Gospel Story Finder

“I’ll race you to the church!” Mórmon said, pointing to the church steeple poking out above the palm trees. Then he ran as fast as he could to stay ahead of his younger brother, Morian.
The boys and their parents had already walked about a mile from their home, but Mórmon and Morian were still racing hard when they reached the metal gate outside their ward meetinghouse. They stopped to catch their breath.
Before they could decide who won, a boy called out to them, “Want to play futebol?”
Mórmon loved futebol, but he and his family were going to clean the ward building so it would be ready for church the next day.
Mórmon shook his head. “Not now—maybe later!” he called back.
Soon Mórmon and Morian were working hard. Mórmon moved chairs and swept floors with Papa while Morian mopped floors with Mama.
Later the boys were washing mirrors in the bathroom together. “I didn’t think I’d like cleaning the church, but it’s fun,” Morian said. “What about you, Mórmon? Is that why you came instead of playing futebol?”
Mórmon thought about Papa. He was the bishop of their ward, but he still took time to help clean the meetinghouse.
“I’m here because I want to be like Papa,” Mórmon said.
Then he thought about the missionaries in his ward. They were busy knocking on doors and sharing the Book of Mormon with others. They would invite people to come to church at the building the boys were cleaning.
I’m here because someday I want to serve a mission too, Mórmon thought. I can help the missionaries by getting the church ready.
Mórmon thought about tomorrow, when he and his brother would get up at 6:00 a.m., walk to church in their white shirts and ties, and prepare the chairs and songbooks in the Primary room.
I’m here because I want to serve in a Church calling, he thought.
Mórmon thought about how he would soon be a deacon. He would pass the sacrament and do many other things to serve.
I’m here because next year I will receive the priesthood, and I want to do everything I can now to get ready.
Mórmon had already done something to prepare for the priesthood: he had earned his Faith in God Award. He was already learning to live the gospel and serve others.
Finally he looked at his brother’s reflection in the mirror and smiled.
“I’m here because I love the Lord,” he said, “and because serving now will help me get ready to serve later.”

David, of Utah, USA, had some health concerns that forced him to finally retire at age 72. While he recovered, his wife, Sheila, continued serving as ward Relief Society president. When she was released, they talked with their bishop about other service opportunities, and the bishop suggested that David could use his experience as a human resources administrator and Sheila could use her background as an employment counselor to serve at a Church employment center.

They were soon called on a service mission. “We love it,” David says. “We both get to do things we know how to do, and we can serve at our own pace.”

Johnny was unhappy. There was no one to play with him. Todd had gone to visit his grandmother. Scott was on a fishing trip with his father. Mother was in the kitchen making bread. Baby was asleep in his room.
It had rained yesterday, but now the sun had broken through the clouds. Johnny was anxious to go outside.
“May I go out to play?” Johnny asked Mother.
“Yes,” she answered, “but be back in time for lunch.”
Johnny pulled on his shoes and ran outside. He skipped down the sidewalk to a field of tall grass. Everything smelled fresh and new after the rain.
When Johnny reached the edge of the field, he turned a cartwheel and rolled to the bottom of the grassy slope.
Lying in the tall grass, Johnny pretended he was in a jungle.
Then he imagined he was in a forest in the mountains. Finally Johnny pretended he was a small worm squirming through the grass.
But playing all alone wasn’t much fun.
Johnny looked up at the sun. It seemed to be dancing through great white puffs of clouds.
The wind shaped the clouds into an elephant with big floppy ears and a long trunk.
Behind the elephant Johnny saw a fat bear dancing along with the sun, a boat, two fish, a dog, and a car.
The car reminded Johnny that Daddy would soon be home for lunch. Johnny looked up again at the sky. The car in the clouds was gone, but he could see Daddy’s car parked by his house.
Mother was putting the baby in the high chair as Johnny came into the house. The kitchen was full of good warm smells.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Mother smiled. “Were you lonely all by yourself in the field?”
“No,” Johnny answered happily, thinking about all the things in the clouds he had seen floating through the sky. “I found some new friends today!”

