Gospel Story Finder

More than a hundred years ago President Brigham Young sent a family to a small, remote place in Arizona to make peace with the Indians.
The father of the family was away on Church business when an impression came to him that something was wrong at home. He headed there at once, arriving about four o’clock in the morning. He found his wife gently cradling their little baby daughter in her arms. The baby had fallen into an open fireplace and was severely burned.
The father took their infant in his arms and gave her a blessing. He promised her that she would live, that she would not be disfigured, and that she would sing before the prominent people of the world.
The baby girl did live. She was not disfigured, and she grew up, raised a family, and sang in the Tabernacle Choir. The powers of heaven gave life back to that tiny child. And that sweet baby girl, who owed her life to the power of prayer, grew up and gave me life. She was my mother.

In the words of a well-known song, I wish you could “come fly with me” to eastern Germany, where I visited last month. As we traveled along the autobahns, I reflected on a time twenty-seven years before when I saw on the same autobahns just trucks carrying armed soldiers and policemen. Barking dogs everywhere strained on their leashes, and informers walked the streets. Back then, the flame of freedom had flickered and burned low. A wall of shame sprang up, and a curtain of iron came down. Hope was all but snuffed out. Life, precious life, continued on in faith, nothing wavering. Patient waiting was required. An abiding trust in God marked the life of each Latter-day Saint.
When I made my initial visit beyond the wall, it was a time of fear on the part of our members as they struggled in the performance of their duties. I found the dullness of despair on the faces of many passersby but a bright and beautiful expression of love emanating from our members. In Görlitz the building in which we met was shell-pocked from the war, but the interior reflected the tender care of our leaders in bringing brightness and cleanliness to an otherwise shabby and grimy structure. The Church had survived both the war and the Cold War which followed. The singing of the Saints brightened every soul. They sang the old Sunday School favorite:
If the way be full of trial; Weary not!
If it’s one of sore denial, Weary not!
If it now be one of weeping,
There will come a joyous greeting,
When the harvest we are reaping—Weary not!
Do not weary by the way,
Whatever be thy lot;
There awaits a brighter day
To all, to all who weary not!
I was touched by their sincerity. I was humbled by their poverty. They had so little. My heart filled with sorrow because they had no patriarch. They had no wards or stakes—just branches. They could not receive temple blessings—neither endowment nor sealing. No official visitor had come from Church headquarters in a long time. The members were forbidden to leave the country. Yet they trusted in the Lord with all their hearts, and they leaned not to their own understanding. In all their ways they acknowledged Him, and He directed their paths. I stood at the pulpit, and with tear-filled eyes and a voice choked with emotion, I made a promise to the people: “If you will remain true and faithful to the commandments of God, every blessing any member of the Church enjoys in any other country will be yours.”
That night as I realized what I had promised, I dropped to my knees and prayed, “Heavenly Father, I’m on Thy errand; this is Thy church. I have spoken words that came not from me, but from Thee and Thy Son. Wilt Thou, therefore, fulfill the promise in the lives of this noble people.” There coursed through my mind the words from the psalm: “Be still, and know that I am God.” The heavenly virtue of patience was required.
Little by little the promise was fulfilled. First, patriarchs were ordained, then lesson manuals produced. Wards were formed and stakes created. Chapels and stake centers were begun, completed, and dedicated. Then, miracle of miracles, a holy temple of God was permitted, designed, constructed, and dedicated. Finally, after an absence of fifty years, approval was granted for full-time missionaries to enter the nation and for local youth to serve elsewhere in the world. Then, like the wall of Jericho, the Berlin Wall crumbled, and freedom, with its attendant responsibilities, returned.
All of the parts of the precious promise of twenty-seven years earlier were fulfilled, save one. Tiny Görlitz, where the promise had been given, still had no chapel of its own. Now even that dream became a reality. The building was approved and completed. Dedication day dawned. Just a month ago, Sister Monson and I, along with Elder and Sister Dieter Uchtdorf, held a meeting of dedication in Görlitz. The same songs were sung as were rendered twenty-seven years earlier. The members knew the significance of the occasion, marking the total fulfillment of the promise. They wept as they sang. The song of the righteous was indeed a prayer unto the Lord and had been answered with a blessing upon their heads.
At the conclusion of the meeting we were reluctant to leave. As we did so, seen were the waving hands of all, heard were the words, “Auf Wiedersehen, auf Wiedersehen; God be with you till we meet again.”

