Gospel Story Finder

Lucy’s Heart
Lucy and her older sisters entered an art contest at their school about making the world a better place. Lucy knew she wanted to paint a heart. She said, “The world would be a better place if we have love in our hearts.”
A Loving Sister
When Lucy found out that her painting won the contest, she told her sister Ruby, “Yours is so good. I wish you would have won instead of me.” Lucy couldn’t believe it when she found out her painting won the contest for the whole United States too!
A Special Way to Communicate
It’s hard for Lucy to tell others what she is feeling. But she wants to help people feel loved and happy. And her paintings do that!

All the youth, no matter what parts they played in other portions of the film, were in the scene in which Mosiah’s sons leave to go on missions. The sons walk through the crowd hugging their friends and family as they prepare for missionary work.
“I’ve had two brothers go on missions,” says Stacey Elder. “And so when we were doing that scene, I was thinking about how exciting it is to see someone go do the Lord’s work.”

For the family history experience, the two organizers, Liz Seymer and Asti Liang, borrowed some real-life family histories from stake members. They wrote the stories, leaving out some important details but leaving in clues to help uncover these facts. From the clues given them, the girls had to figure out where they needed to go for more information. Around the cultural hall were tables and resource people. One had census records. Another represented cemetery headstones. Others represented the Church’s Family History Library and computerized records. If the girls asked the right question of the person in charge of the table, they were rewarded with the correct answer. But if they didn’t know the correct question to ask, they didn’t get an answer, just as in real life. They had to retreat and do a little more figuring.
Mounted on easels to one side were the photographs of the families the girls were researching, as if they were just waiting to be found. Hilary Ekstron of the sixth ward said, “Our group had to go to five different places just to find out one thing. But it was really interesting.” It was surprising how quickly the girls became involved in their “mystery” family as they were introduced to certain types of records and how information is recorded.

Benjie was smiling from ear to ear when I picked him up after Primary. In his chubby hand he held out a picture of Mary and Joseph and the Baby Jesus in a manger. “See, Dano. Baby Jesus.”
“Did you get that in Nursery, Benjie?”
His head bobbed vigorously up and down as he proudly displayed the picture.
“Hello, Daniel.” Sister Williams, Benjie’s teacher, was holding her brand-new baby. “Benjie sure had fun in Nursery today. We had a play about the birth of Jesus, and he played the part of Joseph.”
Baby Jesus was all that Benjie talked about all week. For family home evening, Mom brought out the manger scene, and Benjie arranged each figure in the stable. Instead of having the shepherds and the Wise Men and the animals all nicely spaced out, he crowded them around the manger, “so that they can see Him real good.”
It wasn’t until the Saturday afternoon before Christmas that Mom could take us Christmas shopping.
When Benjie saw all the decorations in the store, his mouth dropped open. We walked past mountains of toy trucks and rows of new bikes. There was even a “Christmas elf” dressed in a green top and red tights, handing out tiny candy canes to all the children.
I was checking out a display of radio-controlled cars, when I felt a tug on my coat. Benjie’s brow was all puckered. “Where’s Jesus?”
“What?”
“Where’s Jesus, Dano?”
I followed his gaze as he looked up and down the rows of fake Christmas trees and tinsel and toys. He’s right, I thought. There’s not a sign of Jesus anywhere, let alone shepherds and Wise Men. But how do you explain all that to a not-yet-three-year-old?
Fortunately Mom is pretty good at things like that. She leaned over, cupped his chin in her hands and looked him right in the eyes. “Benjie, lots of people don’t know about Jesus. They think that Christmastime is only about presents and Santa Claus. But we know that the real reason we celebrate Christmas is Jesus—right?”
He nodded solemnly.
She glanced at the banner hanging from the ceiling—Merry Xmas!—and sadly added to me, “The world has taken Christ right out of Christmas.” Then she looked at her watch. “Uh-oh. We have to hurry—tonight’s the ward party.”
Mom had helped plan the party for three months. This year our ward was doing something different. Instead of a fancy dinner with Santa Claus giving goodies or small toys to the little ones before someone read the Christmas story from the Bible, the cultural hall would be decorated like a marketplace in Bethlehem. Everyone would come dressed in biblical clothes. “Daniel, it’ll be just like we’re there on the night Jesus was born,” she’d told me.
I didn’t think much of getting dressed in a costume, but Benjie’s excitement kind of rubbed off on me. I helped him find his bathrobe and tied a rope around his waist. Then I put on a robe that used to be Dad’s and made a head-covering with a towel and a couple of safety pins.
When we arrived at the church, Mom dashed to help get the food ready. The sidewalk leading to the front door was lined with paper sacks with a flickering candle, nestled in sand, in each one. Benjie had to look into each sack at the tiny flame. I held his hand because I was afraid that he’d try to blow out the candles.
The foyer and hallway were dimly lit. A “Roman soldier” who looked an awful lot like Brother Bingham, our home teacher, stood guard. Benjie gave him his “taxes”—a can of vegetable soup for the needy—and solemnly signed a big squiggly B on the “census.”
In the cultural hall, white fluorescent Christmas tree decorations sparkled like stars. There were food shops, a tailor shop, and even a gift shop. It did look sort of like I thought Bethlehem would.
When Benjie spotted the bright star shining above the manger on the stage, he made a beeline toward it. We had to stand right there by the stage while he sang the first half of “There Was Starlight on the Hillside”* over and over. Finally he saw the cardboard lamb and chicks in a pen in the corner of the room and ran over to see them.
After that, we were hungry, so we “bought” our supper at the little shops, using the “gold” in the bags we were given by a “centurion.” Benjie would not have been more pleased if it had been real gold instead of spray-painted rocks.
We sat on a blanket on the floor because “there was no room in the inn,” and munched on pita bread and orange slices. Benjie had wanted to sit right by the stage, and he kept looking up at the manger. Finally he asked, “Where’s Jesus, Dano?”
“He hasn’t been born yet,” I told him.
“Oh.”
Then he started yawning. Before long he lay down on the blanket. Mom came over and sat beside us. She gently smoothed Benjie’s sweaty hair from his forehead.
He was asleep when “Mary” and “Joseph” walked through the crowd to the stage. We all sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem,”† and Brother Dickson began to read from the Bible as some of the grown-ups acted out the Christmas story.
“‘And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger …’”‡
Everyone was quiet as Sister Williams, who was Mary, cradled her baby in her arms. He made some cooing sounds that sounded just like Brother Sampson’s doves.
Then Benjie’s voice, soft with wonder, broke the stillness: “There’s Jesus, Dano! There’s Jesus!”
My little brother had awakened and was standing, pointing excitedly at the manger scene. His face was beaming with joy. I looked over at Mom. She was smiling, her eyes shiny with tears.
I felt all warm inside. Suddenly it was as though I wasn’t in the cultural hall dressed in Dad’s old robe at all. Somehow, it felt like I really was in Bethlehem—on that long-ago night.
Nobody wanted to break the magic of that moment. Then someone started quietly singing: “Silent night! Holy night!” One by one, all of us joined in: “All is calm, all is bright …”**
I put my arm around Benjie and quietly said, “Yeah, Benjie. Jesus. He truly is the Son of God.”