While studying at Brigham Young University–Hawaii, I was in a new environment and English was my second language. It was challenging, and I knew I needed academic help if I was to retain my scholarship. Without it, I would not be able to stay in school. In addition, I had made the commitment that I would not study on Sundays.
One day while I was reading in the Doctrine and Covenants, a particular verse made a big impression on me. As I read in section 109, verse 7, I came across this line: “Seek learning even by study and also by faith.” That verse became the key to my academic success. With faith and diligent study six days out of the week, I was blessed in my studies. Some in my classes wondered how I could do so well without studying on Sunday, as they did. What I learned is that learning by faith can overcome many challenges.

In his October 2025 general conference address, President Oaks described the harrowing season that followed his father’s passing.19 Not only did he lose his father, but, six months later, his mom was away for an extended period,
anxious to qualify herself to earn a living for her three children . . . [by] pursu[ing] a master’s degree at Columbia University. [But, as President Oaks has recounted,] this proved to be too soon. The loneliness resulting from this separation from her family so soon after the loss of her husband, combined with the rigors of graduate study, strained her beyond the breaking point. In May 1941 [his mother] suffered . . . a nervous breakdown, which required medical supervision away from her family for many months. With faith and priesthood blessings and the loving support of her family, she was able to resume her employability and unassisted parenting in August 1942. Her spiritual and emotional strength was felt throughout the remaining thirty-seven years of her life in her leadership and service in many professional, civic, and Church positions.20

But while his mother was away and then recovering from illness, President Oaks’s third- and fourth-grade years in elementary school were, as he described it, “terribly unhappy.” He was bullied on the school bus and playground. And his fourth-grade teacher required students to pass their “arithmetic papers forward to be graded publicly.” The teacher would then announce results, usually putting young Dallin “at the bottom of the class.”21

President Oaks later wrote: “I knew I was the dumbest boy in the room. I remember one occasion when some classmates threw snowballs at me and called me stupid.”22

Things felt like they couldn’t get any lower. But Christ had other plans for this young man of promise who would someday stand out among the most respected legal minds in the world—so much so that the president of the United States seriously considered appointing him to the U.S. Supreme Court. Later still, he would be called as a prophet of God.

Things improved. The family moved and formed “a stable home.” The new school was better, and a new teacher with “a wise combination of confidence and challenge” helped President Oaks “back on the path of learning and gave [him] many happy memories.”23

President Oaks observed:

These experiences taught me firsthand that when a person is not performing well, there are many possible reasons, some not of his [or her] own choosing. I am forever grateful for a marvelous mother and a wise and loving teacher. Their faith in me encouraged me in the thought that I could amount to something. . . .
Given love and opportunity, every child and adult can recover. All who know this and have the capacity to help others should assist as they can.24

