Gospel Story Finder

I nearly flew out the door when the train stopped at the Huntersville station. In a wink, I was swallowed up by one of Grandma’s big hugs.
“Look how you’ve grown!” Grandpa exclaimed. “You’re not my Itsy-Bitsy anymore.”
“You’ll just have to think of a new nickname for me,” I said.
As soon as the car stopped at their farm, I jumped out, ready to explore. I was just about to the back gate when Grandma called, “Rachel, change into your playclothes first.”
“But I want to see the barn!”
Grandma put her hands on her hips and gave me that “don’t argue with me” look, so I headed for the back porch. As I went through the screen door, I let it bang shut to let her know how I felt.
By the time I got to the barn, Grandpa was already milking Babe. Long, slim streams of milk sprayed into the pail. “Pring, pring,” the milk sang in steady rhythm. As the bucket filled, the sound changed to a “swirt, swirt.” Milking Babe looked like fun.
“Can I try, Grandpa?”
“It isn’t as easy as it looks—you have to have really strong hands to milk a cow.”
How hard can it be? I thought. Grandpa just squeezes—left hand, right hand, left, right. “Please,” I begged.
“Maybe next time. I don’t think Babe would like someone new taking over halfway through her milking.”
I wanted to try, though, so I went on the other side of her and started squeezing as hard as I could. Startled, she jumped sideways, kicking over the pail. The milk made a foamy puddle on the cement. I jumped up and raced out of the barn before Grandpa could scold me.
I ran straight to the old apple tree by the pasture and climbed to the limb where someone had nailed a metal seat from a farm machine. No one would find me sitting up there.
I stayed in the tree until my stomach started to rumble. Grandpa would be done with the chores, and Grandma would have dinner ready.
I climbed down and walked slowly toward the house. No one was in sight, so I sat under the open kitchen window. The aroma of fried chicken drifted out. Dishes rattled. I heard Grandpa’s deep voice blessing the food. I wanted to go in, but I couldn’t. What would Grandpa say? I sat there for the longest time, my tummy rumbling louder every second.
Then I heard Grandma. “Pie for dessert.”
“Rhubarb pie! My favorite!” Grandpa said.
Rhubarb pie? I’d never heard of it. But I’d tasted some of Grandma’s other pies—cherry, apple, and peach—yum! Rhubarb pie must be really good. I just had to have some! I took a big breath, walked up the back steps, and opened the kitchen door.
“Why, here’s Rachel,” Grandma said. “Sit down. I’ll get your dinner.”
No one said a word about the spilled milk.
Grandma set a plate in front of me—mashed potatoes, fried chicken, stewed tomatoes, and spinach. Spinach? Yuck! In no time I cleaned up the rest of my plate.
“Pie for you, just as soon as the spinach is gone.” Grandma set the pie just behind my dinner plate. It looked so good, the crust all golden and sprinkled with sugar, pink juices oozing out the sides. I pushed my dinner plate away.
Grandma frowned. “I said, ‘As soon as you eat your spinach.’”
“I hate spinach.”
“Eat just a bit then. You have to at least taste it.” Grandma was determined.
I scowled at her and then at my plate.
Grandpa started to laugh. “You look like you just swallowed a lemon, whole,” he said. “Maybe your new nickname should be Sourpuss.”
I wanted to get up and stomp away from the table, but that pie held me like a magnet. Finally I forced down two tiny bites of spinach, and Grandma took my plate.
The pie was delicious, the crust so light it could melt in your mouth, the fruit sweet and tart at the same time. “It’s my favorite,” I told Grandma. “It’s even better than apple.”
The next morning, Grandma made me help pull weeds in the garden. I wanted to play on the rope swing, but she said there’d be plenty of time for that later. As we went out the door, Grandpa said, “Hi, little Sourpuss.”
I frowned at him.
In the garden, I saw a strange plant with giant umbrella leaves and long red-green stalks. “What’s this, Grandma?”
“That’s rhubarb, Rachel. It’s what I made last night’s pie from.”
“Oh, yummy! May I eat a piece?”
“You won’t like it. It needs lots of sugar to make it taste good.”
But I remembered the pie. Rhubarb had to be good. “Please, Grandma,” I begged.
She took the little knife she keeps with her garden tools and cut off a stalk. I took a big bite.
My mouth shriveled. My eyes watered. “Oooh, sour!”
Just then Grandpa walked by. “What are you so sour about now, Rachel?”
“Rhubarb!” I answered, holding the chewed stalk up for him to see.
Grandpa started to laugh, a deep belly laugh that just kept going. When he finally got to the chuckling stage and could talk, he said, “I think I’ve found the perfect nickname for you—Rhubarb Rachel.”
“Oh, Grandpa,” I protested, “that isn’t any better than Sourpuss. It means the same.”
He winked. “Not if you add a little sugar. Then you could be my Rhubarb Pie.” He turned and walked away, whistling.
That started me thinking. Maybe Grandpa was right. I had been acting pretty sour. But how could I add sugar? I thought about it as I pulled the weeds from the rest of the row. Then I forced the corners of my mouth up into a little smile. It felt good. Next I tried whistling. It felt even better. After a while, I went over to where Grandma was thinning carrots. “I’m sorry I’ve been so cross. And I’m sorry about the milk.”
Grandma grinned. “I know you are. But you needed to say it. How about cutting some more of the rhubarb stalks—I’ll make another pie for dinner tonight.”
“Sure,” I said. “Can I help you make it?” I wanted to know all about turning rhubarb into rhubarb pie.