He gave his final talk in the Dewsbury Ward, Huddersfield Stake. The chapel was packed with past and present service missionaries who came to hear him and celebrate his great success. One brother, who had not been to Church for some time, commented that he felt the Spirit very strongly in the meeting and would be coming back to Church. This Spirit was probably due to the many angels who I believe attended that meeting to offer their appreciation for his wonderful missionary service, as he helped in gathering Israel on the other side of the veil.

After the collapse of my father’s catering business, my family faced a serious financial situation. I remember my mother coming home with tears in her eyes, not wanting to tell us what was wrong even after I asked her what the problem was. Soon we had to move into a small one-room apartment because that was what we could afford.
Before then, the Christmas season had always been a time of intense cooking, new clothes, parties, visits to interesting places, and gifts to be shared and received. My mum had a knack for being, as we called her, “Mother Christmas.” She loved to give, and each Christmas she would enthusiastically and lovingly share with those around her. As we got older, thinking of others more than we thought of ourselves became a trait that we also tried to develop.
But that year we did not know what to do. Mum became concerned because it would be our first Christmas outside of our own home. She worried because there was nothing she could think of to share with others. However, we encouraged her because we knew that we could, in our own small way, do something to spread the spirit of Christmas.
Still, we were barely getting by, and we were also struggling to keep the peace in our new surroundings. Our landlady was not a Christian, and she was upset with us because we would wake up early to have family prayer and sing hymns. Our singing would awaken her because our room adjoined her room. Often she complained, so we tried to sing softly and not disturb her. When she saw that we weren’t going to stop having our morning family prayers, her complaints gradually ceased.
Then a thought occurred to my dad. He felt that we should sing Christmas carols to our landlady as our Christmas gift to her. Everyone was thrilled with the idea—except for me. I strongly objected, reminding my family of the complaints she had made over our family prayers. I suggested that we sing for someone who would appreciate it and not for her.
But my dad insisted, explaining that it would be an avenue for us to show her that we were her friends despite belonging to different religions. I had no choice but to join my family in choosing and practicing carols to sing for her.
On Christmas Eve we stood at her door and knocked. She did not open the door, and I was about to get angry and remind my dad of our wasted effort. But as I looked around, I saw that all the members of my family were smiling—they were happy about what we were doing. I felt a desire within me to experience that same feeling.
Eventually the landlady opened her door, and for a moment she did not know what to do. My dad quietly told her that we would love to sing for her and that, if it was all right, we would love to come inside her apartment. She stepped aside, and we went in. We sang all the Christmas songs we could remember—both the ones we had rehearsed and ones we had not. Soon there was a wonderful feeling in the room. Although we knew that she might not understand the meaning of the words, she smiled as we sang. She also told us that she had been feeling lonely and seeing us together made her long for her own family. Before leaving, we wished her a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. She thanked us, and we went back to our room.
As I was trying to fall asleep that night, I pondered on what had happened. It occurred to me that a real Christmas gift is not necessarily store bought or even homemade; it is actually the attitude and the desire we have to do what we can to make our fellow human beings happy. I realized that the greatest gift we can give at Christmastime doesn’t require a lot of money; instead, it is a gift of love.
That night I knew that my family had felt the spirit of Christmas by offering a small service to a lonely neighbor.

