Gospel Story Finder

Bro. Tew: Brothers and Sisters, Aloha. We are humbled and grateful for the opportunity to share some time with you this morning. As I finished my mission and my degree at BYU, I moved into an apartment complex in Murray, Utah and started working as an accountant.
Sis. Tew: As I finished my mission and my degree at Southern Utah University, I moved into that same apartment complex and started teaching first grade. I was assigned a wonderful home teacher. He came very faithfully every month, then he started coming every week, then he came over every day. So I decided to keep him.
Bro. Tew: We were married and began anticipating having a family. After a year we started seeing doctors and after two and a half years we filled out our adoption paperwork with LDS Family Services.
Sis. Tew: After five years, we were given a wonderful gift, our first daughter Jessica. I finally got to be a Mom. Now we have four adopted children, ranging from ages two to twelve.

After holding these home evenings for several months, my wife and I decided to experiment with an unusual activity. One evening we asked our young friends to express the meaning of family home evening in their lives. We provided crayons, paper, scissors, pencils, clay, toys, and other items, and encouraged them to choose whatever media seemed most appropriate. We then turned them loose for approximately forty-five minutes.
What followed was a very enjoyable evening, full of laughter, fond memories, and serious personal reflections. Everyone took a turn reading a poem, showing a picture, describing a drawing, or just talking to a safe audience.
There were two young adults, however, who were very different from the rest. One, a loud, boisterous, rather unpleasant young man whom nobody really liked, wrote a poem, a very sensitive poem, couched in mathematical terminology. Nobody understood it but himself. But we knew that we had provided him with a forum to freely express himself, and we encouraged him to do so. As a result, he felt safe and comfortable. We found out months later that that evening had very possibly been a turning point in preventing his suicide. He had been extremely depressed, and that experience was the first evidence he had found that life was worth living. We learned of those feelings when he called us long-distance from Turkey to say “thank you.” Somehow that made a lot of sacrifice worthwhile.

I sat down and wrote the first few verses and laughed. And then I thought about Eric when he was six.
“Eric’s got a girl friend! Eric’s got a girl friend!” I remembered how Brad teased as he and Eric came home from school.
Eric was silent. I couldn’t detect a smile, a frown, anything on his cherubic face. He just ignored Brad totally and asked, “Can we eat breakfast sooner tomorrow, Mom? I want to go to school early.”
“Yes,” I answered. I was surprised at his coolness. “Yes, of course. Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No.” He shook his head, smiled, and walked out the back door to play.
“See. I told you!” Brad confirmed.
I’m not a nosy mother—well, only a little nosy. I wanted to know why Eric went to school 15 minutes early and came home 15 minutes late for a week. But he volunteered nothing.
On Tuesday I had to return library books. I decided to go at 1:50 so I would be driving by the school at 2:20 when school was out.
I was late and had to drive almost home before I saw Eric. He was with a girl. From the back I could see she had long, blonde hair and a pretty dress. But something was different. She didn’t raise her left leg far from the sidewalk, and as I passed I could see her left arm was limp. Eric saw me. He grinned widely and waved. As I smiled back my eyes surveyed a beautiful little girl with an enchanting smile and blue eyes.
At dinner I decided it was time to be open about the whole thing. I wanted Eric to know it was acceptable to have lots of friends in the first grade—even if one was a girl.
“I saw your friend today, Eric. She’s pretty.”
“She’s nice,” he added.
“So that’s the reason you go to school early?” his father asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, tell me about her. What’s her name? What does she took like?”
“Her name’s Jena. And she looks like … like … uh … like a girl.”
The family laughed. “She’s very pretty.” I explained. “She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and a warm smile.”
“What’s wrong with her leg?” Brad asked innocently.
Eric bristled and raised his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with her leg.”
“Brad wasn’t being mean, Eric. She does have a problem with her leg and arm. She has cerebral palsy, Eric. That doesn’t change her being pretty or nice.” I taught physically handicapped children and accepted the fact that everyone has limitations of some kind.
In early December I got a phone call.
“Is this Eric’s mother?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“This is Mrs. Hamilton. I’m Jena Hamilton’s mother.”
“Oh, yes. Hello!”
“I called because I wondered if you were aware of what Eric has been doing for us—I mean for Jena—but really it affects all of us.”
I was puzzled. “No, I suppose I don’t,” I replied honestly.
“Do you know Jena?”
“I saw her going home from school. She’s a very pretty girl.”
“Then you know she has a problem with her leg and arm. She has cerebral palsy.”
“I see.”
“When we moved here last summer and I went to register her, the school said they wouldn’t accept her. Her learning isn’t impaired. It’s just a motor involvement, but they insisted the other children would taunt her until we would be sorry. They asked me to enroll her in a special school, but I insisted they let her try here. They were skeptical, but I was quite firm in my decision.”
“I understand your feelings.”
“When school started, it was just like they said. Some of the children wouldn’t stop yelling names and making fun of her. And no one would play with her. After the first week and a half of school, with her coming home in tears every day. Then a little miracle happened—Eric!”
“Eric?”
“He decided enough was enough. He asked Jena if he could play with her at recess. The boys laughed at him and called him names too. But he ignored them.”
“That’s not my Eric,” I thought.
“He walked home with Jena to the accompaniment of jeers. From that day on he has walked her to school, played with her at recess, and walked home with her. The third week of school some boys started throwing rocks at Jena. Eric challenged them to a ferocious fight if they didn’t stop.”
That’s my Eric. He was two inches shorter than anybody, but he was never afraid of a fight if it was necessary.
“I guess he said it so firmly they decided to leave her alone. Jena is doing so well now. Other children are playing with her, and no one seems to be paying attention to her problem.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“There’s more,” she continued. “Yesterday I stopped Eric out in front—I was so happy how things are going—and I said, ‘You’re such a nice boy! How did you ever get to be such a nice boy!’ It was a comment, not a question of course, but he spoke right up and said, ‘Our church teaches all the boys to be nice boys.’”
“Well, I was so surprised, I said, ‘And what church do you belong to, Eric?’
“And he said, ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, sometimes called the Mormon church. Would you like to have the missionaries?’ He’s quite a boy!”
Well, do you want the missionaries? I was hoping my voice would say. But it didn’t. “Yes, I guess he is. I really appreciate your calling me.”
Jena Hamilton didn’t need Eric much after that. They were friends, but he went back to playing with the boys and calling all girls “dumb.” In a year or so Jena moved, and we moved.
I looked down at the birthday card I was making. I decided not to write a verse about Eric when he was six. It was too special.