In the early days of the Church, other disciples in addition to Joseph Smith and Hyrum Smith also laid down their lives for the gospel of Jesus Christ. The faithfulness of Edward Partridge, the first bishop of the Church, is noted in the Doctrine and Covenants. On July 20, 1833, Edward was sitting at home with his frail wife, who had just given birth. Three mobsters burst in and dragged him into the bedlam of the street and then into the square, where they had already taken Charles Allen. A mob of about 300 demanded through their spokesman that Edward and Charles either renounce their faith in the Book of Mormon or leave the county. Edward Partridge responded: “If I must suffer for my religion, it is no more than others have done before me. I am not conscious of having injured anyone in the county and therefore will not consent to leave. I have done nothing to offend anyone. If you abuse me, you are injuring an innocent man.” The mob then daubed Edward and Charles from head to foot with hot tar containing pearl ash, a flesh-eating acid, and then they threw feathers that stuck to the burning tar.

The Prophet Joseph Smith characterized Edward’s death a few years later at age 46 in these words: “He lost his life in consequence of the Missouri persecutions, and he is one of that number whose blood will be required at their hands.” Edward Partridge left a legacy that lives on in a large and righteous posterity.

Anthony Antelope was so absentminded, he thought he was an anteater. That was because his last name began with ANT.
He became as angry as an alligator when he couldn’t catch any ants. He aimed at ants, but he wasn’t able to gather any amount of them. Although he was amazingly agile, as soon as he advanced against ants, he found those active insects absent.
Ambitious Anthony was not able to eat. His ant-catching acts always caused accidents. Afterwards, Anthony was usually ailing and always hungry!
In the afternoon Amy, the Angora cat, said, “Anthony, allow me to alert you that you are an authentic African antelope and absolutely no relation to any anteater.”
“I’ve always been an anteater,” replied Anthony. “I adore ants, but I can’t catch any. Aren’t you aware that I must appease my angry appetite with ants?”
“You should be ashamed, Anthony! You aren’t an anteater. I advise you that you are an admirable antelope,” answered Angora Amy. “My advice to you is to admit you aren’t an anteater. All the animals will stand aside to watch an active, alert antelope. No one stands aside for an antelope acting as an almost anteater.
“Instead of ants, which you admit you aren’t able to catch, try some grass. Other antlered antelopes eat huge amounts of grass and they are still alive,” added Amy.
Anthony accepted an ant-sized amount of grass from Amy. He apologized after eating it, and admitted that it tasted altogether different from how he thought grass would taste.
“It appears that my antelope appetite has been aroused for this food,” announced Anthony. “Thanks to you, Angora Amy, I am able to be an actual antelope and not an artificial anteater who found it awfully awkward obtaining ants.”
There are over 125 words beginning with A’s in this story. How many do you remember?

