Gospel Story Finder

Patrick watched the other boys from his ward laugh together as they hiked the trail. He tried not to frown. They were still ignoring him.
Patrick didn’t understand. Normally, he got along with the other kids in the ward. Especially Brett and Tyson. But two days before the trip, Marcus started telling the other boys that they shouldn’t hang out with Patrick any more. That was all it took. Suddenly nobody would talk to him no matter how hard he tried.
This was going to be the worst camping trip ever.
Tall pine trees grew so close together on both sides of the trail that Patrick could barely see the blue sky above. They were way up in the mountains with no houses anywhere. Even better, they were headed to a lake full of fish. But Patrick didn’t care. What was the fun of going camping with kids who didn’t want to be around him?
“Something wrong?” Dad called. “Normally you’re at the head of the pack.”
Patrick turned around. Dad wasn’t far behind. He was walking with the other adults and using his favorite walking stick. Dad had volunteered to come as one of the leaders.
“No,” Patrick said. “I’m fine. I just … want to walk a little slower today. That’s all.”
Dad glanced up the trail at the rest of the boys. Patrick squirmed. Did Dad realize the other kids didn’t want to be around him?
Dad nodded his head slowly. Then he flashed a big smile and took a few quick steps to catch up to Patrick. “Sounds good to me,” Dad said. “Sometimes I like walking a little slower too. Let’s walk together.” Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out a granola bar. “Hey, how about a snack?”
“My favorite!” Patrick said. “Thanks!”
“Any time, buddy. I think I’ll have one too.”
They walked together for a few minutes without talking, each of them munching on a granola bar.
“Look at that!” Dad pointed up in the trees as they rounded the next bend in the trail. “I think it’s an eagle in its nest.”
Patrick stretched his neck to see. “Wow!”
They started talking about eagles. Dad knew so much about nature. Afterward, Dad kept pointing out other cool things along the trail. He even told Patrick a knock-knock joke he hadn’t heard before. Patrick laughed out loud. Then Patrick told Dad some jokes of his own. Dad chuckled every time.
By the time they got to the lake, Patrick was feeling better. But then his shoulders slumped when he saw the other boys run off to the far side of the lake with their fishing poles. They never even looked in his direction. He wanted to cry.
“You know, Patrick,” Dad said in a quiet voice. “I’m glad we’re here together. I sure love spending time with my special friend.”
Patrick turned away from the other boys and faced his dad. Dad reached down and squeezed his shoulder. “You up for a little fishing?”
Suddenly Patrick didn’t mind so much that it was just the two of them on this side of the lake. He grinned. “Yeah! Let’s try that spot over there!”
Before long Patrick and Dad were laughing and having a great time together. They even caught a few fish, but that wasn’t the luckiest part of the day for Patrick. The luckiest part was having such a great dad as his friend.

If you want your influence to extend beyond the circle of your friends, you may want to prepare a Book of Mormon and then give it to the missionaries to be used wherever it can do the most good. If you wish, you can include a photo of your entire family and make it a family project. The John R. Poulton family of Salt Lake City, Utah, treasures several letters from people who have received the Book of Mormon from them in this way through the missionaries.
Lawrence C. Alamargo of the Philippines wrote to the family: “We received the Book of Mormon you sent, and we have read it already. It inspired the whole family. The Book of Mormon was handed to us by the elders who taught us the gospel of God. We were baptized December 25th, and the gift of the Holy Ghost was the most precious gift we ever received in our lives.”

I have a very good friend who was the chief executive officer and manager of a very large corporation. The call came to him to preside over a mission, and like so many of our wonderful men who have great skills and capabilities and responsibilities, when the call came from the Lord, there was no question. He had thought enough through his life that it was instantaneous in his thought process to accept the call. What was to happen to the business? What was to happen to this great enterprise? Well, situations were worked out, and management was worked out to the best degree. But in three years lots of things can happen to a business when the guiding light is not there to lead on a day to day basis. Ultimately, some of the assets of the company were sold. But toward the end of the mission of this great man, an opportunity arose. Within days after his release, he was back in business with a program far bigger than anything he had before he was called to be a mission president and is presently managing and, I believe, bringing about one of the major corporations to be based in the state of Utah.

Now how did he do that? Well, I suppose by the mistakes he had learned through his life, but most importantly he had learned to think straight so when this second opportunity came up it was easier for him to define, to determine, to make decisions, and to move forward.

