Gospel Story Finder

Eventually I finished my mission and returned home. After a year at Brigham Young University, I returned to South Korea for a summer internship, and each weekend I made a point of visiting the many special friends and families I had met while serving on my mission. After a few weeks, I made my way back to meet with this special family. Upon arriving at their home, I noticed that someone was missing—their son, Sung-Gyun. With tears in her eyes, Mi-Jung broke the news to me: their son’s cancer had come out of remission, and at age 14 he had lost the battle.
As I tried to express my heartfelt condolences to their family and also process the deep sorrow and pain I was feeling, Kuk-Won assured me that they knew everything would be OK. They loved the gospel, attended church faithfully, and looked forward to the day when their family might be sealed together for eternity in the Seoul Korea Temple. Despite the heartache and loss they felt, they knew they would again see Sung-Gyun and be reunited. Mi-Jung also told me that singing hymns daily helped her and her family find the strength to cope with the loss of her beloved son and feel the accompanying peace the Spirit brings.
As I left their home that evening, I reflected again on the words of Mi-Jung’s favorite hymn. I am grateful that Heavenly Father blessed this amazing family with peace after Sung-Gyun’s passing, and I am especially grateful for the Spirit’s role in Mi-Jung’s personal conversion and for the faith and hope their family held for the eternal blessings of the temple.

“Just one more story,” Beth pleaded.
“One more?” Dad closed the picture book he had just finished reading and laughed.
“I can’t go to sleep yet. I’m not a bit tired.” Beth hated to go to bed—especially since her older sister had moved into the newly finished basement bedroom, leaving Beth alone in the room upstairs. Before, Beth hadn’t really noticed the shadowy figures and whispering noises of the night.
“Hmmm …” Dad stroked his chin. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night, it’s because something is bothering me. When that happens, I can always find something in the scriptures that helps me or comforts me.” He reached over to Beth’s nightstand and picked up a worn set of scriptures that used to belong to her mother. “Is anything bothering you, sweetie?”
“Not exactly.” Beth didn’t want to admit that she was scared.
Dad nodded understandingly. “It’s kind of lonely in here, isn’t it? And dark.” He flipped through the pages of the New Testament. “I think that we might just find something in here to help you feel better. Let’s see. …”
After finding the passage he wanted, he stretched his long legs and smiled at Beth. “In the scriptures, it says that Heavenly Father knows everything about each one of us, even how many hairs we have. In Luke 12:7, Jesus tells us, ‘But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not therefore.’”
“Wow!” Beth’s eyes opened wide.
Dad gently touched the tip of Beth’s nose. “And, because He knows you so well, He loves you very, very much.” He thumbed through the pages again. “Here’s another scripture that was written a very long time ago but still sounds as if it’s talking just to you. This one is in the Old Testament, in Deuteronomy 31:6. ‘Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.’” [Deut. 31:6]
“What does forsake mean?”
“It means that He will never leave you alone. He will always watch out for you and take care of you and do whatever He knows is best for you. You are tremendously important to Heavenly Father. Let’s go back to the first scripture that we read. Let me start with verse six: ‘Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten before God?
“‘But even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not therefore: ye are of more value than many sparrows.’”
Beth was puzzled. “How can Heavenly Father know about and take care of all the little animals and birds and us too?”
“I don’t know, but I know that He does. I remember reading a story several months ago in the Ensign. It was a true story about a little sparrow that flew into the Tabernacle while the doors were open.”*
“You mean that big building on Temple Square where they hold general conference?”
Dad nodded. “The workers at the Tabernacle opened all the doors, hoping that the bird would fly out.”
“Did it?”
“No. They tried calling animal control, who brought some nets with real long handles so that they could try to catch the bird.”
Beth remembered how tall the ceiling in the Tabernacle was. Her mother and father had taken her there for a Christmas program last December. The handles on those nets must have been very, very, very long!
Dad continued. “The people ran from one end of the Tabernacle to the other, trying to catch the bird, but that just frightened the poor thing. Terrified, it flew back and forth from the pipe organ to the balcony. The people who worked in the Tabernacle were getting worried because there was an important concert scheduled for that evening and they were running out of time. They had to get the bird out.”
“What did they do?” Beth whispered.
“The animal control people couldn’t think of anything else, so they suggested that they use a pellet gun to shoot the bird.”
“Oh, no!”
“Or they thought they could put out some poisoned food that the bird would eat.”
“Oh, Daddy, they didn’t, did they?”
“Well,” Dad continued, “Brother John, the manager, wouldn’t let them hurt the bird. He thought about how important this little bird was to Heavenly Father and knew that Heavenly Father would know how to take care of the bird. So he turned around and said a quiet, simple prayer. Right away the Holy Ghost helped Brother John know what to do. He quickly gave instructions to the other workers to turn off all the lights; close the blinds, and close all but one of the doors. Soon light poured through that one single door, and the bird was finally able to find its freedom. Out it flew, safe at last.”
“I’m glad Heavenly Father helped the bird.”
Dad leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. “He’s always there to help you, too, sweetie. All you need to do is ask. Promise me that you’ll always remember that.”
“I promise.” Beth smiled and snuggled down farther in her bed.