Kumar grew up near Panadura, Sri Lanka in below poverty conditions. He found it difficult to get enough to eat each day. His father was uneducated and worked very hard selling coconuts. He would hang king coconuts on his bicycle and try to sell them along the road. Sometimes, Kumar would go with him. Kumar described his father’s love and determination to provide for his family, “I saw his eyes when he didn’t sell the coconuts . . . he was so sad he couldn’t feed us. He was a very good man. He never smoked or drank alcohol.”

“When I was 16, I ‘came to Jesus’ on the road one day when I was walking alone. I was so hungry. There was a priest that helped me to come to the Church and build myself. God gave me everything, every day, through people. Now I’m very comfortable with many blessings and my wonderful wife and three children,” asserted Kumar.

Kumar said for many years he had a good relationship with Jesus. He said he has prayed to God daily for 30 years and has received help in times of need, “I’ve had many miracles in life.”

In December 2004, Kumar was taking a tour of southern Sri Lanka with a client from Germany. Unexpectedly, the man changed his plans and told him to drop him at his hotel by the beach. He told Kumar he would call him in a few days to continue his tour. Kumar could have stayed to enjoy the beach but decided to call his tour partners for another assignment. They asked him to take a client to Kandy, a mountain area in Sri Lanka. While in Kandy, he heard on the news that a terrible tsunami had hit southern Sri Lanka exactly where he was earlier that day. His client from Germany never called him back, as the hotel where he dropped him off was destroyed. Sri Lankan authorities reported over 31,000 confirmed dead with several thousand others missing, nearly 0.2 percent of the population of Sri Lanka.

Avoiding the tsunami reinforced Kumar’s commitment to pray. He thanked God for saving his life that day and continues to thank God in prayer daily.

Cara put down her pencil and stared at the piece of paper on her desk. It was blank except for her name and a big eraser smudge. “What should I write?” she thought.
Across the aisle, her friend Lily was writing busily. Cara put her head down and rested it on her arm.
Cara really liked her new school. It was in a church building of another religion, and her new class was small enough that her teacher, Mrs. Schmidt, had time to help her with math. Every day after math, Mrs. Schmidt taught a lesson from the Bible. Usually the Bible lessons were a lot like what Cara had learned at home and in Primary.
But a few weeks ago during a lesson about baptism, Mrs. Schmidt had told the class that babies who died before they were baptized couldn’t go to heaven. Then she said that one of her own children died right after he was born. When she said that, Mrs. Schmidt looked like she was going to cry.
“But babies who die do go to heaven,” Cara wanted to say. If only Mrs. Schmidt knew that, maybe she wouldn’t be so sad anymore. But Cara felt too shy to say anything.
After school, Cara told Mom about what Mrs. Schmidt said. “Knowing that babies go to heaven is one of the blessings we have because of the Book of Mormon,” Mom said. Cara hoped that Mrs. Schmidt would read the Book of Mormon someday. She wished she had the courage to tell her about it.
Now in today’s lesson, Mrs. Schmidt had told the class that God, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost are all one person. Cara thought about how Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appeared to Joseph Smith in the Sacred Grove. She knew that They were two separate people and that each had a body. She was glad she knew that for sure, even before talking to Mom or Dad about it.
But then Mrs. Schmidt had said, “Class, please take out a piece of paper and write about what we have been talking about.”
That’s when Cara got a worried feeling in her stomach. She wanted to do the assignment the way her teacher wanted her to. Could she be brave enough to write what she knew was true?
With her head down on her desk, Cara began to say a silent prayer. “Please, dear Heavenly Father, what should I do?”
Almost at once, Cara began to feel calm and peaceful inside. The Holy Ghost whispered that if she wrote what was in her heart, everything would be OK.
Cara lifted her head, picked up her pencil, and began to write.
Heavenly Father and Jesus are two separate people. They have bodies of flesh and bone like we do. The Holy Ghost is a Spirit who can speak to us in our hearts.
After writing a few more sentences, Cara put her pencil down. She didn’t know what Mrs. Schmidt would think of what she had written, but she felt happy that she had been able to tell her teacher something important and true.

