Gospel Story Finder

When my turn came to respond, I turned to a brother on my right, a few seats down the row from me, and said, “My hero is Ken Sweatfield and his wife, Jo Ann.” For 20 years I watched Ken and Jo Ann care for their comatose son with all the love and patience a parent could possibly give. I had often pondered the shattered hopes and dreams they surely had for Shane before he suffered a terrible automobile accident just two weeks before he was to begin his mission in Leeds, England. I have watched Ken and Jo Ann wheel Shane into the sunlight or push him through the neighborhood, describing the scenery, hoping that he might hear and feel, and hoping that the fresh air and sunlight might lighten a very subdued spirit. For 20 years there were no vacations from this care, few evenings out, but there was always a spirit of faith, optimism, and gratitude—never a show of anger, despair, or questioning of God’s purposes.

As a boy, I loved to run. When I was eleven years old, I won an Oregon state cross-country race and I vowed to become a national champion before I graduated from high school. Full of boldness, determined to be better than anyone else, I began a training routine that was to last for years. Every day I ran from five to sixteen kilometers. I loved training. Neither mud, rain, sweat, nor pain were to keep me from my goal. “You only get out of it what you put into it” became my motto.
I began to look ahead to running in the Junior Olympics. My plan was to prepare to race in the 1985 competition, when I would be fourteen years old, and again in 1987, when I would be sixteen. I calculated that these would be in my best years and I would be in my top running condition. What I didn’t calculate was that by 1985 I would grow from a skinny, lightweight boy, to a taller and heavier young man. My whole system had to catch up with the added dimensions of my growing body. My knees ached constantly; my feet and hips almost cried out in pain as I ran; and it was all I could do to win a state championship by a fraction of a second. I knew 1985 wasn’t the year to enter the Junior Olympics, but I would have two years to prepare myself for the 1987 event.
By the spring of 1987 I was running well. I was undefeated in the 1,500-meter run and praised by a local newspaper as the fastest high school freshman in the state of Oregon. My aches and pains had gone. I felt good and I knew I was ready for the Junior Olympics.
Meanwhile, three teammates and I had been invited to participate in a prestigious regional track meet. Full of confidence and in high spirits, we got into the team van with our coach for the ride to the meet.
As we drove onto the main highway, I noticed how congested the traffic was and subconsciously fastened my seat belt. We were all laughing and joking when I casually looked up and noticed a speeding car coming our way. Completely out of control, it began swerving back and forth in our traffic lane, barely avoiding several cars ahead. Stunned into silence, we helplessly watched the car head straight for us.
I awoke to the sounds of screaming sirens, two-way radios crackling, and shouting policemen. We had been hit head-on by a car driven by a wanted man in a stolen car who was being pursued by police in a high-speed chase. My teammate and good friend, Lenny, who was in the seat behind me without his seat belt on, had been thrown across my seat. I had been propelled forward and pinned under the weight of his unconscious body and my doubled-up seat.
I managed to move just enough to see out of the window. The other car looked like a crumpled piece of paper. Two ambulances drove in beside our crushed van, and I was quickly, but very carefully, lifted out of our wrecked vehicle. “I think this one has a broken back!” I heard one ambulance man say as he looked at me with pity and concern.
As miracles go, my back wasn’t broken—just my nose! However, serious back strain, several pulled muscles, and joint displacement prevented me from walking for a few days and kept me from running normally for several months. This had not been in my plan. I became discouraged as my training schedule for being in top condition was once again interrupted.
I continued to train, both with the high school team and with a running club my brothers and sisters and I belong to. As I watched my ten-year-old brother, Tyler, run, I began to feel more frustration and irritation. He ran strong and well. He could keep up with several of the high school runners and was getting better every week. As much as I loved him, I resented how easy it all seemed for him.
I watched Tyler win in a state track and field championship, defeating his nearest competition by 500 meters. A crowd of excited supporters gathered around him as I stood back. An incredible sense of pride built up inside me, and as Tyler looked past all the well-wishers, seeking my approval, the feeling of love was so intense between us that I felt we were the only two in the noisy stadium. As I sensed his deep need for my approval my resentment of his success totally left me. At that moment, I vowed that my little brother would go to the national championships prepared with all the knowledge I could share and with the assurance of my support.
We ran together after that. I talked about form and strategy, how to pass other runners and maintain a lead. We ran up hills to build his endurance, sprinted on the track to build his speed, and made up all sorts of exercises to improve his reflexes. We talked about racing as we did chores around the house, as we ate breakfast, as we drove into town, and as we watched sports news on television. We ran in pouring rain and sweltering heat.
Tyler and I both placed first in our age categories in the Northwest Regional Championships, and that gave us the chance to compete in the national championships. Because of the accident and the interruption of my training, I thought I might only place in the top twenty-five runners. My race was first, and I was twenty-first out of 300 and gained a national ranking.
Satisfied and happy with my performance, I then turned my attention to Tyler. I had already taken him through the cross-country course, showing him how to approach and hurdle a deep ditch, when to stride out, where to save his strength, what to avoid, and how to stay mentally tough. He wa ready! As we looked for his starting place among the other 265 runners on the starting line, I felt as nervous as when I had lined up for my own race. Tyler was tense, and I just kept assuring him that he was the best. I could sense his apprehension as if it were my own. How I wished I could transform his pain to joy! “Be tough, Tyler. Just remember, no one is better than you. No one can beat you,” I said. My arm slipped around his slumping shoulder, and I felt like I was deserting a desperate man when I walked away and noticed the tears in his eyes.
I watched him run a perfect race as I ran from place to place on the course to cheer him on, hoping he could feel my support reaching out to him. Could he hear? Could he sense my strength reaching out to him? He came toward the last stretch of the race in second place. “Keep going, Tyler!” I yelled. “Use your arms! Breathe deeply!” If he could just feel what I felt for him in that crowd of 5,000 wildly screaming spectators.
He was turning the corner for the last 100 meters—a part of the course we had run over and over together as we planned this moment. “Now Tyler! Give it all you’ve got left! Come on!” I pleaded. My voice choked as I thrilled at the sight of my little brother, a picture of perfect health, striding down the homestretch to a spectacular finish to become the national champion I had planned to be.
My pride in him told me that I had won something too. I realized I had given part of myself away to help Tyler succeed, and it created a feeling within me far richer and more powerful than I could have ever imagined. As an exhausted Tyler broke away from the crowd and came to me, he gasped out the words which taught me the lesson of my life.
“Jason, I felt terrible—but I could hear you cheering the whole way, over the noise of all the people, and I knew I could win. I knew I had to win!”
What other lessons would this little champion learn from me—good or bad?
What about all our other brothers and sisters in the family of men. What messages do they hear above the crowd? Just as Tyler could hear and respond to that call to win, how many others need that voice in the crowd? How often do we get caught up in our own plans and fail to call out our encouragement, fail to cheer others on to victory?
As Tyler and I embraced, I truly knew the meaning of the words, “He that loveth his brother abideth in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him” (1 Jn. 2:10).