I received my New Era subscription last year from a roommate at a dance camp. Each issue served to prod me to learn more about the LDS church and was also a reminder of a friend who had such strong faith in herself and her religion. In every issue of the New Era I have found either an answer to a question or else some other fact I didn’t know about the Church. I was baptized into the Church at the end of last summer and want to thank you for a publication that helped me so much. After being a member of two other faiths, I have found great joy in belonging to His Church and knowing the true and full gospel.
Cindy OvermanAlbuquerque, New Mexico

The dorm was quiet Saturday night because nearly everyone except Carol was on a date. She studied until 10:30 and went to bed.
A little past midnight the overhead light flashed on, and her roommate Natalie bounced in and gleefully announced her engagement to David. For the next 15 minutes she sat on Carol’s bed and gave a complete playback.
Finally she stopped, looked seriously at Carol, and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. How must you feel listening to me go on and on?”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s not fair that I’m a junior and engaged and you’re a senior with no prospects. You must hate me.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“How can you be? This is your last semester. If you don’t find anyone now, what’ll become of you?”
“Don’t worry,” Carol said nonchalantly.
“You’re so brave,” Natalie said, “but don’t worry. Now that I’m engaged, I’ll devote my efforts to helping you find someone. Now don’t fall asleep because while I brush my teeth I’m going to plan it all out.”
As soon as she left, Carol’s smile vanished. What would she do if nobody ever asked her to get married? She never used to think about it, but lately it kept surfacing, like some Loch Ness monster in her mind.
A minute later, smelling of toothpaste, Natalie returned. “I’ve got it all figured out. You can date David’s roommate—his name is Tom. He’s a senior too, so he must be as desperate as you.”
Natalie spent the next few days coaching Carol, teaching her stock phrases designed to boost a guy’s ego. Carol didn’t find it strange that Natalie believed they were necessary to impress a guy, but what did surprise her was that for the first time in her life, she was trying to fit someone else’s mold, because she very much wanted to find a husband.
David and Tom were invited for supper on Saturday evening. Carol hoped that Tom would not be too much like David, who never seemed completely human to her. She could imagine that he was a cleverly made robot, and that someone plugged him in at night to recharge his battery pack. Also there was his smell—the aroma of the chemistry lab always permeated his clothes.
At least Tom was not a chemistry major, Carol thought. He was a civil engineering student specializing in concrete, one who had brought fame to the school by designing and building a concrete canoe which actually floated and had won a race against other colleges.
By the time Saturday night arrived, Carol was wearing Natalie’s dress, sporting her hair style, and mouthing the guaranteed phrases.
Finally the time arrived and so did David and Tom. Carol’s first reaction to meeting Tom was to inhale sharply, trying to find out if the rancid smell coming from the pair was from David or Tom. Was it nitric acid or sulfur dioxide, she wondered, trying to remember back to her high school chemistry class.
“Well, let’s get acquainted, shall we?” David said heartily, attempting to be warm and human. “Carol, I keep forgetting—what’s your major?”
“Music education,” she said, repeating the answer to the question David asked each time he came to pick up Natalie. It was his version of conversation.
“Oh sure,” he said with a superior grin. “You came to college to learn how to sing songs and play games—right?”
“Actually,” Carol said, fighting to maintain her pleasant smile, which Natalie stressed was a necessity for the evening, “it’s a difficult discipline.”
“Oh sure. I bet you have to learn how to use the pitch pipe, don’t you?” David said, laughing at his little joke.
Tom turned to her and said, “I’m sure there must be more to it than just singing songs.”
She liked him for rescuing her from David’s superiority complex. She leaned toward him and took a whiff. He was not the one who smelled like rotten eggs. It must be David.
“Yes, there is,” she said.
“Would you like to tell me about it?” Tom asked.
“Oh, there’s not much to tell. Besides, I’m dying to hear about your concrete canoe. I heard about you winning the race against the other schools.”
“Well, it floated. That’s one of the most important things you want in a canoe.”
“And you built it yourself?” she said, gushing the way Natalie had taught her.
“It wasn’t that hard.”
“Oh, I could never do anything as complicated as that. You must be so smart.”
Natalie winked at her to tell her she was doing well with Tom, and then she left to borrow something from another apartment. David sat down and played with his $700 programmable calculator.
A few minutes later Tom again asked about her major, and she offered to show him what she was doing that semester. She went to her room and returned with a tuba mouthpiece.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked.
“Brass workshop,” she said.
His eyes widened in astonishment. “You made that in a brass workshop?”
“No,” she laughed, “a brass instrument workshop. I have to learn to play every instrument, and right now it’s the tuba.”
She showed him how to hold his lips for the mouthpiece.
“I’ve always wanted to play the tuba,” he said.
“I brought it home for the weekend. If you want, I’ll bring it out for you to try.”
In a minute she was back from her room with the tuba.
“Play me a song first,” he said.
“This will be ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’,” she said, preparing to play. With some difficulty, she made it through.
“When I hear that song on the tuba,” he said, “I picture a two-ton lamb who roams the fields scaring the socks off the local coyotes.”
He’s got a sense of humor, she thought approvingly.
Just then Natalie returned, took one look at the tuba, and said icily, “Carol, could I have a word with you in private?”
They went to their room.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked. “Do you think a guy will fall in love with a girl tuba player?”
“He seems interested in it.”
“Oh sure, he’ll say he’s interested, and he’ll let you make a fool of yourself, but let me tell you, when it comes to taking a girl home to meet his parents, it won’t be the girl with the tuba. No sir!”
“Why not?”
“Tubas aren’t feminine! You can play the piano or the violin or the clarinet for him, but the girl who plays the tuba will never marry.”
If there had been anyone else waiting in the kitchen, she might have argued with Natalie about the tuba, but she felt a deepening interest in Tom, and in the worst way didn’t want to harm her chances.
“What should I do?” Carol asked.
“I’ll get David to put the tuba away. Here, you put on this crocheted shawl of mine and go in there and imply you made it.”
“Imply?”
“Just go in and ask him how he likes your homemade shawl. Say to him, ‘Alhm made this shawl.’”
“I don’t want to lie.”
“It’s not lying. There’s a lady down the street, her last name is Alhm, and she made it, so you can tell him that Alhm made this shawl.”
A few minutes later Natalie coached Carol in the kitchen with the shawl.
“Are you cold?” Tom asked, looking at the shawl.
Carol wasn’t sure what she should answer so she looked at Natalie who nodded her head. “Yes, a little.” Then her conscience got the best of her. “No, not really.”
“It’s pretty.”
Natalie looked sharply at Carol and waited.
Finally she did it. “Alhm made this shawl,” she whispered.
“I can’t hear you. What did you say?”
“Alhm made this shawl.”
“Really? You made it?”
She looked down at the floor and knew she was blushing, and then shook her head and said, “No, not me, a Sister Alhm made it. I don’t know anything about crocheting.”
Natalie cleared her throat and asked to see Carol again. They both returned to their room.
“Why can’t you just do what I say? Then he’d fall for you. Don’t you like him?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then just do what I say.”
“I’ve never lied like that. It makes me nervous. And I don’t like the idea of putting up a phony image.”
“Everyone does it—it’s a part of life to hide things from others. Listen to me. I can make him fall in love with you if you’ll just cooperate. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, but who would he love?”
“He’d love you.”
“Which me—the real me or the phony one?”