Some young people want to rebel against restraints. Some of you think it isn’t “cool” to be obedient to your parents or to follow the counsel of your bishop or quorum president. Bishop Richard C. Edgley shared an experience he had as a young boy about the consequences of being reckless and disobedient:
“When I was a young boy, our garage and the neighbor’s garage were about five feet apart. The neighbor’s garage was very old and dilapidated, and some of the boards were breaking. I, on occasion, would climb onto our garage and jump from one garage to the other and play on top of them. My father had told me, ‘Stay off the garages,’ but I didn’t. One time when I was playing on them, I jumped from our garage and fell through the roof of the neighbor’s garage, scraping my back and legs badly. Because I had been disobedient, I foolishly decided not to tell anyone that I had hurt myself. I went in the house and washed the scrapes and scratches as well as I could, but I couldn’t reach the ones on my back to put antiseptic on them or even wash them clean. I bore the burden of pain, worry over infection setting in, and guilt for several days while the healing process took place.”

When I was about to receive my mission call, I had an experience with my dad that really impressed upon my heart and mind the importance of worthy hands.
I had the opportunity to accompany my dad to the house of a man we home-taught. This good brother had asked for a blessing. I was not yet a Melchizedek Priesthood holder, so I watched and listened as my dad placed his hands upon the brother’s head and spoke the words that the Spirit put into his mouth. I felt the Spirit strongly during the blessing.
Afterwards my thoughts lingered on my dad’s hands. Those rough, tough farmer hands had been kept clean by their owner. Because of that, they were able to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands to bestow the blessings and power of heaven upon one of many whom my dad cared for. I viewed the sacred power of those hands with awe and thought: “Wow. I want to have hands like those.” I knew that soon I could, but I would need to keep them clean throughout my life to do any good.
My dad has always used his hands for good. He has kept them ever worthy to hold the priesthood of God.

Down in the South, when I was president of the mission down there, I went to one of the beautiful new chapels there—not of our Church—and the minister showed us through. The ground had broken away so that the basement was above the ground level, and I said to the minister: “Do you know what we would do with this if we had it?”
And he said: “What?”
I said: “We’d improve it and use it to entertain our young people.”
“Well, Mr. Richards,” he said, “you can do it. You have trained leaders, you don’t have to pay them. But we haven’t got them, and we can’t afford to pay them.” Now I knew he could not because one of our members sang in his choir each week and was paid by the minister for singing in the choir.
What if we had to pay all of these folks here, and then all of our ward choirs, and all of the auxiliary organizations. And, just think!—on Friday we had a gathering of the Regional Representatives of the Twelve. I don’t remember just how many were there, but I think about 190. They are businessmen, executives, and professional men, and go all over the country without any compensation for their work in order to help build the kingdom. Thank God for the gift of the Holy Ghost! No wonder the Prophet said that included all things.

