Gospel Story Finder

Ramón jingled the coins in his pocket as he finished selling his chickens’ eggs at the village market. He thought about the jar at home that held his tithing coins. On Sunday he was going to give the coins to the bishop. Ramón had a warm feeling inside. He was glad to pay tithing.
The market stalls were full of things for sale. Ramón saw a colorful shirt with the logo of his favorite soccer team. He pictured himself wearing the shirt, running down the field, and scoring the winning goal. Ramón looked at the price tag. He could buy the shirt if he spent all his egg money plus his tithing coins.
Ramón noticed the warm feeling was gone. He really wanted the shirt, but he knew Heavenly Father wouldn’t want him to spend his tithing coins. Ramón started walking home. He decided to pay his tithing first. Then he could earn more money selling eggs until he could buy the shirt and pay his tithing like the Lord wanted him to.

I remember the night vividly and marvel at how far I had strayed from what I knew was right. There I was, searching through trash cans behind a supermarket for food. I was close to suicide, yet I was afraid to die. Deeply frightened, I reflected on the incredible changes I had permitted to occur in my life.
I had been born into a Latter-day Saint home, and from the time I was a youngster I had attended my Church meetings. I graduated from seminary, was active in leadership roles, and loved being an active member of the Church.
After graduating, I was offered a scholarship to Brigham Young University. Instead of accepting it, I decided to try out for the top-rated baseball team of a university in another state. I had visions of becoming a professional athlete.
In college, I was exposed to an entirely different lifestyle. People’s attitudes were different, and I discovered a maze of differing philosophies. My Church activity dwindled, and my value system soon weakened. In spite of my lifelong membership in the Church, I wasn’t a true disciple of Jesus Christ. I was fully capable of ignoring the Spirit of the Lord.
New ideas and temptations hit me head-on. I began experimenting with drugs and alcohol and started dating a girl who was not a member of the Church. I even quit the baseball team to get a job so I could buy a car to impress her. I skipped classes as I became more involved with my girlfriend and drugs.
It wasn’t long before I was addicted. Within two years I couldn’t hold a job or function in normal society. I was broke, sick, and friendless on the beaches of San Diego, California.
That night in the supermarket parking lot, I fell to my knees. With tears streaming down my face, I pleaded for help, hoping that what I had learned as a child was true and that someone was listening.
Suddenly a wonderful warmth engulfed my head, then filled my entire body. I could feel the Spirit of the Lord with an intensity I had never known. A soothing calmness came over me, and for the first time in years, I felt at peace.
When I finally stood again, I was free of fear and anguish. I knew my desperate, sincere prayer for help had been answered.
The road back was a long but rewarding one. I returned to activity in the Church and began seriously studying the scriptures. I served as director of a drug rehabilitation center in southern California for a time and saw many helped through the power of God. I also saw others, who would not heed the Lord’s teachings, sink lower into hopelessness and degradation. I ache for those people and feel ever grateful to the Lord for hearing and answering my desperate prayer.

I’ve been in the air force for about two years now and receive the New Era as a gift from my father. When I read the article “High Mountain Magic” in the June New Era, it brought back memories of some of the best weeks of my life. Once a year the young men in our ward (14 and older) would go on a 7-to-10-day excursion. Two of those trips were up in the high Uintas. I will never forget the 10-to-15 mile treks from camp to camp. Sunday was a day of rest. In the morning we would hold priesthood meeting and Sunday School, and then in the afternoon we would attend a special fast and testimony meeting. The closeness I felt with my friends and God is a feeling I will always cherish. I wish that everybody could spend some time in the many wilderness areas created by the Lord. I know that these trips have helped strengthen my testimony.
A1C Roger A. HoffmannLoughlin AFB, Texas

