Gospel Story Finder

Just after my baptism on 31 October 1980, a friend invited me to a ward party. I said to myself, This Church is nice; they even throw a party for me. I later realized I wasn’t really the guest of honor. But at the party my friend introduced me to a young woman and told her to take good care of me. Annie Ortiz was indeed a good fellowshipper. At this time, she is still taking good care of me. We were married in 1985 and sealed in the Manila Philippines Temple.

There were only a few days left until the start of my freshman year of college, and getting my textbooks was definitely a priority. New textbooks can be expensive, so I found a book-exchange site where I could find students who were selling their used textbooks. It wasn’t long before I found a woman looking to sell her physical-science book, and soon I was on my way to her apartment to pick it up.
When I arrived, I noticed that the outside of the complex looked fairly dirty. There was trash littering the walkway, and to be honest I was a little hesitant to knock on her door alone.
But I did need that textbook.
So I knocked, and a woman carrying a screaming baby came to the door. Behind her, I could see that the apartment looked dark and cluttered. Clothes were piled on the couch, and many dirty dishes sat in the sink. I could feel a sense of uneasiness in the atmosphere and in the woman’s demeanor.
We had a short exchange. She gave me the book, I gave her the money, and that was that.
The woman closed the door, and instantly the Spirit impressed upon me that this woman needed my help. I felt like I should knock on her door again.
But the idea seemed so awkward. What was I going to do, just knock and say, “Hi, you look like you need help”?
No way.
I quickly dismissed the idea and got in my car. But when the uneasiness and the thought in my mind persisted, I was reminded that I was being prompted by the Spirit, as “all things which are good cometh of God” (Moroni 7:12). And this definitely wasn’t my own thought.
I had never felt such a clear and specific message from the Holy Ghost in my life.
The gift of discernment includes “perceiving … the source and meaning of spiritual manifestations.”1 But even though I knew this feeling of needing to help was from the Holy Ghost, I still hesitated.
I said a quick prayer and told Heavenly Father that I felt uncomfortable and was going to drive away, so if He wanted me to stay, He was going to have to stop me. As soon as I opened my eyes, I started my car and felt the prompting again, but even stronger—it felt like the Spirit was pulling me out of my car. I knew I needed to obey the prompting, however odd the situation seemed, so I turned off my car and made my way back to the woman’s apartment.
I frantically thought of what I would say when I knocked on her door again.
“Hi, can I help you?”
No.
“Hello, I want to serve you.”
No! I was panicking now, and I was out of ideas!
But I knocked anyway, and the woman came to the door looking frazzled with a confused expression on her face.
“Hi, I felt like I should come ask you if you need any help,” I said.
The woman gave me a terribly strange look and said, “Nope, I’m good.”
After that I frantically said, “OK, thanks. Bye!” before she shut the door.
Talk about awkward.
As I got in my car and drove away, I tried to reason why God would have sent me that prompting just to have the woman deny my offer to help. I was confused but mostly glad I had followed the prompting.
Suddenly I heard a text alert on my phone. I pulled into a parking lot and saw that the text was from the woman who had sold me the textbook. She was asking me to come back and help her out if I still had time and wasn’t too far away.
Amazing, right?
I drove back, knocked on the door, and asked her how I could help. I think we both recognized the awkwardness of the situation, but she asked if I could hold her baby so she could get some dishes done while her husband was at work. I gladly agreed, and for the next few hours, I rocked her baby while she told me about her life, with all the highs and lows.
I could tell from our conversation that she was going through a challenging time in her life and that she was glad to have someone to share her burdens with. After the laundry was folded and the dishes were washed, she took back her baby and thanked me, and we parted ways.
I never saw the woman again, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget hearing the voice of the Spirit like that or the realization that Heavenly Father truly is aware of each of His children.

The air was stiflingly hot, and birds filled the blue Portuguese sky. Nearby, some of my nephews were playing in the river, plunging into the water to escape the heat.
I wished I could escape my troubles so easily. I had recently decided to become active again in the Church. Through the Holy Ghost, the Lord had confirmed my decision, but my family and friends didn’t understand. They had criticized and abandoned me, and I felt utterly alone. A request to watch my sister’s boys swim had offered some needed moments of peace in what seemed a constant battle against forces intent on keeping me from the truth.
I had brought my Book of Mormon with me, and while my nephews splashed in the river, I sat under a tree and read. Tears started to flow as I thought of those I loved who told me I was making a mistake. I was so sure I was doing the Father’s will.
Suddenly it occurred to me that I could no longer hear my nephews. I looked toward the river, but they weren’t there. Concern, bordering on panic, flooded my heart.
And then I heard a young voice calling out my name. I turned to see my nephews standing behind me, smiling, cheeks as radiant as the light of the sun. The youngest, about five years old, was hiding something behind his back—an arrangement of multicolored flowers he and his brothers had picked from the nearby field. He presented them to me in a voice that sounded like music to my ears.
Tears sprang again to my eyes. But this time they were tears of happiness. As I embraced my nephews, I lifted my face to the sky and saw rays of sunlight shining through a break in the clouds. A great peace filled my heart. Because of this small, simple gesture—made with love—I knew I was not alone. Even though they did not understand my decision, my nephews—and all my family members—still loved me. But more important, Heavenly Father knew of my trials and was there to sustain me with His infinite love and concern.