Last summer, I was playing on the sidewalk when a neighbor boy was teasing a good friend of mine. At first, I didn’t say anything. After a while, I started to tease my friend, too, and I hurt her feelings. I knew what I had done was very wrong.
I went home and talked to my mom. She helped me clean up and fix my hair. Then I got dressed in my Sunday clothes and picked some violets from our flower garden. We went to my friend’s house, and I gave her the flowers and told her I was very sorry.
I felt much better after I apologized, and I smiled all the way home.
Austin Hamon-Poulsen, age 6Hillspring, Alberta, Canada

Every year, we gathered at my grandparents’ home to hold our family Christmas pageant. The movies of the first event make it pretty clear that I thought it was a great time. But 15 years later, Christmas traditions like ours were starting to look a little stale. At least that’s what I was thinking as I helped my little brother, David, himself a big man of five, into his Wise Man costume.
“I wish I could be a shepherd like you and Daddy, Stevie.”
“Maybe next year, Dave,” I told him, giving him a poke in his tummy, anticipating his laugh.
“Yeah, but this year I wanted to be with you, Stevie, ‘cause next year you might not be here anymore. You’ll be gone on your mission by then.”
“Come on, Davie. Us brothers always stick together. Besides, who ever said I was going anywhere?” The thought of giving up my life for two years didn’t thrill me.
I gathered up my shepherd’s robes, leaving Dave to sit anxiously in his maple rocker beside the fireplace, fingering the gold braid sewn loosely to his bathrobe, wondering about stars and kings and the manger and Grandma and Grandpa’s treats, I was sure. I called up the stairs to tell my mother I was going out to start the car. It was cold. I’d left my gloves upstairs.
I hoped the new little grandson in our family would like his role as the baby Jesus this year. He was the first one who didn’t have to draw his part from the earthenware pot. We used the same ceramic jug year after year for one of the Wise Men’s gifts, and also to pick our parts from. We did the choosing every Thanksgiving. They were just little folded pieces of paper—Mary, Joseph, Gabriel, Jesus. But some years, my last thought before sleep was of my part and who I would be.
There were some pretty strange pageants. The year that Mom was pregnant, she pulled out the slip of paper that said she had to be a Wise Man. My father drew out Mary. He said it ended up being the most moving Christmas pageant for him, even though most of us kids thought it was pretty funny. He said he had begun to understand what it meant to be Mary that year. And even at 14, I got pretty choked up when my pregnant mother appeared to give her gift to the baby Jesus. David was born that January.
It was only about five years ago that we tightened up on the rules and required girls to play girls, and boys to be boys. That was because my older brother’s girlfriend hadn’t felt ready to play Joseph in front of us all the year they were engaged. This year Michelle was the narrator, and my older brother, Greg, was Joseph.
The car windows were covered with frost. I started the engine, then hunted for the scraper.
“You forgot these.” My father’s voice startled me. “It’s a cold one tonight.” He gave me my gloves.
I wasn’t sure where Dad had been when I left the house, and now he seemed to appear from nowhere. He carried robes just like mine, for the jug had decreed us both to be shepherds tonight. With a look toward the house, Dad continued, “Everybody’s ready. Why don’t you drive up front and pick them up?” Turning away, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll meet you down at the mailboxes. Nobody’s had time to check the mail all day, and you know how your mother is about mail.”
I thought to tell him we could just as easily pick up the mail from the car but said nothing. He walked down the road, his shepherd’s robes dragging in the snow a little his steps uneven, his head tilted skyward. Looking at the stars, I guessed. He stopped turned to me and called, “Get going, son. Don’t want to be late.”
I pulled the van up to the front steps, and David came bounding out of the house. Jennifer and my mother followed more sedately. Jenny was to be one of the heavenly hosts this time, but she was having trouble looking very heavenly right now.
“What’s the matter, angel?” I asked, as she plopped into the seat.
“I just hope we don’t run into anyone we know. Do you have a full tank of gas, Steve? I’d hate to pull up at the station and have Jeff see me in this.”
“Yeah, I have to admit, that halo doesn’t look very natural on you. As a matter of fact,” I added, with teasing glee, “the gas tank’s on empty.”
“Steven!” she squealed.
“Don’t worry, angel,” I said in my best Humphrey Bogart. “Just kidding, just kidding.”
Mom was almost to the bottom of the steps, then went back up again to lock the front door. Loaded down with a bag full of gifts, she looked more like Santa Claus than Gabriel. Mom struggled to get the gift bag into the van, then climbed in the back.
“On Donner! On Blitzen!” she called out in a deep voice. David giggled.
“On Rudolph!” Jennifer added.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence!”
We stopped at the mailboxes to pick up my Dad. He folded his height into the car.
“Any mail?” my mother asked.
“Mail! Everybody and his brother must have sent us a card today!” Dad’s hands were loaded with green and red and white envelopes. I turned to smile at Mom. She had complained that she hadn’t received many cards this year.
“Is there one from Boston?”
“How do I know, my dear?” Dad passed the mass of greetings over the front seat to my mother. “I haven’t examined them yet. The day when we get an envelope from Salt Lake City sending Steve on his mission, now that will be a day to investigate the mail.” I shifted the car into gear resisting the urge to return Dad’s inquiring glance.
“I don’t want Stevie to go away,” David whined. “Why does he have to go away, anyway? I’m never, ever going anywhere!”
“David!”
I eased the car onto the main road that would take us through the familiar streets to the highway. Our Connecticut backroads looked good this year. Delicate strands of lights draped many of the bare trees. At other homes, the lights were arranged precisely, evenly layering their way to the top of the tall pines. Candles flickered in windows.