I share the story of the Laing family of Southern California. Sister Rebecca Laing writes:
“In the summer of 2011, life for our family was seemingly perfect. We were happily married with four children—ages 9, 7, 5, and 3. …
“My pregnancies and deliveries [had been] high risk … [and] we felt [very] blessed to have four children, [thinking] that our family was complete. In October while listening to general conference, I felt an unmistakable feeling that we were to have another baby. As LeGrand and I pondered and prayed, … we knew that God had a different plan for us than we had for ourselves.
“After another difficult pregnancy and delivery, we were blessed with a beautiful baby girl. We named her Brielle. She was a miracle. Moments after her birth, while still in [the delivery room], I heard the unmistakable voice of the Spirit: ‘There is one more.’
“Three years later, another miracle, Mia. Brielle and Mia are a tremendous joy for our family.” She concludes, “Being open to the Lord’s direction and following His plan for us will always bring greater happiness than … relying on our own understanding.”

Primary was over, and 10-year-old Ruben was looking for the missionaries. They were going to walk home with him. Elder Sánchez and Elder Rojas had taught Ruben and his older brother, Diego, the missionary lessons and had baptized and confirmed them. Now Ruben thought of them as his best friends.
Ruben looked through the window of a closed classroom door. There they were! But what were they doing? Their hands were on the head of a man in the ward, and it looked like they were saying a prayer like they had when Ruben was confirmed.
When they came out of the room, he asked the missionaries, “What were you doing?”
“We were giving Brother Mendoza a priesthood blessing,” said Elder Sánchez. “It’s like a special prayer, and it can give comfort, help someone know how to solve a problem, or even heal someone who is sick.”
The next Sunday Ruben looked for the missionaries after church again. “Can you come to my house and give my mamá a blessing?” he asked. “Her back is hurting a lot.”
They all hurried to Ruben’s house. Elder Sánchez and Elder Rojas talked to Ruben’s mamá. She was a member of the Church, but she had not been to church for a long time.
“We understand you are not feeling well, Sister Garcia,” Elder Rojas said.
“My back has been hurting badly for several weeks,” she told them. “I have met with many doctors, but they haven’t been able to help me.”
“Ruben asked us to come and give you a priesthood blessing,” Elder Sánchez said. “Would you like us to do that?”
“Oh, yes, please,” Mamá said.
As the missionaries put their hands on her head and gave her a blessing, tears rolled down Mamá’s cheeks. When they were finished, Ruben hugged her. “I know the blessing will help you,” he told her.
Three days later the missionaries returned to see how Ruben’s mamá was feeling. “I am so happy to see you,” she told them. “The pain in my back started to go away after you gave me the blessing, and now it is completely gone!”
“Heavenly Father healed you, Sister Garcia,” Elder Sánchez said. “And He allowed us to help Him by using our priesthood authority to bless you.”
The next Sunday—and every Sunday after that—Mamá went to church with Ruben and Diego. She knew that the power of the priesthood was real, and so did Ruben.

About half-way through the Book of Mormon, it became obvious that we need to “quicken our pace and lengthen our stride” if the children were to have the Book of Mormon read before they left home for college, marriage, or missions. We had long since progressed to reading both columns on a page. Now we started reading two pages a night. By October 1986 we set a goal. We would have the book finished by Christmas!
It was a special night when we read the last page. We planned it so that Jill, who was five, could read the last verse. We didn’t say much, but the prayer that night was one of special thanks for our eight-year journey through the Book of Mormon.
We thought of having a celebration, but in the end we realized that this was only the end of the Book of Mormon part of our effort; it was not the end of our daily scripture reading. So we celebrated by going to the store for ice cream. Our real reward was the quiet satisfaction we each felt. We had read the Book of Mormon, and we had done it together.