American Indians in Nottingham’s Old Market Square?! Someone must have their history mixed up. But no, it’s all part of a program to help teach the British people more about the Book of Mormon.
President Eldon J. Callister of the England Birmingham Mission realized that one of the biggest hindrances to missionary work in England is the misconception the people have of Mormons. “Oh yes, you have more than one wife and think it wicked to drink tea” is what missionaries hear when they ask the question, “What do you know about the Mormon church?”
The Book of Mormon is one of the greatest tools for missionary work, so in order to help people become interested, President Callister assigned two elders to produce an entertaining and educational show that could be used to teach about the Lamanite people. Within the mission was an elder with considerable experience with Indian dances and customs, Elder Kim Larson. Another elder, Tom Spencer, who had theatrical experience was assigned to help with the program, and the two elders wrote “Ancient America Speaks.”
Elder Larson sent for his handmade Kiowa Dance costume, which he had used in the U.S. while performing with the Koshare (pronounced co-shar-ee) Indian dancers of LaJunta, Colorado. Elder Spencer sat down and began to write. Their production showed the modern American Indian in his rightful position as a descendant of a once-Christian people. They tell about the legends and dances that illustrate how the Indians changed their form of worship from Christianity to those of a more pagan nature.
During their first year of performances, the elders danced and spoke before thousands. During the summer months they performed in town fairs and carnivals. Open houses were held in all of the four stakes within the mission boundaries. Countless shopping centers, market squares, town centers, and colleges were the stages for the tom-toms and storytelling. A slightly modified program was written for public schools. More than 100 schools were visited, which resulted in a good feeling toward the Church. Many have asked for the program to return next year.
The program has been such a success in introducing the British to the gospel that two more elders were assigned to carry on the presentations after Elders Larson and Spencer were released.
The elders have appeared on TV twice, and newspaper articles have continued to be published. The British find the American Indian story interesting, but it’s the gospel story they learn that really affects them. The Indian program seems to make it easier for many to want to learn more. So for these Indian-missionaries there are no reservations concerning missionary work.

Photographs courtesy of Kayleena N.
Kayleena N., 17, of Washington, USA, loves testimonies. She loves bearing her testimony, she loves listening as others share them, and now the testimonies from nearly 200 of her friends and relatives help keep her warm at night. “I feel really blessed that I know so many people who know the gospel is true,” Kayleena says.
For years, Kayleena has wanted to create a large patchwork quilt. However, she didn’t want merely a colorful blanket. She wanted an heirloom she could show to her children and grandchildren. And she wanted the whole thing tied together with testimonies.
After planning her design, Kayleena contacted friends and family to ask if they’d be willing to write their personal testimony on one of the 192 pastel squares of fabric she planned to use in the quilt. Her own testimony is on a square as well.
The final quilt required the help of many friends and over 200 hours of work. Yet she doesn’t regret a single minute. “It’s my favorite thing ever,” Kayleena says. “Anytime I’m not feeling happy, I can read the testimonies and it lifts me up. It’s more than a warm blanket. It’s a comfort to my soul.”

Burgon can’t really see much of anything. She has retinitis pigmentosa, a progressive loss of sight. And for a while Burgon couldn’t hear much. She had only five percent hearing in one ear. She was even preparing for a nearly silent future by learning tactile sign language, in which the signing is done in her hand.
But Burgon Jensen of Midvale, Utah, even with these two obstacles, is a fun, well-read, creative person. She loves to read and write in Braille, and she especially likes to write poetry. She loves to sculpt (yes, sculpt—she feels an object and then recreates it in clay). These days, her future is full of sounds and music because she has had a cochlear implant to help improve her hearing. These are just the beginning of a long list of things that Burgon does. She goes hiking and rock climbing with her family. She skis by following a guide’s instructions. She loves to go shopping, feeling pieces of clothing to determine if she wants to try it on. She is learning to cook and helps clean the house. But most of all, she has a funny sense of humor and a great attitude.
Burgon says, “I think attitude is such a big deal when you have challenges. You can be angry that you were given those challenges, or you can have a good attitude and say, like Nephi did, ‘I will go and do’ [Nephi 3:7], because I know that Heavenly Father is going to give me a way to do it.”

The staff in the Missionary Department recently received a letter from President Thomas R. Murray of the Missouri Independence Mission concerning the missionary service of Elder and Sister Ronald Smith. He wrote:
"The Smiths left a legacy in Nebraska City, Nebraska. They baptized eighteen people, reactivated a large number in two wards, traveled many miles per month, contributed to the local newspaper, gave meaningful community service, motivated the Scouting program, strengthened the ward leadership, fellowshipped and friendshipped, and provided great public relations for the Church in the community."
Where could the Smiths have spent a more productive, profitable time or experienced more fulfilling service?

In the Philippines today we have more than 55,000 members of the Church. We have sixteen strong stakes and four missions. It is one of the more productive proselyting areas in the world. When the history of the work in the Philippines is written, it must include the story of Sister Maxine Grimm, a girl from Tooele, Utah, who served with the Red Cross in the Pacific campaign of the Second World War. She married an American army officer, and after the war they established their home in Manila. She did much to teach the gospel to others; she pleaded that missionaries be sent. Her husband had legal work done and did many other things to make it possible for the missionaries to come. It would have been much easier for them to have simply gone along their way, making money and enjoying the fruits of it; but Sister Grimm was unceasing in her efforts and pleas.

At the time, I had responsibility for the work in Asia and I carried her pleas to the First Presidency, who, in 1961, authorized the extension of formal missionary work to that land. In May 1961 we held a meeting in the Philippines to begin the work. We had no place to meet and received permission from the American Embassy to do so at the American Military Cemetery on the outskirts of Manila.