Lisa stood in the doorway of Grandpa’s bedroom. She wanted to talk to him, but he was sound asleep. There was so much to say and so little time. Grandpa couldn’t even get out of bed now.
“I’ll be thankful if I get to see another crocus,” he had said. Those words brought back vividly all the hurt and pain she had felt when Keekee, her pet hamster, died.
Now it is Grandpa’s turn to go, Lisa thought sadly. All the pain of parting came back again. Once more she looked over the garden. Every year she and Grandpa had planted bulbs along both sides of the walkway but now Grandpa was too ill. She remembered how one by one she had handed Grandpa the crocus bulbs and watched him place them into freshly dug holes. Then he covered them gently, almost with a prayer.
Lisa went back to Grandpa’s room. He seemed to still be asleep but then he opened his eyes. “Is that you, Lisa?” he asked.
“Yes, Grandpa, is there anything I can do for you? Anything you want?”
“Just sit and talk to me,” he said, taking her hand.
“The garden misses you, Grandpa. We don’t want you to go.”
“It will only be for a little while. In Heavenly Father’s time it will only be like a winter away. Plants sleep during the winter and wake up in the spring. So it is with people. We are parted for a while and come together again in a world where there is no more separation.”
Grandpa’s hand became limp and he fell asleep.
Lisa went out into the garden again.
“Grandpa loves you,” she spoke to the lilac tree and the rosebushes as though they could understand. “If you could give him a flower, it would make him so happy.” But only the silence and the cold wind answered her. Every day after that, Lisa carefully examined each plant, but there wasn’t even a sign of a swollen node.
Mother had asked Lisa to help in preparing the house for company who would want to visit with Grandpa. “Friends and relatives will come to see Grandpa often,” she said, “and you must keep the porch and steps clean.”
Many people did come to see Grandpa, and each day he seemed to sleep a little longer. Sometimes he didn’t know Lisa was there beside him. One day as she was sweeping the porch, the pain of losing Grandpa seemed to grow so big within Lisa that she thought it would burst. She began to cry. The broom slipped from her hand and fell beside the steps. As she stooped to pick it up, something caught her eye. It was half-hidden under the porch and behind the steps. She got on her knees and could hardly believe what she saw. In a sheltered place, well-protected from the wind and cold, was a purple crocus poking up from the dark earth. Although it was still winter, a flower had been born.
Lisa rushed to Grandpa’s bedroom where he lay sleeping. “Please wake up, Grandpa, and see what I found!” she cried. But Grandpa didn’t stir. Lisa waited and waited. She was about to leave the room when Grandpa opened his eyes.
“Look, Grandpa. Look what I have for you!” Lisa said softly.
“A crocus,” he whispered. “How wonderful!” He took the flower and held it to his face. “Where did you find it, Lisa? We took up all the bulbs last fall.”
“I guess we missed this one. It was in the corner by the steps.”
Grandpa smiled. “Lisa, did I ever tell you the story about the tree that began to sprout leaves in the winter? At the time, people called it a miracle. It brought new hope to many who needed it. Later it was discovered that a steam pipe near the tree had a leak and the warmth made the tree think it was spring—time to wake up and time to show its leaves. People talked about it for months afterward. Many felt it was a message from God, telling them that they should never despair.”
Lisa sat quietly thinking about the miracle tree. She looked down at Grandpa, who had fallen asleep again, the crocus still in his hand. Lisa stood beside the bed for a long time. Slowly some of the pain she felt began to ease. Grandpa’s going away didn’t hurt quite as much now. She knew that one day they would be together again.
“I love you, Grandpa,” she whispered, recalling his words, All else can fade away but love is forever.

As we choose to school our agency and practice yielding our hearts to God, we bump into the natural man within us again and again. I would like to share a story with you that helped me understand something about the natural man within each of us and how that natural man can react. When I was a boy I had a wonderful little cocker spaniel dog named Smokey. Smokey liked to play ball by having me throw the ball as far as I could behind the shop in our backyard, by the woodpile, among the fruit trees, or in the garden—wherever. Smokey would not give up until he found that ball and brought it back to me, only to repeat the cycle again and again. Smokey became my best friend, and I loved to play with him day after day.

Smokey had only one fault. Not only was he obsessed with chasing and retrieving tennis balls, but he was also obsessed with climbing our front fence and chasing after loud trucks passing by on our side street.

One day I heard a truck coming, and immediately I thought of Smokey. Before I could reach the front gate to stop him, he had climbed the gate and was already halfway across our front lawn, headed for the wheels of the truck at full speed. I called for him to stop as loud as I could, but it was no use. Within an instant he was nipping at one of the rear wheels of the truck, running to keep up. A few seconds later one of his rear legs somehow slipped and got caught under one of the wheels, also pulling his pelvis under the wheel. Smokey was left in the street crying and yelping in tremendous pain. I ran over to him and tried to comfort him. As I got close enough, he immediately bit my hand as hard as he could. I was astonished. Why would this wonderful dog I loved so much bite me? My mom came out of the house, and somehow we were able to get Smokey in a large burlap bag and into the car. At the vet’s office we were told that Smokey’s body had been so badly hurt that he would have to be put to sleep. I was devastated and confused.

What happened was not an easy thing for a little boy to understand. It took me some years to learn the lesson from the experience. Those who are hurting often strike out and hurt those they love most, simply because they are hurting. Have you noticed that sometimes when we hurt, this is how we treat our Heavenly Father and others? This is not how our Savior acted when He was hurt—when He was despised and spit upon by others and when He was crucified.

