Gospel Story Finder

The English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834) once heard a farmer say that he hoped his children would grow up to be God-fearing, prayerful, righteous people, but that he would never prejudice them in favor of religion by imposing religious principles on them or taking them to Church. He said they would grow up and decide for themselves. This same farmer was famous for his productive farm, his well-cared-for gardens, and his intelligent children.
Coleridge answered the man, “Bravo! This is a very progressive idea. Why do you not apply it also to your fields and orchards and gardens in the future? Do not prejudice them by seeding, weeding, and cultivating the soil, by pruning and thinning the trees, and by planting the gardens. Why not see if they will grow up and just decide to be what you hope they will become?”

Then an older, graying couple came in. They had paid a full tithe and had given generously to the fast offering and missionary funds. As we visited, the husband said, “We would also like to contribute another check to the ward missionary fund. We’ll leave it up to you to credit this money to whichever missionary needs it most.” (At that time, fifteen missionaries were serving from our ward.)
When he handed me the check, I was astonished at how much additional money they were contributing. “But you gave that same amount a couple of weeks ago, with the same instructions,” I said. “Are you sure you can give that much again—and so soon?”
He and his wife assured me they could. And they reminded me that their gifts were to remain anonymous.
Then a young couple with several young children came into my office. Earlier that day in sacrament meeting, we had read a letter from the First Presidency, announcing that an additional category of voluntary contributions was now available to Church members—a “humanitarian fund.” Money donated to this category would be sent to Church headquarters and used for projects benefiting people worldwide, regardless of religious affiliation. This couple had lived in a developing nation and had witnessed the great needs there. Now they were donating a substantial sum to that fund, trusting that it would be put to the best possible use. I looked at their little children and then back at the parents. And I thought, “How can you do without this money at Christmastime?” But I had an idea that perhaps their Christmas would be even more fulfilling as a result.
Then there were the people who had contributed freely to the ward missionary fund, even though they had no missionary sons or daughters. There were those who had given to the general missionary fund and to the general Book of Mormon fund. And there were those who had contributed toward the yet-to-be-built Bountiful Utah Temple—even though they knew that the Church now pays for building projects through tithing, rather than through a separate building fund.
Later, another couple came in. They, too, had contributed liberally throughout the year. As we were about to conclude our visit, the husband said, “Bishop, is there anyone in the ward who has special needs this Christmas? We don’t have a lot of extra money, but we would like to give what we do have to someone who needs it.”
Immediately I thought of a single mother in our ward. She was doing her best to be self-reliant and certainly wasn’t looking for a handout. But money was tight. She was going back to school, and there were medical bills to pay. Surely she would be a worthy recipient of this couple’s generosity.
I accepted their offer in her behalf. They told me they weren’t interested in knowing the name of the receiver. And they, too, wanted to remain anonymous.
The husband pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and stacked several twenty-dollar bills on my desk. As he was doing so, his wife said, somewhat apologetically, “It’s not much. But now that our children are grown, we don’t feel that we’re doing as much in the ward as we used to. This is the least we can do.”
I protested at her apology, knowing they were doing much in their Church callings and in their quiet service to neighbors and to an elderly parent. And I thanked them for being so generous.
The next day, while taking the money to the recipient, I became a little uneasy. How would she receive this gift? Would she be offended? Would she hesitate to accept it?
When I handed the money to her, I described the spirit in which the gift had been given and encouraged her to receive it in that same spirit.
She accepted the money gratefully.
“I can accept this,” she said, “because when times were better for me, I often gave anonymously, just like this.” Then she told me about the secret projects her family had done over the years. She told me about times when she had purchased a frozen turkey and left it, with all the trimmings, on someone’s doorstep. She told me about anonymously mailing money to people who needed it, and about purchasing a coat and boots for the child of a needy friend. Now, in her time of need, she was a gracious receiver.
As I reviewed the monetary contributions so many ward members had made during the year, I couldn’t help remembering, too, their year’s worth of donated labor: The people who, week after week, had provided lessons and leadership—wherever they had been called to serve. The young men and young women who had cleaned the yards of elderly members, both in spring and in autumn. The sisters who had helped a member with wall-papering and painting. The elders and high priests who had done heavy yard work and repairs for those who were unable to do it alone. The young women and Relief Society sisters who had visited a homeless shelter several times—taking food, supplies, and encouragement. The young men who, without needing to be reminded, had gone out in teams and shoveled elderly members’ walks and driveways each time it snowed. The Scouts who had collected toys and books for the Primary Children’s Medical Center. The sisters who had taken meals and reassurance to the sick, the grieving, and the homebound. The priesthood brethren who had given countless blessings of health and comfort. The members who had donated time at the Church cannery to fill the shelves at the bishops’ storehouse. The many people who had quietly listened—and cared—and lifted. And the ones who had served in many ways without anyone else knowing anything about it.
And I thought of the many thank-yous from gracious receivers.
One was from a nine-year-old boy. Following is the letter he sent our Relief Society president and me after his family had received a load of food from the bishops’ storehouse (I have changed his brother’s name in order to preserve anonymity):
“Dear Bishop Gardner and Sister Thomas,
“I just got home from school. Ricky walked in first and said, ‘What in the … ?!’ Then I saw what he just saw. Food … Food! Food all over the place! Boxes, bags, cans, and even cartons of milk and eggs! Ricky said, ‘Look! There must be a million oranges!’
“We wanted to thank you, Sister Thomas, and the whole Church (especially our ward) for all the help you’re giving us right now, especially all this nice food donated from the bishops’ storehouse. It’s such a wonderful feeling to feel so loved, so cared for, and thought about.
“Gratefully.” (And he signed his full name.)
Then it was Christmas Eve. My own family of young children and teenagers were just finishing our annual Christmas pageant—complete with scriptures, carols, costumes, a real-live baby playing the part of the Christ child, a three-year-old Mary, a six-year-old Joseph, an angel, a shepherd, and a Wise Man. (I always somehow end up with the role of the donkey.)
There was a knock at the door. It was Santa Claus! In living color! He ho-ho-hoed himself into the living room, made a big fuss over each child, reached into his enormous sack, and pulled out a gift for each member of the family. As he did so, I noticed a vague resemblance between Santa and a member of our ward.
Then he wished us all a Merry Christmas and was off. Two of the youngest children were determined to see the reindeer for themselves, and they raced out to the front porch. But Santa must have parked his sleigh down the street somewhere. We watched and listened to his sleigh bells jingle as he trotted merrily through the neighborhood and disappeared into the snowy darkness.
What a Christmas it was—my first Christmastime as bishop! How could I ever express my gratitude for the many ward members who had made it a joyful time of giving and receiving—and for all who carry that spirit with them throughout the year?
And how could I ever express my gratitude and love for the Savior, Jesus Christ, who had set the pattern and had given the greatest gift of all?
Certainly, my nine-year-old friend is right: “It’s such a wonderful feeling to feel so loved, so cared for, and thought about.”

