Gospel Story Finder

Such hopes make our lives interesting and can often lead to unusual, even superstitious behavior. For example, my father-in-law is a huge sports fan, but he is convinced if he doesn’t watch his favorite basketball team on television, they are more likely to win. When I was 12 years old, I insisted on wearing the same pair of unwashed socks to every Little League baseball game in the hopes of winning. My mother made me keep them on the back porch.

To you comes a second question: “Whom shall I marry?” May I make personal application of this question? At a dance for the freshman class at the University of Utah, I was dancing with a girl from West High School when a young lady from East High School danced by with her partner. Her name was Frances Johnson: I didn’t know it at the time. I just took one look and decided that there was a young lady I wanted to meet. But she danced away, and I didn’t see her for three more months. Then one day, while waiting for the old streetcar at Thirteenth East and Second South Street in Salt Lake City, I looked and couldn’t believe my eyes. Here was the young lady whom I had seen dancing across the floor, and she was standing with another young lady and a young man whom I remembered from early school days. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember his name. I had a decision to make, and I thought to myself: “This decision requires courage. What should I do?” I found in my heart an appreciation of that phrase, “When the time for decision arrives, the time for preparation is past.”

I stood up straight, gathered my courage, and plunged toward my opportunity. I walked up to that young man and said, “Hello, my old friend from my early school days,” and then he said to me, “I can’t quite remember your name.” I told him my name, and he told me his name. Then he introduced me to the girl who later became my wife. That day I made a little note in my student directory to visit Frances Beverly Johnson, and I did. That decision was one of the most important decisions that I have ever made. Young people who are at that particular time in their lives have the responsibility to make similar decisions. They have the important responsibility to choose whom to marry—not only whom to date.

My friend, let’s call her Julie, adopted twin boys during the pandemic. Late last year one of her boys was diagnosed with cancer, and now spends long spells in hospital for treatment. Occasionally he is allowed home over a weekend, to be reunited with his twin brother. It’s been tough on this little family, especially taking into consideration all the COVID procedures and protocols needing to be observed. Julie and her family have stepped up to the challenges with determination and hope.
Julie, a member of Southport Ward, Liverpool England Stake, sent out a plea for help late one Friday afternoon. Her little boy was responding well to recent medication and a lull in procedures was going to mean a weekend out of hospital. They could go home to sleep in their own beds for a couple of nights. However, there was a problem; the little boy was bereft because his favourite hospital toy, a 16-inch dinosaur to which he had become attached, had to be left on the ward.
I quickly contacted our church community to see if anyone had a similar dinosaur. Having no luck, I thought I would ask our wider Southport community. I put together a short explanation of the situation, with a photo of the toy, and made a post on local web selling pages and freecycle sites. Within moments I had hints and suggestions as to where I may be able to purchase or order a similar toy. But it was already Friday evening!
Then, I got a message from a mother who had shared the story with her dinosaur-enthusiast son. He had immediately offered to donate one of his prized figures to the sick little boy. Julie and I were so touched. I arranged to collect it immediately.
On my way, a message arrived from another mother. Her child had seen her looking at my post and had recognised the dinosaur in the photograph as being the same as the one that he had. He was offering to give up his toy to someone he didn’t know but knew was in need. I was so moved and excited because Julie’s little son is a twin, so this would mean both little boys would have a toy dinosaur with which they could play together over this special weekend.
Julie was overcome with emotions when I arrived at her door with the two dinosaurs. She just couldn’t believe people’s generosity and the willingness of two boys who had heard of their plight and jumped at the opportunity to sacrifice their own treasured possessions to cheer a sick child. There are so many wonderfully kind-hearted people about, especially young mothers who are teaching, through example, selflessness and compassion.

Rebeccah Davis, 15, has also learned keeping your word is one of the most important parts of a job. She is working after school, baby-sitting. Her commitment to her employer has meant no school sports, fewer get-togethers with friends, and less time for herself.
“The lady I work for counts on me. Since I agreed to do it I need to be dedicated,” says Rebeccah. And because of that dedication, she’s noticed improvements in herself.
“At first I was one of those baby-sitters who sat and watched TV and let the kids do whatever they wanted. But then I started to care for the kids, and I have become a more responsible person. I play with them, take care of them.”

I was born in Port Moresby, Papua, New Guinea, the third child in my family. Ours was a poor family. During my childhood, Christmas and birthdays were not the happy occasions that many children remember as they grow up. In fact, it was at these times that we were the most unhappy, knowing and seeing how other children were given gifts and treats.
We were poor for the most part because my father spent his small paycheck drinking on weekends. We were always hungry. When my mother tried to make Father see how we were suffering, he would become violently angry and would strike her until she was hurt and sobbing. How hard she tried to defend us children and care for us!
Christmases came and went. It was always the same for us. There was no money for presents and goodies. My sister and I would wake early on Christmas morning to the shouts of excitement from the neighborhood children who had found Christmas presents waiting for them.
Sometimes we children went off to the city dump to find something we could use or play with to comfort us. I longed for something new and shiny, a special gift meant just for me at Christmas.
One Sunday, my little sister returned home from a new church where she had gone with her cousin several times. She brought with her a missionary couple to meet the family. Elder and Sister Call were so very kind and humble. They began to teach us about the gospel of Jesus Christ and his true church. After hearing the discussions and praying much for the Spirit to guide us, we agreed to be baptized.
Our lives began to change spiritually, but financially we were still poor. So my childish longing for a real Christmas with presents meant just for me never materialized.
However, because of our conversion, my father changed and gave up his bad habits. He quit drinking, smoking, and leaving his family hungry on weekends. I was so happy and wanted to tell my father that I loved him, but I was afraid to. I also wished my father would express his love for me. I never heard him say how he felt about me as I was growing up.
Then I was called to serve in the Micronesia Guam Mission. While I was in the mission field, I received a letter from my father. He said, “Son, you have made me a very happy man serving on your mission.” At the end of the letter, he wrote, “Son, I love you. Keep up the good work of the Lord.”
My eyes filled with tears of joy. It was the first time he had ever said those words to me. I replied to my father’s letter and returned a gift to him. I said, “Dad, I love you too!”
Now I am home from my mission, and my father has served as branch president. As I look back, I realize that I have been blessed with some very special gifts—not the ones that children open at Christmastime, but gifts that are forever and can be cherished each day of my life.