He was taught well by his parents, but as a teenage farm boy he desired his own personal witness of the reality of God and his work.
“One day in my youth I was hunting cattle. While climbing a steep hill, I stopped to let my horse rest, and there, once again, an intense desire came over me to receive a manifestation of the truth of the Restored Gospel. I dismounted, threw my reins over my horse’s head, and there under a serviceberry bush I prayed that God would declare to me the truth of his revelation to Joseph Smith. I am sure that I prayed fervently and sincerely and with as much faith as a young boy could muster.
“At the conclusion of the prayer, I arose from my knees, threw the reins over my faithful pony’s head, and got into the saddle. As I started along the trail again, I remember saying to myself: ‘No spiritual manifestation has come to me. If I am true to myself, I must say I am just the same “old boy” that I was before I prayed.’”
He had learned a great lesson. A young Latter-day Saint does not get conviction merely by asking the Lord, but by combining that asking with work, service, sacrifice, and obedience to God’s commandments.

On my family’s ranch in Idaho, we have about 40 horses. We break some of our horses to ride, but most of them we use to raise colts to sell. I learned many things from working with those horses, but I never expected to learn something about the gospel from them.
On our ranch is a 60-acre hill that doesn’t receive much water. In early summer, we put the horses on this hill to eat the grass that grows after the spring rain. One summer, there was a severe drought in our valley, and our horses had picked the hill clean of all its grass. My dad decided it was time to move the horses down to the meadow, which was covered in lush green grass.
Under the direction of my father, I opened the gate to allow the horses into the new pasture. A few of the horses immediately ran through the gate and began to eat the untouched grass, but the rest of the horses stayed on the barren hill. I tried to herd them through the gate by chasing them, but they wouldn’t go. Then I broke a bale of hay in front of the gate to lure them through, but that didn’t work either. The horses seemed content to eat the few blades of grass on the hill instead of coming through the gate.
My dad asked me to drive his truck up the hill and herd the horses through the gate while he did some work on the irrigation ditches. I was excited because my dad didn’t give me permission to drive his truck very often. But my excitement turned to disappointment. Whenever I would get the horses headed in the right direction, one old mare would take off in the wrong direction, leading the herd away from the gate.
I drove the truck faster than before, trying to herd those stubborn horses off the hill. With all my yelling, the horn honking, and a cloud of dust rising up from the hill, my dad came over from the ditches to see what was going on. I was hot and frustrated, and explained to him that I couldn’t get the horses through the gate. We both tried to herd them through with no success. Finally, we decided to leave them, hoping they’d come through the gate on their own, sooner or later.
As I walked back to the truck, feeling frustrated, I thought, “I bet this is how God feels with us sometimes.” As I pondered that, the gospel really came alive to me. I realized that sometimes we become content with the things of this life and we forget that our real destination is a “greener pasture” in God’s kingdom. When we’re headed in the right direction, Satan, like the old mare, tries to tempt us away from the path. Jesus Christ is our gate to greener pastures. He is the only way we can return to our Heavenly Father and have everlasting life (see Mosiah 3:17).

The boy you are encouraging may seem too timid to be a powerful priesthood servant. Another one of my sons was so shy as a little boy that he wouldn’t walk into a store and talk to a clerk. He was too afraid. I worried as I prayed over his priesthood future. I thought of him in the mission field—that didn’t sound promising. I was led to a scripture in Proverbs: “The wicked flee when no man pursueth: but the righteous are bold as a lion.”2

I carved “Bold as a Lion” on his board, beneath an image of a large lion’s head roaring. On his mission and in the years that followed, he fulfilled the hope in my carving. My once-shy son preached the gospel with great conviction and faced dangers with bravery. He was magnified in his responsibilities to represent the Lord.