A private code would keep their secrets safe! She wanted something the other sixth graders wouldn’t be able to figure out, so 11-year-old Michelle Hansen decided to learn sign language. After memorizing the alphabet, she taught it to her friends, and for the rest of the year they had fun quietly communicating their thoughts, dreams, and plans.
When Michelle and her family later moved to Puyallup, Washington, the old gang was broken up, but Michelle retained her skill in sign language, never suspecting that this talent would someday help unite a class of nine-year-old Targeteers.
Michelle’s mother was called to teach the Targeteer A class in Primary, which included a deaf child named Kim Hunt. Sister Hansen was talking to her family about the situation, wondering what she could do to help Kim feel more a part of the group. Michelle, then 16, told her mother she knew some sign language and volunteered to accompany her to Primary and translate the lesson for Kim.
Beginning the second week, Michelle took five minutes each class period to teach the rest of the girls to say hello and to tell Kim their names. She gave them each a copy of the alphabet and continues to teach them as much as possible. Her younger sister, Hope, is also in the class and helps Michelle teach the signs.
Michelle has since taken two classes in sign language and has volunteered in the Seattle Washington Stake to interpret conferences and other meetings for the deaf. Because of her willingness and desire to share her talent to help others, Michelle has seen a little girl who was once only a silent observer at Primary become an eager, happy listener.

When I was teaching sixth grade a number of years ago, a 14-year-old boy dressed in gang attire was marched into my classroom. He was two years older and four years larger than the other 30 students. Quickly I discovered Brian did not read, had not attended school with any regularity, and had lived with a variety of guardians in a number of cities.
Report card time was coming up, and I came to school on my day off to finish recording the children’s work and mark the report cards. As I entered the classroom to gather up the records, I could see Brian had the class in an upheaval. I suggested to my grateful co-teacher that I would take Brian with me. With some first-grade primers filled with pictures, we headed to the library, talking a little football on the way.
We settled ourselves at a table where I was marking report cards. I asked him if he had ever had a report card.
He shook his head and said, “No.” I asked if he would like a report card.
He looked directly at me. “Only if it said I was a good boy.”
I made out a special card for him, emphasizing his strengths. I wrote his full name on it and his ability to include everyone and make people laugh. I specifically mentioned his love of sports. It was not a traditional report card but seemed to please him. Not too long after that, Brian disappeared from our school, and the last I heard of him, he was living in another state. I hoped he had my report card saying that he was a good boy in his pocket, wherever he was.

David had been playing for a little league team all season. More than anything else he wanted to be a regular on the team, and he wanted to be a pitcher. He never missed a practice or a game. Whenever his dad or his older brother could find the time, he’d get them to play catch with him. Even when David watched television he would wear his baseball mitt and pop a ball in and out of it almost automatically. Sometimes he’d forget to take the mitt off when his mother called him for meals, and then the family would have to wait while David put the mitt away, washed his hands, and came to the table.
Near the end of the season the coach told all the little leaguers they should meet at the ball park on a certain Sunday morning to have a special practice and to have their pictures taken. “I can’t come on Sunday,” said David.
“You’d better,” said the coach, “because we’re going to talk about our team for next year after we have our pictures taken.”
Usually, David ran home full of excitement after a ball game or a practice. But this night he was late, and he hardly answered when his family spoke to him. He was unusually quiet all week, but on Sunday he didn’t go to the ball park. On Monday he was at practice and at every practice afterward. Finally the day came for the team tryouts.
“You’ll be one of our regular pitchers,” the coach told David, “but you’ll have to play whenever a game is scheduled. We need you, and that will mean sometimes you will play on a Sunday.”
“I can’t play ball on Sundays,” David said.
“Then you’ll have to be a standby pitcher instead of a regular one,” answered the coach. And that is how it was all season. Sometimes David had a chance to pitch a game but more often he didn’t. The other boys on the team played on Sundays, but David went to Sunday School and sacrament meeting with his family.
In the spring when David was ten years old, the coach called the boys together to begin a new season and to make selections for the team. “We’ll need you for a regular pitcher this year, David,” he said. “But sometimes you’ll need to play on Sunday.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” said David. That night he talked the problem over with his dad, and then he said a special prayer for help to have the courage to do what he knew was right. The next day he told the coach he’d have to be just a standby pitcher again. The coach only shook his head.
Several weeks went by and David was at every practice. One night the coach called the boys around him. He explained that David couldn’t play ball on Sunday even though the team often had a game on that day. “But I’d like him to be our pitcher anyhow,” he went on. “If you agree, we could let David be our regular weekday pitcher and have a standby pitcher for Sunday games. How about it?”
There was a moment of silence. David could hardly breathe. The team members hesitated for only a minute, and then every little leaguer agreed wholeheartedly to the Sunday standby pitcher plan.