“What does it matter as long as he asks you to marry him? Okay, we’ll forget the shawl, and I won’t ask you to lie. I’ll go in and ask you to drain the spaghetti, and David and I will leave to borrow some dessert goblets. You say to him, ‘Tom, this pot of spaghetti is so heavy. You’re so strong. Could I get you to lift it from the stove and help drain it?’ And after he does it, you tell him how wonderful he is.”
“I’ve drained spaghetti by myself since I was ten years old,” Carol said quietly.
“I know, but men need to feel strong and masculine, especially these days when they’ve been replaced by electricity. Besides, what’s the harm? Men are supposed to be strong, aren’t they?”
A few minutes later Tom lifted the large pot off the stove onto the counter next to the sink.
“You’re so strong,” Carol said, nearly choking at the words. She dumped several pitchers of cold water on the noodles to rinse them out, and then asked him to tip the pot so the water would run out.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“A little more.”
He tipped it too much, causing the noodles to rush into the kitchen sink, at the same time spilling water all over their shoes.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it. Just think of the mess I would’ve made if I’d tried to do it myself.”
She went to her room, found another pair of shoes for herself, and decided the only thing she had that he could wear was her ancient slippers with the bunny face on each toe. They were well worn with all but one of the button eyes missing and one bunny ear gone.
“Golly, look at them,” he laughed as she brought him the slippers.
“I got ’em as a joke my first semester here. I’ve worn them for nearly four years now.”
“Poor bunny rabbit,” he said, looking at the one eye on one of the slippers. “Do you ever write imaginary talks?” he said. “Brothers and Sisters, each of us in life is given a new pair of bunny slippers. But what do we do with them? For some of us, the little ears have come off, and we haven’t got around to sewing them back on. Brothers and Sisters, what have you done with life’s bunny rabbit slippers?”
She smiled and told him he was clever. She wanted to say more but was afraid it might be the wrong thing.
They had left the water on to let the spaghetti rinse itself out, and soon heard the water overflowing onto the floor.
Tom turned the water off and scooped the noodles out and plopped them back in the pot. The entire drain pipe was crammed shut with noodles.
Just then David and Natalie returned with the dessert goblets.
“Why are you both looking down the drain?” David asked.
“It’s clogged,” Tom said.
“Let me take a look,” David said, scooting Tom and Carol out of his way. After carefully examining the situation for a while, he summed it up, “There’s noodles in your drain pipe. That’s your problem.”
Carol backed away from David. Maybe it was hydrochloric acid she was smelling.
“Somebody forgot to put the stopper in the drain,” David said ominously.
“I always put the stopper in the drain,” Natalie said self-righteously.
“Well, somebody forgot,” David said. “If the stopper had been where it belongs, the drain pipe wouldn’t now be full of noodles.”
Natalie and David looked with silent accusation toward Carol.
Tom took a large knife and stuck it down the drain pipe, trying to cut the noodles into little pieces.
“No, no, that’s not the way!” David barked. “If we’re going to do a job, then let’s do it properly. We’ve first got to remove the trap down below. Let me show you.”
With a flair for the dramatic, David opened the cupboard below the sink and pointed. “You see that bend in the drain pipe there? That’s what we call the trap. Do you see it there, Natalie?”
“Oh yes,” she said, “there it is. Oh, David, you’re so smart. How did you ever know about that? I’ve never noticed it before. So that’s the trap.”
“I’ve got a pair of pliers in my car,” Tom said.
“No, not pliers,” David said, on his knees looking at the trap. “Pliers would be the very worst thing to use. Let me give you some advice. In plumbing, if you use the wrong tool, you can harm your threads. Do you know how many people end up buying new fixtures because they’ve harmed their threads?”
Carol wanted to put her hand on Tom’s arm and tell him she didn’t care about plumbing threads, but she didn’t say anything. Natalie hadn’t coached her about what to say when the drain is clogged.
“You know,” David continued, “it’s a good thing I always carry a set of tools in my car. Natalie, will you take this key, go out to the car, open the trunk, and bring me a pipe wrench?”
“I can get it for you,” Tom offered.
“No, no. Natalie and I are a team, aren’t we, dear?”
“With you telling me what to do, we are.”
“While you’re doing that, I’ll clear away this junk down below so we can get to the trap.”
“You’re so smart,” Natalie said before leaving.
A minute later she returned with the wrench.
David, whose head was in the cupboard, pushed himself out, took one look at the wrench and scowled. “No, dear,” he said, his voice grating, “this is a crescent wrench and I asked for a pipe wrench. Can you go out again and get me a pipe wrench?”
Natalie smiled faintly and looked as if she were going to cry.
“Now what’s wrong?”
“I left the keys in the trunk.”
David sat up on the floor and stared at her. “Why would you do a dumb thing like that?”
“I had to go through the entire tool chest, and I must’ve set the keys down while I was looking.”
“You left the keys in the trunk and then closed it?”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Sorry isn’t going to open the trunk, is it? Without the keys, how am I going to get back to the lab and check my experiment? Well, we’ll just have to get the keys, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry,” Natalie pleaded.
“I have to watch you all the time, don’t I?”
That’s when Carol realized that if you play the role of being less than you are, then before long people will treat you that way. Suddenly she didn’t want to play the games Natalie had set for her, even if it meant that Tom was turned off by it, because she realized that she was important and if she didn’t treat herself with respect, nobody else would.
From now on, I’m going to be me, she thought. And if that turns the guy off, then that’s tough.
Natalie started to sniffle. “I’ve ruined the whole evening, haven’t I?”
“Maybe next time you’ll remember to make sure you have the keys with you when you close the trunk,” David continued.
“Yes, dear, I will.”
“Well, it’s water under the bridge, isn’t it? We’ll have to take out the back seat, crawl in through there, get the keys, and fix the drain. We might as well get going.”
“I don’t think I want to go out and watch,” Carol said.
“Aren’t you going to help us?” David said.
“I don’t think so. We’ll just stand around watching you do everything, and I don’t want to do that.”
She realized that Tom was looking at her with a bewildered expression on his face.
“The least you can do is come out and show some interest,” Natalie said. “It’s your fault the drain was clogged anyway. The least you can do is show appreciation to David for making things right.”
“Maybe David will need some help,” Tom said, trying to smooth things over.
“All right,” she said, walking over to the tuba.
“I hope you aren’t planning on taking that outside,” Natalie said.
“I am,” she answered.
“You’ll never get married,” Natalie whispered as she marched past her. Carol followed after her playing “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
To watch David giving a detailed description of everything he was doing one would have thought he was the first man on the moon.
Tom and Carol sat on the hood of the car and traded off playing the tuba. Every few minutes, Natalie would look up from her reverential attention to David’s work and give them a withering glance because they were not paying sufficient homage to his efforts.
After David had retrieved the keys, fixed the drain, and cleaned out the trap, he decided to return to the lab to check on his experiment. Natalie left with him.
Carol and Tom sat in the kitchen, talked, and played the tuba.
“You know,” Tom said contentedly, “this is a picture, isn’t it? Me here in these bunny slippers, you playing songs on the tuba. I think I could do this forever.”
“That won’t be possible,” she said, finding enough courage to tease him.
“Why not?”
“Next Wednesday I have to turn in my tuba, and it’ll all come to an end.”
“And then what?” he asked, looking as if he had a little more than tubas on his mind.
She looked at him for a second, smiled, and said, “The trombone.”
“Ah, the trombone,” he repeated with a grin. “One of my favorites.”
Two weeks later, if you had been standing on the shore, you might have marveled at the sight of the handsome couple in a concrete canoe, the guy paddling slowly along the shoreline while the girl happily played a love song on the trombone.
Well, it wasn’t actually a love song. It was “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” But it was played with deep feeling.