There, where are solemnly remembered the sacrifices of more than 50,000 men who gave their lives in the cause of freedom, we gathered together at 6:30 in the morning. Sister Grimm played a little portable organ she had carried through the campaigns of the Pacific War, and we sang the songs of Zion in a strange land. We bore testimony together and invoked the blessings of heaven on what we were to begin there. Present was one native Filipino member of the Church.

That was the beginning of something marvelous, the commencement of a miracle. The rest is history, discouraging at times and glorious at others. I was there for the area conference held several years ago with President Spencer W. Kimball and others. Some 18,000 members of the Church were assembled in the great Aranetta Coliseum, the largest meeting place in all the Republic.

I wept as I thought of the earlier years, and I remembered with appreciation the woman who largely forgot her own interests as she relentlessly pursued her dream of the day when the Church would be strong in the land which she then lived, bringing happiness of a kind previously unknown to thousands of wonderful people.

When I returned home I felt much different inside. I was beginning to feel hope and was learning to pray for guidance and forgiveness. True repentance didn’t take place overnight; it took many months before I felt I had been forgiven. I made a decision to start attending church again, the most difficult part of which was finding the courage to actually walk to the doors and go in.
I become overwhelmed as I think of the meaning of the Savior’s Atonement: “Oh, it is wonderful that he should care for me enough to die for me!” (“I Stand All Amazed,” Hymns, number 193). It is also wonderful that two sister missionaries came into my life when they did and shared with me their love and example. I was filled with joy to have one of them be my escort when I finally attended the temple to receive my endowment.
Following years of wandering, I had come home at last.

Sunlight streamed through the back door as Bella ran inside with her best friend, Maria.
“Mom, can we go walk our dogs?” Bella asked.
“Sure,” Mom said. “But just go around the block. Dinner is almost ready.”
“OK. Thanks, Mom!” Bella called as she and Maria put leashes on their two Chihuahuas and raced outside.
Bella and Maria had been friends ever since Maria moved in across the street. They were in the same class at school, went to Primary together, and played together almost every day after school. Last year they had both gotten Chihuahua puppies together. They named them Pip and Pat.
Bella felt Pip give a little tug on his leash as they started walking. “Hey,” Maria said, “let’s go up the hill to see Megan.”
“I can only go around the block,” Bella said.
“Your mom will never know unless you tell her,” Maria said.
“I can’t lie to my mom.”
“Well, I’m going. If you’re such a baby about it, then I guess I’ll just make Megan my new best friend.”
Bella couldn’t believe what Maria had just said. She felt a lump in her throat. “So I guess we’re not friends anymore,” she said, her voice cracking, “because I won’t disobey my mom.”
“Whatever.” Maria pulled Pat’s leash and started up the hill to Megan’s house.
Bella watched her go, then turned around and started slowly back to her house with Pip. After a minute she began to run. She wanted to get inside before anyone saw the tears streaming down her face. Pip raced behind her.
“What happened?” Mom asked as Bella burst into the front room.
Bella choked back her tears as she told Mom what Maria had said. Mom listened and wrapped her arms around Bella in a big hug.
“Sometimes it’s hard to do what’s right,” Mom said, “but I’m proud of you for obeying, even when your friend wanted you to do something else.”
“But now she’s not even my friend anymore,” Bella said as she wiped away her tears.
“Sometimes our friends make mistakes,” Mom said. “But the best friends are the ones who help us choose the right. You were a good friend because you showed Maria it’s important to obey your parents. If she’s really your friend, she’ll realize that and be your friend again.”
The next day Bella was playing with Pip when she heard a knock on the door. It was Maria on the porch with Pat at her feet. Maria’s eyes were swollen and red, just like Bella’s had been the night before.
Maria had an envelope in her hand. It was decorated with little red hearts and had Bella’s name across the front.
“I’m sorry about yesterday. I hope you’ll read my note,” Maria said as she handed Bella the envelope. “Will you still be my friend?”
“Of course,” Bella said.
Maria still looked sad. “I shouldn’t have told you to disobey your mom.”
“It’s OK.” Bella smiled. “Now let’s go ask my mom if we can ride bikes.”
Pat tugged on his leash and ran inside to find Pip. Bella and Maria laughed. It felt great to be all together again.

In addition to their regular youth conference activities—speakers, games, and dances—youth from the Jonesboro and Tucker Georgia stakes put on a carnival for 200 handicapped and underprivileged participants. The youth spent the morning of the carnival setting up booths and preparing for their guests. When they arrived, each visitor was assigned a youth host for the day. There were no losers at the “Carnival of Dreams”—each game was designed so that everyone would walk away from any game they played a winner. At the testimony meeting following the carnival, several youth shared experiences and expressed their love for their special visitors.