Two or three weeks later, as we walked to school, I decided to be bold and ask Jarom something that had been bothering me. “Could I ask you something?” He glanced at me. “Promise you won’t get mad?”
He chuckled. “You’re the one who wants to ask the question. I don’t have to promise anything. But I doubt I’ll get mad,” he added cheerfully.
“Why do you always sleep in seminary?”
Looking away, he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and pushed his hands into his back pockets. “What makes you think I always sleep?”
“The snoring’s a dead giveaway,” I teased him. “At least you don’t drool.”
“Actually I listen. Sometimes.” He grinned. I mean, I’m not hanging on every word or anything like that. Half the time I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about.”
“Then why do you come?” I burst out, exasperated. I caught myself. “I didn’t mean it that way. I like you to come.”
He seemed genuinely surprised. “I thought you were interested in Rhett Torbett, not some guy who stumbles in off the street.”
I laughed. “He’s only interested in really gorgeous girls. I don’t qualify.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he mused playfully, nudging me with his elbow.
I could feel a pink shade of embarrassment warm my cheeks. I looked away. “Why do you come to seminary? Seriously.”
He thought for a long time. “It’s the last thing I promised my mom,” he said softly. “She was dying, and I didn’t even know what I was promising her.” Without looking at me, he asked, “Does that sound dumb?” Before I could respond, he added, “She wasn’t Mormon but had wanted to be. That was right after she married my dad. He didn’t want her to. She regretted that.”
“And she named you after one of the missionaries?”
He nodded. “Mom and Dad got divorced when I was seven. I don’t know where he is. He just took off.” He shrugged. “Mom used to talk about the Mormons. She said she felt something with the missionaries. She probably figured I’d feel something in seminary.” He shook his head. “I haven’t. I can’t even get a good sleep.”
“Don’t judge the Church on our seminary class. What Sister Batson is teaching is true. Listen instead of sleeping. It’ll make a difference.”
Even before class started the next day, Rhett was cracking jokes and cutting other students down. Jarom leaned over, smiled wryly, and whispered, “This isn’t the day that’s going to make a difference.” He put his head down.
“It’d make a difference if you did something too. That’s why your mom made you promise,” I retorted warmly.
That day the class was a disaster. Rhett and Randy both sang loudly off key during the devotional hymn. Rhett muttered wisecracks through Cindy Mason’s spiritual thought while Randy snickered his approval. They even laughed in the prayer. It didn’t matter how Sister Batson pleaded and reasoned with them; they wouldn’t cooperate. Halfway through the lesson the two of them started laughing out loud after making a rude comment. I wanted to walk over and slap them both.
“Torbett,” a voice barked, “shut up or get out.” Startled, I turned to see Jarom glowering at Rhett.
Rhett’s laughter faded. “What’s it to you, Wade?” he sneered. “Did we wake you up from your morning nap?”
Slowly Jarom pushed up from his desk and strolled stiffly to where Rhett sat. Rhett stood up, prepared for the challenge while Sister Batson and the rest of us held our breath. “If you don’t want to listen,” Jarom said in a low, cold, cutting voice, “get out so somebody else can.”
“All you do is sleep, Wade. Isn’t that rude? Have you been listening?”
Jarom considered the accusation. “All right, I won’t sleep and you shut up.” They glared at each other. Jarom returned to his desk, sitting up in his chair. The rest of the period was quiet.
“Thanks for what you did back there,” I ventured as we left the church. I bit down on my lower lip. “I’m sorry what I said about your promise.”
He shrugged. “It was true. Rhett was right too.” He grinned. “Now I’ve promised Rhett I’ll stay awake.” He looked at me. “Why do you Mormons have to do this seminary thing so early in the morning?”
“You Mormons?” I asked. “You’re Mormon but don’t know it yet.”
“Fat chance.”
Seminary changed after that. A few days later Rhett started to get out of hand. Jarom grumbled from the back, “I’m still awake, Torbett.”
I don’t know when I started liking Jarom as more than just a friend. Maybe the first day. But the more I was around Jarom, the more I liked him. I didn’t date much, so it was nice to have someone to hang around with. One lunch hour he asked me to the Iron Man’s Ball, a dance sponsored by the school’s weight lifting club.
After I accepted, I began to wonder how I’d explain Jarom to Mom and Dad. They’d always taught me to date LDS guys. I decided on a subtle strategy.
“Do you ever go to church?” I asked him one day.
“Not that I remember. Why?”
“Why don’t you?” I quickly added. “You’d like it.”
He grinned. “I don’t think I’d fit in.”
“Come to a fireside. There’s one Sunday.”
“Fireside? What the heck’s a fireside?”
I laughed and explained it to him. “My dad’s our bishop, and he’s giving the talk. He’d be impressed if you showed up.”
Sunday evening I was nervous, not sure how Jarom would come dressed. He showed up in a pair of white Levi’s, a pale blue dress shirt, and a tie. And he had shaved.
“Mom and Dad, this is Jarom Wade.”
Dad shook his hand warmly. “Jarom’s a good Book of Mormon name.”
Before Dad could ask him anything else, I explained, “Jarom’s the one I’ve told you about, the one who settled our seminary class down.”
Before Mom and Dad could ask any personal questions, I hurried Jarom out of the house. But things started unraveling at the fireside. Dad spoke about the last thing I wanted Jarom to hear—dating! And he managed to say all the wrong things, talking hard about not dating before you’re 16, not dating nonmembers, no steady dating, and on and on. It’s not that I disagreed with Dad. I just didn’t know if Jarom would understand.
After the fireside Jarom drove me home. As he helped me out of the car, he asked, “Do you want to go for a walk?”
We were both quiet for the first half block. Jarom was the first to speak. “Your dad made sense tonight.” He chuckled. “I finally understood something that a Mormon was teaching.”
“He says what he thinks,” I said, blushing in the darkness.
Jarom didn’t answer right away. “He doesn’t know I’m not Mormon, does he? I guess my name and my going to seminary threw him off.” I stared ahead, suddenly nervous. “But you knew it would, didn’t you?”
“I haven’t lied about you, Jarom,” I came back defensively.
“But he’s thinking one thing, and I’m thinking something else.” He hunched his shoulders. “I shouldn’t take you to the Iron Man’s Ball.”
“Jarom, Dad didn’t say that,” I spoke out, feeling hurt.
“I want to go,” Jarom said softly. “You’re probably the first girl I’ve really wanted to go with. But I have to be fair to your dad too.” He pondered a moment. “I don’t have much, Brookley. Mom’s gone. I don’t know where Dad is. I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I don’t have much money. But I can still say I’m honest. I can still make a promise and have it mean something. Mom taught me that. That’s why I get up every morning and sit through your Mormon seminary. Because of a promise.”
When we walked back to the house, Dad was just pulling into the driveway. He jumped out of the car, spotted us, and invited us into the house so we could get out of the heat. We sat in the living room and talked with Mom and Dad while some of the younger kids hung around a bit. I could tell Jarom felt awkward and wanted to speak but wasn’t sure what to say.”
“Mr. Reeves,” Jarom finally said, rubbing the palms of his hands on his thighs, “I liked your speech tonight.” He shifted uneasily on the sofa.
“Bishop Haroldson probably gives you the same speech in your ward.”
Jarom glanced at me, then at Dad. “I don’t know Bishop Haroldson. I’m not Mormon.” I could tell Mom and Dad were surprised. “With a name like Jarom, you probably figured I was. And I go to seminary.” He looked at his hands and explained briefly how he’d ended up in seminary and how he’d agreed with Rhett to stay awake and listen. “I know how you feel about Brookley going out with guys like me.”
The room was quiet while Dad thought. “A promise means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Jarom nodded. “Do you believe what you hear in seminary?”
“I haven’t had a chance to really process all of it. It’s still pretty new. I don’t disbelieve it.”
“Will you make another promise?”
“Depends on the promise.”
“Keep listening to Sister Batson. With your heart and your ears.”
Jarom considered the request. “I don’t know that I’ve ever listened with my heart. I’m not sure I know how.”
Dad smiled. “I don’t think somebody makes promises like you’ve made without listening to his heart.”
Jarom considered that a moment and then nodded once. “You have my word then.” He took a deep breath and stood up. He held his hand out to Dad, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Now I guess I better head home and get to bed or I’m going to have a hard time staying awake in seminary tomorrow.”