In 1950 the call of duty came to me as a bishop. The responsibilities were many and varied. The Doctrine and Covenants provided a sure guide. The words of the Apostle Paul to Timothy pertaining to the office of a bishop were sobering. The General Handbook was helpful. The principal areas of administration were spelled out by leaders, both stake and general: The bishop (1) is the father of the ward; (2) is the president of the Aaronic Priesthood; (3) provides for the poor, the needy; (4) is responsible for keeping proper records; and (5) is the common judge in Israel.

Then came an unusual assignment from Church headquarters. Bishops were to provide each serviceman a subscription to the Church News and the Improvement Era and were to write a personal letter to every serviceman each month. The Korean War was raging. Our ward had twenty-three members in uniform. The priesthood quorums, with effort, supplied the funds for the subscriptions to the publications. Since I had served in the Navy in World War II, I knew the importance of a letter from home. I began the task, even the duty, to write twenty-three personal letters each month. After all these years, I still have copies of many of my letters and the responses received. Tears come easily when these letters are reread. It is a joy to learn again of a soldier’s pledge to live the gospel, a sailor’s decision to keep faith with his family.

One evening I handed to a lady in the ward the stack of twenty-three letters for the current month. Her assignment was to handle the mailing and to maintain the constantly changing address file. She glanced at one envelope and, with a smile, asked, “Bishop, don’t you ever get discouraged? Here is another letter to Brother Bryson. This is the seventeenth letter you have sent to him without a reply.”

I responded, “Well, maybe this will be the month.” And it was. His reply is a keepsake, a literal treasure. It was postmarked “APO San Francisco.” He was serving far away on a distant shore, isolated, homesick, alone. He wrote: “Dear Bishop, I ain’t much at writin’ letters. [I could have told him that seventeen months earlier.] Thank you for the Church News and magazines, but most of all thank you for the personal letters. I have turned over a new leaf. I have been ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. My heart is full. I am a happy man.”

My brethren, Brother Bryson was no happier than was his bishop. I had learned the practical application of the adage, “Do your duty; that is best. Leave unto the Lord the rest.”

Years later, while attending the Salt Lake Cottonwood Stake when Elder James E. Faust served as president, I related that account in an effort to encourage attention to our servicemen. After the meeting, a fine-looking young man came forward. He took my hand in his and asked, “Bishop Monson, do you remember me?”

I replied, “Brother Bryson! How are you? What are you doing in the Church?”

With warmth and obvious pride, he responded, “I’m fine. I serve in the presidency of my elders quorum. Thank you again for your concern for me and the personal letters which you sent and which I treasure.”