The memory of that particular summer will always stand out in my mind. It was about a week before school let out when my dad announced that I would be spending the next three months in the mountains with my grandpa tending sheep.
At first I had been really excited about the idea. That was until I told my best friend about it.
“Yuck!” She had said. “How boring. Why do you want to do a dumb thing like that?”
To hide my embarrassment, I quickly explained that I really didn’t want to do it, but that I had to because my parents were worried about Grandpa being in the mountains alone all summer. He’d had a mild heart attack earlier that spring, and the doctor had disapproved of his going. But he insisted that he’d gone every summer since he was a kid and that this summer wasn’t going to be any different.
So, because I was young and strong and could do most of the work, I was to help him. My parents also reasoned that it would be a good experience for me and give me an opportunity to get to know Grandpa better.
The first month of that summer seemed endless, and I became more depressed and lonely by the day. Grandpa didn’t help matters much. He was a quiet man, never wasting many words, and I wondered how I’d ever “get to know Grandpa better.”
One night after supper we were sitting near the campfire. It was quiet except for the occasional bleating of sheep in the distance. The sky was particularly clear that night, and I remember leaning my head back to study the stars. They winked back at me, and I tried to imagine the many secrets they held. Maybe someday I’ll be an astronaut, I mused, and uncover some of those secrets. Anyway, whatever I become, I won’t be a dumb old sheepherder!
“Grandpa,” I said finally, “haven’t you ever wanted to do something exciting?”
He chuckled. “Like what?” he asked.
I shrugged, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”
“You aren’t enjoying yourself much these days, are you?”
“Well, it’s kind of boring.”
“And maybe a little lonely?” he asked, smiling at me.
“Yeah, that, too,” I admitted. “How can you stand this, year after year, Grandpa?”
He poked at the fire with a long stick. “For me it has never been a question of standing it. I’m a sheepman. This is just part of what I do.”
It’s hopeless, I decided. I’ll never understand him.
The silence between us lengthened until he rose and walked over to the small trailer where we slept. A few minutes later he returned with a worn Bible in his hands. I had seen him read from it every night, so that didn’t surprise me. It did surprise me when he started to speak.
“When I was young, I felt a lot like you do right now. I wanted to do something really important in my life.
“My pa, your great-grandfather, died when I was about your age. This old Bible was his. It wasn’t until after he was gone that I opened it and for the first time noticed certain scriptures he’d underlined. One in particular made me do some hard thinking. I thought you might like to read it.”
He handed the old Bible to me. It was opened to the second chapter of Luke. I recognized it immediately as the Christmas story. In the light from the fire I could see that the pages were yellowed and wrinkled from years of use. My eyes went to the underlined verses, and I read: “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. …”
As I read on, the familiar words began to take on new meaning. At last I closed the book and carefully handed it back to my grandpa.
He fingered it lovingly. “My pa was a sheepman, and his pa before him,” he said. “I’m proud to have followed in their footsteps.”
Grandpa rose then and left me. I sat alone for a long time, gazing up at the sky. Those were the same stars that had shone that night so long ago, along with that one very special star.
The rest of that summer passed swiftly, and before I knew it, I was back in school. My friends teased me a lot about being a sheepherder, but I didn’t let it bother me. I knew something they’d probably never know.
Not long before Christmas Grandpa had another heart attack, and a few days later he died. I was devastated. Never again would I be able to go with him to the summer sheep camp.
Christmas morning at our house was quieter than usual because we were all thinking about Grandpa. I, for one, knew I’d never forget him. As we gathered around the tree, Dad handed me a package. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I wasn’t in the mood for presents. I think he could tell, because he urged me to open it.
I couldn’t believe my eyes! It was the old Bible. Inside was a brief note from Grandpa. “I thought you might like this,” was all it said. So simple, and so like him.
As I stared at it, I had the feeling that Grandpa was there, watching me, waiting for my reaction. I smiled and pressed the Bible close to me. There were other presents waiting under the tree for me, but I knew none of them would top Grandpa’s Bible.

John Taylor had great understanding and love of people. Once, while he was serving as President of the Quorum of the Twelve, two old and faithful brethren approached him about a bitter quarrel between them. They had resolved to abide by whatever decision President Taylor might render. So they called on him and asked if he would listen to their story.

He said, “Brethren, before I hear your case, I would like very much to sing one of the songs of Zion for you.” A very talented and moving singer, President Taylor then sang a hymn to the men. When he finished, he said that whenever he heard one of the hymns of Zion, he wanted to listen to one more. So the two brethren consented to hearing a second hymn. After the second one, President Taylor quipped that he had heard there was luck in odd numbers, so with their consent he sang still another hymn. Afterwards, he said with a smile, “Now brethren, I do not want to wear you out, but if you will forgive me, and listen to one more hymn, I promise to stop singing, and will hear your case.” By the time he had finished his fourth hymn, the two brethren were in tears; they stood, shook hands, and asked President Taylor to excuse them for taking his time. They left without even telling him what they had quarreled about. His singing had reconciled their feelings toward one another. (See Improvement Era, September 1940, page 522.)

