldn’t have had anywhere else. Here, you can be involved in everything.”
That is, everything that’s “virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy.” Valedictorian of her graduating class, she was also the president of student government and was involved with Future Homemakers of America, the National Honor Society, and Alaska State Battle of the Books. She played basketball and volleyball, ran cross-country, took Russian classes, completed home-study seminary, and earned her Young Women Recognition.
“In some ways I’ve missed out,” Karmy says about the lack of LDS youth. “I would have liked to have gone to Church activities with a lot of kids. I went to a youth conference in Utah once and that was neat. Here, standards are low. Kids drink, smoke, and tell dirty jokes. I have different values.”
Occasionally a “debate” will come up about the Church. Some people have bad feelings about Mormons. “I try to stay calm and politely correct them,” she says. Her own friends have, in Karmy’s words, “grown to respect my values. I think respect builds up over time.”
Along the shore, boats of various color gently sway with the dark water. The raucous calls of ravens disturb the stillness.
Less than a block away from the beach is the Kotzebue chapel, where Karmy and her family have spent many hours. Constructed in 1981, it replaced the old chapel, a building the McKays eventually bought and remodeled into their home.
It is in these two places where Karmy has developed a close, personal relationship with her Heavenly Father. The smallness of the branch has provided her ample opportunity to give talks and prayers. Through personal prayer, and church and seminary attendance, the gospel has become essential to her.
“Three. Two. One. Blastoff!” Kimber Gabryszak was thrust back into her seat as the space shuttle simulator took off. As mission specialist on this flight, she later “repaired” the Hubble telescope.
The space camp in Huntsville, Alabama, sponsored by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, is for students in the seventh through ninth grades. The camp is a long way from Kimber’s home on the banks of the Yentna River in Alaska. Kimber, 14, lives in a two-story wooden lodge, the Yentna River Station, built by her father and mother. The lodge is only 70 air miles from Anchorage, but there are no roads to be found here—only trees, water, moose, and bear. Visitors come by boat, plane, or snow machine—depending on the season and the height of the river. That’s why the Gabryszaks don’t leave their bush paradise very often. Kimber, who has lived here since she was 15 months old, manages to get to Willow, the closest “town,” about every two months. She visits with friends and goes to the movies.
So why and how did Kimber get in a space simulator? Kimber wants to be an astronaut. The oldest of six children, she is mostly self-taught through the state’s home-study curriculum. When the chance to go to space camp came, she worked hard, saving money and soliciting sponsors. “I needed to see if I really want to be an astronaut,” she says. “I love science. I want to work on a space station.” One of her prized possessions is the light blue space uniform she brought back from camp.
In Alaska, Kimber’s typical day starts at 7:30 A.M., with the family’s animals. “If they don’t eat, we don’t eat,” she says. So the 17 chickens, ten chicks, two cats, four dogs, goldfish, guinea pig, and goat are tended to. After breakfast, there is firewood to split, snow to shovel, the lodge to clean, and younger children to look after. When Kimber begins home-study seminary, her day will begin 90 minutes earlier.
At night, the Gabryszaks have prayer and scripture reading. They just finished the Book of Mormon and have started it again. On Sundays, the family gathers for a meeting where they sing hymns, accompanied by Kimber on the recorder. She’ll read and study her own lesson, and then help her two younger sisters and brother with Primary lessons.
One of the highlights of her summer is going to girls’ camp with members of the Wasilla Stake. “Sometimes it’s hard not to be part of a class,” she adds. “I went to seminary in town one morning. It was neat. Everyone was friends and they were doing neat things with the scriptures. Here, there’s no one my age to do that with.”
For now, Kimber is content to write to friends she’s met along the way. She has pen pals as far away as the British Isles, and writes regularly to a Jewish boy she met at space camp. He’s interested in the Young Men and Young Women programs, and often asks questions about the Church in his letters. Kimber also sent a Book of Mormon to another friend in Wyoming.
Life is good for Kimber. She is surrounded by a family she loves and by the great Alaskan outdoors. Although college, a mission, and temple marriage—and her dream of becoming an astronaut—may eventually pull her away, at the Yentna River Station, Kimber has already learned the most important thing of all: “I love Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father. They take care of me.”
Alaska has spectacular sunsets, trees and brush in a rich variety of greens, flowers of every hue, and, in winter, snow that turns into a fairyland. It also has Karmy and Kimber, two young women who have proven that wherever you are, you’re never alone.