Car horns blared and taxis and buses jostled for a place in the traffic. As Benjamin Misalucha sat in the marketplace watching the automobiles roll by, he reached for a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He hoped his wife would be done with the shopping soon. The weather was hot and muggy, as it often is in the Philippines, and he was eager to get home and relax with his children.

Then he noticed a sign, high on the side of one of the buildings overlooking the square. “No other success can compensate for failure in the home,” the sign read. He found himself contemplating the message and believing in its truth.

“During those times I was young, about 30, and had four children. We had everything, comparatively speaking, compared to other Filipinos, but I was not satisfied with my life. In my heart I knew I was searching for something more,” he said.

He didn’t guess that the quotation from President David O. McKay had been inscribed on the sign by missionaries living in the building, the same kind of Mormon missionaries who had already visited with him for three weeks when he lived in Manila, the capital city. He had also been visited twice by the elders here in Davao, another large city in the south.

A short time later, Benjamin Misalucha was transferred by his pharmaceutical company to Cebu City, an important community on one of the central islands. It was in Cebu that Mr. Misalucha and his family would discover the secret of what had been lacking in their lives.

The Misaluchas were excited about their new home. Cebu and the region surrounding it are important in the history of the Philippines. It was here that Ferdinand Magellan, who sought to circumnavigate the earth, first introduced Christianity to the islands. What is reputed to be Magellan’s wooden cross still stands in the city plaza. From 1565 to 1571, Cebu was the Spanish colonial capital, and Cebuanos later played key roles in the fight for independence from Spain. During World War II, in reprisal for guerilla action, Cebu City proper was almost entirely razed. But the port remained intact and the city was rebuilt. Today Cebu remains an inter-island trade and domestic airline center. Its citizens are a conglomeration of farmers, factory workers, and businessmen. The Misaluchas soon discovered that, like Filipinos everywhere, the people of Cebu are quick to smile and just as quick to lend a helping hand.