On another occasion, a difficulty developed among members of a branch. “When we had assembled,” President Taylor later recorded, “I opened the meeting with prayer, and then called upon a number of those present to pray; they did so, and the Spirit of God rested upon us. I could perceive that a good feeling existed in the hearts of those who had come to present their grievances, and I told them to bring forward their case. But they said they had not anything to bring forward. The feelings and spirit they had been in possession of had left them, the Spirit of God had obliterated these feelings out of their hearts, and they knew it was right for them to forgive one another.” (In Journal of Discourses, 21:366–67.)

On July 1, 2024, Carriacou and surrounding areas of the Caribbean were hit by a Category 4 hurricane, slashing through the islands and causing widespread destruction. The hurricane caused severe damage to infrastructure, services, and livelihoods in Grenada, Jamaica, and St. Vincent and the Grenadines. The tropical storm transformed into a major hurricane in less than 48 hours, with little time to prepare. Almost every structure on Carriacou and Petite Martinique in Grenada, Union Island, Canauan, and Mayreau in St. Vincent and the Grenadines sustained debilitating damage, leaving thousands homeless and destroying 90 percent of the homes and buildings.
On July 6, 2024, a brave group of nine missionaries from Grenada, led by Elder Seth Whitehead, a senior missionary, arrived on the scene. Working along with the people from the communities, they distributed food, provided manpower to clean the debris, and tried to comfort those in need of consoling. They committed to returning at a later date to help with a variety of projects. Returning on August 19, the group continued to help by setting up 600 tents from ShelterBox, a nonprofit organization that helps people recover after a disaster. They also continued to show love and support to those who had lost so much.
Many of the missionaries found this to be a life-changing experience. Below are some thoughts the missionaries shared:
Elder Tyler Hatch felt it was important to get people back to where their homes were by setting up tents and giving them some comfort with a gospel message. He reminisced, “It was cool to see a smile on their faces because now they had a place for their family. I hope they felt genuine love and also they knew some people really cared about them.”
Elder Sebastian Fuller said, “We were hot, tired, and thirsty, but I realized that if I looked outward at the needs of others who had no shelter, I was able to look beyond myself and why I was there. We set up a tent for a woman without a home. Her home was lying on the ground in splinters. I felt a great love for the people we were helping. … The Church has no presence in Carriacou, so this was a great first step in introducing them to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.”
While in Carriacou, Elder Nathan Wilkinson saw some people living under other people’s homes in dirt dugouts. “We saw so many people turn down food because they didn’t think it was adequate. I learned that a positive attitude, counting your blessings, and being grateful for what you have is very helpful, especially in difficult times.”
Elder Corbin Carpenter expressed, “The best thing I could have done was to show the people that I was there to serve just as Jesus would have done.”
For Elder Dallin Burneson, there was a dual purpose in going to Carriacou. He explained, “Yes, the tents were important, but I wanted to show these people that God cared about them. I wasn’t just sending a package from a thousand miles away; I was there helping them, showing them that I love them. I remember a mother and her daughter, and the mother was clearly exhausted. The daughter, however, was so excited. She kept saying, ‘I want to see inside.’ I opened the door to the tent, and she said, ‘Wow!’”

Photographs from Getty Images
My daughter had just turned eight and was excited for me to baptize her. Her grandparents were also coming for the special occasion, which added to her excitement and anticipation. However, as the big day drew close, it looked like I might not be at the baptism.
My job as a military aircraft pilot and squadron assistant operations officer was rarely boring, but the pace became even more intense when my operations (ops) officer left on another assignment. I was dealing with wave after wave of airlift missions. To produce the required number of flight crews, I was forced to cancel training, suspend some squadron functions, and cancel vacations that had been planned for months.
Aircrews were departing on 21-day flight orders with little chance of returning home early. And when my ops officer and another assistant ops officer returned, it became difficult to justify my staying behind for a family event. How could I hang back when I had required sacrifices of so many others?
I felt torn in half. I always tried to put my family ahead of my career, but I also had a duty to serve my country. My ops officer, while not a member of the Church, understood the importance of this event to my family and allowed me to make the decision myself. After much prayer and family discussion, I did what I felt was right and scheduled myself on the next mission out.
When my crew was alerted for a mission to begin on Monday morning, it didn’t look like there was any chance I’d be back for my daughter’s baptism on Saturday. We were to fly to a cargo pickup location, then to a staging base on the East Coast of the United States, where we would be required to enter crew rest before flying again. Later we would fly to Europe and rest, then deliver cargo to a Middle East location, and on the return flight, stop for yet another crew rest, return to Europe, stop for another crew rest, and return to the United States to collect more cargo and cycle back through. It normally took at least seven days to complete this circuit just once, but I knew my family was praying to have me back. Their faith and prayers helped me to have faith, and it quickly became apparent that this wasn’t going to be a typical mission.
First, instead of stopping on the East Coast for a day or two, our mission was assigned to air-refuel and continue non-stop to Europe. Then, after the minimum legal crew rest period, we were alerted to fly a different mission out-and-back to the distant cargo delivery location. The equipment off-load and ground-refueling at our destination went uncharacteristically well, and after another bare-minimum crew rest period, we were amazed when we were alerted to return directly to our home base. We were going home for a day or so!
Calling from the plane, I was elated to tell my family I was nearly home. My wife told me the baptismal service had just been moved from 5:00 p.m. to 2:00 p.m. to accommodate a youth activity. I next called our airlift stage manager and explained my situation. After a pause, he replied that he could delay our alert until 5:00 p.m. on Saturday—the time the baptismal service had originally been scheduled to begin!
As we cleared the mountain range near my home, I saw that I had one more trial of faith remaining: the city lights below were blanketed in fog. This would be the worst visibility I’d ever flown an approach in. We quickly put together a plan to divert to another airfield if necessary, completed our checklists, and flew down to take a look.
As we sped toward the runway at 200 feet (60 m) above ground level, we were completely shrouded in fog. Suddenly, passing 120 feet (37 m), there was a lighted runway in front of us, and a few seconds later we were safely on the ground. Everyone exhaled in relief.
Photograph courtesy of the Bairett family
An unprecedented string of seeming coincidences had enabled my crew to make a multi-stage trip to the other side of the world and back in record time, and I was able to be home for a brief window that coincided with my daughter’s baptism. With the Lord’s help I was able to fulfill my duty to my country, my squadron, and most of all to my family. While life would have gone on if we needed to reschedule our daughter’s baptism, Heavenly Father was letting us know that He loved us and heard our prayers. He gave my daughter the memory of those miraculous events as a witness that He loves her, and my wife and I both gained a stronger witness that “whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, which is right, believing that ye shall receive, behold it shall be given unto you” (3 Nephi 18:20).