The most unique answer you have to give is your testimony about an issue. When you know a thing, say, “I know,” not necessarily, “I bear you my testimony,” though that has its place. And never say, “I know,” unless you do. When you speak the truth, the Holy Ghost will confirm your words to those who are pure in heart. Then they will feel the truth as well as hear it. This is such a sweet, lifting, convincing experience. Once, on our mission, we were teaching a wonderful, young family. We were giving the lesson that explains the mission of the Savior. I always loved to give that lesson because the Spirit was usually strong in verifying our testimonies.

The young father asked at the beginning, “How can we know that what you’re telling us is true? It all sounds so good, but how can we be sure?” We explained, as best we could, how the witness of the Holy Ghost feels—a burning in the bosom, a peaceful, right feeling; an ‘aha’ experience, like “I-seem-to-have-known-that-all-along.” Then we proceeded to teach of the Savior’s mission and its application in our lives.

When it came my turn to tell them how I felt about Jesus, the Spirit was strong and unmistakable. I could see that they felt it, too. I realized then, and have known ever since, that such a witness is essential to bring complete understanding. No amount of logical argument can equal that beautiful moment of recognition that the Spirit alone can bring.

First: I will never forget the dream I had about two years ago, about my paternal great-uncle Steven. In that dream, I traveled to my hometown and wanted to come back. I got to the market square, where I wanted to get a car back to my base. Then I saw a car and entered it. When we moved, I looked through the car window, and I saw Uncle Steven running after the car and stopping it. When the car stopped, he entered at the back, where I sat and started pointing at my face and said, “What did I do to you? Why do you not want to help me the way you are helping others?”
When I woke up, I was confused, so I narrated the dream to one of my sons. He told me that the dream I had was about doing temple work for our ancestors. I told him that I didn’t know how I would do this one because I don’t know much about Uncle Steven and I don’t know how I can trust his lineage. We are not from the same village.
My son told me to pray to our Heavenly Father for direction on what to do. So I prayed. One day our most senior brother, my first cousin Emeka, who wasn’t a Christian (he was a traditional man), called me to discuss something. We talked on the phone, and when the discussion was finished, I seized the opportunity to ask him about our Uncle Steven. He acknowledged he knew things about him, and he sent the information that he had to me. I kept on asking him about many people. He sent me information he had for about 15 people. I handed that information to my son to be doing temple work for them.

Let me tell you an experience I had several years ago. I was sitting in my office. I heard a commotion out in the reception area. My secretary picked up the telephone and buzzed me. She said, “There’s a couple here, Elder Pinnock, that you have been assigned to talk with.”

I could tell she was very nervous, and I said, “Have them in.” A man and a woman came into my office. Her face was tearstained.
He began pounding on my desk, “Tell her I have the priesthood, and she’s to do what I tell her to do.”
The first thing I said was, “Stop pounding on my desk.” The second thing I said was, “Brother, you do not have the priesthood.”
“Oh, yes, I do. I was given the priesthood last June.”
I said, “You don’t have the priesthood,” and I turned behind me to where my scriptures lay. I took the triple combination and turned quickly to section 121 of the Doctrine and Covenants. We could have begun in a number of places, but let’s begin with verse 36:

That the rights of the priesthood are inseparably connected with the powers of heaven, and that the powers of heaven cannot be controlled nor handled only upon the principles of righteousness.
That they may be conferred upon us, it is true; but when we undertake to cover our sins, or to gratify our pride, our vain ambition, or to exercise control or dominion or compulsion upon the souls of the children of men, in any degree of unrighteousness, behold, the heavens withdraw themselves; the Spirit of the Lord is grieved; and when it is withdrawn, Amen to the priesthood or the authority of that man.