I had a friend in my branch of the Church in Russia with whom I socialized at all Church activities. We had a lot in common, I had a lot of fun with him, and I was glad to have such a good friend.
But then something strange happened. For no reason that I could determine, he offended me badly. He did not ask for forgiveness, and I stopped associating with him. I did not even greet him on Sundays. That went on for two months. I was hurt and unhappy, but he said nothing.
Then I found out he was leaving our city. I didn’t think our relationship should stay the way it was; I thought we should reconcile. About then I remembered a scripture from the Book of Mormon: “Go thy way unto thy brother, and first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come unto me with full purpose of heart, and I will receive you” (3 Nephi 12:24).
It was difficult for me to humble myself and take the first step, but I prayed and then called him. I didn’t know what his reaction would be, and I was ready for the worst. What I heard shocked me.
He sincerely asked me for forgiveness, and I could tell by his voice that he had suffered a lot because of his action—just as I had. Most of all, I remember one sentence that he repeated three times: “Natal’ya, thanks for calling!”
I was so happy! He moved a short time later, but we separated the best of friends.
Learning to love and forgive each other is one of our most difficult tasks. Forgiveness—especially when we are not at fault—requires that we be humble and overcome our pride. I learned that taking the first step to forgive and reconcile is worth it.

Eighteen-year-old Annie Smith wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck and looked back across the railroad bridge she had just crossed. It was a beautiful winter day in 1892, a perfect day for their school outing. She and her students had already enjoyed dinner at her house and a sleigh ride. Now, as they carefully made their way across the bridge, Annie paused to watch them. These children from her one-room schoolhouse in Porterville, Utah, were a variety of ages and sizes, with some students even older than she was. It warmed her heart to see the bigger ones helping the smaller ones along the tracks.
As Annie watched, she felt a small hand slip into hers. She looked down into the face of her youngest student, little Hughie. His brown eyes were large with excitement.
“Do we really get to go through the tunnel?” His voice was almost a whisper.
Annie nodded. “I have special permission from the railroad. They assured me that no trains were scheduled for today, so it will be perfectly safe.” She looked at the dark opening in the mountainside ahead. “It’s a long, dark tunnel, Hughie. There are no lights inside, but on the other side is a beautiful view of the rockslide and the valley.”
Hughie gave a little sigh and smiled. Annie’s words had put his fears to rest. Now he tugged anxiously on her arm. “Come on, Teacher. Let’s go see the valley.”
Soon they were all inside the tunnel. It took a while for their eyes to adjust to the darkness after the bright daylight. “Take it slowly,” Annie’s voice echoed in the tunnel. “Keep on the tracks and hold hands so that you don’t trip.”
At first the children were laughing and joking, but they soon grew silent as they concentrated on their footing. The only sound was the grating of their footsteps on gravel and their quiet voices as they guided each other over the railroad ties.
Annie knew they were about halfway through the darkness when she saw a small circle of light ahead marking the other end of the tunnel. “We’re almost there,” she told her students. “See the light ahead?”
As they paused to look, they heard a rumbling noise coming closer and closer, and then a sound that made their blood run chill: a train whistle.
“Teacher?” It was Hughie’s voice. “Did you hear? What—”
Annie hushed him quickly. She stood frozen on the tracks, not daring to believe her ears. But then the whistle sounded again, nearer this time. There was a train rounding the point of the mountain and coming across the bridge. It was coming very fast!
Annie prayed silently for help. Please, Heavenly Father, what should I do? Tell me what to do.
“Teacher?” an older child asked. “Shall we run?”
The tracks were starting to vibrate under their feet.
“No!” The words seemed to spring from her lips of their own accord. “Lie down at once as close to the wall as possible. Don’t move or try to get up until I say that you can. Now, go!”
This last word she had to scream because the sound of the approaching train was loud and unmistakable now. She pulled the nearest child with her to the wall of the tunnel and held him tight. As the train roared into the tunnel, many of the children screamed in terror. Sparks flew from the smokestack in a shower of light, and the smoke almost suffocated them. It seemed to last forever. Annie trembled and tightened her grip on the child, afraid she might lose him in the hot, rushing wind that swept through the tunnel with the train.
When the silence finally returned, she helped the child up and hurried toward the light. She went as swiftly as she could, tripping on stones and bumping into her students, who were also in a panic, crawling to get out of the dark.
Once outside the tunnel, the students helped brush the dirt from each other’s clothing and began to breathe more easily. Then one of the older children asked, “Where’s Hughie?”
Taking some older boys with her, Annie returned to the dark tunnel, afraid of what she might find. The boys ran ahead calling Hughie’s name. Then, “He’s here!” a boy called, relief in his voice. “Lying facedown by the wall.”
“It’s OK, Hughie.” Annie heard another boy comforting him. “The train is gone. You can get up now.”
Hughie turned his face toward them and said in a brave but frightened voice, “Did Teacher say that I could?”
Annie hurried over to him and put her arms around him. “Oh, Hughie,” she said, tears in her eyes. “Thank you for being so obedient. You did the right thing, and you are safe. You can get up now. Teacher says so.”
Hughie got to his feet, and Annie took his hand and led him toward the light. As they walked, Annie silently thanked Heavenly Father for watching over this little boy who had such faith in his teacher. She hoped that she would always live worthy of that trust.
Annie also knew that her trust in Heavenly Father had not been in vain. Her prayer had been answered when she knew what they needed to do to be safe. They had been spared because they had immediately obeyed those promptings. There is safety in obedience. That was a lesson that neither Hughie nor his teacher would ever forget.