Imagine living so close to the ocean that sometimes you can see whales swimming by! For Vehina and Ranitea Teihoarii, that doesn’t take any imagining at all—it just takes a little effort.
“One of the best places to watch for whales is from the tower of our church building,” says Vehina. “So we get permission, and then you have to climb up the staircase.” She explains that from the tower you can see far out to sea. “And during certain seasons of the year, there are lots of whales that go by.” Vehina, age 9, and Ranitea, age 7, used to get permission to climb the tower, because their father, Thierry Teihoarii, was the district president. He was often in the building, and liked to whale-watch with them.
The white church with the red roof, known as the Takaroa chapel, was built in 1891 by Latter-day Saints who wanted a place to worship together. As the girls climbed the stairs with their father, they would often talk about the history of the Latter-day Saints in French Polynesia. They learned, for example, that Joseph Smith sent missionaries to the islands of the Pacific Ocean in 1844, and that there were members of the Church in French Polynesia before the pioneers arrived in Utah!
Marie, the girls’ mother, points out that when he was district president, Brother Teihoarii traveled to four islands besides Takaroa to meet with members of the Church. Vehina and Ranitea loved to hear about what he did on his trips. “They begged to talk with me as soon as I came in the door,” Brother Teihoarii says. “It seems like they got to know everyone in the islands!”
The girls also love to help their mother around the house. “They see me working and come and work with me,” she says. “If they see me out planting things in the garden, they’ll come and say, ‘Do you need help, Mama? I want to come and work with you.’”
Besides working, the girls spend time dancing, playing handball, riding bicycles, swimming, and helping their grandparents who run a store where people on the island stop for snacks and sandwiches. If you ask, they’ll show you necklaces of shells, souvenirs made with pearls, and fancy hats that people on the islands make to earn money. And they love to play with their cousins, Vainaiti and Shirley, who are also members of the Church. In fact, out of 1,000 people who live in Takaroa, 380 are Latter-day Saints.
Of course the girls go to school too. And it is at school that Vehina has learned some important things about living the gospel. “We study the scriptures together every morning,” Sister Teihoarii explains. “And that has helped Vehina to read well and to express herself. She feels at ease because she’s used to reading and discussing. We know the prophet has counseled families to read the scriptures together. And we see that it will help us not only spiritually, but in our daily lives as well.”
One time when Vehina was nervous about a test at school, she said to her father, “Papa, I’d like you to give me a blessing because I’m scared.” He gave her a blessing, and she felt more confident. When she did well on the test, she remembered to say a prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father. Then she found her dad and thanked him too.
Every Sunday Vehina, Ranitea, Vainaiti, and Shirley go to their meetings in the white chapel. “Ranitea and I are sisters. Vainaiti and Shirley are sisters. But we are all sisters in the gospel,” Vehina says. All four girls like Primary because they get to sing, learn stories from the scriptures, and hear about the temple. “I want to go to the temple someday,” Ranitea says. “It’s a good place to be.”