There is one last scene I would call up for you from my journal. I read it as I wrote it in Nha Trang, Vietnam, in May 1967:
“There was a memorable meeting this morning, which began with a senior military chaplain of another church addressing us warmly as ‘My brothers in Christ.’ This touched me deeply.
“After [the meeting], I walked quietly down the passageway alongside the large room where we had met. As I passed the back door, I looked in and saw three men who had their hands on the head of another who sat on a chair. All four were dressed in battle gear; two had returned from air strikes just in time for the meeting, and one was shortly to go. The three members of the district presidency were giving a blessing to an officer senior to them all, setting him apart as a district missionary.”
This sweet scene affected me more deeply than any priesthood sermon I have heard. Priesthood to them meant the right and the power to serve, to act in the name of the Lord as his agents and in his interests with their fellowmen. This scene I hope I will never forget.

When I was six years old, my family moved to the United States. We loaded everything we owned into a truck and drove to my grandmother’s house in Mesa, Arizona.
I remember standing on her porch with my father when a truck playing music came down the street.
“Dad, what’s that?” I asked. He explained that it was an ice-cream truck, and he gave me money to buy something. I ran over to the truck and said, “I want a paleta (frozen dessert on a stick). I had grown up in Mexico and spoke English and Spanish, but I didn’t know the English word for the thing I wanted. My father told me that I had to ask for a Popsicle.
I remember walking up the steps of my new school on the first day of first grade. When I saw some of the other children crying, I asked my mother, “Why are those kids crying?” My mother had taught us how important education was, so I couldn’t imagine what was so sad about going to school.
I soon learned that in the United States, most children my age had many things that I didn’t have. One of those things was a bike, and I wanted one badly. Somehow, my dad got me a bike for $5. Unfortunately, it had one major defect: it was a girl’s bike! It was humiliating for me to ride it. I found my shiny new dream machine in a mail-order catalogue, and it cost $65. I decided to earn the money to buy the bike myself, so I started working in the cotton fields every day after school. I would drag a long canvas bag up and down the rows of plants, filling it with cotton. Each afternoon, I could usually pick between twenty and forty pounds of cotton. I was paid two cents a pound, so I could usually make at least fifty cents a day.
As the end of the harvest drew near, I realized that I was not going to earn enough money for the bike. I told my dad, and he agreed that if I could raise half the money, he would pay the other half. Even after I had earned my part, the bike didn’t show up immediately. But then on Christmas morning, I got my beautiful new bike. From that experience, I learned that sometimes when we work very hard to reach a goal but fall short of reaching it, we can ask someone for help. Just as my father helped me, our Heavenly Father will help us, too.

Illustration by Mark Robison
Abby loved her house. But not the coat closet. She was afraid a monster would jump out of it. Abby always ran by it as fast as she could.
“Why do we even have a closet, Mommy?” Abby asked one day. “I don’t like being afraid.”
“Sometimes we’re afraid of what we can’t see,” Mommy said. “You can’t see what’s behind the door. Maybe that’s what scares you.”
“I always think there might be monsters,” Abby said.
“I promise there are no monsters. But you could say a prayer to Heavenly Father and ask Him to help you not feel scared,” Mommy said.
“OK,” Abby said.
The next day Abby was playing in her room. Mommy called her to come eat. Abby jumped up. Dinner smelled really good.
She started down the hall. Then she saw the coat closet waiting at the end.
Abby’s tummy felt tight. She thought about what might be hiding behind the closet door. She wanted to run. Then she thought about what Mommy had said. Abby stopped walking. She folded her arms.
“Please help me to not be so afraid,” Annie prayed.
Abby took two slow steps. She didn’t feel afraid any more! She felt warm and safe. She felt like she did when Mommy gave her a hug.
This time Abby didn’t run past the closet. She stopped right in front of it. She reached out. She touched the handle. Her tummy got tight for a few seconds, but then she remembered her happy feeling. She turned the knob and pulled the door open.
Abby laughed. “Hey! There aren’t any monsters in here. Just a bunch of coats.”
She folded her arms again. She bowed her head. “Heavenly Father, thank you for helping me not be afraid.”
Abby smiled and closed the closet door. She was hungry!