It was at the beginning of seventh grade that I first met Randa. She was assigned to the desk right behind mine.
Her family had just moved into the area. She was the oldest child and only girl in a family with six children. Her family was neither rich nor poor. They fit right in with everyone else. In fact, the only thing unusual about the family was Randa.
Randa had been born with a serious malformation of the face. The first thing I noticed about her was a long, purple scar down her cheek. It was a result of one of many corrective surgeries. There would be many more surgeries in her future. The left lens in her eyeglasses was frosted to help conceal an artificial eye.
Now, I used to have a case of acne that I thought was terminal. Whenever I looked in the mirror, I would think, “Someday I’m going to grow out of this.” Whenever Randa looked in the mirror, she knew she was not going to grow out of it.
Still, Randa and I ended up talking about everything during class. I teased her unmercifully, and she would tease me right back, with a measure added. We developed a friendship and began to share things besides sharp retorts with each other.
One of the subjects we talked about frequently was her dream of her wedding reception. Randa described the flowers, the decorations, the bridesmaids’ dresses, even the music. She had indomitable optimism. I would quietly listen to her and think, “Randa, why do you do this? There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
Her physical problems created some tough social situations. I admit that my classmates and I were not as sensitive as we should have been. We made all sorts of comments about her—not all nice. I’m embarrassed to say that I made my share of “funny” remarks at her expense.
During our high school years she ran for cheerleader. I suppose she was hoping that a success would win her some social acceptance. But Randa’s dreams were ravaged by the electoral process.
Dances weren’t easy for Randa either. One night, at a church dance, one of the brighter guys made a proposition. You could show real courage by asking the “ugliest” girl there for a dance. Better yet, you could stay for a second dance just to prove your courage had staying power. That was followed by a lot of laughter, and a lot of “I will if you will” promises.
Suddenly one of the guys broke away from the group and asked Randa for a dance. Then he stayed for a second. When he returned to our group, he said, “Okay guys, you promised.” One by one, they asked Randa to dance, and stayed for a second. Randa danced 16 times that night. She had the time of her life—only to learn later that she was the object of a cruel joke.
But Randa did have a date to all the formal dances—with her father. She always had a nice formal and a corsage, just like the other girls. Her father would be dressed in a nice Sunday suit, just like the other guys. Randa and her father would dance a few dances and sit out a few, just like the rest of us. At about 10:00 P.M., Randa and her father would go home, not like the rest of us. We would go to a late dinner or party.
But life was not bad for Randa. She was blessed with a lot of spunk and a great attitude. She had a beautiful singing voice and sang whenever she was asked. She had a wonderful sense of humor, too. In spite of her painful experiences, she was not introverted. She pursued her dreams boldly. Randa was determined to live life as it came.
After high school, our paths parted. I went to college and served a mission while Randa pursued higher education as well.
A short time after returning from my mission, I received an invitation to what I considered an amazing social function. It was Randa’s wedding reception! I stepped into the cultural hall of her ward and looked around with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. The flowers, the decorations, the bridesmaids’ dresses, even the music were exactly as she had described them all those years before. In the reception line I met Randa’s husband, who was tall, dark, and handsome. He knew who he was and what is important in life. I was very impressed.
Years later, at a class reunion, I was happy to find that Randa was still reaching for the stars with her usual enthusiasm. She’d made some outstanding achievements. She had seven healthy children. She had served as campaign manager for a successful candidate for the U.S. Congress. She had been elected to the school board in her community. And while juggling all these demands, Randa went back to college and completed a bachelor’s degree so she could qualify to teach the handicapped.
It took me many years to learn how well Heavenly Father knows and loves each one of us. And when I finally had a better idea of this, I realized I had some sore repenting to do for the offenses I had caused Randa.
I called her and asked her forgiveness for all the unkind things I had said and done at her expense. She could only remember one time I was cruel. Her memory had been much kinder to me than mine was. She freely forgave me.
I hope that in the future I’ll have the courage to behave the way I believe. If I had done that in seventh grade and all the grades that followed, life could have been more gratifying for Randa. It’s such a little thing—to ask to be treated with kindness. It’s really only a little thing to be kind. I realize, though, that the little things, done consistently, make a very big difference.