Serving a mission in Indonesia in 1976, I was once again in a place where the Book of Mormon had not yet been translated into the language of the people who were joining the Church. I remember how our mission president, Hendrik Gout, took my companion and me to the city of Bandung, north of Jakarta, to visit the man who was translating this sacred book. We all prayed that it would be completed soon—especially Church members who were eager to have the privilege of finally reading the Book of Mormon.
I was there when that translation of the Book of Mormon was published and distributed. I think there may have been feelings as sweet and deep as those which were evident in 1830, when the first Book of Mormon was published. This thrilling event was a blessing of extraordinary magnitude. My two native Indonesian companions slept holding their copies of the Book of Mormon.

The year I turned eleven, I went on a three-day camp-out with my friend Don, my older brother, and my dad. And Bear. Bear is our black and white Border collie. He loves to run and chase outdoors.
We had a great time on that trip with Bear. We camped on a big cattle ranch among a lot of sagebrush and lava rock, and near a good fishing creek.
My brother, Nick, and I took Bear down to the creek every day. Bear loves to play in the water. He must think he’s fishing, but he sure doesn’t fish like the rest of us. He puts his left paw in the water and splashes all over the place. He also snaps at the water with his mouth. He makes such a commotion in the water that I’m sure that all the fish are soon at least ten miles downstream.
The last morning we were there, my brother and I left Bear at camp so we could do some real fishing at the creek. Don and Dad stayed in camp to clean up after breakfast.
After a little while Don came down to the creek. “Hey, Mike,” he said. “Your dog is dead.”
“He is not!”
“Well, he’s nearly dead. A rattlesnake bit him.”
My brother and I ran for camp as fast as we could. Don ran after us.
Sure enough, by the time we got to camp, Bear was lying real still by Dad’s tent. Dad had killed the rattlesnake, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do for Bear.
Bear had been bitten twice on the nose. It was swollen really bad, and he was barely breathing.
I started to cry. I didn’t know what to do. My brother started to cry, too, but he knew what to do. “Dad, can we say a prayer for Bear?”
My dad nodded. “Bear is a very sick dog,” he said. “You can say a prayer for Bear, but are you willing to accept it if he doesn’t live?”
“Yes,” my brother said. I could only nod.
All four of us gathered in a semicircle around Bear. Dad looked over at my big brother. “Nick,” he said. “I would like you to say the prayer because you have so much faith.”
I don’t remember what my brother said in his prayer, but I remember how I felt kneeling there with my head bowed.
When the prayer was over, Bear got up. He walked around a little, and then he ran. He seemed happy to be alive.
I was happy! I was so happy that I kept hugging Bear over and over. My big brother just stood there and cried some more. I didn’t understand then why he was crying when we were all so happy. I did understand one thing though—I knew that my brother had a lot of faith in prayer. And so did I.