Sometimes winters in east Texas were as mild and soft as a baby’s breath; other times they snarled and whistled and shivered. This winter, the winter of Kerrie’s big surprise, was a whistle-and-shiver kind.
Papa and big brother, Joseph, were outdoors most of every day. They gathered wood and chopped it into logs for the fireplace. They made holes through the ice on the river and set lines for the big yellow catfish that swam on the bottom.
Until the winter rains had turned the ruts in the dirt road into deep mud puddles, the school wagon had taken Kerrie into town to school. But now only a horse and rider could make the trip into the settlement, and Kerrie wasn’t old enough to go by herself, so she had to stay home. Every morning Kerrie helped Mama clean their log house, and every afternoon she studied her lessons.
Sometimes Kerrie wished that she weren’t a farm girl. Town girls didn’t have to worry about muddy roads.
It had been weeks since Kerrie’s family had gone to town. But finally the temperature dropped, and the muddy road froze hard and firm. At first it seemed that the roads would be frozen enough to take the wagon to town for the Christmas Eve party. But the day before Christmas Eve, sleet began to fall. The wagon couldn’t make it on icy roads, so they wouldn’t be able to go to the party, after all.
“What a pretty sampler,” Papa said, stacking a load of wood beside the fireplace that evening. “You’re a handy girl with a needle.”
Kerrie smiled. She didn’t tell Papa how she hated embroidering and long cold winters and having to stay inside all day by the fire. It would have made Papa feel sad.
“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” Papa reminded her, hanging his coat near the fire to dry.
Kerrie only nodded. She was too sad to talk.
“Where’s Joseph?” Mama asked.
Papa’s blue eyes twinkled, “In the barn. He and I are making a Christmas surprise.”
Little Helen had been busy rocking her doll to sleep. She looked at Papa, about to ask what the surprise was.
But Papa shook his head. “Just wait and see,” he said. “Wait and see.”
Supper was Kerrie’s favorite—hot cornmeal mush sweetened with honey and thinned with thick yellow cream. But Kerrie could hardly eat. She kept thinking sadly about missing the Christmas party in town and the beautiful Christmas tree with its gold and silver ornaments.
By bedtime the sleet had stopped, and snowflakes as big as pigeon feathers were drifting down. Kerrie knew that by morning everything would be buried under a blanket of sleet and snow.
Squeals of laughter from outside awoke Kerrie. She hurried to the window. Papa, Mama, Joseph, and Helen were already dressed and outside. Ice and snow covered everything. Mama’s outdoor clay oven, the one that Joseph had built so that the one in the kitchen wouldn’t have to be used in the summer, looked like a tiny igloo. The trees were white and sparkling in the cold morning sun. Kerrie felt that she’d gone to sleep in one world and awakened in a fairyland. It was so beautiful that she almost didn’t mind missing the Christmas party.
Slipping and sliding, everyone came inside. “Ready for the big surprise?” Papa asked Kerrie. Papa’s blue eyes were so twinkly that Kerrie knew that the surprise must be something wonderful. She nodded her head, too excited to speak.
“First, baths, then clean clothes,” Mama ordered, smiling her happiest smile.
Baths! Clean clothes! Kerrie’s heart gave a leap—the Christmas party! Then she remembered the roads. Nobody, not even Papa could drive a wagon over them.
“We’re burning daylight,” Papa said. “Let’s hurry!”
Kerrie and Helen bathed in the big tin tub pushed close to the fireplace. Joseph and Papa, secretively smiling, went out to the barn.
It seemed to Kerrie that it took forever to dress: two petticoats, two pairs of long cotton stockings, then her warmest dress.
Just as she and Helen were putting on their coats and mittens, Kerrie heard the prettiest sound. It was the jingling of bells. They ran out the door as fast as they could.
“What is it?” Helen asked, staring at the strangest sight that she’d ever seen.
“It’s a sleigh!” Kerrie shouted in answer. “At least I think that it is,” she added, for it was a strange-looking sleigh. Papa and Joseph had replaced the wheels of the wagon with runners. Now it slid over the icy road with hardly any effort from their strong, brown horse. The back of the wagon was filled with fresh hay and covered with quilts. Gently Papa helped Kerrie and Helen and Mama into the sweet-smelling nest. How warm it was.
The sleigh felt as if it were flying over the frozen earth. Kerrie didn’t believe that anything, not even the big black train, could go so fast.
How quickly the miles flew under them. To Kerrie’s surprise, Papa didn’t go directly to the settlement. First he went to Uncle Joe’s farm. Laughing, and bundled in quilts, Uncle Joe, Aunt Katie, and Josie climbed into the soft hay.
Next Papa picked up the Johnson family. Their last stop was for the Landers: a mother, father, five little girls, and one big brother. The wagon was so full that not even a Christmas mouse could have found a place to sit.
The cold sun was slipping behind the horizon when they reached the settlement. How the townspeople welcomed them! Kerrie waved to her best friend, Ara. Ara’s eyes opened wide. She’d never seen a sleigh before.
Kerrie was the last one out of the sleigh. “How was it?” Papa asked. “Did you like your surprise?”
Kerrie pressed her cold face close to Papa’s face and kissed his cheek.
“That’s a good answer,” Papa said with a laugh. “The best kind. Now run inside. You don’t want to miss the tree.”
But Kerrie didn’t care about the tree anymore. Flying over the frozen ground in Papa’s sleigh was the best present she’d ever had. She was sure that nothing so wonderful had ever happened to anyone else. But, then, nobody else had ever had a papa more wonderful than hers.