When we came to Copenhagen, Denmark, we waited there until there were about 300 that were going to Utah. Anthon H. Lund, who just before he died was the counselor to President Heber J. Grant, had charge of the company to Utah. We left Copenhagen to go to Hull in England over the North Sea. When we started, the weather was fine and there were the same joyful songs of the Saints as when we left Norway. Some even danced. But soon the mountainous waves began to roll. It was not long before some began to make haste to the side of the ship. Oh, didn’t they feed the fish! I laughed at them and wondered what was the matter with them. I tell you I didn’t laugh long. My turn soon came. But we arrived in Hull safe and sound, and there we boarded the train for Liverpool. We got there in about eight hours’ ride, and there we boarded the steamer Nevada for New York, North America.
It took us 14 days to cross the Atlantic. Some of the way it was very stormy, and I was seasick all the way. But we landed in New York safe and sound. There we boarded the train for Utah. In about four days we arrived in Salt Lake City, July 17, 1872, late in the evening. Before coming to the station the president of our company, Anthon H. Lund, told us that when we arrived at the station, a good many of us would meet relatives and friends, and some of them would take us home with them. But he said, “Do not let any of them take you home with them just then, for you will all be taken to a banquet. Instead, take them with you to the banquet.”
It was then about ten o’clock in the evening. The name of the house I did not know, but it was large enough for all of us to sit down at the tables at once. As far as I can remember, there were about 300 of us. They had all gone in but myself, for I did not think I belonged. I knew I was not a Mormon, though all the rest of them were. As I have told before, I was rather bitter. But Brother Lund came out and saw me a ways off. He came over to me and asked me where my parents were. I said they had gone in but I didn’t belong. He then took me by the arm over to the door and said in Danish, “Please go in. You are welcome.” So, of course, I went in. I tell you it was the best supper I had ever seen, all kinds of good things. When we got through with the meal, it was about midnight, but the tables were still spread and plenty of all kinds of good things on the tables. We were to go and help ourselves. It was all for us.
There was no one who called for us, so we stayed around in that hall till morning. I don’t know just what the rest of them did, but I lay down on a bench by the table and fell asleep. When I awakened, the sun was up and the rest were awake and busy. I didn’t wait for breakfast, for there was still plenty of food on the tables, and we were told that we were welcome to all and to help ourselves. I did so, and I surely had a good breakfast that morning as well as supper the night before.

When I was young, falling and getting up seemed to be one and the same motion. Over the years, however, I have come to the unsettling conclusion that the laws of physics have changed—and not to my advantage.
Not long ago I was skiing with my 12-year-old grandson. We were enjoying our time together when I hit an icy spot and ended up making a glorious crash landing on a steep slope.
I tried every trick to stand up, but I couldn’t—I had fallen, and I couldn’t get up.
I felt fine physically, but my ego was a bit bruised. So I made sure that my helmet and goggles were in place, since I much preferred that other skiers not recognize me. I could imagine myself sitting there helplessly as they skied by elegantly, shouting a cheery, “Hello, Brother Uchtdorf!”
I began to wonder what it would take to rescue me. That was when my grandson came to my side. I told him what had happened, but he didn’t seem very interested in my explanations of why I couldn’t get up. He looked me in the eyes, reached out, took my hand, and in a firm tone said, “Opa, you can do it now!”
Instantly, I stood.
I am still shaking my head over this. What had seemed impossible only a moment before immediately became a reality because a 12-year-old boy reached out to me and said, “You can do it now!” To me, it was an infusion of confidence, enthusiasm, and strength.
Brethren, there may be times in our lives when rising up and continuing on may seem beyond our own ability. That day on a snow-covered slope, I learned something. Even when we think we cannot rise up, there is still hope. And sometimes we just need someone to look us in the eyes, take our hand, and say, “You can do it now!”

Let me relate a personal experience I had with For the Strength of Youth.
Sister Tingey and I were living in Africa. I was sent to a little country by the name of Burundi in east-central Africa. Several faithful families had been holding Church services in their homes, and they desired to have missionaries assigned to help them.
I met with a fine gentleman who represented the government. I explained who we were, what we taught, and how establishing our Church in his country would bless the lives of the people. When I finished, he said, “I do not see where anything you have told me is any different from what is currently available in our country. I see no reason to approve your request to bring missionaries into our country.”
I was devastated. My meeting was almost over, and in a moment I would be ushered out. I prayed secretly in my heart for something to say. In an instant a thought came to my mind. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a little copy of the For the Strength of Youth booklet, which I have always carried. In the remaining moments of our visit, I quickly shared with him how each of the young people in our Church had a copy of this pamphlet. I read some of the topics and explained that we teach our young people these patterns.
“You mean to tell me you expect the youth of your church to live these standards?” he asked.
“Yes, and they do,” I replied.
“That is amazing,” he said. “Could you send me some of these booklets so that I could distribute them to the youth of my church?”
I returned to Johannesburg and sent about 500 copies of the pamphlets in French and English. A month or so later we received official recognition from the government of Burundi, authorizing our Church to be established in that country.
I do not know the significance of my participation in that event, but I definitely know that the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet was quickly recognized by this good man as something of great value and was likely instrumental in our securing official recognition.