Six months after my mission, I held my mother’s hand as she took her last breath. Decades later, my wife, Lisa, found a letter from my parents in an old box. Dad had written it to me during my mission but died before sending it.
“Our hearts were and are and always will be full of love for you. I realize that things have not always been perfect, but that is life. … Christ did not say, ‘Follow me and it will be easy.’ He said, ‘Take up [your] cross, and follow me’ [Matthew 16:24]. He carried the cross, but we all have our splinters. Perhaps our place in heaven will depend upon how we handle ours. Son, we love you very much.”
Growing up, I was rough on my parents, but I never doubted their love. Since finding the Church, I have worked hard to thank them and honor them.

When fall came, Nese left to attend Brigham Young University. I returned to Berkeley. Loneliness encompassed me again. Nese’s letters arrived regularly, two or three times weekly. I asked her why she was Mormon. The next letter bulged the envelope. It was a detailed explanation of her struggle to remain active and maintain a firm testimony while living with her inactive family.
I decided I had to go to church. That was a difficult decision because no one pushed me to attend. I had been allowed to come to the conclusion on my own.
I nearly changed my mind when I opened the door. I entered the chapel by myself, spotted an empty seat on the back row, and quickly sat down. Not all alone here, too! I wondered inside.
Then suddenly Karen, who had appeared from nowhere, was shaking my hand. “Good morning, David,” she said, grinning. I wasn’t alone anymore. She introduced me to people, showed me which class to go to, and sat beside me the entire time.
I was impressed to find a class I could bring my questions to and get answers. To top it off, the teacher, Sister Booras, took time afterwards to thank me for coming. “You added a great deal to our class,” she said. I had never felt so at home before.
But I still didn’t have that spiritual testimony all the Church members kept telling me about. I liked the Church; I could believe in many of its teachings, but I didn’t know it was true. I kept attending the meetings anyway.
One month later, Nese urged me to come to BYU. I jumped at the chance and rushed to Provo for a whirlwind visit. She described her school as if it were part of her. As we walked around campus, all we talked about was religion. My mind was overflowing with questions again, as it had been in the high school library. I still didn’t see how everything fit together.
The stone in my path was the principle of eternal progression. “It’s no good,” I said. “How can man, who was created by God, ever hope to be a god?”
We were standing in front of the Joseph Smith Building. Nese paused for a moment.
“Dave,” she said, “before we were ever created physically, we were created spiritually as God’s sons and daughters. A part of us, our spirit, comes directly from him as our Father.”
It finally clicked! It all fell into place. My grin spread to a smile and erupted as a laugh. I couldn’t stop grinning. My mind jumped from doctrine to doctrine. “Yes, yes, it all fits!” I wanted to dance or sing or run.
There, on the steps of the Joseph Smith Building, the Spirit bore witness to me of the gospel plan. I knew in my heart I would join the Church.
I still had to read the Book of Mormon, learn to pray, and take the missionary discussions. But my life was changed from that moment on. I had found truth, purpose, and a life to fulfill. Five weeks later I was baptized.
Eighteen months later, my impression that I would one day enter the Oakland Temple came true, as I received my endowments one week before leaving on a mission. When I returned, Nese and I decided to continue the eternal journey we had begun with conversations at a table in a library. We were married in the Provo Temple.
Every time I look at my wife, I thank the Lord that there was a girl in my high school with enough faith to “just want to share her beliefs with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” She touched my head and changed my life.

“Mom, I think that boy fell off his bike!” Annie said. A little boy was sitting on the sidewalk just ahead. His bike was on the ground, and he was crying. An older boy was sitting with him.
“Are you hurt?” Annie asked as she and Mom got closer.
“My brother fell and hurt his knee,” the older boy said. “I need to take him home. But I don’t think I can push both bikes and help him walk at the same time.”
“We can help!” Annie said.
Mom nodded. “We can help you get home.”
The younger boy wiped away tears. His brother helped him stand up. Mom and Annie took the bikes. They walked slowly up the street.
Soon they were at the boys’ house. A woman stepped out with her hands on her hips. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“Your son fell off his bike and hurt his knee,” Mom said. “We were passing by. So we stopped to help.”
The woman looked at them. But she didn’t say anything. She took the little boy’s hand. “Come inside. I’ll wash off your knee. Jason, put the bikes in the garage.”
The older boy wheeled the bikes away. The woman closed the front door.
Mom and Annie started walking home.
Annie frowned. “They didn’t even thank us!”
“No, they didn’t,” Mom said. “But do we help people just so they will thank us?”
Annie thought for a minute. “No. We help them because they need our help. When I got baptized, I promised to help other people.”
“You’re right,” Mom said. “That’s what we all promise.”
Annie thought some more. “People didn’t always thank Jesus for the good things He did. But that didn’t stop Him. So I won’t let it stop me either.”
“And remember that Heavenly Father is happy when we help too,” Mom said.
Annie smiled. “That’s thanks enough for me.”
When we’re baptized, we promise to comfort and help others. Who can you help?
This story took place in the USA.