Waimate and Heeni Anaru yearned to be part of the first group to travel to the temple. Yet the task seemed impossible because of the family’s poverty and the required cost of 1,200 New Zealand pounds for the trip—a hefty sum. They would need a miracle.
For years, the Anaru family followed the prophet’s counsel and gathered their genealogical records. Those records then sat in stacks while the Anarus waited for a miracle to occur. Their son, Wiwini, knew of his parents’ faith: “Mother never ever despaired that she would [not] someday kneel with Father at a temple altar.”
A miracle did occur. Waimate won a contract from the New Zealand government for a large land-development project. His income from this project provided sufficient cash paid in advance to cover the cost of the trip to Hawaii. Waimate and Heeni overcame their fear of ocean travel and journeyed to Hawaii with a group of 14 Saints in May 1920. They received their endowments and were sealed. The impossible had happened.

At a recent stake conference, I noticed on the front row a family including a girl of ten who has palsy and is deaf. Her father held her so that she would not slide off the bench. Their tenderness touched me deeply. When the meeting ended, I motioned for them to come up to me, for they were holding back. The father turned so that I could see Heidi’s face, which was buried into his shoulder, and he said with a smile, “She’s under there someplace.”
Indeed she is under there someplace. All of them are under there somewhere.

Elaine S. McKay tells the story of this remarkable woman, Aunt Carrie, in the Ensign.
Aunt Carrie would not have expected to be remembered by anyone but her family. She lived quietly in a small Utah community. [In fact, the family home is still standing just down the road from our home.] To anyone outside an area twelve miles square, she was and is a stranger. And yet, there is something familiar about her uncommon courage. She is like our mother, our grandmother, an aunt, a niece or sister. Aunt Carrie represents countless women, unknown and unsung, who patiently do the thing that needs to be done and who in reality accomplish the important work of the world. She reminds us that deeds need not be great to be heroic. . . .
. . . On 26 January 1895 George [Reese Harman] and Caroline were married in the Salt Lake Temple. [Caroline was twenty-two.] During the next fourteen years they bought land, built a home, and became parents of seven children. Happiness grew out of industry, and they sorrowed only at the loss of their eldest child, George Luther, who died when he was four months old. . . .
During irrigation turns, George often worked at night. One evening, wet and chilled, he caught a cold which developed into pleurisy. He died 12 August 1912, and Caroline, at 39, was left with the responsibility of a farm and six children. Her oldest daughter, Annie, was fifteen; the baby, Maurice, had just turned three.
Four months later Caroline’s sorrow deepened as she endured the death of her mother. But Caroline rallied to the responsibilities of life. Each day she arose at 5:00 a.m.—to tend to household duties and to work in the fields and orchards. During the weekly irrigation turns, she would make beds in the wagon, hitch up the horses, and drive with her young sons to the fields to set the water. Three or four times during the night, Caroline would awaken the boys and help them “change” the water. Only during haying season did they hire help. Caroline wanted her family to develop and use its own resources . . . .
During World War I, Caroline’s Relief Society responsibilities multiplied. In 1914, the sisters began meeting one day a week to knit sweaters for soldiers, roll bandages, and prepare other Red Cross supplies to be shipped overseas. In 1917, Caroline became Relief Society president of the Granger Ward.
When the war ended, the deadly flu epidemic followed the soldiers home. Funerals were frequent. The Granger Relief Society made burial clothing, lined caskets, draped the chapel podium in white, cared for the sick, and comforted the bereaved.
David and Grace [her sister and brother-in-law] were both stricken. In January of 1919, Grace gave birth to a son; a few hours later, weakened by the flu, she died. Grieving for her beloved sister, Caroline brought to her own home a six-hour-old baby boy—her sister’s child, but a child whom she would always look upon as her own.
Less than a month after Grace’s death, . . . .in February, her daughter Annie died of the flu, a month before she expected her first child. . . .
When Annie, with her unborn child, died, Caroline’s health broke. Weeks later, she arose from her bed, calm and determined. The doctor diagnosed her illness as sugar diabetes. From that time on, she gave herself three insulin shots daily and carefully weighed her food. It was a private matter; she never spoke of her health. In the years to come, she maintained energy, strength, a cheerful countenance, and an indomitable sense of humor.
Following Grace’s death, David came to Caroline’s home each day to see his baby son, Pete. . . . David’s nine children needed a mother and he, a wife. On 29 October 1919, David and Caroline were married in the Salt Lake Temple. So, seven years after George’s death, Caroline and her five children came to live in the big house on 3600 West and 4100 South.
For many years this house was a central gathering place for neighborhood children who liked teeter-totters, swings made of rubber tires, kick-the-can games, and run-sheepie-run. Like all visitors, the children seldom left without a “bit to eat.” . . .