Several years earlier, at the death of our infant son, I had blamed myself for the loss. An understanding doctor wisely counseled that this was common, but nonetheless wrong. A grieving person naturally searches for something he might have done to prevent tragedy. “Don’t give in to the temptation to blame yourself,” he advised.
Following the Church court, I found myself falling into this trap again. Gradually I realized I could neither control nor take responsibility for my husband’s actions. I began to concentrate on the things I could control and change in myself.
At the same time I tried to accept not only my situation, but my husband as well. I learned that comparing our spiritual progress to that of other couples was useless. When I read about exemplary fathers and husbands, I still struggled with discouragement. Yet I was able to tell myself, “Their situations are different. The Lord will help me with mine.” As I expressed gratitude for blessings I did have, a loving acceptance grew within me. Along with it, the attitude in our entire family improved. To my amazement, I discovered times when I was happier and more at peace than I’d been in years.
Sometimes I hesitated asking for certain blessings, fearing that my husband’s situation might prevent our receiving them. The Lord quickly dismissed my apprehension, however, and over the years presented us with material and spiritual blessings.
My self-esteem had been shattered by our experience with the disfellowshipment. I was busy many hours each week, serving as president of one of the ward auxiliaries. How could the Lord, or for that matter, the bishop, possibly expect me to continue in this calling? Emotionally and physically, I was drained. But nothing was mentioned concerning my release, and I stayed in that position. I later understood this to be the Lord’s way of demonstrating a need for my abilities. At the same time, our children continued to do well in and out of school. Here the Lord was assuring me that we weren’t failing as parents. These experiences lifted me and convinced me of my worth.
As the weeks, months, and years went by, the pain sometimes grew less and sometimes grew stronger. I got used to most people avoiding the issue in conversation. Few got past the fear of not knowing what to say, and so said nothing. I’ll always appreciate the friend who sincerely asked, “How are things going?” and listened patiently as I told her.
The Lord continued to comfort and teach me. Often I complained about my husband’s unwillingness to change. Without exception, Heavenly Father refused to accept my criticism. Through inspiration he referred me, in a loving way, to scriptures on tolerance. He also reminded me of my special role as a wife. I was convinced that parts of Doctrine and Covenants 25, where the Lord calls Emma Smith to aid and comfort her husband, applied as much to me as to Emma. Over and over I read this section, each time believing more in my husband’s worth.
I prayed regularly for an increase in love toward my husband. The Lord answered in unusual, but practical ways. I sought opportunities to give of myself, knowing those we serve become those we love. I didn’t have to look far, as my husband was hurt in three minor accidents within a year. During his short convalescent periods at home I provided emotional care and concern. I was rewarded many times over with greater love and appreciation for him.
I realized, too, that my service didn’t need to be a huge undertaking. Since my husband was away from home much of the time, I tried to make him the center of my attention when he was at home. Saying something positive or complimentary to him each day grew from a challenge into a habit. I also refrained from criticizing my husband, either to him or anyone else. These small efforts worked wonders. Like a dying plant rediscovering light and nourishment, our love regained vitality.
I drew great comfort and hope from the twenty-seventh chapter of Mosiah. Here an angel appears to Alma the Younger because of the faith and prayers of his father. (See Mosiah 27:8–17.) Through this scripture the Lord assured me that he answers prayers said in behalf of others. I have made it a point to never cease praying for my husband. More difficult, but just as important, is maintaining faith that one day his heart will change.
Charity, I’ve also discovered, is a gift from God. Shortly after the Church court, I was suddenly consumed with a deep affection and acceptance for my husband. I longed to help and support him in every possible way. This sweet sensation stayed long enough for me to realize that I wanted it always. I pray regularly, as Moroni suggested, “with all the energy of heart [to] be filled with this love.” (Moro. 7:48.)
My husband has now been reinstated into the Church. Though many changes for good have come, his gospel commitment and spiritual desire for activity have yet to return. I’ve accepted the fact, however, that only he can control those things. Instead of focusing on our failures, I can now express gratitude for the things we’re doing right. I’ve discovered, to my surprise, that it’s possible to be happy in any situation. I’ve also learned that through the most painful experience of my life has come my greatest growth.