Let us go back to the year 1805, on the 23rd day of December, in the town of Sharon, Vermont. Will you accompany me as we look back on those dramatic events taking place on that day? As Joseph Smith Sr. and his wife, Lucy Mack, proudly looked down upon the little baby who had come into their home, I’m certain they were pleased and most grateful. A choice spirit had come to dwell in its earthly tabernacle.
Some have asked, “Did he have an unusual childhood or boyhood?” “Was the Prophet Joseph different from me or my brothers?” I think we could gain insight into the childhood of the Prophet by reading the words of his mother. She said, “I am aware that some of my readers will be disappointed, for … it is thought by some that I shall be likely to tell many very remarkable incidents which attended his childhood; but, as nothing occurred during his early life except those trivial circumstances which are common to that state of human existence, I pass them in silence.”1 This is all we have from the boy’s mother concerning his early childhood activities.
During his early youth, however, ill health and ill fortune seemed to pursue the family. When young Joseph was seven years old, he and his brothers and sisters were stricken with typhus fever. The others recovered readily, but Joseph was left with a painful sore on his leg. The doctors, doing the best they could under the conditions of the time, treated him—and yet the sore persisted. Finally the doctors were afraid they were going to have to amputate his leg.
Thankfully, however, one day the doctors came unexpectedly to the home and told the family they were going to try a new operation to remove a piece of the bone, hoping this would permit the sore to heal. They had brought with them some cord and planned to tie Joseph to the bed because they had no anesthetic, nothing to dull the pain, when they cut into his leg to remove the piece of bone.
Young Joseph, however, responded, “I will not be bound, for I can bear the operation much better if I have my liberty.”
The doctors then said, “Will you take some wine? … You must take something, or you can never endure the severe operation.”
Again the boy prophet said, “No, … but I will tell you what I will do—I will have my father sit on the bed and hold me in his arms, and then I will do whatever is necessary in order to have the bone taken out.”
So Joseph Smith Sr. held the boy in his arms, and the doctors opened the leg and removed the diseased piece of bone. Although he was lame for some time afterward, Joseph was healed.2 At seven years of age, the Prophet Joseph Smith taught us courage—by example.
When Joseph was in his 11th year, his family, which now consisted of 11 souls, left Vermont and moved to Palmyra, New York. Four years later they moved to Manchester, located in the same county. It was here that Joseph described the great religious revival that seemed everywhere present and of prime concern to every heart.
These are his words: “So great were the confusion and strife among the different denominations, that it was impossible for a person young as I was, and so unacquainted with men and things, to come to any certain conclusion who was right and who was wrong. …
“While I was laboring under the extreme difficulties caused by the contests of these parties of religionists, I was one day reading the Epistle of James, first chapter and fifth verse, which reads: If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him” (JS—H 1:8, 11).
The Prophet said that after reading this verse he knew for a certainty he must either put the Lord to the test and ask Him or perhaps choose to remain in darkness forever. He declared that as he retired to the grove to pray, this was the first time he had attempted to pray vocally to his Heavenly Father. But he had read the scripture, he had understood the scripture, he had trusted in God his Eternal Father; and now he knelt and prayed, knowing that God would give him the enlightenment which he so earnestly sought. The Prophet Joseph Smith taught us the principle of faith—by example.
Can you imagine the ridicule, the scorn, the mocking that all of his young friends, his older friends, and his foes alike must have heaped upon him as he mentioned that he had seen a vision?
I suppose it became almost unbearable for the boy, and yet he was honest with himself, for these are his words: “I had actually seen a light, and in the midst of that light I saw two Personages, and they did in reality speak to me; and though I was hated and persecuted for saying that I had seen a vision, yet it was true; and while they were persecuting me, reviling me, and speaking all manner of evil against me falsely for so saying, I was led to say in my heart: Why persecute me for telling the truth? I have actually seen a vision; and who am I that I can withstand God, or why does the world think to make me deny what I have actually seen? For I had seen a vision; I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it” (JS—H 1:25).
The Prophet Joseph Smith taught honesty—by example.
The Prophet Joseph was truly blessed with the ability to inspire faith. One bright morning Joseph walked up to John E. Page and said, “Brother John, the Lord is calling you on a mission to Canada.”
John E. Page was rather astonished and said, “Why, Brother Joseph, I can’t go on a mission to Canada. I don’t even have a coat to wear.”
The Prophet Joseph took his own coat from his back, handed it to John Page, and said, “Here, John, wear this, and the Lord will bless you.” Brother Page took the coat, went to Canada, and in two years walked 5,000 miles and baptized 600 souls, because he trusted in the words of a prophet of God.3
The Prophet Joseph believed in missionary work. While he and Sidney Rigdon were proselyting at Perrysburg, New York, October 12, 1833, having been long absent from their families and feeling concerned for them, they received the following revelation:
“Verily, thus saith the Lord unto you, my friends Sidney and Joseph, your families are well; they are in mine hands, and I will do with them as seemeth me good; for in me there is all power. …
“Therefore, verily I say unto you, lift up your voices unto this people” (D&C 100:1, 5).
Joseph and Sidney continued their missionary labors.
Joseph Smith not only inspired men to volunteer for missions, but he also taught the importance of missionary work—by example.
I think one of the sweetest lessons taught by the Prophet, and yet one of the saddest, occurred close to the time of his death. He was required to leave his plan and vision of the Rocky Mountains and give himself up to face a court of supposed justice.
These are his words: “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter; but I am calm as a summer’s morning; I have a conscience void of offense towards God, and towards all men” (D&C 135:4). That statement of the Prophet teaches us obedience to law and the importance of having a clear conscience toward God and toward our fellowmen. The Prophet Joseph Smith taught these principles—by example.
There was to be one great final lesson before his mortal life ended. He was incarcerated in Carthage Jail with his brother Hyrum, with John Taylor, and with Willard Richards. The angry mob stormed the jail; they came up the stairway, blasphemous in their cursing, heavily armed, and began to fire at will. Hyrum was hit and died. John Taylor took several balls of fire within his bosom. The Prophet Joseph, with his pistol in hand, was attempting to defend his life and that of his brethren, and yet he could tell from the pounding on the door that this mob would storm that door and would kill John Taylor and Willard Richards in an attempt to kill him.
And so his last great act here upon the earth was to leave the door and lead Willard Richards to safety, throw the gun on the floor, and go to the window, that they might see him, that the attention of this ruthless mob might be focused upon him rather than the others. Joseph Smith gave his life. Willard Richards was spared, and John Taylor recovered from his wounds. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). The Prophet Joseph Smith taught us love—by example.
I pray we may learn from his example, that we might incorporate into our lives the great principles he so beautifully taught.

“Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die” (D&C 42:45).
Her father died on a cold night in February, on his way home from a business trip to Florida. And now her mother was explaining what had happened. She spoke in a calm, measured voice. The commuter flight to Albany had crashed taking off from Kennedy. Megan knew already. It had been on the news. They said ice on the wings was probably the cause.
The northeaster had swept up the coast over the weekend, burying the fields deeply in the freshly fallen snow. Megan stared out the living room window. The cruelest month, their neighbor Mr. Chisholm called it. Actually, it was T. S. Eliot who said April was the cruelest month, but he spent most of his life in England, so what did he know. February in the hills of upstate New York had little kindness in it, nothing but the vindictive end of winter and no hope of spring.
Andrew started to cry. Susan looked confused and frightened. Megan abruptly got up and went to the mud room and put on her riding coat and boots. She didn’t want to hang around inside any longer.
Her father and Mr. Chisholm had been working on putting the horse-drawn sleigh back together. They’d been restoring it since October. She’d saddle up William and … and …
Her breath caught in her throat, her heart almost stopped, a feeling so incomprehensible she felt it could not be happening to her. The world shimmered, fragile as fine crystal caught at the perfect pitch. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and clenched her fists.
When she opened her eyes, the shimmering had stopped.
Outside, it looked like heaven. The sky was a piercing, frozen blue, the snow cover so brilliant white it made her squint and hold up her hands to shade her eyes. It hadn’t snowed like this in years. That’s what the people said who came to sympathize, to console. Nonstop the last two days. She would prefer they didn’t. It wasn’t their business. He wasn’t their father.
She swung open the stable doors. William the Conqueror greeted her with an annoyed nicker and a bang on the side of his stall. “Oh, c’mon, William,” she said, patting his withers. She put on a saddle and bridle.
The driveway was clear. Across the county road Mr. Chisholm was finishing his long driveway with the snowplow mounted on his tractor. He always did their driveway when he did his.
She trotted William up beside him. “Good morning, Mr. Chisholm!” she yelled over the hoarse rumble of the John Deere engine.
He doffed his cap to her, old habit. “G’morning, Megan.” But he hadn’t expected her this morning. He’d heard what happened.
Megan rode up to the porch and dismounted while Mr. Chisholm parked the tractor in the barn. His dog, Gabriel, pushed open the storm door with his muzzle and limped over to her. There had been a time when he could stand and put his forelegs on her shoulders. But, however willing the spirit, the body was in bad repair. She stroked him behind the ears. “Hi ya, Gabriel. Don’t like this cold, do you?”
Mr. Chisholm shook his head. “A husky, no less. That must sting the pride.” He massaged Gabriel’s coat. “Just like people, I guess. Old is old.”
“Oh, not Gabriel,” Megan said, holding his head in her hands and peering into his weary eyes. “He’ll live forever.”
“Nobody lives forever,” Mr. Chisholm said, with a gruffness he worried later had been too sharp. He added, “Not in this life, at least.”
But Megan didn’t appear to notice or mind.
When she got home Sister Garner and Sister McAllister had stopped by. She could tolerate them, not being the weepy, feeling-sorry-for-you kind. They had brought dinner. At this rate, her mother wouldn’t be cooking the rest of the month and a good part of the next.
While they talked in the kitchen with her mother, Megan sat in the living room, staring out the window, wondering that the world could be so perfect and so deadly at the same time.
Mr. Chisholm went with them to the funeral. That night, after she got into bed, Megan listened to her mother’s and her grandparents’ voices drifting up the staircase from the kitchen. They were talking about the thing they always waited to tell her later, if at all. But she wanted to know. They weren’t going to have to move—something about insurance and double indemnity, the settlement with the airline. As for the farm, Mr. Chisholm already rented half their fields and could probably take over the rest.
“I’m worried about Megan.”
Megan leaned forward, tilting her head toward the door.
Her mother went on, “She seems so … unemotional, so distant. She and her father were very close. It worries me, seeing her … seeing her going on as if nothing had happened.”
Megan couldn’t hear what her grandmother said, but it was probably something reassuring. Grandmother was a very reassuring person.
Megan lay back and curled up under the covers. I’m not unemotional, she told herself. It’s just that I believe what the Church teaches. I’ll be with my father again. There’s nothing to be sad about. But she felt a cold clenching in her chest as she sank into her bed. She stared at the ceiling in the darkness and faded off to sleep.
The funeral marked the end of what their life had been, and the beginning of a life they could not have dreamed of. It was a season of uncertainties, and March was an incalculable month. With February so short it didn’t always know that winter was over. March was far too long, but it needed all that time to figure itself out.
You could forgive March for being that way. But not April. It occurred to Megan, walking home from the bus stop on a gray Friday afternoon, that Mr. Eliot was right. It was a cruel month, one day bright and warm and full of promise, and the next day a frost would snap the growing buds like brittle bones. It couldn’t be trusted. You always had to be on your guard.
Coming around the bend she saw Mr. Chisholm’s John Deere stopped in the middle of the north field, and Mr. Chisholm trudging through the freshly turned loam, something bundled up in his arms. It was Gabriel, and for a horrifying moment she imagined that he had been caught under the spades of the plow.
She ran up the driveway, meeting Mr. Chisholm as he struggled up from the muddy lane. “What’s wrong?”