Nine-year-old Carrie hurried around the corner of the grocery store aisle, trying to keep the cart out of the reach of her six-year-old brother, Andy.
“No fair!” he cried. “You’ve pushed it the whole time we’ve been here.” He tried to grab the cart, but Carrie twisted it away, accidentally hitting a row of ketchup bottles lined up neatly on a shelf. Two of the bottles crashed to the floor and shattered, spraying their bright red contents everywhere. The two children stared in horror at the broken glass and scarlet ketchup.
Mom came around the corner just then, saying, “I want you two to stay with me …” Her words trailed off as she saw the mess on the floor and the misery on Carrie’s and Andy’s faces.
“It looks like there’s been an accident,” she said. “It’s all right. Sometimes things break and have to be cleaned up.”
Mom found a clerk, who cleaned up the ketchup and glass without getting mad at Carrie or Andy. Carrie still felt terrible. She knew it wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t been swinging the cart to keep it away from Andy. Before they left the store, she quietly told Mom how the bottles had been broken. Mom listened solemnly while Andy stood with a scared expression on his face.
“Are we in trouble?” Andy asked, struggling to keep from crying.
Mom hugged Andy. “No, I think you feel bad enough about what happened that you’ll be more careful in the grocery store from now on. But, Carrie, what do you think you need to do to make up for the store losing those two bottles of ketchup?”
“I think I need to pay for them. I didn’t mean to break them, but it was still my fault,” Carrie replied.
“I think that’s a good idea,” Mom said. “I can lend you the money for now, and you can pay me back at home.”
At the cash register, Mom explained that Carrie had been playing with the cart when the bottles broke, so she wanted to pay for the ketchup. The clerk thanked Carrie for being honest, and Carrie felt much better.
At home, Carrie didn’t feel quite as good when she gave Mom part of the money she had been saving for a tape player, but she was glad she didn’t have that sick feeling she had experienced after the bottles exploded on the floor. She remembered how red everything looked. She had been afraid the ketchup would stain the floor, forever reminding her of her mistake. But it had come clean with a wet mop.
A few months later, Carrie finished Sunday dinner and flopped down on the couch with a big sigh.
“What’s the matter?” Mom asked. “That’s a pretty heavy sigh for a Sunday afternoon.”
“Mom, I have to give a talk in Primary next Sunday on Jesus’ Atonement. I’m not even sure I know what the Atonement is.”
“This sounds like a good Sunday activity,” Mom said, sitting on the couch next to Carrie. “Tell me what you do know.”
Carrie was quiet for a moment. Then she replied, “I think it’s when Jesus suffered for our sins. If we repent, we don’t have to suffer any more for them because He already did. Then we can be forgiven.”
“Good!” Mom said, squeezing Carrie’s arm warmly. “You understand a lot. Tell me about being forgiven. What does that mean?”
“Well, I guess it means that we’re not in trouble anymore.” Carrie thought some more. “I mean, Heavenly Father forgives us, and we can forget about what happened.”
“Do we forget completely?” Mom asked quickly.
“Well, no—we have to remember never to do that wrong thing again. And we have to try to make up for what we did, like me apologizing to Andy if I yell at him or something. But once we’re forgiven, we don’t have to keep feeling bad. But, Mom,” Carrie asked, “how do I explain this to the kids in Primary? The three-year-olds are going to be totally lost!”
Mom was excited, her eyes twinkling. “Do you think they’d like a flannel-board story?”
“Sure. But how can I do that for the Atonement?”
“Think ketchup,” Mom said mysteriously.
Carrie looked at her in confusion, then cried, “Perfect!” as she bounced off the couch and hurried into the kitchen for paper, pencils, and construction paper. Carrie worked on her talk all afternoon, cutting out figures and thinking about her story.
The next week even the Sunbeams forgot to wiggle in their chairs as Carrie gave her talk. She put up a cut-out shape of a ketchup bottle, then the broken container with a big pool of red below it. The children were shocked by the thought of breaking two whole bottles of bright red ketchup.
Carrie explained, “We can make mistakes that seem too horrible to be forgiven. But if we repent, we can become clean from sin, just as ketchup can be mopped up off a floor.” She took down the picture of the broken bottle and replaced it with a picture of a sparkling clean floor.
“Jesus helps us ‘clean up’ when we commit a sin if we feel truly sorry and try to repair the damage we’ve done. He has suffered for our sins, so we don’t have to feel guilty forever. He helps us feel good again after we repent.”
She ended her talk with a scripture from the Bible, explaining that even if our sins are like scarlet, we can become white as snow through repentance, because of the Atonement (see Isa. 1:18).
As Carrie sat down, she looked at Mom sitting on the back row of the Primary room. Mom winked, and Carrie smiled back. This was the best talk she’d ever given. Maybe the rest of the family would like a repeat for family home evening!

During the summer, I did odd jobs to earn money. That summer I was working as a service station attendant. A man who worked there was a member of the Church, and he invited me to attend MIA (Mutual). At first I hesitated, but he persisted, and I finally gave in. The warmth and friendliness of the members and missionaries impressed me, but again the music influenced me most. Their hymns sounded different from any I had ever heard.

When I first started reading the Book of Mormon, it seemed strange to me. The only name in the book that was familiar to me was the name of one of Nephi’s brothers—Sam! That was my name! But there was a force that drew me to the Book of Mormon. I felt that if I were to become a member of the Church, my life would become much more meaningful.

When I told my older brother that I would like to be baptized, he said, “That would be fine. But if you become a member, you must be a lifetime member. You must commit yourself and be loyal.” I was baptized when I was sixteen.

After high school, I was in the military, and I had the opportunity to have an interview with Elder Harold B. Lee, who was then an Apostle and who later became President of the Church. It was a very precious time for me. For an hour he counseled me to go on a mission, to go to the house of the Lord, and to sustain the leaders of the Church. This same advice applies to every member of the Church.

I never forgot Elder Lee’s advice. I came to Salt Lake City, Utah, on furlough and went to the Salt Lake Temple. After I left the military and went to college, I saved money for a mission. During my mission, I was able to open the Okinawa area, where my father was from, for missionary work. Later, serving as president of the Tokyo Temple, I had the wonderful blessing of seeing many of the Japanese Saints receive their temple endowments. Seeing the joy in the faces of those being sealed was a great blessing.

You know, every member is a missionary. I think President David O. McKay first emphasized that duty. I was up in Montana some time ago visiting a stake conference. After the morning session, I was wandering around outside. I saw this young boy standing there all dressed up in his Sunday clothes. I went over to him and said, “Son, you’re a fine-looking boy. What’s your name?”
He said, “Joseph Smith Curdy.”
I said, “Joseph Smith Curdy! That’s a fine name. You’re going to be a great missionary.”
He said, “I’m already a great missionary. Down the street a couple of blocks from where we live there’s a family with a couple of boys about my age, and over a period of three or four months, I have been bringing them to church with me. A month or so ago, I said to them, ‘How would you like to have the missionaries give you the discussions?’
“They said, ‘Oh, we’d have to talk to our parents.’
“So we talked to the parents, and the parents said, ‘Well, if you will let us listen in, why we’ll be glad to have the missionaries teach them.’”
There wasn’t any problem with that, so the missionaries gave the family the discussions. Joseph Smith Curdy told me, “That whole family is going to be baptized next Saturday. I’m already a great missionary.”
I couldn’t help but agree with him.