But at least twice a day the house was quiet. At breakfast and dinner time, all the leaves of the sixteen-foot-square table came out of the closet, the meal was spread, and it was time for family prayer. The huge Harman household tolerated teasing, wrestling, and noise. But quarrels were not permitted. Family members felt a unity that had begun long before David and Caroline married. Caroline honored David as patriarch, supported him as first counselor in the bishopric, and loved him deeply.
In the spring of 1924, an itching rash spread over David’s body. Despite his discomfort, he worked long hours. While dipping sacks of potatoes (or wheat, depending on the account) in a solution to prevent the disease, he noted that the rash on his hands healed. After checking with a doctor, David decided to bathe in the solution. Accounts differ as to what and how much he used, but the result was the solution literally ate him alive. His skin came off on clothing and bed sheets; his tongue and teeth fell out; his internal organs were burned beyond use. After one week, during which David never lost consciousness, he passed away from this world.
David died with great courage and little complaint. Caroline lived in the same manner. At age 51, she was again a widow. She was now responsible for fourteen children, the youngest of whom was five-year-old Pete. She suffered complications from Diabetes. She was also Relief Society president of a ward with 948 members, 22 of whom were widows; and for Caroline, who served in the days before Welfare Services, this meant “mothering” the entire twelve-mile-square ward. Her way was not to ask for help, but to give it. Always someone was being born or someone was dying; someone was ill or unhappy or hungry. Caroline knew what to do about illness, childbirth, and death. And she knew how to find happiness. When others were wild with grief, she was there to make beds, mop floors, fix meals, and sit up through the night with the bereaved to comfort them with her quiet strength. She became known throughout the territory as Aunt Carrie—kind, cheerful, loving, wise.
How did she do it all with her large family? She did it with her large family. Year after year, the Harman sons drove her in a horse and buggy to visit every home in the ward—many times. Her black buggy would go to the houses of those who had “enough and to spare” to gather goods to be shared with those who had little or nothing. The Harman girls frequently cooked and served meals to neighbors in need, and the boys stayed overnight with the aged or afflicted when Aunt Carrie could not be there.
Aunt Carrie was a resourceful manager, and the children learned her ways. They had no money to spend, but the Harmans did not think of themselves as being “poor.” They made bread, butter, cheese, horse radish, corned beef, apple cider, vinegar, and soap. Both sons and daughters farmed the land and cared for their animals, their orchard , and their garden. Every fall they bottled fruit, meat, and tomatoes and buried turnips, parsnips, carrots, and potatoes beneath the sawdust in the basement ice room. The girls sewed their few articles of clothing and kept their home scrubbed and orderly. If their chores were not done before the school bus came, they finished their tasks and walked to school. Aunt Carrie believed that idleness was a sin and taught that selfishness was the seed of misery. Everyone in the family learned to work—and more important, they learned to share.
Within [a few weeks following a third marriage on 11 March 1925, her new husband] Eugene suffered a stroke, and became an invalid. For five years until his death in October 1930, Aunt Carrie prepared his food, helped him bathe and dress, and ministered to his many needs.
In 1929 Aunt Carrie was released as president of the Relief Society. She has served in that organization under three bishops for some eighteen years. . . .
Aunt Carrie devoted much of her time to developing her chicken business. Her chickens had become a symbol of her doctrine of hard work and independence. During the worst of the Great Depression, the well which provided water for the house and chicken coops went dry. Aunt Carrie refused the help of the government programs under which she qualified for a new well; so Pete, Jack, and Jake carried water from across the road. Carrying water for the house was one thing, but quenching the thirst of hundreds of chickens was quite another. Finally, when Aunt Carrie had saved sufficient funds, she had the well repaired.
Years later, when all the children were gone, the pump sometimes failed. During winter time, Aunt Carrie would scoop snow into a big oval “boiler,” melt it on the back of her coal stove, and carry warm water to her flock. . . .
. . . Aunt Carrie expected everything around her to be productive, and she would not have a lazy chicken. A hen who lacked commitment was invited for Sunday dinner . . . .
[As she neared the end of her life, Aunt Carrie said,] “I can face Grace . . . because I know that I did all she would have done if I had been called away and she had stayed. I have no regrets. Of course,” she added quietly, “in some ways all our children could do better. And they will. We taught them right.” . . .
. . . Aunt Carrie, . . . according to her son Leon Weston (Pete) Harman, “had every reason to be waited on. Yet she continually served others. She never complained. She never quit. Aunt Carrie asked for so little, and gave so much.”