Mr. Chisholm shook his head. “Don’t know.” He laid Gabriel carefully on the porch. “Just seemed to run out of gas.”
Megan sat down beside the old husky. Gabriel turned his head towards her. There was grief and shame in his dark brown eyes.
Mr. Chisholm leaned against the railing, took off his cap, and wiped his brow. “I’ll give Dr. McAllister a call,” he said, a weariness in his voice Megan didn’t quite understand. He kicked the mud off his boots and disappeared into the house.
Saturday morning he took Gabriel to Charlton Corners to see Dr. McAllister. Megan watched from across the road, paced up and down the driveway, sat on the porch, rested her chin in her hands.
The big red Ford came around the bend, turned in at the driveway, and made the long, slow climb to the house. Mr. Chisholm turned off the engine. He sat in the cab, hands clutching the steering wheel. Finally, he opened the door and got out, standing, so when Megan ran up to him she could not see around him into the cab.
“How is he? How is Gabriel? Is he going to be all right?”
Mr. Chisholm looked down at her. His eyes were like Gabriel’s eyes. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Megan …” he said. “Megan, he was old. He was in pain. It’s been going on for too long. There wasn’t any way to make him better.”
She stared at him.
“Megan …” he said again.
She twisted away, ran to the cab. Gabriel lay lifeless on a white canvas sheet. Mr. Chisholm pulled her away. She lashed out at him. There was a roaring in her ears that she realized was the sound of her own voice. Then she wrenched free and ran home across the fields.
She slammed the door, tripped over her brother’s galoshes in the mud room, and crashed to the floor. She kicked off her boots, viciously stubbing her toe. She could barely stand, and she clasped her arms tightly across her chest as if she might explode.
“Megan.” Her mother looked in from the kitchen. “Megan, what’s wrong?”
“Gabriel …” she gasped, blinking the tears out of her eyes.
“Gabriel?”
“He had him put to sleep,” she stated bluntly. She limped into the living room and collapsed on the couch. Her mother followed her, but Megan averted her gaze, and presently, she left. Megan curled up on the cushions, resting her head on the armrest. The knuckles of her right hand throbbed.
She hardly felt the pain. She was afraid. She knew she was afraid, afraid she could not hold the world together. A clear, aching tone rang through her temples. If the crystal shattered, she would never find all the pieces, never put it back together. If she could just be more careful, see these things coming, not hurt, not feel, have a heart of stone.
She whispered these things to herself, a quiet mantra of unemotionality. Through the window, across the road and fields, she watched Mr. Chisholm mark out a plot in the garden by the porch and begin to dig a grave.
She looked up at the ceiling, tasting bitterness and regret in her mouth. When she looked back her mother was standing next to Mr. Chisholm, and then she was walking away. The door opened and closed, and she heard her mother’s footsteps in the hall. She closed her eyes tightly. She did not want her mother to try to talk again.
Megan knew how unfair she was being. She ran to the mud room, flung on her jacket, and pulled on her boots and flew out of the house.
Gabriel lay on the white canvas sheet next to the grave. “He was a good dog,” Megan said, softly.
Mr. Chisholm turned to her. There was an angry red welt on his jaw, and she remembered how she had bruised her knuckles. “Aye, he was.” There were tears in his eyes, and she felt sorry for what she had done.
She knelt next to him and stroked Gabriel’s silver coat.
“There wasn’t anything Dr. McAllister could do. He didn’t suffer in the end.”
“I know.” She managed to smile reassuringly.
They sat together on the damp earth. Mr. Chisholm said, “We’d better get it done.”
She nodded, and then realized he meant her to help him. She grasped the corner straps of the tarp, he the other two. It was almost too heavy for her, especially with her right hand growing numb, but she braced herself, and they lowered him into the ground.
When she got home she told her mother, “We buried Gabriel.”
After she said her prayers that night, Megan told herself she had done right by Gabriel and Mr. Chisholm. She reminded herself that the past was past, her father was gone, it was all behind her, she would be fine. But it wasn’t true.
She told herself again. The words only disappeared into the air.
She told herself again, but a voice interrupted her, a voice she somehow recognized, a voice saying, “No, Megan.” A voice insistent, not reproachful. “Everything breaks, Megan. But everything mends, if you only give me the pieces.”
She did not remember awakening. She did not remember how she cried, sobbing so she could not breathe. But she remembered her mother’s arms around her, holding her, the universe of love enclosing them, her mother whispering it was okay to cry, to feel the hurt of her loss.
And then it was morning.
It was early, and she found her mother in the kitchen, at the stove. Together they stirred and tasted the tomato, pepper, and garlic that would go on the spaghetti for lunch after church. It was always better this way, when you cooked it up in the morning and let it sit for a few hours before warming it up again. Then her mother looked at her, touched her cheek. “We’re going to be all right, you know,” she said. “Your father loved you a great deal and always will.”
Megan knew, but at the same time she felt something missing from her life, a vacancy where there should be a presence, a hollow in her heart. And yet she would not deny it now, for it marked a sacred place in her memory and held the distant hope of heaven.
She walked outside into the cool, wet sunlight. Mr. Chisholm had just stepped out onto his porch. She cupped her hands and shouted, “Good morning, Mr. Chisholm!” and waved. Not the most reverent way to begin a Sunday morning, but she strongly suspected at that moment she might be happy, or at least capable of happiness. And it would not do to keep the moment only to herself.