The next morning we ate breakfast in fog and wind. As we started to take tents down, rain descended. Standing in the wind, shivering and wet, we were eager to be on the move.
“I wonder how bad the pass is? We have a mile to go before we’re over. Let’s hit it!”
The mile took over three hours of hard climbing over rocks and across snowfields. The wind became a cold river of air pushing rain up the pass. The uncompromising trail went straight up into a world of swirling gray clouds and immobile black granite. It was impossible to stay warm during rest stops and impossible to climb steadily without resting.
Colleen pushed herself so hard she finally collapsed just before the summit. Sweating had caused her to become chilled from the wind. Brother Otte carried her pack, and, dressed in down clothing for warmth, she went on.
“I don’t think I’ll ever make it. Just as it seems we must be at the top, there’s another ridge to climb!”
“I wish there were some trees to break the wind. I’m so cold.”
Finally the vertical became horizontal, and we were at the summit. Everyone was cold, wet, and tired as we stopped for lunch just over the top of the pass in Canada. We rested at a stone crib that was used as a support for the old aerial tram cables that had lifted supplies over the pass during gold rush days. Girls took turns holding up a poncho, forming a windbreak for those who most needed to rest.
“I’m so cold. The wind blows right into my bones.”
After a much-needed cup of hot soup, the girls trudged on, moving as fast as possible in an effort to stay warm. Fog and rain made following trail markings risky and prayer a necessity.
“Where’s the trail? I can’t see the markings.”
“I don’t know. Just try to follow boot tracks.”
Descending slowly, the trail covered masses of ice, mini-glaciers of bright blue with frigid streams of melted water running beneath the caps of white. We didn’t take time in the punishing wind to fully appreciate the beauty of the high country, but it was too overwhelming to miss entirely.
“Look at those tiny bell flowers. They are such a delicate, waxy white; it’s incredible they survive!”
Alive with flowers and small plants, the high country was dotted with basins of water that would exist a few short weeks or a month until the winter snows began again.
Gazing miles and miles down the treeless trail of rock and tundra, we had the exhilarating impression of being at the very top of the world. We followed the river past a series of crystal-clear lakes until the tree line began again a few miles before Lindeman Camp. We walked along the brim of a deep gorge and looked far down to the violently boiling water, scarcely able to imagine the quiet of winter when the land would be ice-locked. The gorge had been used as a highway during winter by the gold rush stampeders.
Lindeman, now the site of a four-bunk cabin built by the Canadians, was once a sprawling city of tents. Eager to push on to the goldfields, many people lost their lives falling through the lake ice in spring. Men suffering from gold fever would rather risk their lives on rotten ice than take the extra time and effort to go overland.
The last group reached camp at 10:30 P.M. after stopping on the trail to rest and cook dinner. A mile from camp an “emergency squad” met the stragglers and helped carry their packs. Somehow 18 people were squeezed into the four-bunk cabin.
The last day of hiking was a forced march as we pushed hard to make our train reservations at Bennett. Stopping for a brief rest, Colleen, with tears in her eyes, called for her counselor.
“I just can’t go on. I can’t make it. My ankle hurts so bad.” “Would you like a blessing?”
“Brother Otte, we need your priesthood.”
After the blessing the pain persisted, but Colleen was blessed with strength and a new determination and was able to continue hiking.
Rest stops became more and more frequent as we tried to keep the line together. Finally the counselors decided to send the faster girls ahead to catch the train. We had 20 confirmed reservations and ten standby seats. If we missed the train, it might take a week to get all the girls back to Whitehorse, and we were almost out of food.
The trail bounced up, then down, up, then down, crossing boggy areas and following low ridges along Lake Lindeman, which could be seen a mile away through the primeval pine trees. Unfortunately we were concentrating so hard on putting one foot in front of the other that we missed much of the beauty. The last few miles were sprinkled with sandy patches that made hiking especially tiring.
Toward the end of the seven weary miles, a train whistle blew. Tired girls almost broke into a run, and it was hard restraining them to the pace.
“There’s the old church! We’re here!”
We were in time for a good meal at the station before the train left for Whitehorse.
Now, around the fire in Whitehorse after a Sunday of worship and a delicious meal with the Whitehorse Saints, we were reliving the experience one more time before starting home the next morning. As the fire died away, the chill went unnoticed in the warmth of the Spirit. A theme of priesthood and prayer threaded the testimonies.
“The last day as we were rushing to meet the train, we stopped at a rock outcropping to rest, and Brother Woolley asked me to say a prayer. As I knelt upon the earth, tears streamed down my face and an overwhelming feeling of sweet humility filled my being. I felt an overpowering desire to always be close to my Heavenly Father and live so I would please him. The words poured from my mouth and I prayed publicly for the first time in my life by the Spirit. I was prompted to ask for strength and that we might make the train on time. We did. I also asked for a special blessing upon the girls behind us. It was incredible, but they reached the station only 15 minutes to a half hour behind us. I’m so very thankful I had this camping experience and the opportunity to rely so heavily on the Lord.”
“The Lord’s blessing was upon us all through the trip,” began another testimony. “Although the weather was bad, it made us depend upon the Lord. They asked us if we felt we could hike to Jackson County, Missouri, and several girls said yes. This hike has been a proving ground and will be a source of strength for all of us the rest of our lives. As we look back on the Chilkoot Trail, we’ll know that with the Lord’s help, we can do anything.”

A few years ago I visited a family with a teenage son who was looking at a copy of Preach My Gospel. I encouraged him to write in the margins of the book the impressions he felt while reading.
I recently received a letter from this young man who is now serving a mission. He wrote: “I’ve been in the mission field for six months and want to thank you for reminding me to write down my impressions. I’ve just been called to be a trainer, and I have a new missionary companion. When my companion saw my agenda and a small notebook under my pillow, he asked me why it was there. I told him what you taught me: if I would listen, God would speak to me, so I keep it there to write down the personal revelations He gives me.
“The next night at 2:00 a.m. I had an impression come to me, and I wrote it down in my notebook. My companion said, ‘Now I understand.’”

Two of the blessings that a senior priesthood companion can give are trust and an example of caring. I saw that when my son was given a home teaching companion who had vastly more priesthood experience than he did. His senior companion had been a mission president twice and had served in other leadership positions.

Before they were to visit one of their assigned families, that seasoned priesthood leader asked to visit my son in our home beforehand. They allowed me to listen. The senior companion opened with prayer, asking for help. Then he said something like this to my son: “I think we should teach a lesson that will sound to this family like a call to repentance. I think they won’t take it very well from me. I think they would take the message better from you. How do you feel about that?”

I remember the terror in my son’s eyes. I can still feel the happiness of that moment when my son accepted the trust.

It was not by accident that the bishop put that companionship together. It was by careful preparation that the senior companion had learned about the feelings of that family they were about to teach. It was by inspiration that he felt to step back, to trust an inexperienced youth to call older children of God to repentance and to safety.

I don’t know the outcome of their visit, but I do know that a bishop, a Melchizedek Priesthood holder, and the Lord were preparing a boy to be a priesthood man and someday a bishop.