“Filipinos are basically close,” Benjamin’s wife, Avelina, explained. “We maintain close family ties, and ties with other Filipinos as well. We share experiences, even material things.”

In a society in which sharing is so accepted, it might seem unusual that someone would stand out as being particularly kind and generous. But such was the case with the local Parent Teacher Association (PTA) president. Right from the start she went out of her way to help the Misaluchas adjust to their new city. Soon Mr. Misalucha was serving on the PTA board. He eventually found out that the PTA president was also the wife of the local Mormon bishop. His curiosity grew and grew.

“One day I saw both of them walking home, and I ran over to catch up with them,” Mr. Misalucha explained. “I told him I wanted to know more about his church. He said he could recommend a couple of nice young men who could teach me about it.”

For the next ten months, the elders became a regular fixture in the Misalucha home. Benjamin Misalucha would entertain them with stories about previous encounters with missionaries, before he fully understood who they were: “They knocked on my door and asked me if I was the head of the house. I was all hot and perspiring from doing some chores, so I told them, ‘No, I’m just the janitor here.’ It’s something I say jokingly to my family all the time, but the missionaries believed me!”

Avelina would always provide cold water or juice, cake, or even siopao (doughy, white, steamed Chinese bread stuffed with sausage and eggs). And of course, the children, who numbered five by now, would have fun teasing the missionaries and telling jokes before the serious gospel discussions began.

“I wanted answers from the Bible,” Benjamin said, “because I didn’t believe in the Book of Mormon yet. And they showed me answers in the Bible. I was totally perplexed by how they could always get answers to questions I couldn’t even answer myself.” Slowly his perplexed state gave way to understanding. The missionaries could find the answers because they knew the truth. He summoned a family council.

“Take this individually into prayer,” he told his wife and children. At the next family council, they all voted in favor of becoming Latter-day Saints. The family was baptized on April 29, 1978, a Saturday.

“Ever since we’ve been members, we’ve been blessed,” Brother Misalucha said. He began working for an insurance company, and his business has grown steadily, “in spite of the fact that some of my friends were hostile. They told me I’d return to my former church within two years. But I had found the true church, Christ’s church. Our family bonds were stronger. The children were becoming more pronounced in developing their skills, learning to speak in public and overcoming their shyness. I knew I was following the Lord’s way.”

When I was a Beehive, one of my leaders really encouraged me to complete the Personal Progress value experiences. Soon I had finished one value and was looking forward to finishing them all.
But during my junior year of high school, I quit working on Personal Progress. I was going through one of the hardest times in my life, and I began to doubt a lot of things. I just didn’t see how Personal Progress could help me during my trials. But in the past, doing Personal Progress had helped me see my worth and keep me on the straight and narrow path, and I missed that.
As I started Personal Progress again, I realized I was also heading back to the place my Heavenly Father wanted me to be spiritually. Personal Progress helped me see the worth in myself and in others, finish reading the Book of Mormon, gain a testimony of the gospel, and grow closer to God.
Alexis T., California, USA

When I was in college, I went on a study abroad to the United Kingdom. At the time, I was really struggling to feel close to Heavenly Father. I went to sacrament meetings and church on Sundays, and I went to Catholic mass and a beautiful, quiet Quaker meeting. I went often to Evensong, a lovely Anglican choral service. I was looking for any place I could feel peace. I read prayer books in cathedrals and spoke the Apostles’ Creed with people whose beliefs were, in many ways, so close to mine. And I found God again.
I felt so much love and truth in those spaces. The message I got was that if God loved all His children enough to give them so much truth and beauty, then He also loved and knew me.

Akin to the miracle of inspiration is the not infrequent occurrence where, through the workings of the Spirit, one receives a new understanding of a gospel principle, an insight. One Utah sister whose son has cancer bore this testimony: “Our strivings in behalf of little Thomas have helped me to understand what faith is. I’ve learned that faith is not just something you feel, it’s something you live. I’m grateful to my Heavenly Father for helping me to gain that understanding.”
Just as this sister felt the influence of the Spirit during a difficult time in her life, so do many other Saints receive the Lord’s help through answered prayers.
One mother told of a frightening incident she had had in the month previous with her eighteen-month-old toddler. He was exploring their bathroom when “he began to scream and scream. I ran into the bathroom, and I was horrified at what I saw. He had slipped and hit his head on the bathtub. It was turning an awful black and blue and was really beginning to swell.
“I’m afraid I almost became hysterical. I picked Ronnie up and carried him into our bedroom and laid him on the bed. All I could think to do was pray. So I knelt down there by the side of the bed and had hardly uttered the first few words of the prayer when I felt an almost tangible feeling of peace and calm.
“By the time I had completed the prayer Ronnie’s head was back to normal size, and almost all of the discoloration was gone.”