At that time, that good sister smiled briefly. I said, “Do you understand that you don’t have the priesthood?”
He said, “I didn’t understand that before now.”
Then I said, “Let’s begin reading the 41st verse”:

No power or influence can or ought to be maintained by virtue of the priesthood [or any other position or title, I might add], only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned;
By kindness and pure knowledge. . . .

About this time, their hands joined as I read the next several verses:

Which shall greatly enlarge the soul without hypocrisy, and without guile.

Jumping to the 45th verse:

Let thy bowels also be full of charity towards all men, and to the household of faith, and let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God; and the doctrine of the priesthood shall distil upon thy soul as the dews from heaven.

Well, he was listening now. And we talked for the next few minutes about the importance of meekness and patience and love unfeigned. As they left, they walked out arm in arm, apparently after having learned a great lesson in life. The gospel of Jesus Christ and the priesthood that so many of us in this room bear can only be maintained and handled upon the principles of righteousness.

As a child, Isaiah John attended the Pentecostal church with his mother. At a certain point, he went to live with his brother in Monrovia. He continued attending the Pentecostal church after his move. One day he met a missionary who asked him about his beliefs and then asked him if he would be willing to visit The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Isaiah agreed. Right away he noticed a difference that he liked and that felt good. Isaiah began taking the lessons and prayed about what he should do. He wanted to do the right thing. He was baptized in October 2018. Isaiah was so happy to be baptized and confirmed. He was grateful for the gift of the Holy Ghost.
His mother came to visit and asked Isaiah if he was still going to church. He said “Yes, but not to the Pentecostal church”.
Isaiah said he will never forget what she said to him: “Brother Isaiah, do you know that the Church you are going to is a perfect church that has embraced the gospel of Jesus?”
He replied, “Yes, mom, I love the Church” and he explained that at church they talk about Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, the Holy Ghost, and they teach how to live. Before she died in 2022, she told him to continue attending his church if he knew it was true, which made him very happy.

“Unity Among All His People” declares the sign carried by the Young Women of the Bismarck North Dakota Ward. Dressed in their Native American “fancy shawls,” they are marching in the International Powwow and Bismarck Folkfest Parade ahead of a grand float, complete with a large headdress. The Bismarck Young Women have become a fixture in the parade over the last several years, and their float has won multiple first-prize honors. Much of this success is thanks to the guidance and inspiration of Sister Marilyn One Feather, who started the unity float.
Sister One Feather wanted the float project to promote unity. She invited the Young Women to be involved in building and decorating the float, which encouraged a spirit of friendship among the girls. Speaking of the experience, Mia Maid Barbara Gietzen said, “It builds faith. It takes a lot of faith to get these things together.”
During the parade, Mia Maids Jenna Byzewski and Mindy Bowen, who both have Native American ancestry, participated in traditional dances alongside the float with several other Native American youth from the community. This kind of collaboration and interaction will, Sister One Feather hopes, foster a greater spirit of fellowship within the community at large.
The float brought the Young Women together as a group and taught them the value of unity—within the Church and the community. “Having unity in your life is really important,” says Beehive Becky Gietzen. “Everybody—not just the people you hang around with, but everybody—should be a part of the group. You try not to leave anybody out.”

When I was nineteen years old, my husband and I had our first son, Michael. At birth, Michael’s bile ducts were damaged, which meant that the bile had no way to exit his liver. Instead, the backup of bile caused extensive liver damage. His damaged liver grew to twice its normal size, encroaching on his stomach and making it difficult for him to eat. His eyes and skin slowly turned yellow. He developed abscesses of infection throughout his liver. At eight weeks of age, Michael had his first surgery to try to correct the structure of his bile ducts. Then, at nine weeks of age, Michael had another surgery.