I remember going fishing on a boat many years ago with my husband and his friend when we had first gotten married. Both were experienced fisherman. At one point in the trip I had to use the bathroom. I leaned over to my husband who was driving the boat and told him, “hey, I gotta go pee.” He said, “go!” I told him, “what right here?” He said go to the back of the boat. His friend was sitting there and I was like, “um, no thank you, can’t I just jump into the water?” He said no, just go in the back of the boat and we will wash it off! I was like “um, no, can’t I just go in the water?” Like what’s the big deal? He still said no. I think we went back and forth for a good 10 minutes. Finally, he turned to me, obviously irritated, and said, “are you for real?” I said yes, I don’t want to pee in the boat! He was like whatever but you need to hold on to this rope! No matter what don’t let go of the rope! I was like, “ok, whatever’s hurry up I gottah go!” He handed me the rope and in my haste to go, as I jumped out of the boat… I let go of the rope! I didn’t even think it was a big deal at first as I was busy relieving myself. But as I watched his face he quickly began to panic! And if you know my husband he does not panic quickly! He and his friend began feverishly throwing things off the boat! I began to worry like what the heck are they doing? I started to notice how quickly the boat was moving away from me and how the items they threw off the boat began to drift quickly as well. I too began to panic and I began to swim to the boat. My husband yelled for me to stop and to swim to the life ring he had previously thrown in the water and wait. He and his friend worked to turned the boat around, and my husband kept his eye on me while his friend continued to drive the boat towards me. I could see the panic in his face begin to subside as the boat neared. He quietly pulled me into the boat and did not say a word as his friend tried to lighten the situation by cracking a few jokes. I knew that my husband was not happy. I was grateful he did not scold me in front of his friend. Now that I was safe, we went about gathering all the items they had thrown off the boat. I finally asked, “why did you throw all that in the water?” He turned to me and said: if you just look at the ocean the way it is right now, it looks clam and peaceful. However, beneath the surface there are currents and riptides that flow beneath. They can be strong and swift, they can go left or right, drag you down or they can be still. We threw the items in the water to mark the currents in the water, in case we lost sight of you, we would be able to follow the things we had thrown in and hopefully find you.

I did not see the danger that was beneath the surface of the water. I did not realize what could happen. I thought I knew what I was doing. Things turned out ok for me that day but sometimes we are not so lucky and can get lost in the deep blue sea of life. There are so many things that we juggle each day from work, school, family, friends. Some lead us in the same direction and others in the opposite direction and some just keep us in the same place. If we are not careful and lose focus on what we are trying to accomplish we can really lose our way. It’s important to hold on to the iron rod – or the rope in this case - that we might not drift too far from the boat. When we let go, we take the risk of getting lost. I did not want to listen to the more experienced watermen, I wanted to do it my way. I didn’t pay attention to the advice and I’m lucky that I wasn’t lost at sea.

“OK, class,” the teacher said. “We’re done with maths.* It’s craft time!”
Ismay smiled as the whole class started chatting. Ismay loved craft time. This was the only chance she had to talk with her friends during class.
“Can you believe Christmas is next month?” Mason asked.
Ismay nodded. “I can’t wait!” Ismay thought about her favorite treat. She could almost taste the pavlova, buried in whipped cream and topped with blueberries and kiwifruit. Mmmmmm …
“What’s your favorite Christmas tradition?” Ava asked.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Mason said. “Barbecue at the beach! Mum and Dad spend weeks getting ready for it. It’s the best food in the world!”
Ismay grinned. She loved doing that too. But it wasn’t her favorite. “Ours is going to see the pohutukawa trees,” Ismay said. “We have a picnic under them.”
Pohutukawa trees bloomed at Christmastime. That’s why people called them New Zealand Christmas trees. Their pretty red blossoms made Ismay think that even the trees were celebrating Jesus!
“Well, my favorite is what we do on Christmas Eve,” Ava said. “We go to a church service and talk about when Jesus was born. Then we each get to open one present.”
Everyone around her got excited about opening presents. They started talking about what they wanted for Christmas.
Just then, Charlotte dropped her scissors and crossed her arms. She looked grumpy all of a sudden. “Jesus isn’t even real! Besides, Christmas is just about giving presents that nobody needs.”
Then Charlotte picked her scissors back up and started cutting quickly. Everyone was quiet for a moment.
“Actually,” Mason finally said, “I really do need a new scooter.”
Ismay’s other friends laughed. They kept talking about what else they wanted for Christmas.
But Ismay didn’t laugh. She felt sad because of what Charlotte said about Jesus. She wanted to say something. But would that only make Charlotte more mad?
Ismay kept working on her craft for another minute.
Then she turned to Charlotte. “You know what you said about Christmas? Well, I don’t feel that way,” she said quietly. “To me, Christmas is about being with family and friends and showing love to people.” She took a deep breath. “And it’s about Jesus. He is real.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Prove it!”
Ismay blinked. Prove it? How? “I … I can’t,” she said. Then she put her hand over her heart. “But I feel it in here. I believe He’s real and that He loves me. He loves you too.”
She felt so good inside when she said that! A warm, happy feeling washed over her. For just a second, she thought she saw Charlotte’s face get brighter. But then her grumpy frown came back.
“Whatever,” Charlotte said. But her voice didn’t sound quite so angry anymore.
Later that night, when Ismay told her family what happened, Mum said, “I’m proud of you. I think you planted an important seed today. Who knows what that will grow into someday?”
A seed! Ismay thought again about the beautiful pohutukawa trees they would soon visit. Those trees started out as seeds too. Then, over time, they grew tall and beautiful.
“Thanks, Mum!” Ismay felt glad she could plant a seed about Jesus. That was the best Christmas gift she could give anyone.