This Christmas carol was written, set to music, and performed for the first time all in one day. On Christmas Eve in 1818, the organ at a small Austrian church was not working. Knowing they needed music for the evening church service, Joseph Mohr, an assistant parish priest in Oberndorf, Austria, wrote the words for a new hymn in a flash of inspiration. He took the lyrics to the church organist, Franz Gruber, who wrote a melody on his guitar. Franz and Joseph performed their beautiful new hymn, “Stille Nacht,” or “Silent Night,” that evening. Its popularity spread quickly throughout the world. Today we sing the first, sixth, and second verses of the original hymn (see Hymns, no. 204).

I wish you could accompany the General Authorities some time on an assignment to reorganize a stake. It has been my experience on a number of occasions to assist in these reorganizations. It never fails to be a remarkable experience. Some time ago, late on Sunday night, returning after the reorganization of a stake with Elder Marion G. Romney, we were riding along silently, too weary I suppose to be interested in conversation, when he said, “Boyd, this gospel is true!” (An interesting statement from a member of the Twelve.) And then he added, “You couldn’t go through what we have been through in the last forty-eight hours without knowing that for sure.”

I then rehearsed in my mind the events of the previous hours; the interviews we had held, the decisions made. We had interviewed the priesthood leadership of the stake and invited each of them to make suggestions with reference to a new stake president. Virtually all of them mentioned the same man. They indicated him to be an ideal man for a stake president with appropriate experience, a fine family, sensible and sound, worthy in every way. Near the end of our interviewing, with just two or three left, we interviewed this man and we found him equal to all of the estimates that had been made of him during the day. As he left the room at the conclusion of the interview, Brother Romney said, “Well, what do you think?”

I answered that it was my feeling that we had not seen the new president yet.

This confirmed the feelings of Brother Romney who then said, “Perhaps we should get some more men in here. It may be that the new president is not among the present priesthood leadership of the stake.” Then he said, “But suppose we interview the remaining few before we take that course.”

There was another interview held, as ordinary as all of the others had been during the day—the same questions, same answers—but at the conclusion of this interview, Brother Romney said, “Well, now how do you feel?”

“As far as I am concerned,” I said, “we can quit interviewing.” Again this confirmed Brother Romney, for the feeling had come that this was the man that the Lord had set His hand upon to preside over that stake.

Now, how did we know? Because we knew, both of us—together, at once, without any doubt. In reality our assignment was not to choose a stake president, but rather to find the man that the Lord had chosen. The Lord speaks in an unmistakable way. Men are called by prophecy.

Emily Partridge, daughter of the first bishop of the Church in this dispensation, remembered leaving their comfortable home in Painesville, Ohio, to move to Jackson County, Missouri, in 1831 when she was just seven years old.3 Not long after, her family was driven from their home by the mob and had to relocate in Clay County. She described how they eventually found an “old log cabin that had been used for a stable. … There was one large room, and a leanto, but that was not of much use, as the floor was nearly all torn up, and the rats and rattlesnakes were too thick for comfort. There was a large fireplace in the one habitable room, and blankets were hung up a few feet back from the fire and the two families, fifteen or sixteen in number, were gathered inside of those blankets to keep from freezing for the weather was extremely cold, so cold that the ink would freeze in the pen as father sat writing close to the fire.”4

The family later moved to Illinois. Emily summarized their experience: “Times were hard and we were very destitute, having been robbed and driven from our homes and possessions so many times, and having had much sickness.”5

Liliana was excited to go to Primary. She wanted to show Sister Lee her new dress.
I’m a princess!
I’m a princess too!
You both are beautiful princesses. Heavenly Father loves you, and we are His children.
Then Sister Lee showed the class some paper crowns.
These crowns say “I am a child of God.”
The children said the words together and then sang “I Am a Child of God.” It was one of Liliana’s favorite songs.
Sister Lee placed the crowns on their heads, one at a time.
Liliana is a child of God.
Liliana felt warm and happy inside.
Liliana couldn’t wait to show Mama and Daddy her crown.
Now I’m really a princess because I am a child of God.
When it was time for bed, Liliana looked everywhere for her crown. She wanted it by her while she slept.
I can’t find my crown! I want to be a child of God!
Mama sat down and pulled Liliana onto her lap.
How do you feel when you sing “I Am a Child of God”?
Happy.
Me too.
Are you a child of God?
Everyone is a child of God, even without a crown. Always remember, you are a child of God—no matter what!
Mama hugged Liliana, and Liliana smiled as if she knew a special secret.