Months went by. Our son seemed perpetually stuck in the intensive care unit, completely dependent on the miracle of modern medicine. Then came the day when specialists told us Michael wouldn’t survive much longer if he didn’t receive a liver transplant. And so our request for a transplant went out to every hospital in the United States that was doing pediatric liver transplants at the time.

By the time Michael was nine months old, his future looked bleak. We received word that no hospital would accept Michael as a patient on the transplant waiting list because his portal vein, which is a major blood vessel to the liver, was too small and was unlikely to support the blood flow needed for a new liver.

My husband and I prayed constantly, asking Heavenly Father for a miracle—and I have to say that God was good. Seemingly from out of nowhere, the transplant team at the University of Nebraska Medical Center changed their mind and agreed to take Michael as a patient, but only under one condition: we needed to move to Omaha.

We didn’t know anyone in Omaha, but again we prayed for help. And again, another miracle came. God was good. My in-laws knew someone in their ward who used to go to church with another family who, they thought, was still somewhere in Omaha. And, as it turned out, the Halls (George and Ginny) were still in Omaha. They came to the rescue, allowing me to stay with them while my husband finished his military training.

We were in Omaha just over two months when another miracle happened: Michael received a liver transplant. Yet again, God was good. Most of the first year and a half of Michael’s life was spent in the intensive care unit, and I can testify that I witnessed one miracle right after another. It was a tough time, but I could also see that during that time my family was blessed on many occasions.

Then the bottom fell out. You see, I thought our family was already enduring suffering in the valley, but I then came to realize that the valley was much deeper than I had imagined it could be. Michael caught a severe infection. At the time, he was taking immune suppression medication, which kept his immune system from attacking his new liver. The tradeoff was that his immune system wasn’t able to protect itself from other infections. I watched in horror as, within less than twenty-four hours, he went from being an active eighteen-month-old who was running around and playing to lying unresponsive in a hospital bed. His blood pressure and heart rate dropped. He went into shock. He started seizing. He quit breathing.

The physicians frantically intubated him so that a respirator could breathe for him. They desperately tried to maintain his blood pressure by infusing IV fluids as quickly as they could. The fluid eventually found its way into Michael’s lungs, which then became stiff and difficult to inflate with oxygen. To overcome this issue, the pressure was turned up on the respirator, which, in turn, caused Michael’s lungs to collapse. There was one problem after another.

Again my husband and I prayed for a miracle. This time, however, the miracle did not come as I had expected. Michael was comatose for almost six months. Every day was a horrific roller-coaster ride. One day he would be stable; the next day he would almost die.

Then Michael’s condition took a dreadful turn for the worst, and this time he continued to steadily deteriorate. The transplant team requested a family meeting. As we walked into the consultation room, I thought, “This can’t be good.”

I remember them saying that they couldn’t do anything else to save Michael’s life. The only option left was to sustain him on a new and, at the time, experimental heart and lung bypass machine called ECMO. That meant that Michael would have to endure yet another surgery. There was no guarantee that this surgery would work and that Michael would live, but he would surely die if we took no action.

My husband and I looked at each other, took a deep breath, and told the physicians that we wanted to try the surgery. Then my husband asked if we could have a quiet moment in the room with Michael before the surgical team took him to the operating room.

We shut the door to Michael’s room, and my husband and I stood on either side of Michael’s crib, looking across at each other. I took one of Michael’s hands, tenderly held it in my own, and closed my eyes as my husband offered a priesthood blessing. The blessing was the most beautiful blessing I had ever heard. My husband spoke calmly and deliberately.

I patiently waited for the part of the blessing when my husband would bless Michael with the power to overcome his illness. I had the faith that Michael would survive if my husband would just speak the words in the blessing.

But toward the end of the blessing, my husband’s voice cracked with emotion. “Michael,” he said, “as your parents, we love you very much. But we also know that your Father in Heaven loves you and wants what is best for you. Michael, if it is Heavenly Father’s will that you return to Him at this time, know that we will always love you and we will be okay. We will, in time, heal. And we will, at some point, be together again as a family.”