In 2016, Jayne Kyprianou was serving in the stake Primary presidency of the Poole Stake. After hearing Elder Kearon’s April 2016 talk, “Refuge from the Storm”1, the Primary presidency wanted to do something to help refugee children who were arriving in their area.
After a lot of prayer and discussion, they ended up hosting an online auction and a cake sale. They beat their goal of raising £500, by raising almost £1,800.
The money raised was used to buy items for educational packs for the refugee children. These would be packed by stake Primary children in a forthcoming Primary conference.
During that time, the stake public affairs directors, Brother Roger Head and Sister Moira Head, began to have contact with Unity in Vision, Bournemouth, a voluntary group founded by members of ethnic minorities.
Unity in Vision was invited to attend the stake’s Primary conference, and this was the start of a great working relationship between the Church and Unity in Vision.

Our son Dan got very sick on his mission in Africa and was taken to a medical facility with limited resources. As we read his first letter to us after his illness, we expected that he would be discouraged, but instead he wrote, “Even as I lay in the emergency room, I felt peace. I have never been so consistently and resiliently happy in my life.”
As my wife and I read these words, we were overcome with emotion. Consistently and resiliently happy. We had never heard happiness described that way, but his words rang true. We knew that the happiness he described was not simply pleasure or an elevated mood but a peace and joy that come when we surrender ourselves to God and put our trust in Him in all things. We too had had those times in our lives when God spoke peace to our souls and caused us to have hope in Christ even when life was hard and uncertain.

“A few years ago, I was in line to make a purchase at my local grocery store. Ahead of me stood a young woman, about 15 years old. She appeared confident and happy. I noticed her T-shirt and couldn’t resist talking to her. I began, ‘You’re from out of state, aren’t you?’
“She was surprised by my question and replied, ‘Yes, I am. I’m from Colorado. How did you know?’
“I explained, ‘Because of your T-shirt.’ I made my accurate supposition after reading the words on her shirt, ‘I’m a Mormon. Are you?’
“I continued, ‘I must tell you that I’m impressed by your confidence to stand out and wear such a bold declaration. I see a difference in you, and I wish every young woman and every member of the Church could have your same conviction and confidence.’ Our purchases completed, we said good-bye and parted.
“Yet for days and weeks after this random everyday moment, I found myself seriously reflecting upon this encounter. … I couldn’t help but wonder what meaningful phrase I would figuratively choose to have printed on my T-shirt reflecting my belief and testimony. … Eventually, I came upon an ideal statement I would proudly wear: ‘I’m a Mormon. I know it. I live it. I love it.’ ”
Sister Ann M. Dibb, second counselor in the Young Women general presidency

“Dad has always had great faith in prayer and in the healing power of blessings for the sick. Once his mother was very ill and he remembers the neighbors coming to the house to assist. My father knew that his mother’s illness must be very serious and that frightened him. He ran into the cornfield and dropped to his knees, saying aloud, ‘Heavenly Father, please don’t let my mother die.’ After awhile he went back to her bedroom and asked, ‘How are you, Mother?’ She replied, ‘No better.’ He went back to the corn patch again to repeat his fervent plea. This continued until five o’clock in the afternoon when he again entered his mother’s room. ‘How do you feel, Mother?’
“‘Better, son!’ she answered. And the next day she was able to sit up.”

Nothing is more inspiring than to see youth praise God by honoring him on his holy day. Let me recount the story of one of them to you. Eric Liddell had been raised in China by missionary parents. When he returned to Scotland for his education, he discovered while playing rugby that he was fast on his feet. Those who watched him run called it sheer artistry. He was a wild runner, technically imperfect, but with exultant, liquid speed.
As Liddell continued to run, he began to receive honors. Friends pushed him to train for the Olympics, but his devoutly religious sister, Jennie, thought it would turn his attention from God. She knew he couldn’t be half-hearted about anything and she said, “Be honest with me. How much time will you have left for God?”
But Liddell’s father advised him differently. “Run in His name … and let the world stand back in wonder.”
And wonder it did. Liddell became known as the “Flying Scotsman,” making the 1924 British Olympic team with ease. On the way to Paris for the games, however, a reporter tossed him a question that startled Liddell. “What about Sunday? Do you think you can beat the Yanks?”
Liddell had not known that the heat for the 100-meter race he was scheduled to run in was on Sunday. The news made him a quiet passenger, and his sister’s words echoed in his mind: “Your mind’s not with us anymore, Eric.” It was heartbreakingly clear to him what he had to do. He could not run in the race, even if it meant undoing all the years of training, even if it meant disappointing his teammates.
They took the news badly, and Lord Birkenhead, who was leading the group, took it worse. “Won’t run?” he bellowed and turned red. He simply couldn’t understand.
Liddell responded, “I’m not sure that I understand. … I’ve run, driven myself, and run and run again for three whole years just to be on this ship. I gave up rugby, my work has suffered, I’ve even deeply hurt someone I hold very dear. Because, I told myself, if I won, I would win for God—it was his will. And now I find myself sitting here destroying it all, with a couple of words. But I have to. To run would be against God’s law.”
The pressure on Liddell didn’t end there. In Paris, he was called into a special meeting with Lord Birkenhead and the Prince of Wales himself. Had he no allegiance to king and country? “There are times,” said the Prince, “when we are asked to make sacrifices in the name of that loyalty. Without them, our allegiance is worthless. As I see it, for you this is such a time.”
Liddell was uncomfortable, but unmoved, and the tense situation was only resolved when a teammate entered the room and offered to give up his spot on a 400-meter race on Thursday so that Liddell could still run.
That Sunday at church, Liddell read from Isaiah 40:31. [Isa. 40:31] It was not an easy day for him, for he longed to be running for the gold, but he told the congregation what he told himself: “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
Later that week at the 400-meter race, he had his chance to take the Lord at his word. As the runners lined up at their marks, rumors circulated among the crowd that Liddell would never win this race. He was a sprinter, fast in the short haul, but could he take this quarter-mile distance? But as he stood at the line, Liddell received a boost that the crowd didn’t know. One of the top runners on the American team handed him a folded piece of paper that read, “In the Old Book, it says, ‘He that honors me, I will honor.’”
Liddell won that race that day. He got his gold. In doing so, those who watched believed he had passed the supreme test. He had found the courage to throw his head back, push his heart until it almost burst, and cross the finish line ahead of all contenders. But that was not really the supreme test. The supreme test he had passed on the boat on the way to France, in the meeting with the Prince of Wales, and again that Sunday while he watched the race he might have run. The supreme test in any life is whether one can stick to his highest ideals when glory or expedience pressures us away from them. (Excerpted from W. J. Weatherby, Chariots of Fire, Dell/Quicksilver, pp. 50–165.)