The next morning I was up a little before five, tossing bundles of the Herald onto the back seat of the car. During the night the snow had stopped and the world was buried under its wet cottony mass. I glanced down the driveway and wondered if I should take a few minutes to push some of the snow away before pulling out. Blowing on my numb fingertips and stomping the snow from my feet, I shook my head. I didn’t have time, I reasoned. And I was sure I could get out without getting stuck.
The first stop I made was at Sister Rencher’s. With most people I didn’t make the effort to set the paper inside the front door. I just tossed it in the general direction of the porch. But with Sister Rencher I made an exception because it was so hard for her to get around. I snatched a paper off the back seat, stepped from the car, and sprinted for the front steps. I stopped at the end of the walk and stared in disbelief. The front walk and steps were swept completely clean. I glanced at my watch—5:15 A.M. “Boy, somebody’s sure been up early this morning,” I muttered, hurrying up the clean walk and setting the paper inside the storm door. “Maybe Sister Rencher can get around with that walker better than I thought,” I grinned.
“That was quick,” Dad called to me as I burst in from the cold 90 minutes later. He was just putting on his coat and stuffing papers into his briefcase before heading out the door for work.
“There’s a ton of snow out there,” I remarked. “It must have snowed another four inches after we went to bed.”
“I guess you cleaned off the walks and driveway,” Dad joked.
“What did you want me to do, get up at three o’clock?” I grinned back. “I was lucky to get the papers delivered. But somebody was sure up early. Sister Rencher’s walks were clean as spring.”
Dad smiled. “What about Sister Hatch’s and Sister Ballard’s?”
“Dad, I was delivering papers, not home teaching. I don’t go over that way.”

One sister with a large family set a goal to make better use of her husband’s salary through using her imagination and talents. One way she saved money was by sewing her small children’s clothing from remnants which she obtained without charge from fabric stores. Harvest time meant lots of free produce for her family, as they obtained permission to gather fruit that fell from the trees at local orchards and processed it for their home storage.

One time a young man wanted to talk with me about whether he should go on a mission. His girl friend didn't want him to go, suggesting instead that he should wait until after they were married and retired and then go together. She insisted that it would be selfish of him to go without her. In her eyes, such a decision would mean he didn't really love her and she wouldn't wait for him. He thought that he loved the girl and just couldn't decide what he should do. I told him the Lord had already declared through a latter-day prophet that "every young man is as much obligated to go on a mission as he is to pay his tithing, attend his meetings, keep the Sabbath day holy, and keep his life spotless and clean."[4] To build his life on a sure and safe foundation, this young man would need to trust the Lord's judgment, faithfully serve his mission, and ignore any opinion that would persuade him to go contrary to divine counsel. He subsequently told the girl he was determined to follow prophetic counsel and would be going on a mission. He hoped she could support that decision because he would only marry a girl who honored those same commitments.

I had pondered over these verses for years before I had an experience that helped broaden my understanding of the doctrine of Christ and what it meant to speak with the tongue of angels. In October 2016, my 6-year-old son was diagnosed with cancer. While the news was devastating, we always felt optimistic that he would receive the treatment needed to get better. We had no idea how challenging the next 3 ½ years would be for him and our family.

We spent countless hours traveling back and forth to Primary Children’s Hospital for doctors’ appointments and extended hospital stays. My wife and I spent many sleepless nights lying awake staring out the window, and—if we were lucky—we got one of the rooms where we could see the Salt Lake Temple. During those moments, being able to see the temple was a good reminder of where we could turn for comfort and support. Night after night, I poured over the scriptures, pondering them, and asking the Lord all the really difficult questions I had been nervous to ask, thinking I would come across as doubting or less faithful. For example, why were some healed and others were not? Why were some healed quickly in miraculous ways while others suffered for years before they got better? Did the prayers or priesthood blessings I offered for my son make any kind of difference in his treatment?

Toward the end of his treatment, we ended up in the hospital one last time. During this stay, I was very frustrated over what I felt was a mismanagement of his treatment plan that had now caused him an unnecessary prolonged stay in the hospital. To make matters worse, we were only a few days away from celebrating his 10th birthday.

During this stay, there was no view of the temple and night after night, I lay awake staring at the top of a dreary parking garage. Because of my feelings of frustration, I did not feel like praying or reading the scriptures and there was nothing on the top of that parking garage that reminded me of where to turn for help in my time of need. The night before his birthday, I finally gave in and poured my heart out to the Lord. I prayed alone several times and with my son several times. We asked the Lord to help heal my son so the doctors would feel comfortable sending him home tomorrow for his birthday.

Morning came, doctors were making their rounds, and I felt certain they would send us home. Surely if anyone deserved to go home and celebrate their birthday, it was my son. You can probably guess what happened. The doctors said they wanted to keep him one additional night for observation. My son burst into tears and pulled the blankets over his head, and I—not knowing how to console him—decided I would be better off having my parents sit with him while I took a shower and got some rest.

The previous feelings of frustration, anger, and entitlement were gone; instead, I felt humbled as I perceived that this was the Lord’s will. This change in attitude set the stage for me to witness the outpouring of revelation in my son’s life. As I was resting, I had a few distinct thoughts come to mind. If your son is getting better, why does it matter if he goes home today or tomorrow? Be patient and let me show you the bigger picture. As I went back to my son’s room, I saw revelation in action as doctors, nurses, and hospital administrators were bringing in gifts and singing happy birthday. They were all overjoyed as they provided that special experience for my son. This was a life-altering event I will never forget. In that moment, I had another clear impression come into my mind. How could a doctor or nurse use their spiritual gift of healing if no one needed to be healed? How could a hospital administrator, whose spiritual gift is providing comfort, use their gift if they couldn’t plan a surprise birthday party for someone in need?