I started to tremble and cry uncontrollably. I opened my eyes and looked at my husband. Now, I use the word look, but it probably looked a little more like a glare. I couldn’t believe what he had said. No! It was all wrong. He was supposed to have blessed Michael to get better. My husband had blessed him wrong. I wanted to call for a do-over, but I figured that wouldn’t be appropriate. But Heavenly Father couldn’t take my only child away from me. We had survived so much against all odds. Why? Why would Heavenly Father get us this far only to call Michael home? For a fleeting moment I couldn’t help but think, “If God lets Michael die, then I will know that God is, in fact, not good.”

My husband looked at me with a sad but determined expression and said, “It’s time we turn this over to Heavenly Father and His will. We need to have the faith to let Michael go, if that’s what God wants.”

I was angry. I was sad. I wanted to scream. But I also couldn’t deny how strong the Spirit was in the room. The two of us stood in silence for a few seconds with only the sound of the heart monitor bleeping in the room.

“Okay,” I finally said. “If it’s Heavenly Father’s will, I’ll accept it.”

I remember walking with the surgical team to the end of the hall. Michael lay in his crib, surrounded by a half dozen people who pushed him in his bed with all of the life-sustaining machinery and tubes that were attached to him. My husband and I kissed Michael, told him that we loved him, and went back to the waiting room, where the surgeon would be able to find us to report on Michael’s condition after attempting the surgery.

About thirty minutes later Michael was wheeled back to the ICU, right past the waiting room where my husband and I were seated. We were confused. We had been told that the surgery would take several hours. As we stood up to follow the entourage of medical professionals pushing Michael back into the ICU, the surgeon caught us.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said, “but before we started the surgery, Michael’s condition stabilized. At this point we don’t need to resort to surgery. We’ll wait and see if he continues to stabilize.”

And he did. That day was a major turning point in Michael’s recovery. Every day, he continued to improve. He never needed the surgery, and a few months later he came home for the first time in almost a year. It was another miracle, and God was good.

This story has a good ending. Today Michael is thirty years old and happily married with an adorable son, and he is sitting with my family in the front row.

The question remains though: If Michael had died that day in the ICU, would that have meant that God was somehow missing, that God didn’t care, or that God was not good? I testify that Heavenly Father remains all powerful, all knowing, and ever present. I learned, in a very painful way, a profound lesson that day: that I needed to have faith in God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. I needed the faith to accept Heavenly Father’s will, regardless of what that entailed. And I needed the faith to maintain my testimony in times of happiness and in times of sorrow, during my time on the mountaintop and while in the valley.

I remember coming to know Mr. Herb Cummings, of Phoenix, Arizona, and former owner and CEO of Sara Lee foods. Mr. Cummings was born in Canada to a Russian immigrant Jewish family.

When asked how he learned to become a great philanthropist, he told us that he first learned and practiced the principle of philanthropy in the home of his grandmother.

Every Thursday, his grandmother would contact all of the married children in their family and invite them to prepare for the Sabbath, by coming to her home on Friday night for Sabbath dinner. Herb said that he never remembered a Friday night, as they began their Sabbath, that his grandmother had not found a homeless immigrant Jewish man or woman on the streets of Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada and brought them home with her.

As she would contact her family for the Sabbath meal, she would ask one family for an extra pair of shoes, a shirt, pants, money, or for knowledge of where there might be a job.

She would feed, clothe, house and then find gainful employment for these immigrants. She sometimes cared for them up to eight weeks, as their self-esteem was built and made strong. Mr. Cummings saw hundreds of these people helped by his grandmother. "I just grew up understanding that I had a responsibility to take of my surplus and help someone else less fortunate." "I have just always practiced philanthropy."

Now Herb Cummings was very wealthy. He did wonderful things with his material wealth in the true spirit of philanthropy. What about the rest of us? Can we be philanthropists? What about his sweet grandmother? Was she a philanthropist - a lover of mankind?