Let me provide an example. When I first visited Czechoslovakia, accompanied by Hans B. Ringger, long before the freedom bell sounded, I was met by Jiri Snederfler, our leader through this dark period, and Sister Olga Snederfler, his wife. I went to their home in Prague where the branch met. Displayed on the walls of the room in which we assembled were picture after picture of the Salt Lake Temple. I said to Sister Snederfler, “Your husband must truly love the temple.”
She responded, “I, too; I, too.”
We sat down for some soup Sister Snederfler had prepared, after which she brought out a treasure trove: an album containing individual pictures of the missionaries who were serving there in 1950 when the government edict came for the mission to be closed. As she slowly leafed through the pictures of different missionaries, she would say, “Wonderful boy, wonderful boy.”
Brother Snederfler has been a courageous Church leader in Czechoslovakia and has been willing to put everything on the line for the gospel. When the opportunity came that we would seek recognition for the Church in that country, the government leaders, then Communist, said: “Don’t send an American. Don’t send a German. Don’t send a Swiss. Send a citizen of Czechoslovakia.”
There were ominous implications in that particular statement because to have admitted that you were a church leader during this period of the prohibition of religion was tantamount to possible imprisonment. And yet, this call came to Brother Snederfler to be the designated person to go before the government and to forthrightly state that he was the leader of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for all of Czechoslovakia and that he was seeking recognition for his church. He later told me that he had been somewhat frightened and had asked for the prayers of his brothers and sisters in the Prague Branch. He went to his sweet wife, Olga, and said to her: “I love you. I don’t know when, or if, I’ll be back, but I love the gospel, and I must follow my Savior.”
With that spirit of faith and devotion, Brother Snederfler went before the government officials and acknowledged that he was the leader of the Church and that he was there to seek a restoration of the recognition the Church had enjoyed long years before. In the meantime Elder Russell M. Nelson had been working tirelessly to bring about the desired decision. Later, Brother Snederfler heard the good news: “Your church is again recognized in Czechoslovakia.” How eager Brother Snederfler was to tell his dear wife and the other stalwart members of the Church the wonderful news that once again missionaries could come to Czechoslovakia and the Church could provide a haven for freedom of worship in that nation. It was a happy day for Czechoslovakia.
Where are Jiri and Olga Snederfler today? Just last month they responded to their calls to serve as temple president and matron of the Freiberg Germany Temple, where faithful members of the Church in Germany, Czechoslovakia, and surrounding nations attend. These two saintly souls find themselves each day in the Lord’s house they so dearly love.
And what of Richard Winder, one of the former missionaries of whom Olga Snederfler exclaimed, “Wonderful boy, wonderful boy”? He is now the president of the Czechoslovakia Prague Mission, responding to the call to him and his wife, Barbara, to reopen the work in that country.

In early 1828, when Oliver Cowdery became Joseph Smith’s scribe, the two visited Father Knight, seeking provisions. Father Knight paid for and delivered some supplies including fish, grain, potatoes, and some lined paper for writing. Joseph and Oliver rejoiced at the food and paper, and “then they went to work, and had provisions enough to last till the translation was done.”

Years later, Joseph Smith praised Father Knight for these items: they “enabled us to continue the work when otherwise we must have relinquished it for a season.”5 Joseph Knight, Sr., helped the world receive the Book of Mormon sooner. If the Prophet had had to work full-time to support his family, the translation might have taken years to complete.