Later that night when I came back from getting dinner, my son was sitting on the couch with a nurse talking about Nintendo Switch games like they were new best friends. My son looked up at me as I entered the room and said, “Can you believe we have the same birthday? I’m going to try and make tonight really fun for her.” The nurse later shared that she had originally been disappointed about working that night because it was going to be the first time she would celebrate her birthday with her new husband. She was devastated when she got the call to come in because other nurses had called in sick. I truly believe it was no coincidence that a nurse from a different department would randomly be assigned to care for my son that night as they comforted each other on one another’s birthdays. This is the doctrine of Christ in action.

Over the course of several days and many years later, I have come to realize through line upon line, precept upon precept experiences that when we use our spiritual gifts to bless the lives of others, we are receiving revelation from the Holy Ghost to act. This is the doctrine of Christ that helps the Lord accomplish His work, which is the salvation of all His children.

As I think of the consecration of missionaries, I can’t help but think of one of our elders who came into the mission field leaving a terminally ill mother at home, with the anticipation that she probably wouldn’t be there when he completed his mission. This elder loved his mother very much and promised her that he would be a good missionary and complete his mission. Shortly after arriving in the mission field, he fell and broke his foot. Fearing that he might have to return home for it to heal and fearing this might break his promise to his mom, he determined to not tell anybody about it and for two years he limped and hobbled on a foot that required surgery when he did return home. “Take my feet and let them be, swift and beautiful for thee . . . ” That’s a beautiful phrase and I believe it describes why the Prophet, Isaiah, said, “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those that bring glad tidings of good things . . . ”

Grandma was 75 years old when she initiated a “12 days of Christmas” secret Santa project with her Sunday School class of 14-year-olds. “How would you like to do something nice for someone?” she asked. Each person in the class, including Grandma, would secretly take treats to Brother Johnson, who had recently lost his wife. “Sometimes,” Grandma had said, “people may feel alone and need service even if they are not poor.”
Brother Johnson’s house was set far back from the road, and there was a wrought iron fence surrounding the property. On the night of her first turn, Grandma parked down the street and stealthily crept up to the door. She placed the package, rang the bell, and suddenly realized she couldn’t run fast enough to get away. She quickly crouched behind the car and held her breath. Brother Johnson came to the door, picked up the package, and looked around.
He stepped out into the night to get a better look and came up to the car. Grandma slumped down behind the bumper, scarcely breathing. Brother Johnson gave up the search and went back into the house. Grandma was safe this time.
On the night of her second turn, she found the gates locked. Somewhat relieved that she wouldn’t need to crouch behind the car again, she hung the gift on the gate and returned home.
On the night of her third visit, we received a call. “Please,” she said, “would you come and help me deliver my secret Santa gift?” We accepted and started toward the house with the gift. We started to laugh when we saw how challenging this house was to approach.
In church that Sunday, Brother Johnson expressed his gratitude that the gifts had made him feel the love of the ward on his first Christmas alone. Grandma will always be our example of compassion and charity and has taught us that you’re never too old to serve.

In late May of this year, my family and I decided to go for an ATV ride. We drove on a windy dirt path through deep crevices in the roads, over fallen trees and remaining snow that hadn’t melted through the spring thaw. The air was crisp, and we could smell the fresh pine as we rumbled along the mountainside. It was going to be a great day! We hiked down a steep gravel trail and finally arrived at our destination, Pack Saddle Lake.
There we saw a rope swing that others were using to swing out over the crystal-clear 40-degree water, and back to the land. My oldest son gave the rope swing a try, and then my husband tried. They glided gracefully over the lake and safely back to land without any hesitation or problems. My son noticed a log higher up on the hillside that could be used to stand on to get more lift when swinging on the rope. With confidence, I got up on the log and prepared to swing. I was nervous. I was afraid that once I swung out and back to land, I wouldn’t be able to get off the rope. We all talked through the process of how to get off the rope, once returning to dry land.
I was mentally preparing as my husband gave me tips: “Remember your weight training.” Let’s watch this video to see what happened next.
Did you notice my daughter giggle and say, “She’s gonna fall?” As soon as we had cellular service, my son sent this recording to all of his friends. I was soaked, humiliated, critical of myself, and I felt like a failure. One of my sons’ friends responded with a text that said, “Wow! Your mom is so brave!” My thoughts about myself changed from “I am a failure” to “I am brave!” I learned not to put myself down but to see myself in a different light. I chose to laugh, live, and learn that day.
Comparing our lives to others gives us the illusion that they are gliding gracefully through life without any effort or challenges. In contrast, our lives may seem like a big splash of failures. The lessons we each learn will be different. Some of us are suffering silently while others’ sufferings are obvious. What I didn’t realize when my husband and son swung out on the rope was that they rested their feet on the bottom knot of the rope, which helped take much of the weight off their arms. I did not use the knot at the bottom and was relying only on my arm strength, which obviously was limited.