After his wife suffered a heartbreaking miscarriage during their first pregnancy, Solofo Ravelojaona felt that their prayers were answered a year later with their second pregnancy. He and his wife, Hary Martine, consider the birth of their daughter to be one of their greatest blessings. Solofo explains, “Because we asked God and He gave her to us, we gave her a name that, in Malagasy, means ‘God’s answer.’”

As a boy, I lived next door to the bishop of our ward, Bishop Philip T. Sonntag. His son Mark was one of my best friends. One afternoon when I was quite small, Mark and I were playing outside his home and having a wonderful time. Mark was in a distant part of the yard, when his father came outside and said to me, “Drew, do you know where Mark is?” I knew that if I told him the truth, he would say that it was time for Mark to come inside, so I shook my head. “No, I don’t know where he is.”
Bishop Sonntag went back into the house, and I joined Mark again.
“Who was that?” Mark asked me.
“It was your dad,” I answered.
“What did he want?”
“He wanted you to go inside.”
“Then I’d better go in,” Mark said.
He left, and I stayed outside. A few minutes later, Bishop Sonntag came outside again. He told me that what I had done was not right and that he was disappointed that I hadn’t told the truth.
I felt terrible as I walked home and went into my bedroom. I remember crying, kneeling by my bed, and asking Heavenly Father to forgive me. Then I got up and went back to the Sonntag home. Bishop Sonntag answered my knock. I looked up at him and said, “I just want you to know that I’m sorry about what I did.” He put his arms around me, picked me up, and carried me into the house. We sat on the couch and shared a nice moment together.
That experience taught me at least two valuable lessons: One, it’s important to tell the truth. Two, if we repent after making a mistake, we will feel better. I’ll always remember the outpouring of love I felt from my bishop as I visited him, trying to correct my mistake.

During their years in Rexburg, Eyring family members grew closer to each other. By then Hal and Kathleen had four sons: Henry J., Stuart, Matthew, and John. Later they would be blessed with two daughters: Elizabeth and Mary Kathleen. But even in a small, rural farm town, Hal and Kathleen had to be vigilant. One of their concerns was the amount and quality of television programming that their sons watched. Henry J., the oldest son, recalls an experience that made a significant difference in the spirit of the Eyring home.
“My brother and I were in front of the TV one Saturday night around midnight,” says Henry J. “A tawdry comedy show that we shouldn’t have been watching was on. The basement room was dark except for the light from the television. Without warning, Mother walked in. She was wearing a white, flowing nightgown and carrying a pair of shears. Making no sound, she reached behind the set, grabbed the cord, and gathered it into a loop. She then inserted the shears and cut the cord with a single stroke. Sparks flew and the set went dead, but not before Mother had turned and glided out of the room.”
Unnerved, Henry J. headed to bed. His innovative brother, however, cut a cord from a broken vacuum and connected it to the television. Soon the boys had plopped back down in front of the television, hardly missing any of their show.
“Mother, however, got the last laugh,” Henry J. says. “When we came home from school the next Monday, we found the television set in the middle of the floor with a huge crack through the thick glass screen. We immediately suspected Mother. When confronted, she responded with a perfectly straight face: ‘I was dusting under the TV, and it slipped.’ ”
President Eyring honored his wife’s wishes, the children honored their mother’s desires, and that was the end of television in the Eyring home. “For the most part, Mother leads through quiet example,” Henry J. observes. “However, she is also inspired and fearless. Mother’s assertiveness has been a great blessing to her children and grandchildren. Both in pivotal moments and in daily routines, she has forever changed the course of our lives.”

When I was a child, my dad worked far away and always came home when it was pitch dark. I would stay awake until he came home. But one day he was very late, and I couldn’t reach him on the phone. I was very scared. I remembered that my parents had taught me to pray always and to ask for help whenever I was scared, so I knelt down and prayed that my father would return home safely. To my surprise, as I ended my prayer, I heard my dad’s bike outside. I was so grateful to my Heavenly Father for watching over my father.

I hadn’t prayed for years, but I finally had to go to my knees. I was afraid to, because I knew my guilt. That first time, honestly wanting to change and repent, was the biggest turning point in my life.
I tried to pray, but I couldn’t. I started to cry, the first time in years, and I felt like I was being torn apart inside. I fell over, still in a kneeling position, and my body went into convulsions. I kept praying in my mind, “Please help me!”
I almost blacked out. Then the physical pain passed, and I just lay there crying. I had a long way to go, but I knew that the first step was the hardest. I didn’t understand the Atonement, but the feeling of peace and comfort that engulfed me left no doubt that it was real.