The Arizona sun was winning the battle with the historic pioneer cabin. Beating constantly against the walls, sun rays had blistered the mud-plastered adobe until its outer covering peeled and tumbled. Tan weeds, also scorched by the heat, clustered at the foundation as if to catch the falling wounded.
Then the reinforcements arrived—Young Adults from Phoenix. They massed around the cabin, dug a hole nearby, filled it with water, and mixed in dirt. A garden hose sprayed the walls of the building and the parched surface sucked the water in. Soon the mud-splattered hands of half a dozen young ladies were smearing fresh new “plaster” on the walls, while friends with hoes evacuated weeds from the base of the structure and from trails nearby.
The restoration of the cabin was only part of a much larger activity, a service project to help the nonprofit living history museum at Pioneer Arizona. The museum, located just outside Phoenix, is actually a small town made up of buildings from the late 1800s that were once used by settlers. The sheriff’s office, bank, wagon maker’s shop, blacksmith shop, church, and other buildings there have been relocated from throughout the state or reconstructed to follow original dimensions and designs. At various times during the year, artisans will actually come and work in the shops as artisans might have in pioneer times.
But for the moment, the museum needed some help. To attract tourists, the site needed to be spruced up. Waves of withered wild grass had invaded, and unless they were hacked down, they might become ignited and engulf the valuable historical buildings in flame.
Steven Pelfrey, the regional Young Adult president, heard of the opportunity to serve, and he didn’t hesitate to volunteer on behalf of his fellow Latter-day Saints. He knew they’d pull through, and they did. Besides, he was looking for an activity to help recent high school graduates who had just come into the Young Adult program to get involved and feel the spirit of Christian service.
Now, on this Saturday morning, he could see them working side by side with the other Young Adults, as, armed with hoes, rakes, and buckets, they swarmed through the town. Kira Burch, 17, from the Tenth Ward, Phoenix Arizona West Stake, wiped her brow as she finished whacking out a stubborn weed. A one-year veteran of Young Adults, Reuben Judd, 18, of the 19th Ward, worked with some new participants hoisting buckets of mud to the top of the adobe cabin to reinforce the roof. Several of the young women, who had come dressed as pioneers, were invited by the museum director to give guided tours to tourists. The older Young Adults, perhaps remembering their own experiences in coming to activities for the first time, seemed to be going out of their way to welcome the newcomers.
“I could tell they weren’t being left out, that they were having fun,” said Kelly Pendleton, 21, of the Ninth Ward. “They were excited to see the kinds of activities Young Adults can do.”
Others agreed. Rena Davis, 17, of the 37th Ward, said, “I’ve looked forward to the activities, and I wasn’t disappointed. Everybody was happy and friendly. They talked to me and said ‘hi’ and made me feel welcome. That’s important. But I have an obligation, too. That is to participate and help make the activities successful.”
Most of the new Young Adults seemed to follow Rena’s advice. They mingled with everyone freely.
“I spent all day learning about people, finding out they have the same reaction to service and to the gospel that I do. They want to serve more and learn more. We’re all striving for the same thing,” Kira said.
Soon trail-marking rocks were aligned in regimented columns, remaining weeds had been gobbled up by marauding shovels, and the whole town reveled in its cleaned-up condition. It was time to celebrate!