Mom pushed the grocery cart up and down the aisles of the bishops’ storehouse while Mackenzie looked for her favorite cereal. All she could find were the boring kinds, like corn flakes and oatmeal. Where was the Sir Crunch-a-Lot? She sighed and pulled a bag of granola off the shelf and put it in the cart.
Mom said the bishops’ storehouse was the Church’s store, and it helped people like them who didn’t have a lot of money. Mackenzie didn’t understand. She knew Dad lost his job, but why did that mean she had to eat boring food?
Mackenzie followed her mom to the front of the store. Mom gave a slip of paper to the woman at the counter. Mom and the woman talked for a moment, and then Mom rolled their cart out to the car.
“Mom, why did you give her that paper instead of money?” Mackenzie asked.
Mom smiled. “You know we came here because we don’t have a lot of money right now, right?”
Mackenzie nodded and started putting groceries in the car.
“Well, when people at church pay their fast offerings every month, that money helps people who are having a tough time.”
“Like us,” Mackenzie said.
“Right,” said Mom. “Some of that money buys food for people who need it. Your dad and I visited with the bishop, and he told us we can shop here for a few months until Dad gets a job. That paper was a list of the things we need.”
Mackenzie raised her eyebrows. “So other people are paying for this food? That’s really nice of them. But why don’t they have better cereals?”
Mom laughed as they finished putting the groceries in the car. “Well, they might not have some of the things you love, but it’s good food. I’m really grateful for it because it means we won’t be hungry.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Mackenzie said. But she couldn’t help thinking of a big bowl of Sir Crunch-a-Lot.
The next day at school, Mackenzie stared at the ham sandwich and apple in her lunch bag. She frowned. Most of her friends were eating pizza from the cafeteria, and it smelled delicious!Then Sarah, her friend from church, sat down next to her. Mackenzie noticed that she didn’t have any lunch.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Mackenzie asked.
“My family is fasting for my uncle,” Sarah said. “He doesn’t have a job right now, so we’re praying for him.”
Mackenzie’s jaw dropped. “But it’s not even Fast Sunday!”
“Yeah, it’s pretty hard being hungry at school,” Sarah said. “But I wanted to fast with my family.”
Mackenzie remembered how Mom said fast offerings helped pay for their groceries. She thought of all the kind people who fasted on Fast Sunday and gave money to help her family have enough to eat.
Suddenly pizza didn’t seem so important, and neither did Sir Crunch-a-Lot. She said a silent prayer to thank Heavenly Father. Then she took a big bite of her sandwich. Gratitude made everything taste better.

One sweltering July day, I helped my brother-in-law build a retaining wall. This project eventually pitted me against the roots of a blossoming cherry tree that was in the way.
“Easy,” I thought.
I gathered the appropriate tools and dug around the roots to make room to work. Then I grabbed a saw and, without a second thought, went to work cutting the roots. The smaller roots cut easily, but when I moved to the larger roots, I quickly realized that they weren’t going to be as easy. One root in particular was difficult.
Gritting my teeth, I was determined to cut through that root. Sweat rolled down my neck from the glaring sun overhead as I squeezed the saw tighter. The saw vibrated until my entire body shook. I could feel my right hand—the one squeezing the saw trigger—start to burn with pain. I ignored the pain and kept holding on.
Finally, the saw cut through the root. I released the trigger and felt the sweet pleasure of victory. As I removed my glove, however, I noticed a small piece of skin had been torn from my hand.
As I thought about this experience, I realized that holding on to the saw was, in a way, like holding fast to the iron rod. We are told to hold fast to the iron rod as we move through life. But just because we hold fast to it doesn’t mean we won’t experience moments of pain. I injured my hand as I clung to the saw. In a similar way, we will pass through trials and tribulations as we continually hold fast to the iron rod.
Heavenly Father knew that the journey back to Him would be fraught with peril. That’s why He has given us the scriptures and words of the prophets to help us. As we hold on to these things through our trials and tribulations in mortality, we will one day return to His presence.
When we return to Him, we will be able to look down at our hands, which held fast to the iron rod, sometimes in spite of pain or difficulty. And we will know that with the help of Heavenly Father and through the atoning power of Jesus Christ, we held on tightly, no matter what obstacles we encountered.