“There is a card from Boston! Please turn the light on, Steven.” My mother read silently. “She’s still alive, that little lady. Lost her sight in one eye now, but still alive and faithful as ever. Isn’t that nice?”
In the rearview mirror, I watched as Mom reached out and hugged David impulsively. I knew who she spoke of, the little landlady she and my father had lived with, and who had joined the Church while they lived in her house in Cambridge.
“Those are happy, happy memories, aren’t they, John?”
“The very best,” my father replied. “Maybe you’ll have memories like those in a few years, Steven.” I said nothing for the rest of the trip.
We arrived at my grandparents’ house right on schedule. That was important, for my grandpa was somewhat fanatical about time. Greg and his wife had arrived early, as usual, their car parked close to the house. The woods were silent.
“Hello Pop-pop! Hello Nanny! I’m here!” David called, trudging up the front steps in his moonboots and Wise Man costume. The door opened, and Grandpa stooped to hug the king. My mother struggled up the steps with her bag.
“Good grief, daughter! What have you got there?” Grandpa said. “We were supposed to go light on the gifts this year.”
“I tried. I really did.” But books are heavy, I thought to myself as I swung the van door shut. Books were my mother’s traditional Christmas gift.
We settled into the living room, enjoying my grandma’s impressive collection of goodies and the warm cider. I listened as I ate. Greg was having problems in his law firm and Michelle was worried about being a new mother. She left the room to nurse her crying baby.
My grandpa looked much older to me tonight sitting before the fire. I hadn’t been up to see them in months, too busy with commuting to school and doing my work. Grandpa asked me about school and about my plans. I told him my plans were kind of tentative right now, but that I loved my pre-architectural program. I knew he was waiting for me to say something about a mission, and it hurt me to know I was disappointing him. He opened his mouth to say more, but seemed to change his mind. He stood to poke the fire. Michelle came back with the baby.
“Well,” Grandpa began, “are we ready to get on with the pageant? We can talk more later. This is our 15th one, isn’t that right, Mother?”
We stood and bundled up once again, slipping our costumes on over our coats, walking out to the accustomed Nativity spot on the front lawn. The moon was a thin sliver in the sky, the stars without number.
Grandpa had gone to extra work this year, I noticed, as I walked by the familiar manger. He had improved the temporary stable in honor of his first great-grandson, putting in real walls to block any wind. Michelle laid her son gently in the cradle, assuring grandma that he wouldn’t get hungry. Grandma, dressed in Mary’s robes, opened her arms to Michelle and gave her a hug.
“Thank you, my dear. Thank you.” Grandma took her place near the crib, and Greg joined her as Joseph. Michelle had sewn some new robes for him, and he looked quite apostolic in his cotton beard. But he always looked that way.
I took my place a little further down the hillside where the lawn curved gently. Grandpa had thoughtfully provided wood for a fire for us shepherds. My father arrived with matches. The ready warmth was reassuring.
Michelle began her narration of Luke 2, and I repeated the words with her in my mind as she spoke. They were an unavoidable part of my memory after 15 years of seasonal repetition.
Funny, I thought, as our little fire popped and hissed, that taxes started the whole business. And the swaddling clothes. What did that word mean, anyway?
Michelle began the verse about the shepherds, and I got ready for our cue. “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid” (Luke 2:8).
I cowered in the frozen grass, playing the part of the frightened shepherd to the hilt. It was more fun that way, to ham up the telling for David’s sake. But an uninvited feeling overtook me. It set my heart to pounding and it made me feel quite weak, for I realized that my cowering was real, and I knew it like never before. I was afraid of the glory of the Lord.
Michelle’s voice continued as my heart thumped quickly. “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:10–11).
I didn’t hear the part about the babe in the manger, and I barely could make out the form of my mother, standing over me with wide-spread arms, for tears brimmed my eyes, then ran in hot tracks down my cheeks. I rubbed them off, their wetness beading up on my gloves. My mother’s words penetrated the hot glow in my mind.
“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men” (Luke 2:14).
Michelle’s even voice continued to reach out from across the lawn. “And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another …” (Luke 2:15).
Now it was my father’s turn to speak. He extended his hand to help lift me from the snow, but I turned my head away from his outstretched hand, not wanting to let him see the tears on my face. But there was a catch in his voice, too, as he said, “Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us” (Luke 2:15).
We walked to the manger together. It was a short distance, to be sure, but something had signaled the start of another, much longer journey for me. Side by side we walked, my father companion and I. And we made haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe, lying in the manger.
How could I stand it, I thought as I looked. The much beloved faces of my grandma and brother, the newborn babe so still in his bed.
I knew then what I would do. There was nothing left to do but go and make known abroad concerning this child and his church. My father and I returned to our fireside, and I knew that he knew what had happened in me.
Michelle read the words about the Wise Men, and David slipped in the snow and tore some gold braid from his gown. But Grandpa, fellow Wise Man, reached to help him, and he said David’s face shone as he gave his gift to Jesus. But I missed all that. In the dim glow of our fire, all I could feel was the strength of my father as he held me, the warming joy of our tears spilled together. I would miss him for the next two years.