For a Long time, I wasn’t really good at praying to my Heavenly Father. I was either too tired or would forget. Finally, for a Personal Progress experience, I challenged myself to start praying every night and every morning. I was doing really well and felt good too. I was waiting for some big moment to prove that God answered my prayers. That moment never came for me, but I did see God answer my little sister’s prayer.
That weekend was the Daddy-Daughter dance, and she was really excited. A couple of days before the dance, my stepdad called and said that his work schedule had changed, causing him to miss the dance. My little sister was devastated and my stepdad even cried when he gave the news.
But our sadness didn’t last long. The next day, he called back to say that because of the incoming snowstorm he could come home and go to the dance! My little sister’s eyes lit up with happiness as she said, “Whoa! I prayed last night that Daddy could make it to the dance!”
That night, I prayed to Heavenly Father and thanked Him for being there for my sister and my family. I learned that God does answer our prayers, although it may not be exactly when and how we want them answered. He wants us to be happy. He loves us! He promises to help and remember us. And it’s our part to remember Him.
Katie W., Washington, USA

For example, President Henry B. Eyring, First Counselor in the First Presidency, remembers when, as a young man, he’d convinced himself he couldn’t understand math. His dad thought otherwise and helped him through his homework. “I can’t remember the gifts my dad wrapped and gave to me” for holidays, he said. “But I remember the chalkboard and his quiet voice. … Because he had spent time [studying as a boy], he and I could have that time at the chalkboard and he could help me.”1

Celie turned the butter knife over and leveled the top of a cup of flour. “I can make it flat with one try,” she told her grandmother.
“I think you’re going to be a baker when you grow up,” Grandma said, pitting the cherries. She pinched another plump cherry, and juice splattered all over her glasses. “Uh-oh. I’m going to need windshield wipers for my glasses if the juice keeps hitting me instead of the bowl.”
Celie laughed. “I can measure the flour, but I’m glad you did the seed part. That’s too messy.”
Grandma finished the cherries and walked over to check on the pie dough Celie was making. “It looks like there might be too much salt,” she said. “What did you use to measure it?”
Celie leaned over the bowl and stared at the mixture inside. A big tear slid down her nose. “I think I goofed. I put one cup of salt into the bowl instead of one teaspoon.”
Grandma wiped away Celie’s tear. “I know how to solve this problem. I have a great play-dough recipe that calls for lots of salt.”
Grandma pretended to have a magic wand and waved it over the bowl. “Poof, you’re now play dough—not pie dough.”
Celie giggled.
Grandma set aside the play dough. “I’ll help you start over with the pie dough. After we measure the dry ingredients, I will teach you how to cut in the shortening.”
“Cut it?” Celie asked. “With scissors?”
Grandma laughed. “No, I use a pastry cutter.”
“How are we going to get all those crumbs flat?”
“The rolling pin makes the dough smooth and round,” Grandma answered.
“You mean like when I roll clay into a long, round snake?”
Grandma chuckled. “No snakes in our pie.”
“You know what I like about cooking?” Celie asked, wiping the flour off her hands.
“Licking the bowl?”
“That’s second best,” Celie said. “Most of all I like doing things with you.”
Grandma squeezed Celie’s shoulder. “When I was a little girl my grandma taught me how to make tarts. They’re like miniature pies. While my grandma was busy peeling apples, I stuffed the tiny tart tins full of dough. I filled them so high there wasn’t room for the apple filling.”
“Did she get mad?” Celie asked.
“No, she showed me how to fix the tarts and rolled the leftovers into a ball. I got to play with it. She even let me sneak a taste of the dough.”
Grandma pinched off a piece from the edge of the cherry pie and popped it into her mouth.
“Grandma, you’re still sneaking it,” Celie said, shaking her finger.
Grandma laughed and gave her a hug.
Celie was quiet.
“What are you thinking?” Grandma asked.
“Your grandma taught you to make pies. And now you’re the grandma and you’re teaching me.”
“That’s right,” Grandma answered.
“Heavenly Father has a good plan,” Celie said. “He puts us in families. When I’m a grandma, I can teach my granddaughter to make a pie. If she puts in too much salt, I’ll turn it into play dough too.”
Grandma smiled. “We all make mistakes, Celie. Sometimes we have to do things over. Sometimes we just learn and go on. Mistakes help us grow.” Grandma sprinkled sugar over the pies and slid them into the oven. “Let’s go finish that play dough.”
Celie held Grandma’s hand and skipped to the counter.
“I’m kind of glad you put in too much salt,” Grandma said. “I think I’ll roll out a long play-dough snake.”
Celie laughed. “And I’m going to make some windshield wipers for your glasses.”

It’s opening night.
Makeup has been applied, costumes put on, and props laid out. The final shout of “break a leg” has finished echoing through the hallway. After hours of utter chaos, it’s peaceful. Actors who moments ago joked and talked with one another now sit side-by-side in silence. Slowly they are making the transition from the everyday lives of modern-day teens to the daily struggles of adults who lived more than 100 years ago.
They are getting into character.
“When you’re in character, you’re acting just like that person, feeling the way they feel, and you have to let that show,” says deacon Jeff Timmons.
Building a character for a play means training yourself to think, feel, and behave the way your character would. In real life, building a character is not that much different. It requires the same hard work, discipline, and dedication as acting. But it also requires making decisions about the attributes that should be included in the part you wish to play—things like willingness to work, to share, and to love others.
In Los Lunas, New Mexico, Jeff and his fellow cast members are participants in a ward play that spreads the gospel message. While they are learning how to act on stage they are also helping each other learn the best ways to act in life.
Part of creating a strong character includes an appreciation of those who have gone before. As part of their stake’s Pioneer Day celebration, the youth in Los Lunas re-created the lives of 19th-century Armenian converts to the Church in their production of “And They Shall Be Gathered.”
“The early converts to the Church faced challenges, just like we do now. They were just different kinds of challenges,” says Geoff Pankretz, a priest who plays the male lead, Sarkis.
The Los Lunas First Ward put the production together with the help of director Norlan Jacobs, who was in the original production of the play at BYU more than 20 years ago. Brother Jacobs, cast members say, taught them many things about acting—concepts like blocking (learning where to stand and how to move on stage), characterization, and motivation. But more important than that, he stressed the significance of the story the play tells: a story of love, sacrifice, and of the great strength early converts to the Church were required to have.
“Brother Jacobs told us about the actual people the play was based on. They left their family behind in Armenia because they knew the Church was true. They decided to come to Utah. After they left, their family was killed. It makes you realize how important this play is. It gives you an appreciation for what people went through,” says 16-year-old Shae Dunkley.
Sometimes building character means knowing when to be a leader and when to be a follower. Putting together a play is no exception.
“This play has taught me a lot about working as a team,” says 17-year-old Libby Farnsworth. “I’m used to getting on the stage and being the center of attention, but this play is not a one-person show. You have to really allow the limelight to be on the person it’s supposed to be on.”
On stage, teamwork means remembering your own lines and helping others out when they forget theirs.
“Libby’s really great at feeding me lines. When I forget what to say next, she repeats the line before, to jog my memory. She’s saved me more than once,” says Geoff.
Backstage, the teamwork is just as important. Lights, sound, and props are all essential to the play. If a light is turned on too early, or too late, or not at all, for instance, the audience and the actors become confused.
“You’ve got to be right on cue on certain parts because people are really depending on you,” says 14-year-old Rex Hoel, sound manager for the play.
Another characteristic these young actors are working to cultivate is a willingness to share the gospel message.
“This play is really great because every single person that’s sitting here will be getting a missionary message,” says 15-year-old Sam Timmons.
“This play has really helped me be a better missionary,” says Alisha Hopper, 15. “I’m not so afraid to go out and talk to people anymore.”
Missionary opportunities are plentiful in the area since there are very few LDS families in the town. They are making their beliefs known, not only through the message of their play, but through their actions among their friends at school, helping to convert some of them along the way.
Eighteen-year-old Matt Dixon, a convert of only a few months, is a member of the cast, and 15-year-old Beau Taylor, who runs the lights backstage, will be baptized just six days after the play opens.
“I’ve been going to church for about a year now, and these guys have really helped me build my testimony by being examples,” says Beau.