As a surgeon I am often asked how I gained my skills. Some suppose that one takes a class, watches an operation, and then is turned loose. There is even an ironic saying in training: see one, do one, teach one. However, nothing is further from the truth.
I gained my professional skill and knowledge under the guidance of many gifted and patient physicians. I began first by watching over shoulders and then up close. After a year of observing, I was given small assignments, helping the surgeon and his or her “first assistant”—the assistant surgeon.
After another year I was allowed to stand across the table from the surgeon and act as first assistant during simple operations. After another year or two, I was allowed to be first assistant in more complicated operations. Then I began to do the simplest operations, such as fixing a hernia, while the experienced surgeon acted as my first assistant.
In my last year of training—seven years after I had completed medical school—I was allowed to do complicated operations while the surgeon acted as first assistant. I discovered that the greatest teachers could make the operation flow smoother through their assistance because they could show me what needed to be done in clear and simple ways—ways they had learned through this same mentoring process.
I did not fully appreciate the guidance of these amazing and gifted expert surgeons who were my first assistants until I finished training and was on my own. However, even 30 years later, my teachers are in my mind as I daily use the skills they so painstakingly taught, demonstrated, and corrected.

I shall never forget one night almost three decades ago. My bride, Patricia, and I had been married for two years. We lived in a small duplex on Oahu’s north shore. I was an army infantry officer, a platoon leader, assigned to a unit at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. Our brigade had been ordered to war in Vietnam. My plane was scheduled for departure after midnight, and a good Latter-day Saint friend had agreed to take me to the airfield at 11:00 p.m.
All through that long evening, Pat and I sat on the sofa in our tiny living room with our fingers intertwined, watching the hands of the clock approach the fateful hour and listening to the soft lapping of the surf against the shore. The ticking of the clock seemed a metronome of mortality in painful contrast to the muffled rushing of the eternal sea. At last the hour of parting arrived. Inside the doorway to our little home, I clutched my bride to my bosom and kissed her one last time, and then I was gone. As I closed the door, I wondered if I had seen my sweetheart for the last time in mortality. It was truly night.
My friend and I drove silently in the darkness through the sugarcane and pineapple fields of Oahu. My heart felt as though it would break. Then as we passed Schofield, an unseen infantry unit on night maneuvers fired a flare. Its brilliance momentarily lit the inky darkness and seemed to ignite a spiritual flame in the blackness that invested my soul. My thoughts were drawn away from this saddest of days to the very happiest: back to that beautiful December day when Pat and I had entered the holy temple and there were sealed to each other, not just for this life only but for all eternity. I thought of the eternal covenants we had made. Like the sunrise, it dawned on me that no matter what happened in the uncertain future just ahead, Pat would always be mine. When I reached the air base, I telephoned her. In the spirit of a renewed hope and peace born of faith and understanding, we talked and laughed softly before once more bidding each other good-bye. It was only midnight, but for me the sun was already rising.