So when the Columbia Maryland Stake ad hoc youth committee got together to plan a service project, as the stake Young Men president I was pleased when they decided to try to place the New Era with every young person in the stake.
We organized a pledge drive to solicit contributions of $2.00, $4.00, and $8.00 (an annual subscription is $8.00), making sure to explain what the funds would be used for. Then we contacted ward magazine representatives and used information from the Church Magazines heads of households list to target prospective subscribers.
Based on that information, we allocated a quota of pledges to each ward or branch, based on population. The largest ward was asked to raise enough to pay for 25 subscriptions; the smallest branch was asked to raise enough to pay for three.
There wasn’t a lot of hoopla, although we announced our activity and asked stake members for their support. We coordinated with bishops and branch presidents to make sure we wouldn’t ruffle anyone’s feathers. The bishops also helped us determine which families would have the greatest need for the magazines.
We were able to provide 67 households with subscriptions to the New Era, and we feel this has done a lot to benefit the youth in our stake.

Yes, it’s true—a blind postman! His name was Owen Jones, and he delivered the mail for almost twenty-five years.
Owen was born in 1819 in a little village in Wales. When he was just a small boy, he fell into the fireplace, severely burning his face and losing the sight in one eye. When he was about thirty, he lost the sight in his other eye.
At first, he was discouraged and depressed, but before long, his natural, happy disposition returned. He continued to play the violin, and he worked at developing his talents for mimicking voices and telling stories. He learned to accept his blindness without bitterness, and, like many blind people, he developed his other senses.
When the missionaries came to Wales, he and his family were baptized and decided to go to America. He and his brother and sister arrived in New Orleans in 1849 on the ship Hartley. From there they made their way to Utah. Owen settled in Brigham City, a small community about sixty miles north of Salt Lake City, where there were other Welsh pioneers.
The neighbors found him cheerful, sociable, and friendly. He often did small repairs for them, and he made chair seats of rush (a course grass), cane, and rawhide.
He never had any trouble getting around the little town. He had an excellent sense of direction, counted the steps between fences and trees, and listened to the sounds around him.
When the job of postman became available, someone suggested that “Blind Man Jones,” as he was affectionately called, could do it. He was happy for the opportunity to be useful and to earn a steady paycheck.
He did well at his new job. Each day an associate sorted the mail for him and put it in the proper order in his canvas bag. Then away he went. Carrying a long buggy whip in front of him much like blind people nowadays use a white cane, he made his way around the town, delivering the mail. If he was not sure he had the right letters in his hand, he asked homeowners to check and resort them for him.
Owen took his meals with many of the townspeople; they all enjoyed his company and loved to hear stories about his early life in Wales. He spoke English almost as well as his native Welsh, and he was often called on to translate for immigrants who had not yet learned English.
Many children remembered having him in their homes for meals and parties. Owen loved to be a part of these happy times. Sometimes the carpet was rolled up, and the children danced to his violin music. He particularly enjoyed hearing the children’s laughter as they hopped and skipped to the music.
After one evening of dancing and merriment, the host asked his son to walk Owen home. After a block or so, he said to the boy, “You’d better go back; it must be very dark.”
“But what about you?”
“Oh, I can find my way without any trouble. Remember, the world looks the same to me whether it is night or day!”
The children always watched for him, and they took his hand and walked along with him, especially when he came to a small footbridge over a little creek. He probably would have had no trouble getting across, for the bridge had a railing, but he let the children feel that he really needed their help, and they loved it.
Owen never complained, and he never seemed to feel sorry for himself. He often said, “I would much rather lose my eyesight than my hearing. I can laugh and joke with friends, play the violin, and enjoy the music. I can hear the birds and the rushing streams and the other sounds of the world around me. Those are the things that give me joy!”
Owen Jones died of pneumonia in 1894 and was buried in the Brigham City Cemetery. He never married, but he enjoyed the love and affection of all the townspeople just the same as if he had been part of their families. He was an inspiration to all who knew him because he was willing to make the most of his abilities.
“It is not so bad to lose your sight,” he once said. “After all, what counts is what is in your mind!”
We could all learn a thing or two about living from Owen.