Last summer we took our family to the San Diego Zoo, the largest zoo in the world. Our twelve-year-old son, Craig, had never been there, and he was delighted with the variety of birds and reptiles and other animals. But the part of the zoo that especially interested Craig was the area where the lions and the tigers were kept.
It was a sunny day, and the big cats were all fast asleep. My son thought that they should be up growling and stalking around. All the people there seemed to think so too. They were clapping their hands, shouting, and whistling. But their noise didn’t wake up the animals at all. So my son nudged me in the ribs and said, “Dad, give them your whistle.” I have a very, very shrill whistle, and, to please my son, I whistled as loudly as I could. But the lions still didn’t move.
Then I said, “Craig, listen to this.” I imitated the quiet growl of a tiger. Grrrrr!
Those lions perked up their ears and started moving about. The yelling and whistling hadn’t even disturbed them, but the quiet growl of the tiger reached through all the noise of the crowd. I put my arm on Craig’s shoulder and said, “Now you can see why Heavenly Father speaks to us in a still, small voice in such a noisy world.” We’ve referred back to that experience at the zoo a number of times.

It was just an ordinary sacrament meeting. At that moment, Latter-day Saints were sitting in sacrament meetings in thousands of chapels all over the world. But then something happened to make this particular sacrament meeting special.
After the sacrament had been passed, I sat looking around as the bishop got up to speak. There sat the Spillman family. Jane was facing the bishop, but her arm rested across her husband’s back. Her husband, Richard, was holding their new son, Tommy. He looked into the baby’s face as he fed him with a bottle. That’s what drew my attention to Joel, who was ever-so-gently stroking his baby brother’s head.
Spiritual experiences come in many ways. As I looked at the Spillmans, I felt a sense of peace in the room. I began to look around, and I noticed some wonderful things.
Four-year-old Ashley Anderson, who had been sitting with her mother on the front row, came down the aisle to the back row to sit on Brother Deloy Nielsen’s knee. Countless hours of helping in the nursery had made him a “borrowed grandpa” to many little children who loved him.
Testimony bearing started. An elderly couple, whom I had never seen before, sat in the middle of the chapel. He had his arm around her, and their silver heads were bent close together.
A young man got up and quietly showed a young child the way out. It was Gary—Mindy and David’s son. A sweet spirit filled the room as family after family drew close and touched one another spiritually.
Dallas’s little girl sat on his lap. She reached over and hugged him. Toddler Donelle took turns going from Jackie to Wayne for hugs and loves. The chapel, at that moment, was a special place, with a special spirit.
Recently baptized Jared, Kim’s young son, bore his testimony and then sat close to his dad. As more testimonies were shared, members continued to partake of the spirit.
As I sat there, I thought again about the Saints gathered in rooms, rented halls, and chapels all over the world, enjoying the same spirit I was enjoying. Even members like me, sitting alone because loved ones lived elsewhere or had passed away, were not really alone. We were all together for this special time, on an ordinary Sunday, in an ordinary ward, in an ordinary stake of Zion.
Just another sacrament meeting? It all depends on how you look at it.

I took the New Era magazine with me to work to read during my break time. At one point during my shift, I went to the back to get some things from the freezer and found one of my friends flipping through my magazine while she was on break.
“This must be yours,” she said as I smiled at her.
“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s the New Era magazine I receive each month through my church.”
Later that evening, she asked if she could borrow the magazine for the night and read through it. Ever since then I have brought the New Era with me to work each month and have had quite a few friends ask me questions about my beliefs and about different principles of the gospel. I have also been able to give the friend I mentioned earlier a copy of the Book of Mormon.
I’m grateful for the chance to share the gospel in such a simple way. It has brought joy into my life.

Many years ago, after World War II, I was attending college. There I met Donna Smith. About that time I read that two essential ingredients to a successful marriage are a cookie and a kiss. I thought that was a pretty good balance.
I attended college in the morning and then went back to Brigham City to work in my father’s auto-repair garage in the afternoon. Donna’s last morning class was home economics. I stopped by her classroom before leaving. The door had a frosted glass window, but if I stood close to the glass, she could see my shadow outside. She would slip out with a cookie and a kiss. The rest is history. We were married in the Logan Utah Temple, and that began the great adventure of our lives.