For instance, a busy young mother in Arizona, USA, wondered what she could do to help a newly arrived refugee family in her community. She soon learned that she could give them a few things for their empty apartment. When she and her children visited the family to bring the items, she realized that the mother had no purse to carry her personal belongings. She knew that she and many of her friends had extra purses, so she posted a request on social media. That simple beginning has blossomed into a warehouse full of items needed by just-arriving families and helped create a sweet bond between these women of different faiths.

The Lord in his great and infinite wisdom created us, his children, all differently, and surely this is how it should be. As the years have swept by, there stands out in my memory an individual, a girl named Maggie Mahoney. But who was Maggie Mahoney?
Maggie first entered our lives when I was in the eighth grade in our small farming community in southern California. As Maggie walked into our classroom that day, she wore what must have been at one time, when it was new, a white dress, now sallowed and grayed by both age and soil. It was wrinkled and much too large for her scraggly little frame of a body. Her shoes were black, with thick heels, sort of like the shoes our grandmothers wore to church on Sundays. Her hair was the color of over-ripe tangerines. I think, though, the thing that made us all stare so long and hard was not her shabby old clothing. No, it was her freckles. Hers were not the ordinary freckles that many of us had sprinkled across our noses. Hers were gigantic brown blotches that covered her face, arms, neck, and legs. The boys began to giggle and whisper, and we girls, well, we looked at each other in that kind of knowing way we had of communicating without actually speaking. We knew then she would never be one of us.
In reflecting over the situation, what really made the entire episode of Maggie more pitiful was not just the fact that we kids didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t accept Maggie, but that our teacher, Mrs. Saunders, likewise did not accept her. From the first day Maggie entered our room, it appeared that she and Mrs. Saunders had some kind of power struggle going on between them. When the teacher asked Maggie to come forward and read, as we were all asked in turn, Maggie stated firmly she would not come up to read now or ever in front of the class. I realize Maggie probably did not know how to read, as her background was that of an itinerant farm worker, moving from town to town with her family who harvested the crops. Words such as educationally handicapped or dyslexia were foreign to a teacher at that time. So, it was assumed that Maggie was simply stubborn and determined to have her own way.
Thus began a long series of verbal encounters between Maggie and Mrs. Saunders, many of which ended with Maggie’s getting paddled with a large wooden paddle that was usually reserved for the boys. Often she would be made to sit in a corner for long hours without being allowed to even move, or sometimes it was an actual physical encounter with the teacher in the cloakroom, as Mrs. Saunders at times had an uncontrollable temper.
What about me? How did I feel about Maggie? I was quiet, almost to the point of being shy. I was a follower. I went along with what my friends did. I didn’t always feel they were right, but I was too timid to ever protest. I recall one occasion when we were planning a party for graduation, and the subject came up about Maggie coming. Since it was to be a class party, it would have to include her, but the girls stressed that everyone would be expected to wear a party dress, and we all knew that the only dress we had ever seen Maggie in was the one she wore to school day after day. Something inside me wanted to reach out and help Maggie, perhaps offer to help her make a dress or give her one of my better dresses, but I knew what would happen if I crossed the barrier between her and my girl friends. There really wasn’t much I felt I could do.
That summer was especially memorable as we had graduated from eighth grade and were going into high school in the fall. We felt we were being liberated into a whole new world of dances, football games, and boys, especially older boys. My friends and I spent long hours on the phone talking about all the exciting events that were about to transpire in our lives. Vaguely I can recall someone mentioning that because of Maggie’s problems, she might not be passed on into high school, but this was a problem that we didn’t want to become concerned about.
I recall vividly that autumn morning, about a week before school started, when my mother came quietly into my bedroom and sat down on the edge of my bed. I knew by the tone of her voice that something was wrong. She related to me that the previous night Maggie had been involved in a terrible accident, an accident that had taken her life. The circumstances were vague, and there was even talk going around by some of the people in the town that Maggie had taken her life. It was a question that was to go forever unanswered.
I was stunned, bewildered, and then I began to cry. Deep sobs racked my body, but they were not for the dead Maggie. No, they were for all the memories that flooded into my mind of the cruel injustices, the hurting remarks, and all those terrible, cruel things we had in our self-righteous way dealt to the living Maggie. We had literally shut her out of our lives.
In the following years, I was to find the gospel, and thus came a great spiritual awakening in my life. There has come, too, a feeling of deep regret for what might have been had I known what I know now. Maggie had come to this earth not to be endowed with great beauty, wealth, or intellect. She had come in her own uniqueness only to be shut out by her peers who didn’t even care enough to look beyond outward appearances to find out who Maggie Mahoney was. She was our sister, and we didn’t even know it!