I’ll admit it—I was suddenly scared. I stood at the back of the room as the workshop was about to begin. There were 56 youths and a handful of adults all seating themselves for the workshop. Although everyone seemed to be getting along fine, I couldn’t understand a thing that was going on. They were all deaf. I didn’t know sign language. And I was supposed to interview them. Help!
Sally Todd, director of the BYU Workshop for Deaf Youth, walked in the room and spotted me, looking somewhat forlorn and bewildered. She introduced herself, and we sat down as the workshop was about to start.
I didn’t know what the opening song was or what the exact words of the prayer were, but I began to feel something. The students acted so excited to be there. Whenever a question was asked, hands flew up, waving impatiently. Laughter came easily. There was an excitement for life that made me want to be near them.
I joined. It didn’t take long to join them; I wanted to share in their love for life. I put my pencil and paper down, forgot about interviewing, and decided to just be their friend for a while. When it was time to eat, I planted myself in the middle of the group and tried to communicate. Many could read my lips and some have partial hearing, so it wasn’t too hard. But once in a while, right in the middle of conversations, I would be stumped. So I would motion for them to wait a second, and then run and get an interpreter.
Willingly they aided in my efforts to learn finger spelling and all the simpler signs in just ten minutes. “Oh, that’s a Y. Now what was an S again?” They smiled at my excitement when I learned how to spell my name, say “I care,” “I love you,” and other phrases.
Before long they came up to me, tapped me on the elbow, and just started talking or signing or pantomiming. It was, at times, like a game of charades, but we were communicating! They told me about their dorm activities, the humorous skits they had performed that morning, where they were from, their schools, their majors—just about anything. When I couldn’t understand them, they would tease me about my handicap.
As the afternoon progressed, I forgot that I was supposed to be getting information and quotes for a story. It had slipped my mind. We sat around in a circle in the shade, swishing the flies away from our food, and talked and laughed. Suddenly I looked around and realized that we had become friends.
I learned. This group who sat around me had taught me that although different roads are taken, the goal is the same for all—to be His witnesses.
My world, too, had broadened. Realizing that I would be leaving soon, I felt reluctant to say good-bye. I hate good-byes anyway, and this one was going to be hard; they’d given me a new insight and understanding about a faithful people.
As we knelt in prayer, I watched as solemn faces with innocent eyes gratefully gave thanks.

Another sister said: “Sisterhood has taken on a whole new meaning for me. Several years ago my husband died suddenly, and I felt as if my world had collapsed around me. But just as suddenly, I was surrounded by a wonderful circle of sisters who helped bear my burden. They are always there. Our weekly trips to the temple bring such peace and comfort into my life. I rejoice in this sweet sisterhood.”