A whistle sounded down the track as the early-morning, Vienna-bound train came into view. “Right on time!” Josef cried. He looked up at his sister with excited, sparkling eyes. “I can hardly believe it, Berta! At last I’m going to see the white stallions—the Lippizaners!”
“Ja (yes),” Berta said, but there was a worried look on her face. “You are young, Josef, to go to the city alone. And you are so often careless with your money.”
Josef grinned. This was one time he could not afford to be careless! Before he could speak again, the train shuddered to a stop.
“Auf Wiedersehen (good-bye), Berta!” Josef swung aboard and found a compartment; it was empty except for a small girl in a bright red coat. He opened the window and waved to his sister, who waved her white handkerchief in farewell as long as the train was in sight.
Josef closed the window and turned to the girl. “My sister thinks I’m too young to travel alone,” he said in German, smiling. “She’s afraid I will lose my money or give it away.” His smile faded when the girl gave a little choked sob. “Is— is something wrong?” he asked, anxiously.
As Josef spoke, a tall, uniformed conductor entered the compartment. “She does not understand German, so she does not know what you are saying,” he explained.
“She is American.”
“Is she traveling alone?” Josef asked in surprise. “Ja, to Vienna. Her grandfather will meet her there,” the conductor replied. After the conductor left, Josef stole a glance at the girl. How young she is, he thought, and how frightened! “My name is Josef,” he said in careful English. “What is your name?”
At the sound of the familiar words, the girl’s face brightened. “Margaret Taylor,” she said eagerly, then started speaking so rapidly that Josef threw up his hands.
“Slowly, please!” he pleaded. “I have studied English only a short time.”
Margaret started over and Josef understood. The girl went to a private school in Switzerland and was on her way to meet her grandfather, who was in Vienna on business. Mademoiselle Dumont, a teacher who had planned to travel with Margaret, had learned the night before that her mother was ill. “I told Mademoiselle I was not afraid to go alone,” Margaret continued, her voice catching in a sob, “but I am afraid. Maybe I won’t be able to find my grandfather. What will I do then?”
Josef’s kind heart melted. “Do not be afraid, Liebchen (little one),” he said to comfort her. “I will help you find your grandfather.”
Margaret turned to Josef, her eyes bright. “Oh, thank you!” she cried. “I will not be afraid with you for a friend.” After a moment she asked, “Do you live in Vienna, Josef?”
“No,” he replied. “I am going there to see the Lippizan horses.”
“The white horses that dance!” Margaret cried. “I have heard about them.”
“Ja!” Josef’s eyes sparkled. He slid his hand into his pocket to make certain his purse was safe. In it were the Austrian schillings he had earned working in Herr Meyer’s grocery store every day after school. “It has taken me a long time to save enough money,” he said.
“I will ask Grandfather to take me to see the Lippizaners, too,” Margaret said.
“It is not expensive,” Josef explained, “not if you buy standing room in the second gallery, as I will do.”
A whistle sounded, and the train pulled to a stop at a small station. A boy holding a tray of bottled drinks and crusty bun sandwiches tapped on the window. Margaret eyed the sandwiches longingly.
“Are you hungry?” Josef asked.
Margaret’s eyes clouded. “Mademoiselle forgot to leave me any money,” she said in a small voice.
“I will buy us each a sandwich,” Josef said, and he opened the window. Margaret selected two ham sandwiches and two cherry-flavored drinks.
Josef gulped when he heard the price. He took out his purse and carefully counted out the schillings. “Ach!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “Food is expensive when one travels by train.”
“My grandfather will pay you back,” Margaret said confidently, smiling at him.
“I did not mean that!” Josef said, blushing. “I still have enough.” He placed his purse on the seat beside him in order to take the sandwich Margaret handed him.
Margaret chattered away happily, and in no time at all—or so it seemed to Josef—the train stopped at the next station. A man selling china figurines came to the window. Margaret gave a cry of delight, opened the window, and picked up one of the figurines, a white Lippizan horse with a crimson-coated rider. “I want it, Josef. Please!” she pleaded.
“It costs too much!” Josef protested when he heard the price.
“Oh, please, Josef, Grandfather will pay you back,” Margaret insisted.
Josef reluctantly paid for the figurine. Then he counted the coins he had left: fifty groschen—only half a schilling. “It is a good thing the next stop is Vienna,” he groaned.
“Don’t worry,” said Margaret. “I told you Grandfather will pay you back.” She slipped the figurine into her pocket, snuggled down in her seat, and was soon fast asleep.
When the train pulled into the Vienna station, Margaret’s eyes flew open. “Are we there?” she asked.
Josef nodded. “Where is your luggage?”
“Mademoiselle sent it ahead,” Margaret explained. She clung tightly to Josef’s hand as they stepped from the train onto the busy platform. Then she gave a sudden squeal of joy, broke away, and ran toward a tall gray-haired man who hugged her warmly. As Josef started toward them, a troop of uniformed schoolboys marched in front of him. When the boys had passed, Margaret and her grandfather had disappeared.
They’ll be waiting for me inside, Josef decided. But they weren’t there. He searched the station and the platforms and then ran outside to where a line of taxis waited, but there was no sign of Margaret or her grandfather.
Josef’s heart sank. How foolish he had been! How Berta would tease when she learned that he had spent his money on a little American girl who forgot all about him when she saw her grandfather. Josef smiled wryly. At least he had his return train ticket and enough money for trolley fare to the palace where the horses performed. I might get a glimpse of them in their stables, he thought.
Josef got off the trolley and was walking toward the hippodrome (arena for horse shows) at the palace when a taxi screeched to a halt at the curb. The door flew open, and a streak of crimson dashed toward him.
“Josef! Josef!” Margaret cried happily. After giving Josef a hug, she gave him a handful of schillings. “Here is the money I owe you.” Then she turned to face the tall man who had come to stand beside them. “I told you we would find him here.”
“I’m Samuel Taylor, Margaret’s grandfather,” the man said, smiling. “I hope you will forgive my granddaughter. She was so happy to see me that for a while she forgot how kind you had been to her—”
“We went back to the station, but you were gone,” Margaret interrupted. “Grandfather was very angry when I told him I had spent your money.”
“I still am,” Mr. Taylor said, but his lips quirked a little.
Margaret tugged at her grandfather’s sleeve. “Tell him, Grandfather!” she urged.
“We would like you to be our guest at the performance of the Lippizaners today, Josef. I have seats for us in the royal box at the end of the great hall.”
“Thank you, sir!” Josef cried, his eyes sparkling. Instead of standing in the second gallery, he would watch the Lippizaners from the box where the kings and queens of Europe sat.
Margaret slipped her hand into Josef’s. “We’ll have just as much fun there as in the gallery!” she cried.
“Indeed, we will!” Josef agreed and laughed aloud.