Nils heard creaking, cracking, and then a great big crash! Everyone in the house jumped up to find the two missionaries buried in a pile of blankets and boards that had been Nils’s bed. His bed had been too small for these two grown men who were in Sweden preaching the gospel.
They had come just after supper and had stayed so late that Mama had insisted they stay the night. She had let them sleep in Nils’s bed while he slept on the floor.
Dismayed, Nils looked at his broken bed. Mama whispered, “Don’t worry. Papa will make you a new one.”
But Papa didn’t seem to have time. He worked all day and talked to the missionaries in the evenings. He said that the Book of Mormon explained everything he hadn’t understood in the Bible.
Soon Mama, Papa, Peter, Botilla, and Bengt were baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Nils and his baby sister would have to wait for their eighth birthdays. Even though they were happy, everyone else in town seemed angry—especially Grandmother and Grandfather. Nils’s family decided to go to America where they could be with other Church members.
“You will like America, Nils,” Mama said, “and when we get there, we will get you a new bed.”
The ship to America was crowded with other Swedish and Danish members of the Church. Nils slept on top of two giant water barrels. He was afraid that when the ship rocked back and forth he would roll off! He could hardly wait to see land and sleep in a bed that held still.
But Nils’s first bed in America didn’t hold still. After leaving the ship, they got on a train. Nils fell asleep listening to the clacking of the wheels. When they got off the train at a place called Council Bluffs, they loaded their belongings in wagons pulled by oxen. Nils had thought the ship was crowded, but this was worse!
“No room for mattresses or pillows,” shouted the man in charge. “Pack only your clothes and blankets!”
“No pillow, no mattress, and no bed,” Nils sighed.
His family shared a wagon with a widow and a newly married couple. Every night Nils and his family slept on the ground, and day after dusty day they walked until they made it to Salt Lake City. Once there, they shared a house with another family.
The family’s first home of their own in the valley was a little room dug from a hillside, with a dirt floor. They slept in blankets that could be rolled up during the day. They longed for a more permanent home.
Finally Papa found them some land for a place of their own. Once again, they packed everything into their wagon and rode to Huntsville, Utah. The valley there was green and full of tall grass, and the hillsides were covered with trees. Their second home was a rough cabin with a leaky willow-branch roof and corn-husk mattresses on the floor.
Finally, on Christmas Day, they moved into a real log home with a wood floor, pine shingles on the roof, and real beds! Four and a half years after leaving Sweden, Nils snuggled under his quilt in his own new bed. It creaked a little when he moved, reminding him of the night his old bed broke. How much had changed! Nils smiled. Maybe someday he would grow up to be a missionary in Sweden too. But if he did, he would watch out for little beds!
Years later, Nils P. Lofgren did return to Sweden as a missionary.

In just a few moments, we will listen to our beloved prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, a man of undaunted faith in Jesus Christ, a man of hope and peace, loved by God but not spared from the wounds of the soul.
In 1995 his daughter Emily, while expecting a child, was diagnosed with cancer. There were days of hope and happiness as her healthy baby was delivered. But the cancer returned, and their beloved Emily would pass from this life just two weeks after her 37th birthday, leaving her loving husband and five young children.
In general conference, shortly after her passing, President Nelson confided: “My tears of sorrow have flowed along with wishes that I could have done more for our daughter. … If I had the power of resurrection, I would have been tempted to bring [her] back. … [But] Jesus Christ holds those keys and will use them for Emily … and for all people in the Lord’s own time.”28

I’d thought getting made fun of in JROTC for being a Mormon was hard, but that was child’s play compared to basic training. The temptation to swear was always present. Three or four times a day, day after day, the drill sergeant would get in my face and swear at me. And my fellow cadets would try to get me to swear. Then, half of the cadets at basic training ended up attending the same military school I did. It wasn’t long before the other members of my ROTC group also found out I was a Mormon and started making fun of me and trying to get me to swear. I wasn’t sure if I could keep this up for another 10 months. Basic training had been rough enough.
To my surprise, help came. My fellow basic training buddies from JROTC stepped up and defended my beliefs. They told the others, “Stop bothering him. Give up. Trust us, he won’t budge. We tried.”
After a while, people stopped making fun of me and started to support me. They even supported me in my decision to serve a mission, even though some of our instructors didn’t. My greatest opposition and tempters became some of my closest and greatest allies. I’m grateful that I stood up for my beliefs. I often wonder what would have happened if I had not chosen to keep the standards and commandments of God.

“Few people know it, but Brother Monson is the self-appointed chaplain at a number of nursing homes around town,” notes Elder Boyd K. Packer, who sat next to Elder Monson in the Quorum of the Twelve for fifteen years. “He visits them anytime his busy schedule will permit, and sometimes even when he doesn’t have free time.”
(A well-meaning person once told President Monson that it was useless for him to visit these elderly people, talking at length with them when they seldom answered a word. “You might as well save your time and breath, Elder Monson. They don’t know who you are.”
“Whether they know me or not is beside the point,” the determined Thomas Monson replied. “I don’t talk to them because they know me; I talk to them because I know them.”)

Unfortunately, the gambling scene pervaded other high school activities and went beyond school boundaries. While traveling with my baseball team, both on the bus and in the hotel rooms, card games took over much of our spare time. I recall watching a card game where two teammates had $120 on the line, with the luck of a particular card deciding the fate of the game. Someone won that day, but I don’t remember who. What I do remember is the chaos, the screaming and vulgar language, the laughing at someone else’s expense. Most importantly, I remember feeling void of the Spirit. It’s a dirty, ugly feeling.