Material blessings are a part of the gospel if they are achieved in the proper way and for the right purpose. I am reminded of an experience of President Hugh B. Brown. As a young soldier in World War I, he was visiting an elderly friend in the hospital. This friend was a millionaire several times over who, at the age of eighty, was lying at death’s door. Neither his divorced wife nor any of his five children cared enough to come to the hospital to see him. As President Brown thought of the things his friend “had lost which money could not buy and noted his tragic situation and the depth of his misery,” he asked his friend how he would change the course of his life if he had it to live over again.
The old gentleman, who died a few days later, said: “‘As I think back over life the most important and valuable asset which I might have had but which I lost in the process of accumulating my millions, was the simple faith my mother had in God and in the immortality of the soul.
“‘… You asked me what is the most valuable thing in life. I cannot answer you in better words than those used by the poet.’” He asked President Brown to get a little book out of his briefcase from which he read a poem entitled “I’m an Alien.”
I’m an alien, to the faith my mother taught me.
I’m a stranger to the God that heard my mother when she cried.
I’m an alien to the comfort that, “Now I lay me,” brought me.
To the everlasting arms that held my father when he died.
When the great world came and called me, I deserted all to follow.
Never noting in my blindness I had slipped my hand from His.
Never dreaming in my dazedness that the bubble fame is hollow.
That the wealth of gold is tinsel, as I since have learned it is.
I have spent a lifetime seeking things I spurned when I found them,
I have fought and been rewarded in many a winning cause,
But I’d give it all, fame and fortune and the pleasures that surround them,
If I only had the faith that made my mother what she was.
“That was the dying testimony of a man who was born in the Church but had drifted far from it. That was the brokenhearted cry of a lonely man who could have anything money could buy, but who had lost the most important things of life in order to accumulate this world’s goods” (Continuing the Quest, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1961, pp. 32–35; italics added).

“No way!”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“That’s never going to happen!”
That’s what Andrea, Erick, Kristofer, Suzett, and Yuridia of Provo, Utah, might have said if you had told them they would play the piano for their next Primary sacrament meeting presentation. After all, only one of them had ever played the piano before!
But their Primary pianist, Sister Perry, gave them the challenge—and they were willing to accept it.
Once a week, each child had a piano lesson with Sister Perry, except for one child who already had a teacher. At home they practiced on electric keyboards. Soon they were learning simplified versions of the songs for the sacrament meeting presentation. They also practiced in Primary as other children sang along.
Finally, the big day came. Each child played one or two songs. Were they nervous to play in front of the whole ward? Definitely! But that didn’t stop them.
“I felt really nervous,” Kristofer said, “but I kept having faith.”
Thanks to their faith and hard work, everyone did well that day. And the best thing about it?
“It feels good to be able to help in church,” Andrea said. “It’s a great blessing for me.”
Now the children can play during family home evening, at baptisms, and when their families sing in sacrament meeting. Awesome!

Shortly after Elder Bednar became the President of BYU-Idaho, we spoke at a multi-stake devotional. At the end of my remarks, I expressed love for the students and naively commented, "I wish I could take each of you home with me and feed you ice cream and cookies." Well, the next Monday evening we heard a knock on our door. To our surprise, on the doorstep stood a group of students with ice cream and cookies in hand ready to take me up on my offer. That very night commenced the tradition of Home Evening with the President and his wife that has continued on this campus for more than 18 years.

I must admit that Home Evening was a "jumping out of the boat" experience for me. I expected we would teach a prepared and scripted lesson, and have complete control over what happened, how it happened, and when it happened. But my husband suggested another idea. He wanted to invite the students to ask questions. When he proposed this concept, I felt uncomfortable, unsure, and started to cry. This was way out of my comfort zone. Fear of failure and lack of faith gripped my heart. Reassuring me, Elder Bednar remarked that I could always decline his invitation to answer. And I did say no, especially at first. I'm grateful for those Home Evenings that caused me to prayerfully reach deep within myself and plead for heavenly help to replace fear with faith. Over time I became less hesitant to answer questions and more reliant on the Lord.

This past May, Elder Bednar and I were invited to participate in a live, worldwide Face to Face activity with the youth of the Church. Tethered together by the spirit of the Lord and technology, young people from all over the world asked us heart-felt questions in real time without us knowing in advance what the questions would be. As I contemplated later about this opportunity, I realized that past Home Evenings with the students at BYU-Idaho had been a preparation for this future event.