On a map, the town of Bluewater, New Mexico, is just a small dot near the northeastern corner of the state. But to me it is a very important town, because it is there that I was born and raised. It was my world. Here I learned many lessons, not the least of which was one taught by the episode of the “gentile cow.”
The countryside around Bluewater is beautiful, but beautiful in a harsh way. It is a dry region, and much of the level valley is covered with sandy red soil which the constant wind piles around fence posts and other objects. A deep gully runs across the valley.Only during the rainy season does it hold any water, and then it is a raging torrent colored red by the soil. Near the head of the gully where there is a runoff from the hills, some cottonwood trees have managed to send their roots down deep enough to be sustained by underground water. They are so firmly situated that they are not affected by wind or drought. As a child I had hope my testimony of the gospel would become as deep-rooted and as unbendable as those cottonwood trees.
Bluewater was really a community divided between the Mormons and the gentiles. Northward lived the rich (we thought) gentiles. They owned the General Merchandise Store and the garage with a gasoline pump. There also was a small Union Pacific Railway Depot and the United States Post Office. Southward, the Mormons had a little concrete church meetinghouse and a red brick four-room schoolhouse. There was not much socializing between the groups. The Mormons went up to the store to get produce and to fill their gasoline tanks in their cars at the garage and get their mail at the post office. Few trains ever stopped at the depot, so few people went there. The gentile children came down to school, and the gentile adults came occasionally to Church socials and dances.
During the depression of the 1930’s, we lived mostly on potatoes and pinto beans. The ultimatum was, “If you don’t grow it, you don’t eat it.” Momma could make potatoes and beans taste like gourmet food, but she could not make them into milk for the children. In this little town there were no telephones, sidewalks, electric lights, or paved streets—and no dairies. There wasn’t even any money to buy canned milk. A milking cow was a necessity for a family. Our cows were all dry. My parents worried about their eight children. As the oldest child, I worried too.
One day as I helped Momma with the dishes, I asked, “Are we going to starve?” She countered, “We haven’t starved yet, have we?” I knew we hadn’t starved, but we had hungered for variety, and now we needed milk. She continued as much for herself as for me: “So long as we pay our tithing, I can’t think the Lord will let us starve. He has always looked after us.” I knew this was true, and I knew that my parents always paid an honest and cheerful tithe on every thing they received. Every tenth calf went for tithing. I saw Momma write on the calendar each night the number of eggs she had gathered that day, and each month a tenth went to the Lord. I was reassured. Besides, it was spring and new crops were being planted.
One day not long after this, I hurried home from the school bus. As I came up the path to the house, I saw my two little brothers and my sister looking at something by the gate. It was a smouldering cigar butt. I could not think how a fat cigar butt could have gotten inside our gate. The only smoking Mormon I knew smoked thin cigarettes.
“Where did it come from?” I asked.
The answer could only make more questions. “Mr. Thigpen threw it there.” Mr. Thigpen was the foremost-gentile. He owned the General Merchandise Store.
“Why was he here?”
The next answer did nothing to solve the mystery: “He’s going to give Daddy a cow.”
My sister reached out her foot and kicked the cigar butt. We stood horrified. But lightning didn’t strike, and the earth didn’t swallow her up, so my brother took the shovel and covered the remains of the cigar with sand.
Daddy came out of the house and put a bridle on the horse that was in the corral. Momma came out and said, “Are you going now?”
“Yes, Mr. Thigpen said to come get a cow. He’ll change his mind when he sobers up, but we’ll milk her tonight anyway.”
He threw the saddle on the horse’s back and fastened the cinch. “I’ll be back in a little while.” He got on the horse and trotted off to the north. I was too mystified to ask if I could go too.
While Momma prepared supper, I worked on my school lessons. I had to get them done before dark because we were out of coal oil for the lamp. Momma put wood in the stove. She stirred the food in the kettles, then pushed the kettles to the back of the stove where they would keep warm but not burn. She took the bread from the oven and turned it out of the pans onto the sideboard by the stove. The she set the table.
By this time the children who had been watching at the gate came running through the house. “Daddy’s home! The cow’s here!” They ran out of the kitchen door. I ran out, too. Momma followed with a milk pail. My brother quickly opened the corral gate. We all watched as the beautiful little Jersey cow with the big milk bag stepped daintily inside. She stood waiting to be milked. No famous opera singer ever had a more appreciative audience.
Daddy milked the cow. We stood there listening to the sound of the milk filling the pail. We all walked into the house behind Daddy who carried the milk pail. He opened the stove door to light the darkened room. He strained the milk and set the pitcher on the table. Momma sliced a warm loaf of bread and set the beans, potatoes, and bread on the table. We all sat down, and Daddy said the blessing on the food and thanked the Lord for his kindness to us that day.
Mr. Thigpen did come back a few days later. He was a bit chagrined by his generous offer. However, he covered his embarrassment by offering Daddy a job to pay for the cow and also to receive goods from the store for pay.
“Well,” said Momma, “we don’t know in what way the Lord will help us. I never thought a drunk gentile could answer a prayer.” The roots of my testimony anchored about three meters deep.
It has been many years since we sat around that table eating our supper by firelight, but the scene is as bright to me as an unshaded light bulb. I have traveled to many places in the world and eaten many remarkable meals. I have sampled milk that has been pasteurized, homogenized, pulverized, refined, and vitalized, but no milk has ever surpassed, or even equaled, the soul-satisfying milk that the Lord sent to us by that gentle “gentile cow.”

A friend of mine once told me about his experience in coming to know and understand the gift of the Holy Ghost. He had prayed often and longed to know the truth of the gospel.

Although he felt at peace with his beliefs, he had never received the certain knowledge for which he hungered. He had reconciled himself to the fact that he might be one of those who would have to walk through this life relying upon the faith of others.

One morning, while pondering the scriptures, he felt something surge through his body from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. “I was immersed in a feeling of such intense love and pure joy,” he explained. “I cannot describe the measure of what I felt at that time other than to say I was enveloped in joy so profound there was no room in me for any other sensation.”

Even as he felt this outpouring of the Holy Ghost, he wondered if possibly he was just imagining what was happening. “The more I wondered,” he said, “the more intense the feelings became until it was all I could do to tearfully say, ‘It is enough.’”

“My husband believes that family home evening is a great time to train children to be leaders. He always has one of our children conduct. One of them will assign the prayers and choose the hymns. At the conclusion, the one conducting thanks all those who participated. Usually the person who gave the lesson is sincerely complimented. Then the closing song is announced and the name of the one to give the closing prayer.
“One morning the children’s father had to leave at 5 A.M. for an early meeting at the Church offices. Later he called when the children were just getting up and we all had family prayer with him on the telephone.”