Jim and Marian spent much of their time determining who was making the greatest contribution to their marriage. They believed that a marriage would work only if it was a 50–50 relationship. Neither felt that the other was being fair. Each was constantly upset about how little the other partner gave to the marriage.
When Jim and Marian changed their focus from how much they each could receive to how much they each could give, their marriage began to improve. Mormon said that “charity is the pure love of Christ” and that charity “seeketh not her own” (see Moro. 7:45, 47). A principle for making this work is found in the Sermon on the Mount: “Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets” (Matt. 7:12).
To make this work, Jim and Marian each needed to find out what the other really wanted. Marian had a romantic nature and valued thoughtful notes, an occasional flower, and frequent verbal reminders that she was loved. By contrast, Jim felt that he best said “I love you” by fixing things around the house, keeping the yard neatly groomed, and providing financial security for the family. Neither of these orientations is superior to the other. Once they learned that the “language of love” was different for each of them, they began to speak each other’s language. As a result, they began to see each other’s contributions to the marriage as fair.

Many years ago dear friends of mine, Craig Sudbury and his mother, Pearl, came to my office prior to Craig’s departure for the Australia Melbourne Mission. Fred Sudbury, Craig’s father, was noticeably absent. Twenty-five years earlier, Craig’s mother had married Fred, who did not share her love for the Church and, indeed, was not a member.

Craig confided to me his deep and abiding love for his parents and his hope that somehow, in some way, his father would be touched by the Spirit and open his heart to the gospel of Jesus Christ. I prayed for inspiration concerning how such a desire might be fulfilled. The inspiration came, and I said to Craig, “Serve the Lord with all your heart. Be obedient to your sacred calling. Each week write a letter to your parents, and on occasion, write to Dad personally, and let him know how much you love him, and tell him why you’re grateful to be his son.” He thanked me and, with his mother, departed the office.

I was not to see Craig’s mother for some 18 months, when she came to my office and, in sentences punctuated by tears, said to me, “It has been almost two years since Craig left for his mission. He has never failed in writing a letter to us each week. Recently, my husband, Fred, stood for the first time in a testimony meeting and surprised me and shocked everyone who was there by announcing that he had made the decision to become a member of the Church. He indicated that he and I would go to Australia to meet Craig at the conclusion of his mission so that Fred could be Craig’s final baptism as a full-time missionary.”