On another occasion the Spirit came to my assistance as I was editing a casebook on a legal subject. A casebook consists of several hundred court opinions, together with explanatory material and text written by the editor. My assistant and I had finished almost all of the work on the book, including the necessary research to assure that these court opinions had not been reversed or overruled. Just before sending it to the publisher, I was leafing through the manuscript and a particular court opinion caught my attention. As I looked at it, I had a profoundly uneasy feeling. I asked my assistant to check that opinion again to see if everything was in order. He reported that it was. In a subsequent check of the completed manuscript, I was again stopped at that case, again with great feelings of uneasiness. This time I went to the law library myself. There, in some newly received publications, I discovered that this case had just been reversed on appeal. If that opinion had been published in my casebook, it would have been a serious professional embarrassment. I was saved by the restraining power of revelation.

“I went a little farther that time!” Lewis exclaimed, marking where he had landed with a stick. A new house was being built next door, and six-year-old Lewis loved playing in the big piles of dirt. He especially liked to jump off the top of a pile with his brother and see who could go the farthest. Jumping was the next best thing to flying, and Lewis wanted more than anything to be able to fly. Not just to ride in a plane—he’d done that lots of times with his dad in a little four-seat airplane—he wanted to fly like a bird. He thought about it all the time.
Last Sunday, Lewis had been given a lesson in Primary about faith. Sister Jones had said that if you have enough faith, you can do anything—even move mountains! Lewis didn’t want to move a mountain—he wanted to fly over one. He believed that Heavenly Father could help him do that just as easily. Lewis didn’t hear the rest of the lesson that day because he was dreaming about his first flight. He knew exactly how it would be. He would jump off something very high and dive to the earth. Just before he hit the ground, he would pull out of the fall with his arms spread out and glide above the earth, rising higher and higher. He could almost feel the wind in his hair and see the look of surprise on his brother’s face as he flew effortlessly over his head. Yes, it was going to be truly wonderful!
“Lewis,” Mom called from the house.
“Yes, Mom?” he replied from the top of the dirt pile.
“Grandma is here and wants to see you.”
Lewis jumped one more time, marked the spot where he landed, and rushed to the house. “Hi, Grandma. How was your trip?”
“Oh, it was great fun, Lewis. I brought you something.” She held up a small pair of flight attendant wings that she had received on her flight home.
“Wow! Thanks, Grandma!” He had wings! Now he knew he could fly. He pinned them to his shirt and ran outside to the dirt pile. Sure enough, he seemed to jump a little farther and a little higher. The problem, he thought, is that this hill is too small. If I could find something higher, I’m sure I could pull out before I hit the ground.
The next day, Dad took Lewis with him to a construction show. One of the companies there was producing new playground equipment, and Lewis saw the biggest jungle gym he’d ever seen. He grinned. Today was the day he was going to fly!
While his dad was busy talking to some other builders, Lewis pulled the flight attendant wings out of his pocket and pinned them to his shirt, then raced over to the jungle gym. He climbed to the very top bar—about fifteen feet high—and yelled, “Watch this, Dad!” He jumped off, completely unafraid. On the way down, his leg caught on a bar and he crashed to the ground.
Lewis’s leg was broken, and his body was bruised and scratched.
“Are you feeling better now?” Dad asked on the way home from the hospital.
“Dad,” Lewis sobbed, “I don’t understand. In Primary, my teacher said that if I had enough faith, I could do anything.”
“I see. Lewis, you need to understand something about faith. The scriptures say that faith is things which are hoped for which are true. If I believed with all my heart that the oceans are filled with spaghetti, it still wouldn’t be true. Faith in Jesus Christ is true because He really did come and die for us and He really does love you. Faith in the scriptures is true because the Lord really commanded the prophets to write them so we could read them and learn about Jesus Christ. Heavenly Father obeys natural laws, like gravity. Can you see the difference?”
“I guess so.”
Dad continued, “You will be able to fly, Lewis, but on this earth the way you have to do it is by following the natural laws. When you get a little older, you can take flying lessons and get a pilot’s license of your own. Now let’s go home and let that leg heal.”
Today Lewis is grown-up and flies high in the sky as an airline pilot. But he still dreams that the day will come when he will be able to fly through the clouds on his own.