“If every kid did something like this, just think how it could change the world.” This comment was overheard at a neighborhood swimming pool last summer in Craig, Colorado, a small community of 8,000 people. It was 13-year-old Evan Pressley they were talking about—and still are.
Evan, a deacon in the Craig First Ward, Meeker Colorado Stake, went door-to-door in his hometown last June asking for money, not for himself, but for orphans in China. He managed to raise $2,418. “And 45 cents,” he adds. He turned what he raised over to a Chinese nonprofit, tax-exempt service organization headquartered near Denver, Colorado.
Evan’s inspiration to help orphans living thousands of miles away in China began with his visit to that country in December of 1996. Evan accompanied his parents, Dave and Mary Pressley, when they adopted his little sister, Marianne Kai Yue. “After I got home, I just wanted to help some babies who are not as fortunate as my little sister, who has found a family.” Marianne and Evan have two older brothers, Ben, 19, and Dan, 18.
In the spring of 1997, Evan sent a handwritten letter to Lily Nie and Joshua Zhong, directors of the agency the Pressleys went through to adopt Marianne, informing them of his project. His goal was to raise $2,175. He exceeded that goal and came up with a total of $2,418 (and 45 cents). He made a list of specific things he wanted done with that money: repair a child’s cleft palate and lip; buy a heavy-duty washer and dryer; provide enough formula for eight babies for one month; buy a crib and some toys; set up a small children’s health clinic. All this for $2,418! “Money goes a long way in China,” Evan explains.
Several articles were published in the newspapers about the Evan Project. Later, Joshua Zhong sent a letter to one newspaper thanking the people of Craig, Colorado, for their support. He also sent a letter to Evan expressing his feelings. “I want to thank and salute you for an incredibly moving and successful fund-raising effort. I am deeply touched by your love for the Chinese children. … You are an amazing kid with a very BIG heart!”
What does this “amazing kid” have in mind for the future? You guessed it. He’s not through helping orphans in China. He’s given it a lot of thought, and he’s getting close to earning his Eagle Scout Award. For his project he’s going to do something like gathering baby formula—lots of it—to send to Chinese orphanages. After all, when you have a BIG heart, it can strrreettch a whole lot to make room for one more Chinese baby … or 50 … or 150.

Natalie
Natalie, 20, has been a nanny for nearly three years. She has found some good families that she has enjoyed working for, but she has also found some difficult jobs and hard times.
“Girls have no concept of what they are coming out to. They think it’s going to be all wonderful.
“I left for my first job three days after I graduated from high school. The family was wonderful on the phone. They said they had a gorgeous home with a swimming pool in the backyard. They told me I would be up with the children in the morning to help them get ready for school. I would have minor housework, just picking up after the children, and be responsible for them when they got home.
“I found out they lied to me. There was nothing but a kiddy pool in the backyard. Besides getting the children off to school, I had to scrub down the house literally every day, including washing the cars, yard work, doing their laundry, changing sheets, cleaning bathrooms, cleaning out the cupboards every day—besides watching the children.
“I was not allowed to shower between 7:00 A.M. and 9:00 P.M. because that was my time to work for them. I was not allowed to do my laundry on their time. I was put downstairs in the basement and the door was locked so I couldn’t come upstairs during the night. I worked six days a week for $60.
“They fired me after three weeks. They said I disrupted the family. I found out later that they were having family problems. They fired me at 10:00 P.M. and were sending me home the next morning. I applied for another job and started a week later because I love children and I like being around them.
“There aren’t many Mormon guys out here, so you start getting involved with nonmembers. You try to be an example, but you get caught up in a different lifestyle. We would stay out until three in the morning, and we wouldn’t want to get up for Sunday. We would think, it’s our only day off, so let’s go have fun.
“I dated a guy for over a year. I got caught up in how he lived. I broke up with him because there was something missing in my life. It occurred to me to go to church. I felt the Spirit, and I felt good, but it’s so hard to come back. I’ve seen nannies slip right into what I was in. I want to stand up and warn them, ‘Don’t be stupid like I was.’ But you can’t really tell them. It might take them 20 years to come back.
“I’ve lived in six homes out here. Four of them haven’t worked, and two have. A lot of employers expect to treat you as their employee. That attitude can’t work because you live in their house. They need to treat you as one of the family. If they don’t, you’re not happy. It’s got to be give and take on both sides.”