A good example of compassion and service making a difference is the example of Don and Marian Summers. While serving in England, they were asked to serve the last six months of their mission in the Swindon Branch to teach and assist in activating members. For 80 years Swindon had been a branch with a faithful few and with many good members becoming less active.
Don and Marian wrote: “Our first visit to Swindon Branch was a bit disheartening as we met with the Saints in a cold, rented hall. The congregation numbered 17, including President and Sister Hales and 4 missionaries. Still wearing our winter coats, we all huddled around a small, inadequate heater while we listened to a Sunday School lesson.”
The letter continued: “A branch member approached me one day: ‘Elder Summers, can I give you a bit of advice? Never mention the word tithing to the Swindon members; they really don’t believe in it, and all you will do is upset them.’”
Brother Summers said: “We did teach tithing and all the other gospel principles. With example and the encouragement of a branch president, there was a change of heart, and faith and activity started to increase. The membership records were completely updated as we visited every member’s home. When the leaders started caring, the members began to respond, and a whole new spirit pervaded the branch. The members became excited again about the gospel and helping one another. …
“One young couple had a difficult adjustment to make as their customs, manners, and dress were different. They became offended at suggestions for changes. The couple twice wrote to the bishop [since by then it was a ward] and asked to have their names removed from the Church records. In the last letter they forbade any of the members to visit them, so [we] went to the florist and purchased a beautiful plant of chrysanthemums and had it delivered to the young couple. It was a simple note: ‘We love you; we miss you; we need you. Please come back.’ Signed, Swindon Ward.
“The next Sunday was fast and testimony meeting and our last Sunday in Swindon. There were 103 members in attendance, compared to 17 six months before. The young couple was there, and in bearing his testimony, the husband thanked the Swindon Ward for not giving up on them.”

It was only a few weeks later when a similar situation occurred. Some of our ward members, including many of our young men, were practicing for an upcoming theatrical performance. Todd, a priest, was one of the performers. During a rehearsal, someone mockingly mimicked Todd’s performance. He was offended and started walking toward the door dejectedly.
“Oh no,” I thought, “here we go again.” I felt compelled to follow him outside and encourage him to ignore the offense and come back.
What happened next was a beautiful surprise.
This time it was not Dennis who hurried past me, but David. David, who only a few weeks earlier had been the dejected one, was now the inspired one. He ran up to Todd and, putting his arm around him, pleaded with him to return. Todd accepted the invitation, and within minutes both boys were standing side by side on the stage. David had now successfully convinced another to stay.

The Prophet Joseph Smith spent the Christmas of 1838 imprisoned in Liberty Jail in Missouri. He and several companions were held in a small basement dungeon that was cold, dirty, and smoky from the open fire they were forced to use. The ceiling was so low they couldn’t stand up straight. But there was a bright moment that Christmas season. The Prophet’s wife, Emma, was able to visit Joseph shortly before Christmas for several days. What’s more, she had brought their son, Joseph Smith III. Feeling the love of his family, Joseph wrote words of encouragement to the Saints from the dungeon: “We glory in our tribulation, because we know that God is with us.”5

The first story occurred many years ago when I was in graduate school studying economics. I took a course from a very famous and prominent professor named John Dunlop. I studied hard in that course, and I prepared diligently for the final exam. I also prayed for help and guidance. The day for the exam came. The final exam in that course was unusual. Instead of giving us essay questions or problems to work, Professor Dunlop simply gave us two recently published papers and asked us to critique them. I began to read. As I read, I experienced something I will never forget. I saw clearly, as though someone had laid it all out before me, exactly what the authors were trying to do, where the weaknesses in their argument were, and what I should write about their work. I began to write. I wrote and wrote and wrote. The words just flowed. It was like there was a conduit running from my brain down my arm through my hand into the pen and onto the paper. It felt like the words were just flowing down the conduit. I then picked up the second paper, and the same thing happened. I knew as it happened that the Lord had blessed me beyond my own ability. I experienced what the Prophet Joseph once called “pure intelligence” flowing from the Spirit to teach me and help me. At the end of that exam I knew that what was written in those blue books was beyond my own capacity.

It has been 31 years since that experience. I have had that experience many times since. I hope and pray that I shall have it many times in the future. As I look back on the day of that exam, I can see the hand of the Lord at work. Because of that exam Professor Dunlop opened many doors for me. Those experiences bear witness to me of the truth of the promises of the Lord, and of the importance of seeking knowledge and learning by study and by faith.

Elder José A. Teixeira recalls a lesson he learned as a young boy in Portugal. During a family reunion, he sneaked away to go fishing. He felt he should tell his parents where he was going, but he decided not to because they were busy talking.
Hours later, his worried parents found him at the riverbank. From that experience, he learned to obey not only his parents but also the whisperings of the Holy Ghost.
Since then, Elder Teixeira has made a habit of heeding the still, small voice. He and his family were introduced to the gospel in 1976, after Portugal was opened to missionary work. He was baptized at age 16 and later served as a missionary in the Lisbon Portugal Mission.