Another profound incident occurred when my hosts told me that a picture had been requested by the local newspaper. They wanted to take my picture with a gifted child. “Fine,” I said. “This should be easy, for probably any child will do for the picture.”

“Not so,” they said. “We need a gifted child; wait and see what happens.” I told them to locate the child, and I would cooperate as requested. Later they called and told me that they had a gifted five-year-old boy scheduled, and he would be there in the morning for a photo session. As I was thinking of this meeting, I wondered what I might give this small boy as a gift from America. As a general practice I take a few things with me that can be used as thank-you or friendship gifts. I had brought with me three small jars of Bear Lake raspberry jam and a couple of beautiful calendars. I did not think any of these items would necessarily appeal to a five-year-old boy. Then I reflected back to my hurried departure from home when I had cleaned out my purse and replaced only those items that I felt were needed on the trip. At the last minute I had included an item that could serve as a gift for this little boy.

In the morning the little boy came with his mother. There were also two people from the newspaper. One interviewed the mother while the other one came with me across the street with the small boy. We sat down on a bench by a beautiful river with black swans nearby. While the photographer took pictures, this small boy told me about the orbiting procedures of spaceships as he showed me the book he was reading. At a quiet time I told this little boy that I had brought him a magic ring from America.

“Magic? Is it really magic?” he asked.

I told him that it was not magic as most people think of magic, but that it could do magical things for him. We put the ring on his finger, and I asked him to identify the letters on the ring. He did so, and I told him what the letters represented. “Whenever you have an important decision to make, look down at your ring, and it will remind you to “Choose the Right” and to base your decisions on important principles.”

He was entranced with his ring and could not take his eyes off it. When we returned to meet with his mother, he ran up and told her about his ring. “Oh, my,” I thought, “his mother could be quite upset over this.”

But the mother listened intently to her son and then turned to me and, with gratitude showing in her eyes, simply said, “Thank you.” Somewhere in Perth, Australia, is a small and very gifted little boy with a Primary CTR ring.

If the young men of 150 years ago wanted to give service to a good cause, they could carry water to the men working on the temple. Today the Nauvoo Young Men are also deeply involved in giving service regularly. Each summer thousands of visitors come, swelling the numbers attending their ward. Every Sunday morning, without fail, the Young Men arrive at the meetinghouse an hour early to set up hundreds of folding chairs and prepare up to 32 trays for the sacrament. It doesn’t take a great deal of skill to set up chairs, but it takes ingenuity and a great plan to pass the sacrament to all those people tucked into classrooms or lining the hallways. All the deacons, teachers, and priests are needed to pass the sacrament. And they want to do it with dignity. “We get tired and want to take off our ties and jackets,” says Mark Hasek, 14, “but we know people will go back to their wards and say, ‘The Nauvoo boys did this.’ We’re a big example.”
Then after meetings, they have to move those hundreds of chairs outside, ready to be set up for the City of Joseph productions the following week. The boys are doing a little good-natured complaining about having to set up so many chairs when one of the girls pipes up and says, “We help with the chairs too.” The boys start to tease. “Yeah, the boys are responsible for setting up the chairs. The girls are responsible for sitting in the chairs. Everyone in the stake knows to call the Nauvoo Ward about setting up. We know chairs.”

The Hofmanns: Early First-Generation Members. In 1937 a German immigrant couple named Hofmann accepted the gospel and were baptized. Their son, Carlos Guillermo Hofmann, born a few months later, grew up as a Latter-day Saint. “We met in a small branch in those days,” he recalls. “I was raised with the beliefs of the Church. We always stayed on the pathway.”

Staying active in those days entailed meeting in homes and being the only Latter-day Saint in school, and then, as an adult, carrying heavy leadership responsibilities almost single-handedly.

After marrying, Carlos and his wife, Irma Scholz, made the needed sacrifices to raise their children in the Church. “I am grateful to my wife, who carried the responsibility while I was working and serving in Church callings,” Brother Hofmann says. “It seemed I was often away from the family, but the children never lacked. We were diligent in holding family home evening.” Today his children and grandchildren are strong and active in the Church.