As a deacon in Salt Lake City pioneer days, Willard R. Smith was assigned to gather the “fast” on his block. His supervisor, Brother Peter Reid, had the responsibility of seeing that the fast offerings were gathered and offerings “in kind” were distributed to the needy. He would call at Willard’s home every Friday night and tell Willard that the little express wagon was dusted, oiled, and ready for the job.
Willard would visit every home on the block, members and nonmembers alike, and offer them the opportunity to give something to the poor.
One particular Saturday Willard’s football team had scheduled a game, and he was eager to play. He knew he was supposed to gather the fast offerings but, as he later recalled, “I wanted more than anything else to play that game. I chose pleasure over duty and played football.
“Early the next morning Brother Reid knocked on our back door and asked for me. I was ashamed—I wanted to run and hide—but I faced him with my head down. All he said was, ‘Willard, do you have time to take a little walk with me?’
“I went with him first to a little frame house near the corner. He gently rapped on the door; a poor, little, thin lady answered it.
“‘Brother Reid,’ she said, ‘we didn’t get our food yesterday and we haven’t a thing in the house to eat.’
“‘I’m sorry,’ Brother Reid said, ‘but I’m sure we’ll have something for you before the close of the day.’
“We went to another door. In response to our knock a voice called for us to come in.
“We entered to find an aged man and his wife in bed. ‘Brother Reid,’ he said, ‘we are without coal, and we have to stay in bed to keep warm.’
“In another house we were greeted by a mother with her small children huddled together. The baby was crying and the other children had tear-stained faces.
“That was enough! As we parted Brother Reid said gently, ‘Willard, whenever anybody fails to do his duty, someone suffers.’
“I was about to cry—overwhelmed by my neglect of duty. He laid his hand on my shoulder and left. Those people had their food and coal early that afternoon—and I learned a most valuable lesson.” (Program Outline for Teaching Observance of the Law of the Fast, pamphlet, 1965, pp. 19–20.)

We think we know the difference between “friendly” competition and life. But sharp words and cutting remarks inflict wounds that leave ugly scars. The response is usually as vicious. I saw the absurdity of this attitude in a community league game I officiated several years ago. Two players on opposing teams were aggressively playing each other. Each time, as they went up and down the court, they intensified their verbal and physical exchanges. Finally, after several fouls were assessed, both players let all of their frustration out, and a fight ensued. I had found it interesting that the two players referred to each other by their first names, and after they had left the floor I remarked to a teammate that they seemed to be acquainted with each other. He replied, “They are. One is a bishop and the other is his ward clerk.” In the heat of competition we forget about our common brotherhood.

In these canyons, Mosiah, Lao Moy, and many other faithful Saints worked tirelessly to divide the boulders with hand drills, wedges, and low-power explosives. The rough blocks were then transported by oxteam—four yoke required for each block—and every trip was a difficult three- or four-day journey to the temple site some twenty miles away.
Mosiah touched Lao Moy’s shoulder and brought him out of his reverie. “I’m going to set off the blast, Lao Moy,” he cautioned, and then shouted a warning to the nearby workers. Mosiah lit the fuse and sprinted with Lao Moy for cover.
Two other workmen held a team of oxen. One of them was fourteen-year-old Corey Atwood. Corey, a tough, stout boy, had long taken pleasure in cruelly funning Lao Moy because of his broken English, his long queue (braid), and his quiet and obedient ways. It was often Corey who kept Lao Moy’s bitterness alive, but the Chinese boy had held it all inside, even when the troublesome Corey had once grabbed Lao Moy’s queue and threatened to cut it off with a knife.
The blast erupted like the sound of cannon fire over a Virginia cottonfield, and the big piece of granite split in two. Cheers went up, and Mosiah scrambled up the rocks to view his accomplishment. Lao Moy started up, too, but was soon held fast by Corey, who held onto his queue.
“What’s the matter, Lao Moy,” he chuckled, “somebody got your tail?”
Suddenly something exploded inside Lao Moy with no less force than Mosiah’s dynamite blast. He turned and struck Corey in the face so hard that the big boy was lifted off his feet and thrown backward in front of the team of oxen. The wide-eyed Atwood looked as surprised as Lao Moy. He wiped at the blood on his mouth and started to lift himself up when a clap of thunder suddenly boomed. As the already spooked oxen lurched forward, Lao Moy sprang for Corey and rolled him out of the path of pounding hooves and grinding wheels.
For a long moment the two boys just lay there, staring at each other. Finally, a smile broke across Corey’s dusty, blood-smeared face. Lao Moy smiled back, and all the old bitterness in his heart seemed to melt away like ice in a summer sun. A new peaceful feeling assured him it would not return.
Lao Moy was forty-five years old when the Salt Lake Temple was finally dedicated on April 6, 1893; Mosiah, seventy-six; and Corey Atwood, forty-seven. Corey sat close beside Lao Moy as President Wilford Woodruff offered the dedicatory prayer. A friendship had grown between them, a friendship as strong as the temple granite they had helped to cut. And like that granite, it would last forever.