When I was young, I had an experience that helped me relate to the blind man described in John 9. The man was blind from birth. The disciples asked Jesus, “Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?
“Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him” (John 9:2–3; emphasis added).
Jesus anointed the blind man’s eyes with clay and instructed him to wash in the pool of Siloam. The man did as instructed and “came seeing” (John 9:7).
There were witnesses to this miracle who could not comprehend it. They took the man to the Pharisees, who questioned him about it repeatedly. The man finally told the Pharisees, “If this man were not of God, he could do nothing” (John 9:33). For this statement, he was cast out.
Then a great blessing occurred—an even greater blessing than having his sight restored. Jesus, having heard that they had cast the man out, found him and allowed him to declare his belief: “He said, Lord, I believe. And he worshipped him” (John 9:38).
I was 11 years old when the “works of God were made manifest” in me. In the fifth grade, I developed warts on my hands. Both hands were covered with the ugly virus sufficiently enough to earn me the nickname “warthog” among my classmates. Needless to say, it affected my self-esteem and social life.
When my family moved from Utah to Idaho the following summer, I dreaded the thought of going to a new school. In my old class, I took plenty of teasing, but I also had two good friends who stood by me. This new place offered no such assurance.
I began to search for ways to rid myself of my burden. With my mother’s help, we tried over-the-counter remedies and even some home remedies, but the warts remained. Money was limited, so seeing the doctor for such a nonemergency was out of the question. I began feeling like there would be no end to this malady.
Towards the end of summer, it occurred to me to ask Heavenly Father for help. My family had been active in the Church for about two years, and I had been taught about the power of fasting accompanied by prayer, but I had never before taken the opportunity to do this.
Over two weeks I fasted every few days. I remember how hard it was to pass up my mom’s homemade cherry pie, but I believed the outcome of my fast would be equal to my faith and sacrifice. I prayed earnestly in our backyard, where I could speak aloud and not be interrupted. At the end of the two-week period, my warts were gone. Every one of them had shrunk away.
When school started a couple of weeks later, I felt a new confidence. This confidence came, in part, from having healed hands that I did not have to hide, but more so from an internal seed that had sprouted to life.
I had gained personal knowledge of a great truth—that I was a daughter of Heavenly Father, the true and living God. I knew that He loved me and that He heard and answered my prayers. Just as the man in the scriptures, the works of God had been made manifest in me, on a physical and a spiritual level.
A few years later, when I was a senior in high school, my philosophy teacher asked each of us to justify our belief in God. He asked us to “prove” God’s existence. I shared this experience with my class and testified not only of God’s existence but of His love for us. After the bell rang, my teacher pulled me aside and asked me to consider that perhaps it was the power of positive thinking, rather than God, that had caused my warts to disappear. I did not hesitate in my response to him that I knew of a surety the source of this miracle.
Perhaps someday I too will be allowed the blessing of kneeling before my Healer and proclaiming, “Lord, I believe.”

Jonathan had his own motivations when he took lessons from the Heaps. “At first I wasn’t really keen on the idea,” he says. “Ever since I was young, I wanted to play the piano, but Marvin was always a better piano player than me. So when I was younger, I kind of gave up.”
Marvin and Jonathan are best friends, so they have a healthy rivalry in a lot of the things they do. When Marvin saw that Jonathan wasn’t too excited about taking lessons from Elder and Sister Heap, Marvin challenged him to do better. “I said, ‘Let’s see if you can catch up to me. I want to see how good you can get and how much you can practice.’”
Jonathan responded to Marvin’s challenge. “I realized I should just give it a try, and after the first time I tried, everything turned out OK. I got into the habit of playing, and I started to get good at the piano. And now I can sight-read music pretty well.”
Although Marvin’s challenge got him going, Jonathan says the real reason he loves to play has nothing to do with competition. “We feel the Spirit when playing these songs,” he explains. “I want to encourage others to learn how to play the piano, to bring music into everyone’s life, and to make people happy so they can feel joy and comfort in their souls.”

During one of the recent tours of Elder and Sister Wong at the Cabanatuan Philippines Mission, stake and district presidents were challenged to work with the missionaries on a special ministering method. Members and leaders who had the resources but lacked the time to visit their assigned families were asked to share the names of the families with the full-time missionaries. The members prepared food items as gifts to express their love for the non-participating members, and the missionaries delivered the food and invited the recipients to come back to Church. The outpouring of love and delicious food strengthened their testimonies and saw a lot of returning members enjoying the fellowship of their wards and branches.