No missionary stood so tall as did Craig Sudbury when, in far-off Australia, he helped his father into water waist-deep and, raising his right arm to the square, repeated those sacred words: “Frederick Charles Sudbury, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

Love had won its victory. Serve the Lord with love.

While on my mission in the Philippines, my companion and I taught a particularly powerful lesson about the importance of studying the Book of Mormon daily. At the end of the lesson, my companion bore one of the most powerful testimonies of scripture study that I had ever heard. She testified that reading the Book of Mormon added a new power into her life that was impossible to explain.
It was obvious that her experience with the Book of Mormon had changed her life, and I wanted that for myself.
I decided that night that I would read the Book of Mormon again. From the beginning.
I spent a lot of time on my knees explaining to God that I wanted to experience the conversion and power that comes from the Holy Ghost.
The answer I received was: Read. Just read.
So that’s what I did. I threw myself into reading with a new vigor. I paid special attention to each verse, chapter, and page. As I read, I found verses that answered my questions, soothed my worries, and helped lift the burdens of those I was teaching.
After about a month, I realized that something inside of me was changing. My capacity to love others increased; I had more hope in the future; I was able to work harder and longer each day; I was more focused on the work; and I started to feel so much joy.
One day in my studies I came across a quote from President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994), former president of the Church: “There is a power in the [Book of Mormon] which will begin to flow into your lives the moment you begin a serious study of the book. … When you begin to hunger and thirst after those words, you will find life in greater and greater abundance.”1
As I continued to study, I began to really understand what he meant. I was finding life in greater abundance.
Looking back, I am convinced that one of the reasons I was put with that companion was so I could be there that night to hear her testimony. I felt like all the good parts of life—love, hope, trust, hard work, determination, and joy—were amplified.
There was a new light in my life, and I knew that it was real.

There is nothing my toddler loves more than trying on my clothes. I’ll often find her rifling through my drawers, stumbling about in high heels, or tripping over dresses that are much too long for her tiny legs.
Recently, she added a new accessory to her wardrobe—my bright blue scripture case. She sauntered into the living room with it dangling from her shoulder, clearly struggling a bit with its weight. As I applauded her entrance and asked her to spin around, I realised that this was the first time I had seen my scriptures in months.
I’d received my own set of scriptures on my eighth birthday, and I had treated them with utmost respect. By that, I mean I had completely dogeared them and filled the margins with notes (and a few drawings—even I’ll admit that’s too far). They were well used, wrinkled and bashed about from years of enthusiastic study. Over time, my studies transitioned over to my phone and the gospel library app. As much as I preferred flipping through the actual pages of a book, convenience won, and my beloved quad began to gather dust.
I decided to open the case and show my daughter what was inside. As well as the scriptures themselves, dozens of lesson handouts and various other bits of paper tumbled out. I found my old Personal Progress journal, a lanyard from a weeklong youth conference in 2012, and a photo of the Saviour. To my daughter these were all exciting new treasures; to me, an equally exciting time capsule. I couldn’t believe that I had neglected to look inside after so long—I probably hadn’t unzipped the case since before my daughter was born. We had a lovely time going through each item, before finally reaching the set of scriptures. Despite one mishap with a ripped page (toddlers aren’t very delicate), it was a wonderful activity.
I thought back to my own childhood, when my mum’s big set of scriptures always sat open somewhere in the living room. Those same scriptures would be passed around as we studied them together, even when I was so small that I could barely read. I wanted my daughter to experience that—to always have a set of scriptures open and close by, ready to leaf through. Now, there is nothing more precious to me than those little moments where I spy my little girl toddle over to the scriptures and flip through. I can only hope that as she becomes familiar with those pages, that she will also grow to cherish the message inside.

What’s wrong?
I heard Miguel and Julia talking about me.
They said I was annoying. And they don’t want to be my friend anymore.
I’m really sorry.
You know, they’re just missing out! I always have fun with you.
Seriously! You even make chores fun somehow. You have the best jokes! And the best ideas. And you’re nice to everyone.
OK, OK. You don’t have to say all that.
Hey, I’m just telling the truth.
Thanks, Paolo. You always know what to say. I feel a lot better.
Illustrations by Katie McDee

My mission president also had a great influence on me. I was so enthusiastic about serving my mission that all I wanted to do was teach and baptize people. But he had the wisdom to take me on assignments where I would learn about Church procedures and administration. Later, when I was called to serve in leadership positions, such as a young bishop, I was truly grateful to him for giving me those experiences.