I think of a friend whom I knew when I was a missionary in London many years ago. He came to our door through the rain one night. I answered his knock and invited him in.
He said, as I remember, “I have to talk to someone. I’m all alone.”
I asked what the problem was.
He said, “When I joined the Church, my father told me to get out of his house and never come back. A few months later my athletic club dropped me from membership. Last month my boss fired me because I am a member of this Church. And last night the girl I love said she would never marry me because I’m a Mormon.”
I said, “If this has cost you so much, why don’t you leave the Church and go back to your father’s home, to your club, to the job that meant so much to you, and marry the girl you think you love?”
He said nothing for what seemed a long time. Then, putting his head in his hands, he sobbed as if his heart would break. Finally he looked up through his tears and said, “I couldn’t do that. I know this is true, and if it were to cost me my life, I could not give it up.”
He picked up his wet hat and walked to the door and went out into the rain. As I watched him, I thought of the power of conscience, the loneliness of faith, and the strength and power of personal testimony.

Years later I received a similar call late at night in a hotel in Japan. I was then the new commissioner of education for the Church. I knew that President Gordon B. Hinckley was staying somewhere in that same hotel on his separate assignment to Japan. I answered the ringing phone just after I had lain down on the bed to sleep, exhausted by having done all I thought I had the strength to do.

President Hinckley asked in his pleasant voice, “Why are you sleeping when I am here reading a manuscript that we have been asked to review?” So I got up and went to work, even though I knew that President Hinckley could give a better review of a manuscript than I could possibly do. But somehow he made me feel that he needed my help.

The Book of Mormon brought me a great desire to be accepted of the Lord. One night, my newborn daughter awakened me. I fed her, and she soon fell asleep, but I was left awake in the stillness of the night. I thought of the changes in my life and the many things that still needed to be changed. My thoughts were drawn to God, and I prayed, remembering the words of the Lamanite king who cried, “O God, … wilt thou make thyself known unto me, and I will give away all my sins to know thee.” (Alma 22:18.)
One by one, the Lord showed me my weaknesses. In the early hours of the morning, I received a sweet assurance, which I recorded in my journal and have pondered many times: “I am your Father. Your Father!”

Lethbridge, Alberta, is quite a long way from the Sweetwater River in Wyoming, but during a recent pioneer trek, they looked a little bit the same. Three boys from the Lethbridge Stake—Randy Bullock, Drew Walters, and Brett Barfuss—were inspired by a story they heard about three young men who helped rescue members of the Martin Handcart Company. The young men carried many Saints through the icy river, risking their own lives to save others.
The boys in Lethbridge reenacted the brave service rendered by those young men so long ago. And although they didn’t risk their lives to carry their friends across Lee’s Creek, all the youth felt of the sweet spirit that service brings.

Jacy stared at the night-light. It was too bright. She couldn’t sleep. She pulled her blanket over her eyes. Now it was too dark! She couldn’t sleep.
Jacy grabbed her teddy bear. It had a little bell inside that made noise. Jacy shook the bear. Ting, ting, ting went the bell. That didn’t help her sleep either.
She was so bored! There was no one to talk to! And it was too quiet and too dark.
Jacy started to cry. She would never fall asleep!
Just then her door opened softly.
“Jacy?”
It was Daddy! He came and sat by her on the bed. “What’s the matter?” Daddy asked.
“It’s too quiet! I can’t sleep. My brain just keeps thinking of things!” Jacy wiped the tears off her cheeks.
Daddy rubbed her back. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I sing my favorite song. And then I count my blessings.”
Daddy started singing. He sang, “Count your blessings, name them one by one. Count your blessings, see what God hath done.”
Jacy hummed along. She liked this song too.
“What are some of your blessings?” Daddy asked.
“Um, my teddy bear,” said Jacy. She waved the bear to make the bell jingle.
“That’s a good blessing,” said Daddy. “What else?”
“Daddy!” said Jacy. “Daddy is a blessing.”
That made Daddy smile.
“And Mommy,” said Jacy. “And baby Darel. He’s kind of a blessing.”
Daddy laughed. “How about your warm bed and your night-light?”
Jacy nodded. She was starting to feel sleepy.
Daddy pulled the blanket up to Jacy’s chin. “You are a blessing too, Jacy. I love you.” He gave her a kiss and closed the door behind him.
Jacy hummed the song again. “Count your blessings, count your blessings …”
And soon she was fast asleep.