When my class was studying architecture this year in school, each student was assigned to prepare both a report and a three-dimensional model of a famous building or other structure. Since my parents were married in the Salt Lake Temple, it is very special to my family. My dad had the great idea of using sugar cubes to make my model of it. We thought that sugar cubes were perfect because their white color symbolized the purity of the temple. I realized that the shape of the cubes was also appropriate because the Salt Lake Temple was built using huge granite boulders that were cut by hand into blocks.
My five-year-old brother, Rollins, decided to make a temple, too. We thought his turned out to look a lot like the Manti Utah Temple.
Presenting the report let me tell my class a little about the Church and the importance of temples. My model was even put on display in the school media center for a few weeks! Everyone who saw it could read the label we made for it: The Salt Lake Temple of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I look forward to my next chance to tell others about the Church.
Niles Wimber, age 8McDonough, Georgia

Receiving gospel ordinances and keeping covenants had a dramatic influence on Diana’s family. Diana and her younger brother, Emmanuel, were the first to join the Church. Before that time, Diana says, her family argued a lot. She knew her parents wanted the best for her and her brothers, but they were strict.
“We felt more fear than love for my dad,” she says.
Several months after she was baptized, her father and older brother, Richard, joined the Church, followed more than a year later by her mother.
“My father changed,” Diana says of her father’s conversion. “When we did things wrong, he would talk to us about it. We had fewer arguments. There was more harmony in our home.”
Covenanting to follow Jesus Christ had drawn them closer to Him and to each other. They had a common purpose: to become an eternal family. A year after Diana’s mother was baptized, the family was sealed in the temple.
“It was a beautiful experience,” Diana says. “I can’t explain how I felt when we walked into the sealing room and saw my parents there. I didn’t want to leave.”

Truman studied architectural design and innovations in building. The constant pressure of being the Church’s architect was a strain on his health, so Brigham Young called him to serve a mission in Europe, where he was to not only preach to the people but also visit the great buildings and study the architectural styles there. He had been on his mission for thirteen months when he was called to return to help with the Salt Lake Temple.
Work on the temple did not progress very rapidly at first. There were several delays, such as the time President James Buchanan sent United States troops to Utah with a new governor to replace Brigham Young. The Saints, remembering the mob violence of the East, were not going to allow their new homes and lands to be plundered again. They stripped their homes of valuables and filled them with straw to be set afire if and when the enemy troops came. Even the foundation of the temple was covered with dirt, making it appear to be only a plowed field. Fortunately a peaceful settlement was reached before the troops arrived in Salt Lake.
As the building of the temple progressed, Truman sought the advice and counsel of President Young almost every step of the way. There were many details that had to be taken care of, and the work required Truman’s constant supervision. All his efforts were devoted to serving the Lord, despite constant poor health and personal heartaches.
The architect did not live to see the completion of the beautiful Salt Lake Temple, but the majestic structure will stand for many years to come as a monument to his and other Saints’ dedication in building the Lord’s kingdom here on earth.