The first meeting I attended was a fast and testimony meeting. I came late, and as I walked into the chapel, a young woman was crying and talking about how the gospel helped her with her problems. After listening to her and to some of the other members, I realized that all of them had problems. They weren’t perfect, and they knew it. But I could also see they had something strong inside them. Their faith in God was helping them. With that kind of faith, I thought, maybe I could overcome my problems, too.

A young woman wrote: “President Hinckley quoted Joshua 1:9 [Josh. 1:9] in one of his talks. It says, ‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’ Sometimes my friends want me to be someone else and I don’t want to be someone else. I want to be myself, and what I am afraid of is that I might lose them, and I don’t want to lose them. When the prophet read this scripture, it was like he knew what I was feeling. I felt like somebody had answered my prayers. Whenever friend troubles happen to me again, I know what to do and think, because I have those words in my mind that I will never forget, never!”

My sweetheart and I had been married about six years and were just starting our family, when I was called to be a bishop. I was only twenty-six years old. I’ll never forget one of the first times a young person came to me with a problem. As we sat in my office, I prayed silently, “Father, what can I do? What should I tell this person?”
A scripture came to my mind, a verse found in 1 Nephi 15:24 [1 Ne. 15:24]: “And I said unto them that it was the word of God; and whoso would hearken unto the word of God, and would hold fast unto it, they would never perish; neither could the temptations and the fiery darts of the adversary overpower them unto blindness, to lead them away to destruction.”
I said to that young person sitting in my office, “It will be important to you to hang on to the rod, which is the word of God found in the holy scriptures. Satan won’t be able to overpower you anymore with his temptations and his fiery darts if you’ll hang on to the rod.” We came up with a hand signal that meant “Hang on to the rod.” Soon that hand signal spread to all the young people of the ward, and whenever they saw me, they gave me that signal: “Hang on to the rod.”

For the youth of the Allen Second Ward, located just north of Dallas in Texas, the most significant event of the year isn’t youth conference, camp, or high adventure activities. It’s a two-day mission experience in which the priests and Laurels are paired up with full-time missionaries.
The youth were challenged to set appointments with nonmember friends, and other members helped with referrals. After an MTC-type training experience in the chapel, the youth helped teach discussions, tracted, ate dinner with member families, and had a testimony meeting.
“It was awesome!” said Josh Hopewell. “We got a couple doors slammed in our faces, but that’s part of the job. It comes with the territory.”
Said recent convert Jason Mckenty, “I know this church is true. It’s just the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I learned so much in two days!”
Jeni Smith summed up most people’s feelings when she said, “I’m really glad I came. I think the missionaries do such a great job. You may be hot and sweaty, but when you get in that first house and leave them with a copy of the Book of Mormon it’s worth it. I’m really thankful to have been part of it. I’m so thankful for Jesus and what he has done for each of us. I love this church a lot.”
Now the younger kids in the ward can’t wait to be priests and Laurels, and the priests and Laurels can’t wait to serve missions of their own.

I recall my first acquaintance with Elder Spencer W. Kimball many years ago when he served as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve and I served as a young bishop in Salt Lake City. One morning, when I answered my telephone, a voice said, “This is Elder Spencer W. Kimball. I have a favor to ask of you. In your ward, hidden away behind a large building on Fifth South Street, is a tiny trailer home. Living there is Margaret Bird, a Navajo widow. She feels unwanted, unneeded, and lost. Could you and the Relief Society presidency seek her out, extend to her the hand of fellowship, and provide her a special welcome?” This we did.
A miracle resulted. Margaret Bird blossomed in her newfound environment. Despair disappeared. The widow in her affliction had been visited. The lost sheep had been found. Each one who participated in the simple human drama emerged a better person.
In reality, the true shepherd was the concerned Apostle who, leaving the ninety and nine of his ministry, went in search of the precious soul who was lost. Spencer W. Kimball had walked the pathway Jesus walked.