From a young age, I lived in Arabia, a largely Islamic part of the world, for many years. For part of that time, I attended boarding school in England. In both settings, Arabia and England, I encountered lots of different people. At first it could be hard to be around such a variety of people so unlike myself. But eventually, I learned through experience that most differences are good, even wonderful! My life has been enriched beyond measure by interacting with people of different cultures and beliefs in many parts of the world.

A few years ago my back started hurting. I was kind of worried, so I went to see our family chiropractor. He took some X-rays, saw something weird going on, and recommended me to a specialist.
I was right. There was something wrong. The specialist told me I have a condition called ankylosing spondylitis. It’s a form of arthritis where your spinal joints get inflamed and your spine tries to fuse itself together.
My prescription was to exercise and stretch four or five days a week for about 20 to 30 minutes. If I don’t, my back starts to hurt again. Ankylosing spondylitis can also lead to other serious health problems.
Someday I may have to treat my condition with drugs, but for now, I stretch every day. I also go to the gym several times a week. Recently, I went for a checkup. The doctor told me that because I was diligent with stretching, my spine is in a lot better shape than many people my age.
I’m thankful for my body despite its limitations. I try not to focus on my health problems and just use my body the best I can. A few months ago, I found out that the lead singer of one of my favorite rock bands also has ankylosing spondylitis. Rather than complain, he said a lot of the great things in his life have come from struggling.
I try to remember the fact that Jesus Christ suffered every pain for us. He knows the mental and physical pain of any condition, including ankylosing spondylitis. He is the most equipped to help us, and He has helped me be grateful for my body and its abilities.
Samuel M., 21, Utah, USA

When Heber J. Grant was nearly 24, he was called as a stake president. He had never spoken to a large group before, so when he gave his first talk, it was only seven minutes long.
The next two Sundays, Heber traveled to different wards. Again he ran out of ideas after speaking for six or seven minutes. So the Sunday after that, he brought two speakers with him.
Heber: Bishop Sharp, it looks like no one is coming to the meeting. Where is everyone? It’s almost time to start.
Bishop Sharp: I’ve encouraged the members to be in their seats on time, President Grant. We’re the last ones to arrive—you’ll see.
Inside the log meetinghouse, every seat was full! Heber thought he would speak for a few minutes, as usual. Instead, he spoke easily for nearly an hour. He felt the Spirit guiding him.
That night Heber prayed with gratitude.
Heber: I thank Thee, Heavenly Father, for blessing me with the Spirit as I spoke today.
The following Sunday he expected to speak just as well, and he did little to prepare. How embarrassed he was when no words came to his mouth! He spoke for only five minutes.
He tearfully left the meeting and went into a field to pray. After that he always remembered to rely on the Spirit whenever he taught.
Heber: Forgive me for not praying or preparing. I know that I can preach only if I first seek Thy Spirit.