We started meeting with the Reverend and put together a proposal to the church to secure some funding. All Saints was opening their doors to asylum seekers twice a week for drop-in sessions where an individual could get a cup of coffee and cake, needed clothing, as well as advice, ESOL support, someone to listen to them, or just an entertaining round of chess to break up the monotony that they feel. They had recently run out of funding. The Church agreed to give £15,000 to provide much needed warm clothing and toiletries as well as vouchers for underwear, school uniform and shoes. We were all thrilled.

On several occasions different mothers have recounted a similar story to me. They were all survivors of sexual abuse. Forgiveness was a struggle for each of them. Then someone in their family was accused of abusing another—usually the accused was one of their children. Can you imagine what happens to a mother’s insides when her child is so accused, especially when she has personally suffered at the hands of a similar transgressor? Yet all of these women have told me that eventually they were able to see their own transgressors in a new light—children of God who had made a terrible mistake but who someday may repent and receive God’s forgiveness. Such transformation had allowed them to sacrifice fantasies of revenge and turn judgment over to God. They permitted Christ’s blood to surround their pain and cleanse their hearts with peace.

A true story from the USA.
William ripped open the package and held up his shiny new watch. It was finally here! He was so excited. He had worked hard to earn the money to buy it, and it was worth it.
He strapped the watch onto his wrist and started scrolling through its screen. There were so many cool games! He tapped on a dinosaur game and started to play.
The next day at recess, William showed his watch to his friend Liam. “Whoa, cool!” Liam said. He watched William play games on it for a while. Then he asked, “Want to play kickball now?”
“Maybe later,” said William. Liam ran off to play, and William sat under a tree to play the dinosaur game.
At recess the next day, William played with his watch again. Liam ran up to him. “Are you going to come play?”
William looked up from his watch. “No, I want to keep playing this game. Maybe later.”
Liam frowned. “But we always play kickball at recess!”
“I just want to finish this game,” William said.
Liam turned and walked away.
The same thing happened the next day. And the next day. On the bus ride home, Liam sat next to William. “Why didn’t you play with us today?”
“I was just playing a quick game on my watch,” William said. “I’m so close to passing the next level.”
Liam folded his arms. “You always play on your watch. You never play with us anymore!”
William felt his face get hot. “Recess is the only time at school that I can play my game,” he said. His voice was getting louder. “I can do whatever I want during recess!”
Liam looked upset. “Well, then we aren’t friends anymore!”
William didn’t say anything after that. He turned to the window so Liam couldn’t see his face. His eyes stung with tears.
When the bus got to William’s stop, he ran home as fast as he could. He plopped onto the couch and started to cry. He wished he’d never bought his watch.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked.
William sniffed. “Liam said we can’t be friends because I always play on my watch.”
Mom sat next to him. “It sounds like he thinks you care more about your watch than you care about him.”
“That’s not true!”
“I know you care about Liam.” Mom gave him a hug. “But the way we spend our time can show what we think is most important.”
William thought for a moment. “People are more important. But can’t I play on my watch too?”
“Can you think of a way to do that?” Mom asked.
William nodded. “Maybe I can play kickball with Liam at recess, and only play with my watch for a little while when I get home from school.”
“That’s a great idea.”
The next day at school, William found Liam at recess. “I’m sorry I played too much on my watch,” he said. “Can I play kickball with you again?”
Liam grinned. “Sure!”
When it was his turn, William kicked the ball and ran as fast as he could. He could hear Liam cheering.
His watch could wait. It felt good to be with his friend.

I have seen for myself what faithful priesthood leaders and members can do. In 1955 I became an officer in the United States Air Force. My bishop at home gave me a blessing just before I left for my first station, which was in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

In his blessing he said that my time in the air force would be missionary service. I arrived in church on my first Sunday at the Albuquerque First Branch. A man walked up to me, introduced himself as the district president, and told me that he was going to call me to serve as a district missionary.

I told him that I would be there for training for only a few weeks and then I would be assigned somewhere else in the world. He said, “I don’t know about that, but we are to call you to serve.” In the middle of my military training, by what appeared to be chance, I was chosen from hundreds of officers being trained to take the place in headquarters of an officer who had died suddenly.