“You think we’ll actually catch anything?” she asked.
“Of course we will. When I go fishing I’m always sure I’ll do well.”
“Why’s that?”
“When I was a kid, my parents used to take me fishing out on a boat. My dad would bait my line first and then toss it overboard, and then he’d do my mom’s and then his. Since my line was in the water way before anybody else’s, I often caught the first fish. My parents used to say, ‘Elliott’s such a good fisherman. He always catches the first fish.’ Since I knew I did catch the first fish, I decided they were right. From that moment on, I thought of myself as a good fisherman.”
“Later in junior high when I started going fishing by myself, I just knew I was a good fisherman. If I caught fish, then I thought to myself, ‘Of course—I’m a good fisherman.’ But if I didn’t catch anything, I thought, ‘Hey, if I didn’t catch any fish, then nobody caught anything, because I’m a good fisherman.’ No matter what happened, I always interpreted it in terms of this unshakable belief that I was a good fisherman. The amazing thing is that because I saw myself as a good fisherman, I became a good fisherman, because I never got discouraged and gave up.”

In 1831, Joseph and Emma traveled to Kirtland, Ohio. When they reached the Newel K. Whitney and Co. store, Joseph jumped out of the sleigh to greet a Church member he had never met.
Newel K. Whitney! Thou art the man!
You have the advantage of me. I could not call you by name as you have me.
I am Joseph the Prophet. You’ve prayed me here. Now what do you want of me?
Joseph had seen a vision of the Whitney family praying for him to come to Kirtland. He recognized Brother Whitney from the vision.
Joseph and Emma stayed with Brother and Sister Whitney for a few weeks.

Another example of President Kimball’s discipleship occurred one Christmas Eve several years ago. He called and asked if I was busy. I quickly responded, “Not at all. What can I do for you, President Kimball?” He told me that he needed a companion to go with him to the Primary Children’s Medical Center to give blessings to several children from South America, as well as to some American Indian children.
Once there, we went from floor to floor giving blessings to them and to many others. I was deeply affected by the love of President Kimball and by his tender friendship with each child. He exemplified the tender, loving friendship that the Savior would give. It was easy to see how he could say, “The Savior is my friend.”

I had a long-remembered meeting with a former prime minister. He had seen much of conflict and trouble in his time. He told a very interesting story of a Jewish rabbi who was conversing with two of his friends. The rabbi asked one of them, “How do you know when the night is over and a new day has begun?”
His friend replied, “When you look into the east and can distinguish a sheep from a goat, then you know the night is over and the day has begun.”
The second was asked the same question. He replied, “When you look into the distance and can distinguish an olive tree from a fig tree, then you know morning has come.”
They then asked the rabbi how he could tell when the night is over and the day has begun. He thought for a time and then said, “When you look into the east and see the face of a woman and can say, ‘She is my sister,’ and when you look into the east and see the face of a man and can say, ‘He is my brother,’ then you know the light of a new day has come.”

Fourteen-year-old Angela realized that their trip to Japan was more than just one performance after another, more than Polynesian and Native American song and dance. She discovered this one night when she looked out into the audience while the family was singing "Love at Home" in Japanese and several people were crying.

"When I performed, I didn’t realize that a lot of people were looking at me. I didn’t realize that we might touch them a lot. I’d always thought I was just performing to entertain them," she says. "But then it really brought out the message to them that families are forever and when we have a happy family, when we go to church, and when we keep the commandments, we will be happy."