As 14-year-old Boy Scouts from Troop D in Burley, Idaho, my friends and I were camping in a beautiful pine forest nestled into the canyon of the middle fork of the Boise River.
We had just finished exploring the area with our leaders when we decided our next experience should be fishing.
“Let’s go up above the rapids this time,” Paul suggested. “If we fish the deep-water holes, we’ll probably catch a lunker.”
“Yeah,” Richard agreed, “and we’ll cook it tonight for dinner.”
After we’d gone about a fourth of a mile from camp, we found an eddy with a water hole deep enough to catch a whale. But before we could get our fishing poles ready, I saw a log about 20 inches in diameter and what I guessed to be about eight feet long. It was magnificent. It floated high in the water and was still covered in bark. It was the type of log that cries adventure to three 14-year-old Scouts.
“Hey, guys,” I called to Richard and Paul. “If we don’t ride this log, we’ll miss out on the thrill of a lifetime. Just think of the story we can tell the other guys when we get back to camp.”
At first we all agreed that riding the log would be fun. But as Richard and Paul watched the swift-moving river run over the tops of boulders, they saw how steep the rapids were below us. Paul said, “I’m not sure this is such a good idea, Francis. We might not make it through in one piece.”
“Yeah,” Richard agreed. “This might not be the smartest thing we’ve ever done.”
“Come on,” I coaxed. “Don’t let a little fast water stop you. We’ll be fine.”
“Nah,” Paul said. “I don’t think I’m going.”
“Me either,” Richard said. “It doesn’t look safe.”
“Well, I’m going,” I said stubbornly. “And if you don’t go, I’ll be the only one at camp tonight with a great adventure story.”
Insisting I was crazy to try, Richard and Paul watched with concern as I gripped the log and steered it into the river. Immediately I noticed the river was deeper than I thought it would be. Just as I was about to climb onto the log, a voice came into my mind.
“Don’t do this thing! The tree trunk will roll as it goes through the rapids, and you will be thrown off into the churning water. What appears to be a thrilling and exciting experience could cost you your life. Your friends on the shore will think you are wise if you just let the log go and return to safe ground.”
The voice went on to say, “If you die, your mother will be left alone and brokenhearted. Even now she is praying for your safety.” Then an image of my mother kneeling in prayer came into my mind.
I let the log go and watched it slowly drift with the current. Then suddenly it appeared to be sucked into the top end of the rapids. The large trunk was tossed like a matchstick among the jutting rocks. Splinters were knocked off and large chunks of bark were stripped from the log.
A very clear picture formed in my mind as I realized the life-and-death situation I had been contemplating. If I had gone with the enticement of only living life for fun, I would have been destroyed just like the log.
I knew I would always remember those two very different urges. The first, to live only for the fun, thrill, and adventure of life. That appealed to my pride and vanity. My perception had been clouded. Selfishness was the engine that drove this desire.
The second, a prompting to listen to reason, was life-giving and life-sparing. It stood in opposition to selfishness. It helped me realize the cause and effect of the situation I had placed myself in. I was impressed that life is important and I should not take chances with it.
In the years since this experience, I have rafted on swift-running rivers and gone over many white-water rapids. But I have never forgotten my first experience with life’s rapids.
I learned that making right choices comes from heeding the promptings of the Holy Ghost. Now when a decision needs to be made, I examine closely how I feel. I listen for opposing arguments and do my best to choose the one that leaves me feeling light, warm, responsible, and unselfish. Whenever I feel this way, I know I’m on the right track.

I stood in the warm font, my white dress billowing around me. I was excited to be baptized, to be clean! Elder Daniels put me under the water, and I came up soaking and smiling. When I opened my eyes, I felt so good. I never wanted to do anything wrong again. My parents smiled at me.
“You did great,” my mom said after I was confirmed. She had even written me a poem for my baptism day. My dad was not a member of the Church, but I knew he felt OK about my choice since he let me take the missionary discussions.
Two of my best friends from the fifth grade came to see my baptism, and my parents took us all out for yummy ice cream afterward. My favorite food!
My friends and I took our cones and explored the gardens near the ice cream shop. The creamy ice cream on my cone looked so good. But on my first lick, the whole scoop fell off the cone and onto the grass!
Without thinking, I said a word my mom had asked me not to say. I slapped my hand over my mouth, realizing what I’d said. I was so sad. I didn’t know what to do. My parents thought I was just sad about my ice cream. They offered to buy me another, but I didn’t feel like eating anymore. Who cared about ice cream? I’d just made a terrible mistake and ruined my perfect day. I wasn’t clean anymore!
The rest of the day I felt awful about what I had said. And I didn’t want to tell my mom because she might get mad at me for saying a bad word. I was embarrassed that I had spoiled my new clean record so soon after being baptized.
That night I prayed for forgiveness. “Heavenly Father, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to say that word. It just came out. I don’t want to say it again.”
I went to bed unhappy, and on Sunday morning I still wasn’t feeling very good. When we got to church, I waved hello to Elder Daniels with the same crummy feeling in my stomach.
I felt even worse when my mom said, “I’m so glad you decided to be baptized.”
During sacrament meeting a familiar tune made me look up. It was the sacrament hymn. The words were about Jesus. As I started to sing, I concentrated on the words. They spoke about Jesus’s amazing Atonement and how wonderful it was. Then I remembered something the missionaries taught me. They said that every time I sincerely repented and took the sacrament, it would be just like I was baptized all over again! I could repent. Instantly my heart felt lighter, and I realized that everything would be OK.
I was so relieved and so grateful for the sacrament that day. I took the bread and water and promised Heavenly Father I would do my best the next week to keep all His commandments. I was so happy. I knew that I was clean again.