Michelle pushed her hair from her face and quickened her pace into the biting wind. Her shoes tapped lightly on the sidewalk and echoed faintly through the night air. Every now and again a car passed by, but other than that she was alone. Alone … at last. How strange—wasn’t aloneness what she was fighting? No, she thought, aloneness and loneliness are two entirely different things.
Michelle couldn’t help but think of the contrast between this deepening silence and the boisterous laughter that was probably going on in her apartment with her five roommates and their friends all talking at once about their plans for the weekend. She loved visitors, but once in awhile, like tonight, she felt an overwhelming need to be by herself.
Just where was she headed, Michelle wondered? Oh, sure, she had goals. Right now she was an art major, and eventually she wanted to do artwork for a living. She had always enjoyed recreating those things she thought beautiful. But somehow, at this moment, she wasn’t completely satisfied. A deepening sense of isolation and loneliness had been taking hold of her, despite the fact that she was constantly around other people. It was as if she were an outsider, or perhaps a cameraman, watching everyone else laugh and joke with one another, but she herself was unable to take an active part in the fun. And since nobody seemed to notice, she was finding it harder and harder to step outside her own mind into the world next to her.
And she had her long-term goals, too. Yet there were times when she resented the emphasis on marriage that was almost unconsciously a part of every conversation. Perhaps if she were nearer that goal, she wouldn’t be so sensitive about the subject. But as it was, the constant discussion of boyfriends and engagements only served to bring her to a more painful awareness of the fact that she rarely dated. Even going home for spring break was not as exciting as it should be. How was she supposed to explain her lack of social triumphs to her family and old friends?
It wasn’t only that, though. She could have endured the dateless weekends—because after all, she was just a plain, freckle-faced redhead—but it was the friendless weekdays that were getting her down. Of the six in her apartment, she was the only one who never received phone calls or visitors. Janice, the bubbly blond, had a knack for making new friends, so she never had a lack of attention. Bobbi and Kay were members of the ballroom dance team, and their dance partners were with them day in and day out. And Pauline, a curly headed brunette with winning dimples, was active in two singing groups on campus, so she had no trouble in meeting new people. Even Kerri, her best friend and special roommate who was not quite as active and outgoing as the others, still had the warmth of personality that attracted many close companions.
It was hard for her not to feel sorry for herself when the only phone calls she ever got were from either her mother or a ward officer asking her to give a talk or help out in the ward nursery.
Michelle shivered suddenly. Her hair was wet from the snow that had melted on it, and now the wind was beginning to blow again. She decided to turn around and start back. Being alone was getting her nowhere but further along the road to self-pity. She shivered again, but this time it felt as if she had swallowed an ice cube and the cold was coming from the pit of her stomach rather than from the icy wind. A hopelessness even greater than before settled over her, and she leaned forward at a hurried gait to reach the warmth of her apartment.
Finally she was among the old familiar homes and apartment buildings that lined the street she lived on. A glance around told her that it must be late since fewer cars than usual were driving by and lights in many apartments were out. She looked ahead at the white brick complex that was now her second home. Almost half of the 16 apartments looked dark, including her own. She cut across the snow-covered lawn and tried the door. It was locked, but immediately Kerri’s face appeared peeping through the curtains in the living room.
“Where have you been?” she asked, throwing open the door. Her face was covered with her special weekly oatmeal facial and her short, brown hair was half up in rollers. Michelle couldn’t help laughing faintly.
“Just been out walking and thinking. Nothing serious.”
“Oh yeah? Since when is thinking not serious around this place? The truth now. Who were you following? He must have been a real winner to keep you out in a storm like this.”
Michelle closed the door and followed Kerri through the living room down the hall to their bedroom.
“Yes, but I lost him after a few blocks. He just disappeared like all the rest of the men around this campus.”
“Can’t win ’em all. But seriously, Michelle, is anything wrong?” She looked at her through the mirror as she finished her hair.
“Nothing dramatic.”
“All right. Tell me, though, if you need anything.”
Michelle hung up her coat and pulled a towel out of her drawer to dry her hair.
“Is everyone else in bed?”
“Unusual, huh? We ran out of gossip early tonight. Oops, there’s the phone. I’ll get it—maybe it’s my prince charming.”
Michelle sat down on the side of the bed and closed her eyes. Thank goodness she had fun-loving, easy-going Kerri for a friend.
A shout from the other room made her open her eyes.
“Hey, Michelle, it’s for you! And it’s a man!”
Michelle groaned inwardly. What tact! If by some miracle a guy had called to ask her out, he’d have been scared away by now. Who could it be, she wondered? She stepped lightly down the hall to the kitchen and took the receiver from Kerri who winked mischievously.
“Hello …”
“Hello, Michelle?”
“Yes.”
“Michelle, this is Gary Feldman, the ward chairman for service projects. Listen, I know this is late notice, but the girl who was asked to go visit an elderly member lady at the nursing home tomorrow had an emergency, and I heard you were dependable so … well, I was wondering if you would mind going instead?”
“Oh … oh, well I’d be glad to.” Despite her struggle to sound cheerful, she knew her voice had betrayed a little of the disappointment she had felt. She should have known—it hadn’t been her mother so she should have expected the obvious alternative. How could she pretend interest in an old lady when nobody cared a nickel for her?
“Do you or one of your roommates have a car so you can get there all right?”
“Sure. What time shall I be there?”
“As soon as you’re through with classes, if possible. The home is in the center of town and the room is 313. I think the lady is Sister Zwindli. Hey, I really do appreciate this on such short notice.”
“Well, you’re very welcome. Bye now.”
Michelle slowly put down the receiver and sank into a nearby kitchen chair.
“Well, who was it?” came a shout from the next room.
“Only someone calling to ask a favor.”
“How dull and boring!”
“At least it was a phone call.” This time her voice sounded more cheerful than she felt, and an uncontrollable tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away impatiently and got up to go get ready for bed.
Pauline dropped Michelle off at the rest home at 5:00 the next afternoon. The sun had been shining brightly all day, and as she climbed from the car, she was almost blinded by its glaring reflection on the snow that had fallen the night before. The stabbing pain at the back of her eyes made her stop and wait a minute before they adjusted to the brightness. After a moment she looked up to read the “Friendship Gardens” sign above the glass doors of the red brick building.
As she stepped in through the doors, she was almost immediately overcome by the sickeningly sweet odors of medicine and sickness. She tried to calm her nausea as she haltingly walked up to the reception desk. A smiling, robot-type nurse in a starchy white uniform gazed at her through businesslike eyes.
“What can I help you with?”
Suddenly Michelle felt very self-conscious and out of place. After all, what did she have to say to a sick old lady whose entire life probably consisted of watching TV and getting shots to go to sleep? She stared back at the receptionist.
“Well … uh, I … that is, is it all right if I see the lady in 313? I think the name is Zwindli.”
“Mmmmmm. Let me check.” She leafed through her records and brought one out of the pile. “Oh yes. She’s down the hall on your left. Just go right on in.”
Now that she was here, she was frightened. What had they expected of her anyway? She hadn’t had time to make anything for Sister Zwindli, and surely anything she might have to say wouldn’t be of any interest to this lady. She had grabbed her sketchbook on her way out of the apartment as an afterthought, thinking that this woman might enjoy watching her draw, but now she felt unsure of herself. Maybe Sister Zwindli had poor eyesight and didn’t want to do anything but lie in bed and be left alone.
309, 311, and there it was—313. She stepped slowly through the door and looked cautiously around. There was a bed up against the wall in the near left corner. Michelle could see a thin form beneath the white sheets, but as she drew nearer, she could tell that Sister Zwindli was asleep.
Not sure of what to do next, she decided to sit on the chair near the bed and wait a few minutes to see if she would wake up on her own. Michelle let her eyes roam around the room. It was just like a hospital on a smaller scale. White walls, white curtains, white bed covers, a white metal nightstand, and even the gray-white tile floor that is so common in hospitals.
Then she took her first good look at Sister Zwindli. She was lying on her side so her features were clearly visible. On a sudden impulse Michelle got out her sketchbook and began to draw a rough outline of Sister Zwindli’s face. It was a thin face and looked taut and drawn, despite the fact that it was deeply lined above the brows and beneath the eyes as if she had suffered through many trials. Her wispy, gray hair looked like curls of smoke that might disappear at any moment. It gathered softly above her delicately high forehead and down around the temples and back to the ears. Her eyes were widely set above a thin, yet beautifully proportioned nose. Tiny creases radiated from the corners of the eyes, telling Michelle that in spite of her suffering, she had smiled often enough to leave the traces. In her mind Michelle imagined that Sister Zwindli had once been very vivacious, with delicate features set in a peaches-and-cream complexion to add to her dainty build and warm personality. But now sickness and pain had yellowed that skin and set down its story in the wrinkled brow that seemed too much for the weary eyes to bear.
Just as she was about to sketch in the mouth and begin the shading, a nurse walked in. This one did not look as inhuman as the one out at the desk. She was in her mid-50s and had a warm, congenial glow about her. As she caught sight of Michelle, she slowed and smiled gradually as if she were remembering something.
“You wouldn’t happen to be here on a service project, would you?”
“Why, yes I am.” She wondered vaguely how this nurse knew because she hadn’t mentioned that to the receptionist.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re finally here. You see, I was the one who called and asked to have someone take time out to come and see her once in a while. I knew Miss Zwindli was a Mormon, so I just called her church. But I’m afraid now just happens to be a bad time. She was in a great deal of pain earlier, so we had to give her a pain shot, and now she won’t be awake for at least another hour or so.”
“Would it be better for me to come another day?” She felt let down, for after having studied Sister Zwindli’s face, she had imagined she had recognized a sort of strength there—something she wanted to know more about.
“If you like—but it upsets me that she missed you because after I told her that she might be getting company, she talked of nothing else. Poor dear, she never has visitors other than the doctors and nurses.”
A guilty feeling swept through Michelle. Here was someone who truly had no one. She at least had a family and five wonderful roommates; and she had been feeling sorry for herself.
“Doesn’t she have any brothers or sisters?”
“Oh, I have heard her mention an older brother and two younger sisters. But they’re all back in Switzerland. You see Miss Zwindli joined the Mormon church when she was about 14, and consequently her parents disowned her, so she came over alone to America. An uncle from Boston paid her way and met her when she arrived in New York. But for some reason or other he tried to dissuade her from continuing in her church. Said he’d even pay for a college education in music and vocal lessons, which was what she had always wanted, but she refused, so he disowned her, too.”
“How did she manage all alone?” Michelle found herself wishing that she had been there to befriend that little girl who had been so brave and yet probably so frightened.
“She said she took whatever work was available at the time—housework or factory work. It took her a whole year to scrape together enough money to ride the train from Boston to Salt Lake—course that was back in 1920.
“After she got there, it was like a dream come true, being with people who believed as she did. From what she’s told me, it seems like she had a good life there—working, teaching in her church, singing in choirs.”
“Why didn’t she ever marry? She looks like she was once a very beautiful lady.”
“Oh, she had opportunities, but she never found the one she wanted to marry. That didn’t stop her, though. She kept right on working and serving.”
“Why is she here now?”
“She came to Boston a few months ago hoping she could locate some of her cousins. Seems they’ve all moved away. Then she got sick. Her doctor brought her in after he discovered she had stomach cancer. She’s been here now for a month, but the doctor didn’t expect her to last more than a few weeks. She was so resigned and accepting that it just about broke my heart. She never complains but instead is always going around in her wheelchair seeing if there is anything she can do for anyone else. She hardly has strength to do anything for herself.
“But for the last week she’s been unable to get out of bed. I’m glad you made an effort to come talk to her. She’ll appreciate the thought.”
Michelle looked over at the tired, worn face with the sunken eyes. She felt as if she had known this woman for a long time, although she had not even spoken to her. She couldn’t force herself to leave immediately, and as she gazed on silently, the nurse left the room to go help another patient who was crying out down the hall.
Tears burned in her eyes as she contemplated the great loneliness and suffering that this unselfish lady had lived through. She looked down at the drawing in her lap and realized how little of the inner struggle that must have taken place was evident in that sketch. She closed the pad and got up to leave, but as she glanced over once again at the bed, she saw that those sunken eyes were looking up questioningly at her.
“Oh, Sister Zwindli, I’m so glad that you’re awake. You don’t know me, but my name is Michelle. I know this may sound unusual, but I came over to visit with you because I needed a friend. I think God led me to you.”
The deep brown eyes widened and then seemed to take on a new depth of understanding. Suddenly she was crying, the tears streaming down her lined face.
“My dear child. He sent you just in time. We both need a friend.”
She took a thin, veiny hand from beneath the blankets and reached for Michelle’s. For half an hour Michelle did nothing but sit by the bed and hold that hand. Her heart was still heavy, but the despondency that had so long been there was gone. Finally she laid the hand gently on the edge of the bed.
“I’ll be back,” she whispered, “I’ll be back soon.”