My sister was in the hospital after surgical complications.
My friend had a devastating miscarriage.
Another friend was facing limiting effects of an autoimmune disease.
Both my mom and mother-in-law were both facing recurring health challenges.
My parents’ beloved dog passed away.
Other loved ones were plagued with mental health issues.
A few more were undergoing taxing fertility treatments.
My cousin unexpectedly passed away.
And another person I care about was struggling with her faith.
All within a few weeks.
I was feeling my loved ones’ problems like they were my own. I felt the crushing weight of looming helplessness—because no matter how much I offered my love and support, I couldn’t fix their problems.
I am a helper. And believe it or not, this can be a toxic trait in some instances. By wanting to help everyone solve their problems, I sometimes stretch myself too far. I neglect my own needs. I measure my worth based on how much I have served others. Even after I offer support, I often feel like I still haven’t done enough.
As disciples of Jesus Christ, we are all encouraged to love our neighbors (see Matthew 22:39) and to “bear one another’s burdens” (Mosiah 18:8). But it can be difficult to know how to be empathetic without becoming too overwhelmed with other people’s problems and feeling helpless.
Thankfully, we also know “it is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength” (Mosiah 4:27). I’m learning a lot about how to offer Christlike empathy and support to those I love without feeling helpless and overwhelmed.
When someone shares their struggles with me, I try to put myself in their shoes and understand their point of view.
But the problems come when I (metaphorically) forget to take their shoes off. I often continue to dwell on the challenges of my loved ones to the point where I feel helpless and disheartened. At the time when everyone around me was struggling, I was wearing dozens of my loved ones’ figurative shoes and neglecting my needs as I scrambled to do everything I could to help them.
I’m learning that healthy empathy is, as social-science researcher Brené Brown teaches, “understanding what someone is feeling, not feeling it for them. If someone is feeling lonely, empathy doesn’t require us to feel lonely too, only to reach back into our own experience with loneliness so we can understand and connect.”1
Empathy isn’t about fixing others’ challenges—it is helping them realize they have support as they face them. Sister J. Anette Dennis, First Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency, has taught, “When we seek to empathize with others who also experience challenges and imperfections, it can help them feel that they are not alone in their struggles.”2
I’m learning that I can listen to, support, and sit with someone in their struggle, but I do not have to take on their challenge as my constant companion. I can “mourn with those that mourn” (Mosiah 18:9), but I also need to step back into my own shoes and take charge of my own challenges and responsibilities. I have to take care of myself if I’m going to have any energy and compassion left to give others!
I’ve learned that offering support and compassion doesn’t require extravagant efforts to fix problems. Simply reminding others of your and Heavenly Father’s love can do wonders. Sister Susan H. Porter, Primary General President, taught, “When you know and understand how completely you are loved as a child of God, it changes everything.”3
For example, a few months ago, a loved one was struggling with her faith. One night she tearfully explained her feelings to me. I wanted her to believe in the gospel so badly and to fix every doubt she had.
In my preferred reality, I would answer every question perfectly, and we would both leave the conversation with a sense of renewed faith and joy, complete with sunshine and rainbows!
But I knew that wasn’t likely.
So I said a prayer in my heart to know how to help her. And I felt a distinct impression from the Spirit:
Just listen.
Through listening, I let go of my instinct to fix and instead saw that she simply needed to know that she is loved. I testified of the love I and Heavenly Father have for her. And although that conversation didn’t end with her renewed faith, it did end with a renewed sense of Heavenly Father’s perfect love—which is often the greatest help we can offer those who are struggling.
When I am feeling burnout from watching those I love suffer, I have to remind myself that while I can’t resolve the pain of everyone I care about, there is someone who can.
Jesus Christ “descended below all things” (Doctrine and Covenants 88:6)—meaning He suffered for and understands all the pains, afflictions, and unfairness we face—including all the specific challenges and accompanying emotions of my loved ones I mentioned above.
Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once said: “Our best and most selfless services are often not adequate to comfort or encourage in the way people need. … But Christ can help. God the Father can help. The Holy Ghost can help, and we need to keep trying to be Their agents, helping when and where we can.”4
I am not the Savior.
I don’t have the capacity to be there for every person who needs a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, or instant solutions to their challenges.
I am simply one of Christ’s disciples.
I can share inklings of His love and shed glimmers of His light in darkening corners of the world.
I can help others come unto Christ and can remind them of His atoning sacrifice when what I give isn’t sufficient, because “[His] grace is sufficient” (Ether 12:27).
I am grateful for my inherent desire to care deeply about Heavenly Father’s children. I am starting to see that it’s a strength that offers me just a glimpse of the perfect love the Savior and Heavenly Father have for each of us.
And trust me, if the love I feel is just a fragment of what They feel, then Their love truly is incomprehensible.
The Savior knows fully how to succor both my sorrows and the sorrows of those I love. He gives me strength to serve and support them.
I’m grateful for the infinite hope Jesus Christ offers us in “good things to come” (Hebrews 9:11)—for the day when all the seemingly unfixable parts of life will be resolved through Him.
I can’t wait for that day.
But until then, what I give, combined with what He gives, will always be enough.

When reverses come we need the Church and the gospel all the more. I’m satisfied that it’s possible for a man or woman who has a testimony of the divinity of this work to meet any possible reverses and still keep his spirit sweet and his faith strong. I saw members of this church in Europe right after World War II, the worst war so far as we know in the history of modern nations, when nations were fallen economically. I saw members of this church, some of them the only remaining members of once happy and prosperous families—with their homes destroyed and every member of the family killed in the war—and they stood alone as the one remaining person. I saw them and I heard them as they stood on their feet and bore testimony to the divinity of this work and thanked God for his blessings—the blessings of the eternity of the marriage covenant, the conviction that the family continues beyond the veil, that there is life after death, that there will be a happy reunion for those who live worthy.