Tomás looked at the money in his hand and sighed. Two hundred pesos—not nearly enough. There were three fifty-peso pieces, two twenty-peso pieces, and one of the five-sided coins that Tomás called “cuadrados (squares).” The ten-peso coin wasn’t really square, of course, but Tomás liked the way the word sounded. He looked around him. The streets were almost empty now; soon it would be dark. With another sigh, Tomás picked up his shoeshine box and started home.
It was 1985, and Tomás lived in Santa Maria, a small town in northern Mexico. Every day after school, he walked up and down the dusty, unpaved streets looking for shoes to shine or odd jobs to do. He had to help his mother; his father had been killed two years ago in an accident at work. Tomás had four sisters and a brother, and his mother didn’t make enough money doing washing and sewing to feed everyone. But Tomás never complained. He was proud to be considered the man of the house at such an early age!
“Hola (hello), Tomás.” Doña Eva was standing beside her gate, holding a soda bottle. “Will you do me a favor? Anda (go) and bring me a drink from the store. You may keep the change, but please don’t be too long—I am very thirsty.”
Tomás put down his box and took the bottle. “I’ll be right back,” he called as he raced down the street.
Most of the adobe houses were dark. Santa Maria was so small that only the school and one store had electricity. Most of Santa Maria’s people didn’t even want electric lights. Here and there, oil lamps made strange, dancing shapes on the street.
Tomás was almost at the store when he stopped in astonishment. Two huge, shiny trucks were in the tiny plaza. Surrounding the trucks were villagers, some of them with armloads of clothing or blankets. With surprise, Tomás saw his own mother handing a brightly colored serape to a man in the truck. The long, narrow blanket was his mother’s favorite, a gift to her from his father. “Mamá! What are you doing?” he cried, running over to her.
“Remember how we heard of a great earthquake farther south? There are many who have lost both loved ones and homes. I cannot give much, but I want to send something that will help.”
“But you love that serape! Papá …”
Tomás’s mother smiled. “Your father would want to give something, Tomás. And I love my sisters and brothers too. Remember that as children of God, we are all family, hijo (son). I want to send a little love and comfort to someone who needs it more right now.” She saw the soda bottle. “That must be for Doña Eva,” she said. “She’s always impatient for her soda, Tomás. Run; do your errand for her.”
Tomás did as he was told, but not happily. He felt guilty about his very selfish thoughts, but he couldn’t help them. “How can anyone have less than we do?” he asked himself. “My mother never has anything new. We eat only beans and tortillas. Someday I will have much money, and then I will give. Not now!”
In the store, Tomás paid for the soft drink. He counted his change to be sure it was right. He was very proud of his reputation for integrity.
“Send Tomás,” Doña Eva always said when someone needed an errand run. “He’s a good, honest boy.” Remembering that the change was his, Tomás carefully put it into his empty pocket. He was about to go, when he noticed the newspaper on the store counter.
There were pictures of the earthquake damage—fallen buildings and huge cracks in the streets. In one corner was a picture of a tiny child. Tears filled Tomás’s eyes as he read the caption: Brave Boy Loses Life to Save Baby Sister. Tomás thought of his younger brother and sisters. They were noisy little pests, but he was glad that they were there, filling the small house with happiness. Tonight he would tell them that he loved them!
When Tomás passed the plaza again, all the villagers were gone. The trucks were still parked there, and Tomás stared at them. The coins in his pocket were heavy and cold. He had planned to put aside ten percent of his money for tithing, a few pesos for his savings, and give the rest to his mother. The money was important to his family, and it wasn’t enough to help anyone, anyway.
He couldn’t forget the picture in the paper, though. Why had he looked at it? But his mother was right—he had a lot. He had her, his brother, and his sisters. Tomás smiled a little. He even had dreams, big dreams. What was it his father used to say? “If you have dreams, and if you have faith, you have much.” He turned and walked back to the nearest truck. “It’s only a few pesos,” he said, holding out all except his tithing money.
The man took the coins and smiled at Tomás. “Thanks, son. It’s more than you know. There are people in need of medicine, even babies without food. Believe me, every peso will help someone live. Thank you!”
Tomás thought of the baby in the picture. Maybe his money would help her. But the important thing was that it would help someone. He said good-bye and hurried on toward Doña Eva’s house. “Thank Thee, Father, for giving me so much!” he prayed aloud.

Do you know what it means to minister? Think about this question while I tell you about a girl named Chy Johnson.
When Chy started high school last year, she became the victim of cruel and thoughtless bullying. She was mistreated, shoved, and taunted as she walked to class—some students even threw garbage at her. You have probably seen people mistreated like this in your school too.
For too many people, the teenage years are a time of loneliness and fear. It doesn’t have to be this way. Fortunately for Chy, there were young men at her school who understood what it means to minister.
Chy’s mother had asked teachers at the school to help stop the bullying, but it continued. She then contacted Carson Jones, an Aaronic Priesthood holder and the starting quarterback of the football team. She asked him to help her find out who was doing the bullying.
Carson agreed to help, but in his heart he felt that he could do much more than just identify the bullies. The Spirit whispered to him that he needed to help Chy feel loved.
Carson asked some of his teammates to join him in ministering to Chy. They invited her to sit with them during lunch. They walked her to class to make sure she was safe. Not surprisingly, with football players as her close friends, no one bullied Chy anymore.
This was an exciting season for the football team. But even with the thrill of an undefeated season, these young men did not forget about Chy. They invited her to join the team on the field after games. Chy felt loved and appreciated. She felt safe. She was happy.
The football team went on to win the state title. But something more important than a football championship happened at their school. The example of these young men has motivated other students to be more accepting, more friendly. They now treat each other with more kindness and respect.
National news media found out what these young men had done and shared their story across the country. What began as an effort to minister to one is inspiring thousands of others to do the same.
Chy’s mother calls these young men “angels in disguise.” Carson and his friends are quick to say that Chy has blessed their lives much more than they blessed hers. That’s what happens when you lose yourself in serving others—you find yourself.2 You change and grow in ways that would not be possible otherwise. These young men have experienced the joy of ministering and continue to seek opportunities to bless others. They are anxious to extend their ministering in the coming months when they serve as full-time missionaries.3