When the Book of Mormon was published, Martin Harris was nearly 47 years of age, more than 20 years older than Joseph Smith and the other two witnesses. He was a prosperous and respected citizen of Palmyra, New York. He owned a farm of over 240 acres, large for the time and place. He was an honored veteran of two battles in the War of 1812. His fellow citizens entrusted him with many elective offices and responsibilities in the community. He was universally respected for his industry and integrity. Assessments by contemporaries described him as “an industrious, hard-working farmer, shrewd in his business calculations, frugal in his habits,” and “strictly upright in his business dealings” (quoted in Richard Lloyd Anderson, Investigating the Book of Mormon Witnesses [1981], 96–97, 98).
This prosperous and upright older man befriended the young and penniless Joseph Smith, giving him the $50 that permitted him to pay his debts in Palmyra and locate in northeastern Pennsylvania, about 150 miles away. There, in April 1828, Joseph Smith began his first persistent translation of the Book of Mormon. He dictated, and Martin Harris wrote until there were 116 pages of manuscript.
Martin’s persistent requests to show this manuscript to his family wearied Joseph into letting him take it to Palmyra, where its pages were stolen from him, lost, and probably burned. For this the Lord rebuked Martin and Joseph. Joseph had his gift of translation suspended for a season, and Martin was rebuked as “a wicked man” who had “set at naught the counsels of God, and … broken the most sacred promises which were made before God” (D&C 3:12–13; see also D&C 10). Fortunately, both Joseph and Martin were later forgiven by the Lord, and the work of translation resumed with other scribes. We obviously honor Joseph for his magnificent ministry, but Martin’s subsequent faithfulness continues under a shadow from which this important man should be rescued.

The Nagoya Saints held their first Sunday School meeting in January 1950. To attract more people, Toshiko and the missionaries placed flyers in a local newspaper. The next Sunday, 150 people showed up at the lecture hall. Latter-day Saint meetings often drew crowds in post-war Japan as many people sought hope and meaning after the trauma they had experienced.1 But for most, interest in the Church was temporary, especially as the country grew more economically stable. As fewer people felt a need to turn to faith, attendance at the meetings declined.2

For years, Aarika’s grandparents Raymond and Marilyn Perez supported Aarika and her brother, Aaron, as they went to church. But becoming members themselves wasn’t in the Perez’s plans. “I’m not going to become a Mormon,” Marilyn would tell her granddaughter. And the granddaughter would just smile because she had other ideas.
When Aaron left as a missionary to the Chile Santiago South Mission, Aarika began inviting her grandparents to church, and the Perezes accepted the invitations. Meanwhile Aaron wrote them letters from the mission field.
“And when Aaron got home from his mission, things got more and more serious about the Church,” Aarika recalls. Not long after that, what they said wouldn’t happen did. Raymond and Marilyn were baptized in December 1999.