On 15 May 2020, I asked myself if there really was a God.
On 13 May 2020 our lives changed dramatically. Luke was taken into hospital having suffered a stroke. In the accident and emergency room I was asked for my permission to give Luke a clot-busting drug. I consulted with John who had been waiting outside; I had been allowed in because Luke was unable to speak and understand what the doctors were saying to him. We gave permission for the drug to be given to him. Despite COVID-19 restrictions, thankfully we were allowed to be with him throughout his stay in hospital because of his special needs.
On the evening of 14 May, a doctor approached me and said they needed to operate urgently on Luke and remove part of his skull as his brain had swollen, probably due to the drug he was given. We had been told there could be side effects but without it he probably would not have lived for long. John and I sat in a very small room for about four hours during that night until a doctor came and told us that the operation had gone well.
On 15 May, having been moved to a different ward, he started having seizures and went back into critical care where we were not allowed to be with him, because of COVID-19 protocols. That is when I asked the question, “Is there really a God?” How could this happen to this special child of God who had come to earth to teach his parents and others what the gospel was about. The thought only lasted a few seconds. I had had so many spiritual experiences during my life that I couldn’t deny that God existed, but the question of why this was happening to such an innocent soul plagued me.
However, over time we have learned that we have been taught many lessons through this experience that have drawn us closer to God and closer as a family. My only wish is that we could have learned this in a way that did not affect Luke, as it has been a real challenge for him at times trying to understand the additional limitations he now has. Our children have been wonderful, and the experience has brought us all closer to each other. Church members and special friends have been great, helping us in many ways with their generosity. One thing is sure, we have come to know our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ even more, and the Holy Ghost has been our companion bringing comfort and guidance to our souls.
At the time of writing, Luke needs to be in a wheelchair; having lost the use of his right hand and arm, plus weakness in his leg. There are several things he cannot do any more, but his fighting spirit pushes him do as much as he can for himself. Do I wish it hadn’t happened? Of course. Was there any other way that I could have learned the lessons I am learning now? I don’t know, but I do know that when Luke, John and I pass through the veil, all things will be made clear. I will bow down with tears in my eyes and thank the Lord for sending this special child to live with us, so that we could learn from him how to be more Christlike in our lives.

Elder Fyans will always remember a story his mother told him about herself as a baby. This story has been a source of faith and strength to him over the years. “My mother was the first white girl born in Tuba, Arizona. One morning when she had barely learned to walk, she fell into an open fireplace and was badly burned. Her father was away from home at the time, but something impressed him that he should return home. Arriving home about four o’clock in the morning, he found that his little daughter was critically burned. Grandmother said, ‘Let the child die. She’s so badly scarred.’ But my grandfather picked his little daughter up in his arms, and he and the patriarch gave her a blessing. He blessed her that she would not be scarred and that one day she would sing before the crowned heads of Europe. That kind of blessing for a little child born on an Indian reservation was impressive.

“My mother grew to be a healthy, normal child, and, as the blessing had promised, she was not scarred. As she grew to maturity, she sang for a number of years with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The choir toured Europe and she did sing before royalty there, fulfilling the blessing given to her years before by those having priesthood authority.”

I have thought recently of one of the finest missionary companions I was ever privileged to work with. He had singular gifts and was an inspirational leader in our mission. He had such unusual skills that everyone wanted to learn from him.

He returned from his mission and made some excellent choices which resulted in him marrying a wonderful girl for time and all eternity in the Los Angeles Temple. They were blessed with four outstanding children.

Part of his law enforcement and legal work included some close contact with drug enforcement and other promiscuous behavior. He was caught in Satan’s subtle snare. One bad decision lead to another and then another. Within a short period of time he was caught in a spiritual free fall. He lost his fine wife and children in the process. Today he lives without the benefit of the Priesthood or his temple blessings. His life has been one of sadness, of anger and frustration. These seemingly small decisions which resulted in the spirit being doused have now caused him to be bitter toward the very things which were at one time his powerful strengths.

My heart is troubled because of his present condition without the blessings of the Gospel in his life.

History repeats itself as spiritual laws are violated.
"Oh ye fair ones, how could ye have departed from the ways of the Lord! O ye fair ones, how could ye have rejected that Jesus, who stood with open arms to receive you! Behold, if ye had not done this, ye would not have fallen. But behold, ye are fallen, and I mourn your loss. Behold, ye are gone, and my sorrows cannot bring your return."
S. Lewis wisely observed, "It does not matter how small the sins are, provided that their cumulative effect is to edge the man away from the Light and out in to the nothing. Indeed, the safest road to Hell is the gradual one. The gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts." I believe that my friend is saddened with all he has lost by taking this unmarked trail of destruction. I marvel that one of the very elect of God with a spiritual destiny of excellence has now fallen prey to the wicked influence of the adversary. It makes me sad to think that his wife to whom he was once sealed, and those beautiful children born under sacred covenant will not be his eternally. Oh, how I mourn his loss.

My trusted friends, be so very cautious to not allow even a slight deviation from your course of happiness. If you think you can procrastinate repentance or if you are of the opinion that personal prayer and daily scripture study are not important, just remember what happened to my finest missionary companion. I assure you that there is no happiness in what he is now going without.

My mother works every evening from 3:00 p.m. until 11:00 p.m. Even though she couldn’t be home on Monday nights, my older brother and I decided to hold family home evening by ourselves—just the two of us. My brother was inactive for eight years, but he had been attending institute recently and decided to give the message one Monday night. He shared a spiritual thought from the Book of Mormon that I had never considered, even though I had taken four years of seminary and had worked on my Personal Progress. The spirit I felt was just as I had hoped it would be when the time came that I would have a worthy priesthood holder in my home.
I’m grateful Heavenly Father gives me the opportunity to strengthen my family every week through family home evening. I love the gospel of Jesus Christ, and I’m glad that I had this humbling family home evening experience with my brother.