The first day I saw Frances, I knew I’d found the right one. The Lord brought us together later, and I asked her to go out with me. I went to her home to call on her. She introduced me, and her father said, “‘Monson’—that’s a Swedish name, isn’t it?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Good.”

Then he went into another room and brought out a picture of two missionaries with their top hats and their copies of the Book of Mormon.

“Are you related to this Monson,” he said, “Elias Monson?”

I said, “Yes, he’s my grandfather’s brother. He too was a missionary in Sweden.”

Her father wept. He wept easily. He said, “He and his companion were the missionaries who taught the gospel to my mother and my father and all of my brothers and sisters and to me.” He kissed me on the cheek. And then her mother cried, and she kissed me on the other cheek. And then I looked around for Frances. She said, “I’ll go get my coat.”

Having my long lockdown locks chopped off and donating them to a charity has been very rewarding. The charity to which I donate my hair makes quality, real-hair wigs, free of charge for children and youth suffering from the effects of cancer.
I first heard about hair donation through my congregation on Preston New Road. A charity called locksoflove.org was asking for hair so it could carry on its amazing work. That was over 22 years ago and I have been growing, cutting and then donating my hair every 2-3 years ever since. This will be my eighth donation.

Some time ago, Dr. James O. Mason, who was associated with us in the Welfare Services Department, was visiting one of the developing countries of the world. A teenage boy asked him if he would please bring a gift to President Kimball. The gift was a sketch he had drawn of a peacock with its tail feather in full fan. It was done so carefully—each feather in place—in such beautiful color. As we saw it, we marveled at the artistry of the boy and asked further about him. In response, Dr. Mason handed us a picture of this lad. He had no arms. A birth defect had left him crippled, and yet he had developed his artistic talent so as to draw this beautiful, intricate rendering by holding his pencils between his toes.

We were asked if the Church had funds that could be used to fit him with artificial limbs. We assured the mission president there were funds, but only after his family had done all they could. When we had the assurance that the family had complied with Welfare Services principles, funds were made available.

We later received another picture, showing his newly acquired arms and hands, with a report of how proud he was to be able to dress himself now. He had been greatly blessed by those who lived the law of the fast and were generous in their offerings.

The other experience is the loss of his firstborn, a little daughter by the name of Mercy Josephine, whom he affectionately referred to as “Dodo.” Little Dodo, the eldest sister of President Joseph Fielding Smith, died when she was three. After watching over her night after night, holding her, and encouraging her, her father grieved when one entire night she went sleepless. The next morning when she said, “I’ll sleep tonight, papa,” the words “shot through my heart.” Shortly thereafter, she died. The sorrow of his heart can only be adequately expressed in the words of a letter written at that time to his wife Edna.
“I scarcely dare to trust myself to write, even now my heart aches, and my mind is all chaos; if I should murmur, may God forgive me, my soul has been and is tried with poignant grief, my heart is bruised and wrenched almost asunder. I am desolate, my home seems desolate and almost dreary … my own sweet Dodo is gone! I can scarcely believe it and my heart asks, can it be? I look in vain, I listen, no sound, I wander through the rooms, all are vacant, lonely, desolate, deserted. I look down the garden walk, peer around the house, look here and there for a glimpse of a little golden, sunny head and rosy cheeks, but no, alas, no pattering little footsteps. No beaming little black eyes sparkling with love for papa; no sweet little enquiring voice … no soft dimpled hands clasping me around the neck, no sweet rosy lips returning in childish innocence my fond embrace and kisses, but a vacant little chair. Her little toys are concealed, her clothes put by, and only the one desolate thought forcing its crushing leaden weight upon my heart—she is not here, she is gone! … I am almost wild, and O God only knows how much I loved my girl, and she the light and joy of my heart.”
Forty-six years later, just two years before his own death, President Smith wrote in his journal, “This is the 49th anniversary of the birth of my firstborn child, Mercy Josephine. A most beautiful and intelligent little girl. She died June 6, 1870, nearly three years old, leaving but the memory of the sweetest, happiest, loveliest three years of my whole life up to that time. O how I loved and cherished that little angel of love and light.”