It was only two days before the junior prom, and all the junior class was looking forward to one of the great events in the life of a high school girl.
To make it an even more memorable experience, the senior boys had drawn up a list of all the girls in the junior class. They made it their duty to be sure that each girl had a date. It was a wonderful gesture, and because of them, every girl in the junior class had a date. Everyone but me, that is.
Somehow I had been overlooked. The knowledge of that only added to my embarrassment, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone, not even my closest friends. I felt sure I would be able to live through this and simply hide away in my room for the night eating peanut butter cups. Everyone would be too caught up in the spectacular evening to realize I wasn’t there.
But that plan was also not to be my fate. I was reminded that the junior girls on the drill team were required to perform the "Couples Dance" after the introduction of class members. I would have to go to the prom without an escort, perform the dance, and leave by myself. Everyone in the world would know that I didn’t have a date to that all-important dance.
Two nights before the prom I locked myself in my room to perform the peanut butter cup ritual that I had earlier envisioned would take place on the night of the prom. I lit a solemn candle as a reminder that I alone carried this humiliating burden. Before I could take the first pitiful bite of candy, the tears were already racing down my face. What a lonely, sad creature I was. What a terrible day to remember and someday explain to my grandchildren, "Oh yes, the junior prom is a night I will never forget." I pictured myself quickly changing the subject with them so they wouldn’t know what a reject their old granny had been.
But as I sobbed in the middle of the greatest agony I had experienced in my young life, a wonderful, warm feeling of peace and love engulfed me. There were no words spoken to my mind, but suddenly I had full knowledge that I was not alone. My Savior was aware of my sorrow, very much aware. He had not forsaken me even when the outcome was not essential to my salvation. He cared enough for me to let me know He shared in my pain.
What a spectacular knowledge this was. Suddenly, my memories of the prom would not be as tarnished as I had imagined. One of the greatest truths of my life had been taught to me in a very special, loving way.
After that moment of sadness, everything changed. The next day the error was discovered and quickly rectified. Several boys apologized and insisted that they thought I already had a date. They were very thoughtful and concerned, and soon I had an escort.
The night of the prom was great, but it was nothing compared to what I had just experienced. Even though the decorations were beautiful, my dress was perfect, and I had that all-important date, that night could never compare to the feeling I had when the Spirit bore witness of the great love my Savior has for me. His love never fails, even when our pain is temporary, or even seemingly silly. It wasn’t essential to my salvation to go to the prom, but it is essential to know of the great love the Lord has for each of us. Now I know I’ll be able to truthfully tell my grandchildren that the junior prom was one of the greatest experiences of my life.

During my last sacrament meeting at the MTC, an elder stood who was older than most missionaries. He apologized for his poor English, but hoped that he would be understood. His voice was deep and strong. He told of growing up in Cracow, Poland. He felt uncomfortable attending his family’s church and said that he “instinctively” knew some of its practices were not correct. He stopped going to his church and instead began to study the Bible. As he grew he became increasingly unhappy, and at age 18 asked permission to live in Austria. It was granted, and he left his home to find a life elsewhere. He spent nine very difficult months in a refugee camp near Vienna before going to the American Embassy to seek permission to come to the United States. He arrived and, while living in Massachusetts, was contacted by missionaries from many churches. “They were nice,” he said, “but I could tell they did not know everything I was looking for.” One day, he saw something about the Mormons on TV. Warmed by what he saw, he thought he should learn about them. He arrived at an LDS church and introduced himself. He met the missionaries, heard and accepted the gospel, and at age 25 was serving a mission. “It is a privilege to be here,” he said softly in his deep Polish accent. “I have been looking for a long time.”

A friend recently asked me for a Book of Mormon. When it came time for me to give it to him, I was afraid that it wasn’t a good time for it. As I prepared to give the Book of Mormon to him, a scripture kept coming to my mind: “I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ” (Rom 1:16). I know that “I’m Not Ashamed” (Jan. 1999) is what gave me the strength to follow through. If it wasn’t for this article, I may not have had the courage to introduce the Book of Mormon to him.
Sarah DaviesDouglasville, Georgia

The youth I saw confined to a wheelchair was a startling contrast to the boy I remembered from the year before. I remembered him as a happy, 18-year-old Indian boy whose swift, strong legs had carried him up and down the basketball courts. But that was yesteryear. Today he was in a wheelchair. Today his dark eyes and handsome smile caused me to stand in awe of his youthful courage.
I first met Don a couple of years ago and learned that he was a convert to the Church. His widowed mother lived in a remote section of the Navajo Indian reservation, and he was a participant in the Indian student placement program. His school work was excellent; he played the piano skillfully; and with the same slim, brown fingers he could paint beautiful pictures or strum the guitar in accompaniment to his clear soft voice. Don’s personality was pleasant, his standards were high, his testimony strong. He was soon to graduate from high school, and his plans were to spend a short time with his people on the reservation before returning to live with his foster parents, where he would work preparatory to receiving his expected call to the mission field.
Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a pickup with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he poured out the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor broke this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he made his exit, he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was swarming with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and, when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He devoured the words of this book for three days and two nights, jealous of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with this new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps the lump from my throat.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble petitions to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known good-naturedly as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often lifted his voice in song as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for a hootenanny, and patients joined together with voices raised in song and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name. This new spirit extended into other activities as well.
One of the more dramatic examples was the organizing of a wheelchair olympics.
On the day agreed upon, patients wheeled excitedly from place to place as they marked out a course for the coming events. Wheelchairs were lined up at a starting line, while occupants leaned forward, intently waiting for the starting signal. The signal was given, and they were off in a flurry of wheels and laughter. After a breather and an untangling of wheels, patients were given a chance to challenge another wheelchair. Don looked around, and pointing his finger at one of the chairs, said, “I challenge that chair.”
“Don, you can’t do that,” the astonished attendant replied. “That chair has a motor!”
The competitive young man was undaunted and remained firm; so a course was set and an eager audience waited expectantly for the signal to begin this most unusual race. Soon the signal was given and Don’s hands fairly flew as he propelled his chair toward the finish line. When he had gained full momentum, he ventured a cautious look toward his opponent, only to discover that he was shifting to a higher gear! To complicate matters further, a woven wire fence was stretched a few short feet behind the finish line.
With the heart of a champion, Don ducked his head and gave it everything he had. He crossed the line only inches ahead of his opponent and crashed happily into the wire fence. He was picked up and dusted off amid excited expressions of admiration. He had won!
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to muster up enough courage to direct the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special hootenanny was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song rendered in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had touched the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the winds of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”