So, for the two years I was there, I worked in my office. On most evenings and every weekend, I taught the gospel of Jesus Christ to people the members brought to us.

My companions and I averaged more than 40 hours a month in our missionary service without once having to knock on doors to find someone to teach. The members filled our plates so full that we often taught two families in an evening. I saw for myself the power and the blessing in the repeated call of prophets for every member to be a missionary.

On the last Sunday before I left Albuquerque, the first stake was organized in that city. There is now a sacred temple there, a house of the Lord, in a city where we once met in a single chapel with Saints who brought friends to us to be taught and to feel the witness of the Spirit. Those friends felt a welcoming home in the Lord’s true Church.

My wife and I have a daughter serving a full-time mission in Spain. That daughter spent her high school years in New Zealand, while I was serving as mission president. When she turned 21, she said, “Dad, Mom, I think I need to serve a mission.” Of course, we were pleased with this righteous decision, but knowing that it had been a sacrifice for her to move away from friends and family during her teenage years, I told her, “You’ve already served a mission.”
She smiled and said, “No, Dad, you have. Now I want to go serve the Lord.”
“OK,” I smiled. “You fill that mission. You follow that prompting to serve.”
Today I am elated that she is not only serving her Heavenly Father and His children in Spain but she is also following the impression she felt. She didn’t let even me—a well-meaning parent—convince her to do anything other than what she felt was right for her life and Heavenly Father’s plan for her.

“It was in the fall of the year 1857, as I remember, and a small group of Mormon pioneers were late starting across the plains. They got caught in an early snowstorm, and it slowed their travel. Many of them had become ill with colds, fevers, and pneumonia. They traveled as fast as they could, but because of the cold and sickness, they were just plain worn-out from pulling handcarts and carrying the smaller children.
“One day they came to a river that they had to cross. Everyone was so tired that the river seemed an impossible challenge. It seemed too wide, too deep, and too cold to the exhausted pioneers. One weary lady stood on the bank of the river, holding her baby as the tears silently streamed down her face. She didn’t have the strength to face one more trial that day. For a minute it looked like the journey might end right there for the small band of weary pioneers.
“Then, without saying a word, a young man waded into the cold river and made his way to the other side to see how deep it was. The icy water came up to his waist. He was certain that the handcarts were too small and too heavily loaded to carry children and those who were sick across safely. He knew what needed to be done, and he didn’t have to be asked. He knelt down with the rest of the pioneers and led a prayer, asking for strength to get everyone across safely. He was seventeen years old, and he was tall and strong, but he knew that he would need the help of the Lord to deal with the numbing cold of the river.
“The boy jumped up from the prayer and carried his sick mother across first, then his younger sister, and finally his three-year-old brother. When they were safe, he started carrying other children across. Another boy, a little younger but just as strong and nearly as tall, joined him in the cold river. The two youths carried across all the children and others who were too weak to make it through the icy water on their own. When everyone else was safely on the other side and the handcarts were across, the boys came out of the river to get dry and to warm themselves by the fire.
“Their legs and feet were blue from the cold. They got into dry clothes and wrapped up in blankets. Everyone thanked them for their help, but the boys said that they had just done what needed to be done. That night they sent everyone else to bed while they stayed by the fire to get warm. They talked about how things were going to be when they got to their new homes, but their conversation was often interrupted by muscle cramps and violent shivers. The cold water had chilled them more than they thought possible. The next morning they were still sitting there, wrapped in their blankets. When the leader of the group walked over to talk to them, he was saddened by what he found. During the night the boys had both died as they sat by the fire.
“The youths were buried right there on the edge of the river. They had lost their lives while helping others. The older boy, the one who had prayed for strength to get the others across safely, was one of your relatives. His name was Floyd. His three-year-old brother was your great-great-grandfather. When I was a little boy and Grandfather was in his nineties, he told me this story. That was when I learned that Floyd meant courage, relying on the Lord, and helping others.”