Amid my despair, I remembered a time that our ward held an activity called “Christmas in Bethlehem.” Ward members came dressed up as if they were living at the time Jesus was born. Erica, who was four years old at the time, wore a hand-me-down long, white dress and a scarf wrapped around her head. The culmination of the evening was a reenactment of the Nativity in a mock stable decorated with bales of hay and a manger. A young couple with their newborn played the parts of Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus.
As we gathered around the nativity, I noticed that Erica was missing from my side. I panicked until I caught a flash of her white dress near the nativity. Then my panic shifted from fear for her welfare to fear that she would disrupt the scene. I was about to call out to her, but I paused and watched as she made her way to the manger.
Erica quietly knelt next to Mary and looked up at her as if to get her permission. Then Erica reached out and tenderly caressed the sleeping baby. I was not the only one who noticed. Others soon quieted and watched as she knelt close to the baby. A tender feeling permeated the group as they realized that this baby was the Christ child for Erica.
In my grief, this Christmas memory brought feelings of peace and comfort as I recalled my young daughter’s devotion. My mind had been full of questions about life and death—questions that didn’t seem to matter as much before Erica’s death. As I pondered the Resurrection and the Crucifixion, I identified with Mary. She loved her newborn Son, and she later endured terrible pain and anguish as she witnessed His suffering and death. Christ was not spared the cross, and Mary was not spared her grief.

Darkness had already fallen for several hours when I pulled into the town where Sisters Hucks and Matson were serving. The hour was late, but I thought I should drop by to say hi since I had to leave early the next morning. The lights in their apartment were on so I guessed correctly that they were there. I was greeted with enthusiasm, and they started an immediate chatter, “Guess what happened with us tonight, president.”
“Tell me, what happened?”
“Well, the ward mission leader has been acting kind of strange all week. He never asked us—he told us to be at a meeting down to the church tonight. We were almost angry at him, and we wondered what was going on. When we got to the church there were a few cars parked but no one in sight.
“We went into the church and could see lights on and hear voices in one of the rooms down the hall. We walked down there and knocked on the door.
“Everything went quiet, and then the doors opened wide.
“To our surprise the room was filled with people, and on the front row looking right at us with radiant smiles was the family we had been teaching. They were all dressed in white baptismal clothes.” Unable to speak further, the sisters smiled at me through their tears.

The example of a faithful pioneer sister illustrates this truth. Mary Lois Walker was married at age 17 to John T. Morris in St. Louis, Missouri. They crossed the plains with the Saints in 1853, entering the Salt Lake Valley shortly after their first anniversary. On their journey they had suffered the privations typical of other Saints. But their sufferings and adversity did not end when they reached the Salt Lake Valley. The following year Mary, then 19, wrote: “A son was born to us. … One evening when he was two or three months old … something whispered to me, ‘You will lose that little one.’”
During the winter the baby’s health declined. “We did all we could, … but the baby grew steadily worse. … On the second of February he passed away … and so I drank the bitter cup of parting from my own flesh and blood.” But her trials were still not over. Mary’s husband was also stricken, and three weeks after losing her baby, he died.
Mary wrote: “So was I, while yet in my teens, bereft in the short period of 20 days, of my husband and my only child, in a strange land hundreds of miles from my blood kin and with a mountain of difficulty before me … and I wished that I too, might die and join my loved one[s].”
Mary continues: “One Sunday evening I was taking a walk with my friend. … I was reminded of [my husband’s] absence and my intense loneliness, and as I wept bitterly I could see, as it were in mental vision, the steep hill of life I should have to climb and felt the reality of it with great force. A deep depression settled upon me, for the enemy knows when to attack us, but our [Savior, Jesus Christ,] is mighty to save. Through … the help given of the Father, I was able to battle with all the force which seemed to be arrayed against me at this time.”
Mary learned at the tender age of 19 that the Atonement gives us the assurance that all things that are unfair in this life can and will be made right—even the deepest sorrows.

Some years ago while I was serving as a mission president, my wife, Evelia, witnessed a touching scene of happiness when she saw a faithful family enter the chapel. This mother and her two small children had walked from their humble home under oppressive heat to church that day. They never imagined they would find Elder Cruz, the dedicated missionary who, the year before, had shared the message of the restored gospel with them. This wonderful surprise was key in their recognizing the great happiness the gospel had brought into their lives. The children ran to embrace him, and while tears of joy ran down the cheeks of Elder Cruz, the mother clasped his hands in hers and profoundly thanked him for all he had done to bless their family. Surely they found that happiness which is prepared and reserved for the Saints.

When I was baptized, I was already too old for Primary. Even so, I attended it for two years. I did hold the priesthood, but the branch was small and the Primary teachers were so good that I went there. I loved it and was grateful that the teachers didn’t tell me that I couldn’t attend because I was too old. I remember three outstanding teachers. Olga Ramos, Lida del Bosque, and Irma Torres were their names. All three cared a great deal about us children. They diligently taught us and had activities for us. They were young adults then. Now they are married women with grandchildren. I am very grateful to them because it was through their teaching that I learned the gospel.