I returned home from my mission in Arizona, USA, just as the pandemic started spreading across the globe. During the last few weeks of my mission, I had been creating a vision for where I wanted my life to go once I returned home. I made specific plans and goals and was ready to get started! I planned to go to nursing school, to start new hobbies and find new friends, and to seize so many opportunities that come during young adulthood. I felt a sense of peace and assurance that God was guiding me and had great things in store for me after my mission.
That changed soon after I got home.
One by one, my plans were canceled because of COVID-19. I began to question and doubt the decisions and goals I had made. I chose to start looking for a job while waiting for online classes to start instead of moving to another state to begin school like I had originally planned. After a while, I felt I had lost my purpose and was wasting so much time. I was used to always having a jam-packed schedule as a missionary, and so I suddenly felt lonely, bored, and useless.
I wasn’t looking forward to the future. I didn’t want to face this life transition. I wanted to go back in time, to return to past friendships and places that had once made me happy. The vision and plans I had for my life just a few weeks before had disappeared, and I felt like I was paralyzed by darkness, fear, and discouragement. I didn’t feel like myself at all. I had just finished the most amazing experience of serving the Lord for 18 months, but now I felt lower than I ever had in my life.
I wondered why everything was going wrong and where the Lord’s promised blessings were. The reassurances I had felt in the final weeks of my mission seemed to have disappeared.
Then general conference came, and I realized how much I was lacking in one specific area of life—hope.
Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles gave a talk titled “A Perfect Brightness of Hope” (April 2020 general conference), and it especially stood out to me. I realized that because of my faith in Christ, I could and should hope for better things to come. Because Christ lives and is constantly working in my life, I realized my future will be just as miracle-filled and bountifully blessed as my past has been.
Because the Savior felt and overcame everything I will ever face, I could believe, despite every reason not to believe, that things were going to get better—even if my plans were sometimes skewed.

“Why did I ever listen to those Mormon missionaries, anyway?” thought Johanna Anderson, as the boat pitched wildly beneath her feet. The voyage had been a difficult one, and today was especially rough. Just about everyone she knew on board was ill, and her faith began to waver as she thought, “Why must this journey be so long and hard?”
She could, at this very moment, have been home in her beloved Sweden with her caring parents. They had been converted by LDS missionaries in the early 1800s, and it was their greatest desire to send their family to the Salt Lake Valley. When their eldest son, Neils, earned enough money for passage to America for himself and his wife, his parents decided it would be a wonderful opportunity to send 14-year-old Johanna with them.
Johanna remembered the care her mother had taken in packing her trunk, and the surprise package she’d hidden in the bottom of it. “Johanna,” her mother told her, “when you are far from home, when your faith in God is low, or when you most need help, open the package in the bottom of your trunk. It will cheer your spirits and give you faith to go on to Utah.”
Well, Johanna’s spirits were certainly low at this point. Not only had the storms relentlessly punished their small ship, but the water for the three-month journey had gone stale. Many passengers were terribly sick, and some had even died and been buried at sea. Everything looked so bleak. Perhaps now was the time to open the package her mother had sent.
Quietly and unseen, she crept to the hull of the ship and found her trunk. She opened it and felt her precious package. Tears formed in her eyes when she saw what it contained. It was the most beautiful red coat she had ever seen. Her mother must have spent hours making it for her. She slipped into its warm softness and did a little dance on the heaving floor.
She hadn’t been this happy in a long time. She wanted to show her beautiful coat to all the others on the ship, but she thought again. This was her secret. This red coat was for Utah. She would wear it again when she arrived in the new land. Tenderly she returned the coat to her trunk.
The knowledge of her beautiful secret gave her courage for the rest of the journey. When no one else seemed able to eat, Johanna found herself hungry. She had become a special friend of the ship’s cook, and he would prepare her the Swedish pancakes she loved. He would place the big bowl in her lap while he added the ingredients, and would instruct her to “lean with the toss of the ship” so the batter would stay in the container.
Finally, after three months, the ship reached America. It took another three months for the Andersons to travel to St. Louis. There they purchased a wagon, ox teams, and supplies for the long trek across the plains.
While Neils and his wife drove the team, Johanna walked. She was young and strong and loved the wilderness, with its birds and animals. Every day she saw some new sight that stirred her. Occasionally she would see friendly Indians in the distance. And always, as she walked, she would think of the secret in her trunk—the soft, beautiful red coat—and how she would wear it when she reached her new home in Utah.
But unknown to the company she traveled with, hostile Indians had been following them since they crossed Wyoming. Johanna sensed things were not right and felt apprehensive. Finally, when evening came, the captain of the company moved the wagons together, forming a tight circle. The cattle and oxen were driven into the center, and there was no campfire, music, or dancing as there had been on other nights. The Saints were told to go to bed and stay quiet.
Johanna, exhausted from her long walk, fell into a deep sleep. But just at daybreak, she was awakened by voices and stamping horses’ hooves. Her sister-in-law motioned for her to lay quiet. Neils was not in his bed.
The voices grew louder and nearer, and Johanna noted the language was different. Her people were talking to the Indians.
She could hear rummaging in the wagon above her. Her trunk was at the end of the wagon, and she could tell it was being opened. She heard Neils’s voice dealing with the Indians.
Suddenly the voices ceased, and the men jumped down from the wagon. Their dealings had ended, and she could hear the Indians riding away.
Neils returned and took Johanna to the front of the wagon. In his firm Swedish, he said to his sister, “Johanna, stay here. Let nothing permit you to look back or go to the rear of our wagon. You have faith and the Lord will take care of all of us.”
The temptation was too great for Johanna, and she turned to look at the Indians riding away, single file and bareback on their ponies. Heading the warriors was Chief Walker, yelling and screaming and riding at top speed. Around his shoulders he wore her beautiful red coat.
Neils caught his sister in his arms. “Johanna, your coat saved your life—not only yours, but the lives of all in our company. The bright red color caught the chief’s eye. When he saw your coat, he was satisfied and then left us all unharmed.”
The Andersons soon reached Salt Lake City, and Johanna eventually married James Hansen, a Danish convert. They had ten children, and her descendants still tell her story to their children today.