It seemed an easy-enough project at first, and after mapping out a few ideas, they hurried to find Mr. Baker, who was still watching the Second World War movies. Finally persuading him out into the hall, they asked him for help. "We think it’d be nice if the band gave a Christmas Eve concert for the people stuck here by the storm."
He seemed to be in some sort of a trance. "What was that again?"
"We’d give a concert—just do the pieces we did last night. It’d be a real treat for the kids."
"Are you kidding? Dragging all the instruments and music from the bus? No, absolutely not. Now excuse me, I’ve got to get back."
He staggered back into the room where he entered the battle of Midway.
Their next stop was the sheriff.
"We’d like to organize a little Christmas party for the people stranded here."
The sheriff wiped his brow. "Look, don’t I have enough to worry about without that? How am I going to feed these people? Don’t bother me about Christmas parties. Now why don’t you go watch TV. I’m sure there’s plenty of good specials on."
Back at the vent at the end of the hall, they sat and glumly watched the storm.
"Well, we tried," Steve said.
"That’s all anyone can do."
"Sure."
"Do you want to watch TV now?"
"We didn’t pray about it, Steve."
"It’s too late now; we’ve already bombed out."
"You don’t want to pray about it?"
"No, Cathy, I don’t."
"Why not?"
"Because if we pray about it, and it still doesn’t work out, then it will cause your faith to waver. I never pray about things in front of somebody else unless there’s a pretty good chance for it to happen anyway."
She sat in silence and pouted.
"You can pray about it if you want," he finally suggested.
"I’d feel better with the priesthood saying the prayer."
He sighed, realizing he was going to have to open himself up a little more to her. "Cathy, let me tell you something. The priesthood’s no magic carpet. A lot of things I pray for never work out. Girls always think that guys who honor the priesthood are their tickets to happiness, but we’re stumbling around as much as anybody."
But she wouldn’t let it be. "I think Father in Heaven will honor somebody who holds the priesthood and tries to do the right thing."
They sat for several minutes in silence.
"Okay, I’ll pray with you, but don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out."
It was a simple prayer, offered by Steve. He tried to be as general as possible, not wanting to pin the Lord down to anything specific, but just before closing, she nudged him and whispered, "Ask him about the Christmas party, and the band playing, and the gifts."
And so he did, point blank, with no cop-out clauses that would let them or Father in Heaven off the hook.
A few minutes later they stood at the entrance of the gym and looked at the restless crowd.
"What’ll we do, Steve?" she asked him. He noticed the way she was looking at him. She thinks I know what I’m doing, he thought.
"We’ll just walk around and see if anything happens."
They walked slowly around the gym.
As they approached the trucker’s area, the one who had given Steve a bad time looked up, saw Cathy with him, and made some off-color joke about her.
"Why don’t you be quiet?" Steve snapped.
The guy stood up and started walking toward them. Massive shoulder muscles, a tattoo on both arms. I knew we never should’ve prayed about this, he thought.
Just before the guy was about to punch Steve, a booming voice behind him rang out, "Lay off the kid, Bert, or I’ll get mean!"
Steve looked around to see the biggest man he’d ever seen before in his life standing up. Middle-aged, bald, a little paunchy in the middle, but he must have weighed two hundred fifty pounds, and he spoke with authority.
Bert swore and said he was going to the bar.
The man who helped them said his name was Al and that he had a daughter about Cathy’s age who played in a band in Ohio.
"Al," Cathy said with a big smile, "we’ve got a little problem I think you could help us with."
Steve couldn’t believe the change in the sheriff when Al asked for permission to hold a Christmas party. And Mr. Baker, after he came out of the movie room and looked around to see Al’s figure entirely filling up the doorway, agreed it would be nice to have the band play a concert.
Then Al made a general announcement to everyone in the gym. "I want everybody here to get in the Christmas spirit. There’s no reason for us to sit around feeling sorry for ourselves. We’re going to have a party, and this is what we need. We need gifts for the children, we need some food for a supper, we need Christmas cookies for the children, we need a Santa Claus and somebody to lead us in Christmas carols, and we need enough blankets for everybody. Now get going!"
Within the hour, the preparations were done, including a Christmas tree provided by one over-eager trucker who merely chopped down the tree in front of the school. Some of the truckers went out to their rigs and brought in case lots of canned foods. The salesman from Mity Fine went to his station wagon and brought in his sample assortment of potato chips. Many of the parents went to their cars and brought in Christmas presents originally intended for family and friends at the end of their trip, and they put them under the tree. And the wives went into the school kitchen and began opening cans of ham and vegetables for the meal.
They ate their meal, and then the pep band played. Then Santa Claus arrived, wearing a red jump suit covered with grease from engines and a cotton beard. He passed out the presents from the tree, and they shared the cookies. There was more than enough for everyone.
A traveler who led a Protestant church choir in Abilene, Kansas, then led them in Christmas carols. By that time it was 10:00, and a minister from Polson, Montana, led them in scripture reading and a prayer.
There were blankets left over, even after everyone had taken what they needed.
In the morning they had more ham, and a driver from a bakery provided them with enough bread to make toast. The kids played with their toys, which as the morning passed, gradually self-destructed.
By noon the storm was over and the snow plows had cleared the roads. The truckers were the first to go. The band was delayed because of having to repack all the instruments into the bus.
Steve and Cathy were the last ones to leave.
"It was a miracle, wasn’t it?" she asked.
"Yes, a miracle. For a few hours, we all loved one another."
"Steve, it must be just a small part of the way Jesus feels about all of us all the time."
"How can he do it?"
"I don’t know, but he does."
"Cathy, for a while there, I even liked you."
"Did you?"
"Yes, for a while I did. Could I sit with you on the way back?"
"I’d like that, Steve."
"But look, I’m still going to try and beat you out of first-chair clarinet."
"And I’m still going to show you that I’m twice the musician you are."
"So that hasn’t changed," he said.
"No, I guess not."
They left together, the last ones to leave the now-deserted, paper-strewn gym. The Christmas tree, decorated with Mity Fine aluminum foil, leaned at a precarious angle, and then toppled to the floor with a crash.

The first angels that I will mention are the two sister missionaries who taught me the gospel when I was a young man: Sister Vilma Molina and Sister Ivonete Rivitti. My younger sister and I were invited to a Church activity where we met these two angels. I never imagined how much that simple activity would change my life.
My parents and siblings were not interested in learning more about the Church at that time. They were not even willing to have the missionaries in our home, so I took the missionary lessons in a Church building. That small room in the chapel became my “sacred grove.”
One month after these angels introduced me to the gospel, I was baptized. I was 16 years old. Unfortunately, I don’t have a picture of that sacred event, but I do have a picture of my sister and me at the time we participated in that activity. I may need to clarify who is who in this picture. I am the taller one on the right.

In 1898, Inez Knight and Jennie Brimhall were the first two single women called as sister missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Shortly after arriving on their missions to England, the two women went to preach in Oldham, a small manufacturing town near Liverpool.
Inez Knight and Jennie Brimhall prayed for help in their missionary service in England.
Right: photograph courtesy of Jennifer Whatcott Hooton
The two sisters, their mission president, and other missionaries gathered one evening. “They formed a circle on a busy street corner, offered a prayer, and sang hymns until a large crowd formed around them.” Their efforts were so successful that the mission president “announced that a special meeting would be held the following day, and he invited everyone to come and hear preaching from ‘real live Mormon women.’”