Larry trudged home from school and tried to imagine how the family cabin must look buried beneath the snow. School was out for Christmas vacation, and he and his family were going to the mountains for the holidays. He couldn’t wait to go sleigh riding with them on the hill near their cabin.
As Larry turned the corner, he could see his dad and his brother, Jonathan, already packing the car.
“You’re just in time to help carry out the heavy stuff,” Dad called to him.
Soon they were packed and on their way. The little dirt road that led from the highway to their cabin was covered with snow, and Larry and Jonathan had to help clear the way with snow shovels. It seemed like forever before they finally reached the cabin.
Larry gazed fondly at the cabin. It was a beautiful sight with the snow piled high everywhere. Now Larry realized why he and his father had worked so hard strengthening the ceiling beams inside and patching the roof outside last summer. It would never have held all this snow if they hadn’t.
Everyone, even Julia and little April, helped take the things in from the car, and Dad made a fire in the fireplace. They heated the stew and rolls Mother had made before they left home, and ate their meal in front of the warm, crackling fire.
“Tomorrow we’ll go to the meadow and cut down a Christmas tree,” Dad announced.
“Yippee!” whooped four young voices.
“But now we’d better get a good night’s sleep,” Mom said with a yawn.
Larry woke up early and looked out the small attic window. The trees sparkled with silver ice crystals. Everything was still and quiet outside. Inside, everyone was bustling around, trying to keep warm while Dad stoked the fire. The morning was spent in decorating the cabin and making tree ornaments. In the afternoon Dad and the four children set out to find a perfect Christmas tree. The sled left deep tracks in the snow as they took turns pulling each other to the meadow.
“Sky’s clouding up,” Dad said. “We’d better hurry and find the tree we want.”
A tree was finally chosen, and while Dad chopped it down, the children made a snowman. They hardly noticed that snow had started falling.
“Let’s get moving,” urged Dad as he piled the tree onto the sled. The children came running, eager to get the tree to the cabin.
“Where’s April?” Dad asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Julia. “She was here with me just a minute ago.”
Dad called, but there was no answer. The snow was falling faster.
“You three pull the tree back to the cabin. Just follow the tracks we made coming.”
“I know the way back,” said Larry. “We’ll be OK.”
Dad walked in the opposite direction, calling for little April. Her tracks were quickly being covered by the falling snow, and the sun was starting to go down beyond the mountain.
Larry and Jonathan took turns pulling the sled, and Julia pushed from the back when they went up the hill. At the top they could barely see the lights of the cabin through the blowing snow, which had become a blizzard. When they reached the cabin, Mother opened the door.
“I thought you’d never get here. I have some hot chocolate with marshmallows ready for you.” Then Mother sensed something was wrong. “What’s the matter? Where are your father and April?” she asked.
Julia spoke first. “April’s lost, Mom. Dad’s out looking for her.”
Mother turned and sat down in the rocker by the hearth. In the light of the fire her face looked pale.
It was Larry who broke the silence. “I’m going back to the meadow, Mom.”
“No, Larry. We don’t want anybody else lost in the storm.”
“I have to go, Mom. Dad might need some help. I can’t sit here and do nothing.”
Mom looked into Larry’s eyes, and instead of her little boy, she saw a young man who would soon receive the priesthood. “All right, Larry. But drink a cup of hot chocolate and get warm before you go out again.”
As Larry stood drinking the hot chocolate by the fire, he glanced at his somber brother and sister. He set his cup down, and after putting two blankets into a plastic bag, he bundled up, put some matches from the cupboard into his pocket, and said good-bye.
Outside, he took the tree off the sled, placed the blankets on it, and piled on some dry wood from the shed. He gathered some chips of wood and some small twigs that were stored by the woodpile and put them into his jacket pockets. He covered the wood with a piece of plastic from the shed and began to pull the sled toward the hill.
In the cabin everyone sat staring at the fire.
“I want to do something, too,” Jonathan said.
Julia looked at her mom and nodded her head in agreement.
“There is something we can all do,” said Mother, kneeling by her chair. Julia and Jonathan knelt beside her.
Out in the meadow Dad called and called, but the howling wind outshouted him, threw snow into his face, and obliterated those tracks that had been faintly visible in the fading light. Suddenly something inside of him told him to stand still and listen. This is silly, he thought as he stood still. But the impression wouldn’t leave him, and during a brief lull in the raging blizzard he heard a soft, whimpering sound. Following the sound just a few yards, he came upon a little mound half-buried in the snow.
“April!” he cried.
Two little eyes peeked out from under a snow-covered hood. Dad grabbed her and quickly brushed the snow from her jacket. He unzipped his parka, pressed her against the warmth of his own body, then began immediately to retrace his own tracks before they, too, were covered by the snow.
Meanwhile, when Larry reached the meadow, he pulled the sled over by the snowman. He hoped that the snowman would help block the wind while he tried to make a fire. But the wind kept changing directions. By using the snowman and his own body as shields against the wind, however, he was able to get some of the chips and twigs to light.
Almost immediately a gust of wind blew the little fire out! Larry took the remaining wood off the sled and wrapped the plastic around it. Then he took the sled and tipped it sideways. It helped to block the wind a little, and he was finally able to get the kindling burning enough to catch onto the larger wood. Soon he had a good fire going, its light a beacon in the meadow. Larry sat on the sled by the fire and waited.
Dad’s arms were getting weary, and it was almost impossible to see any tracks now. After a while the blizzard slowed down, and he came across a few tracks in a sheltered place. His excitement turned to despair when he realized that the tracks were fresh! They were his own tracks. He had been walking in a circle!
Dad sank to the ground and began to pray harder than he had ever prayed before. When he stood up again, he looked around carefully in each direction. There, off to his right, was a faint glow. He began to walk toward it, never taking his eyes off it. He couldn’t figure out where the light was coming from. He was sure it couldn’t be the cabin, but he moved gratefully toward it as fast as he could. He reached a clearing and saw the meadow. And there by the snowman was the best fire he had ever seen!
“Hey!” he yelled.
“Dad! Is that you?” Larry called. He ran to his father and threw his arms around him. Together they stood for a moment, shedding tears of joy.
They removed April’s jacket and wrapped her in one of the blankets warmed by the fire and sat her on the sled by the blaze. Dad took off his coat and wrapped up in the other blanket and rested near the fire too.
When they had warmed up a bit, and Dad and April had their parkas on again, he and Larry doused the fire, put April onto the sled, and walked side by side, pulling the sled between them. As they neared the cabin, they saw three worried faces peering through the window.
“There they are! I see them coming!” yelled Jonathan. The cabin door flew open. There were squeals of joy and tears of gratitude as everyone hugged everyone else. Soon they were sipping hot chocolate around the fireplace.
“Dad, you saved April’s life,” said Julia.
“I tried, Julia, I found April, but we were both saved by Larry. It was the light from his fire that saved us.”
“And I know someone else who helped, too,” said Mother.
“Yes,” said Dad. “And I think it’s time to thank Him.”