The first things I noticed among the hustling paramedics and the wailing sirens that cold January morning in Utah were Esther’s hands. Her long, strong fingers, which had always been so busy serving others, were now cramped and motionless. My own hands reached out to warm hers, and her closed eyes fluttered open briefly. She looked around as though to identify who was near her.
“It’s okay, Esther,” I said, trying to comfort her as I straightened her nightgown and covered her with a blanket. “The doctors will find out what has happened to you.” I felt Esther relax; then we were both swept into the ambulance and rushed to the nearby hospital.
To say Esther was only a neighbor is like describing the sun as only a source of light. Esther’s hands had reached out to me when I was a teenager and had led me to the treasures in my junior high school library. For more than 40 years, her hands had dispensed knowledge and service throughout the neighborhood. She had hired and patiently taught many young people how to prune and care for her orchards, how to improve the neighborhood, and how to love their neighbors. She had reached out to old and new alike, and her hands had sewn the fabric of our block into a quilt of friendship that spread far beyond its physical boundaries.
All that busy winter, I had yearned to help someone. But I knew it was a futile desire. I was working full time in a very stressful job, and I was the harried mother of five very involved and very busy children, ages 5 to 25, including two who were getting married within weeks of each other. My family, work, Church and community responsibilities had strained my capacity to do more than survive each day. But something in the depths of my being kept calling out, wanting to help someone in some way.
Many mornings, as I checked off my accomplishments of the previous day and plotted my strategy for meeting the struggles of the dawning one, I had recalled the Lord’s admonition to “not run faster or labor more than you have strength,” (see D&C 10:4), and I had thought, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll find time to take dinner to someone or to take flowers to a sick friend.”
Service, to me, was a physical object one presented as a gift: it was homemade candy or doughnuts at Christmas, freshly baked bread for a new neighbor, or outgrown clothes for needy families. Now, as I sat at Esther’s bedside on a cold wintry day, Esther taught me that service was something else.
“Esther, squeeze my hand,” the doctor coaxed. “Come on, Esther, you can squeeze my hand.”
“I’m trying,” Esther answered, but her words collapsed into themselves, and her voice trailed off. The doctor shook his head, slipping his hand from Esther’s unmoving one.
“Esther, they are going to move you to another room now,” I explained as they wheeled her bed out of the emergency room. “It’s going to be all right.” Her frightened eyes searched mine for reassurance and then closed in peace.
Surprisingly, despite my fear for Esther, I felt an unusual sense of peace. For once in my harried, over-full life, I knew that I was where I was supposed to be. I wasn’t worried about my list of Saturday chores. I wasn’t concerned about my family. They knew I was with Esther, and their prayers were with me in that cramped, bare cubicle.
Morning edged into afternoon. I called Esther’s family in another state and told them of the situation. I served as a link between the hospital, Esther, and her family members, who were trying to cope with this emergency. And I talked to Esther.
As I sat by Esther, I watched storm clouds gather and snow begin to fall. My thoughts went back 35 years to when my grandmother had had her final stroke. Others had been frightened of the silent stranger who inhabited my grandmother’s frail body, but my mother had told us to hold her hand, to stroke it, and to talk to her.
“I think she can hear you, even if she can’t communicate,” my mother had said. “She needs to hear and feel your love. Talk to her, touch her, and let her know you love her.”
I hadn’t thought of my mother’s words for many years, but they came back as I talked to Esther, stroked her immobile hands, and filled the tiny room with my whispered prayers.
Too soon the room was crowded with Esther’s family, and I eased out of their way as they gathered around her. When they reached out to caress her still hands, stroke her hair, and talk to her, the urgent need that had held me captive all morning disappeared.
“She’s slipped into a deep coma,” the nurse explained to Esther’s loved ones. “Earlier she was trying to communicate, but now she’s unconscious and unaware.”
I stood at the doorway and took one last look at Esther’s inert hands. They were more relaxed now, but they remained open and reaching out to others. I dashed tears of appreciation from my eyes and thanked Esther for her last gift to me.