Gospel Story Finder

It wasn’t until months later, when I stood exhausted, hungry, and cold, on the banks of a muddy pond that I began to understand.
I was participating in a pioneer trek, and it was the last day. We hadn’t eaten much for breakfast, and the day before we had hiked for many miles. That morning we had pulled our handcarts to the banks of a very large pond, and we were going to ferry them across in order to experience in a small way what it must have been like to cross a river with handcarts. It had rained that morning, and we all stood in the sun, trying to dry ourselves as we waited for our turn to cross. While we waited, our stake president told us the story of the Sweetwater rescue—how several young men had put their own lives in peril in order to carry the desperate Saints of the Martin Handcart Company across an icy river in the middle of winter. As I stood listening to the story, I felt the love and sacrifice of those boys, and the Spirit swelled in my heart. I felt a desire to be like those great young men and help rescue all those needing spiritual help in our day, including my own family.
In my mind, I uttered one of the shortest prayers I’ve ever said, but it was one of the most powerful: “Heavenly Father, help me to be a rescuer.”
At that moment, I again felt that soft, warm, peaceful feeling of heaven close around me, and I knew through the Spirit that my will and my Heavenly Father’s will were one.

Later I found out.
The twenty-year-old emergency paramedic driving the ambulance had his hands full. What was he to do with a three-year-old girl who was frightened and crying? Her parents were both injured, her mother critically. What could he say or do to calm this child?
Maybe a song would help, he thought. But he couldn’t recall any children’s songs—except one. It was a Sunday School song he had just learned in the church he had only recently joined. There was no reason this little girl would recognize it or take comfort in it. But the impression that he should sing grew stronger, so he began: “I am a child of God, and he has sent me here …”
The little girl grew quiet and after a verse began to sing with him, “I am a child of God, and so my needs are great …”
At the end of the second verse he asked softly, “Are you a Latter-day Saint?”
She replied, “Yes.”
“Are your mommy and daddy?”
“Yes.”
He reached for the radio transmitter. “This is rescue calling base. Hi, Beth. Would you do me a favor? Look up the number of a Bishop Brower in the phone book and give him a call. We have a critically injured woman coming in who’s a member of his church and we need …”
So the bishop received the message, and priesthood holders were at the hospital within minutes.
A year later we attended the missionary farewell of the young paramedic who helped save Gaydra’s life.

Often I have observed that strength and love come at the cost of sacrifice, shared in large part by the wives of the Seventy. A number of years ago I visited Elder Claudio and Sister Margareth Costa while they served in Bogotá, Colombia. After dinner one evening the Costas had an online video conversation with some of their grandchildren. As Elder Costa was translating for me, I learned that the grandchildren were referring to Sister Costa as “Computer Grandma.” At the end of the conversation, two grandchildren ages two and four embraced the computer monitor, giving Sister Costa a hug. Sister Costa later informed me that those grandchildren thought she and Elder Costa lived inside the computer.

For Loralee, an 18-year-old from South Jordan, Utah, SOS began as a question: What can we do to show the world that teenagers are good? She was tired of all the negative attention teenagers were getting—especially in the media. So she decided to do something about it. During her junior year at Bingham High School, Loralee started thinking of ways young people could do something positive for the community. She came up with the idea of organizing students from around Salt Lake into service teams, one at each participating school. Schools Offering Service, or SOS, would be a huge volunteer force of students working together to serve.
“People need to know that kids are good, that they are involved in positive things,” Loralee says. “I wanted a service club in my school, so I just decided, ‘Let’s make this work.’”
But for all her enthusiasm, Loralee had a hard time getting SOS started. When she began suggesting the idea her junior year, her student government leaders wondered if she could make it work. “A lot of people said it was too big of a thing to take on,” she says.
Discouraged, Loralee put her ideas for SOS on hold. She turned her attention back to student government—she was junior class secretary—and to applying to colleges. Later that year, however, she was elected vice president of the Utah Association of Student Councils. Now she had the resources and the contacts to make SOS work.
Armed with posters and fliers, Loralee went from school to school recruiting volunteers. “I’d go to the school to tell people about SOS and get them signed up and into teams,” she says. Each school’s team would do monthly service projects like visiting retirement homes and reading to the blind.
For example, students from Copper Hills High School, a school located in a Salt Lake suburb, organized a Christmas talent show for South Valley Care Center. After performing, they decorated the care center for the elderly with handmade ornaments and handed out candy canes. Tiffany Tolbert helped coordinate Copper Hills High School’s SOS projects. She says SOS has helped her make new friends and learn to lead. Most of all, it has given her a chance to help people. “I really enjoy doing service because I want to make a difference,” she says.
And as if monthly service projects weren’t enough, twice a year SOS teams from each school combined for regional service projects like feeding the homeless.
More than 300 people joined SOS during its first year. For regional projects volunteers collected clothing, blankets, and more than 2,000 pounds of food for the homeless. They also prepared kits with brightly colored school supplies and collected teddy bears to send to developing countries. And, in only a year, SOS spread to 25 schools in the Salt Lake area. For her work with SOS, an insurance company awarded Loralee its 1999 Spirit of Community Award. Salt Lake County commissioners declared February 10 “Loralee Anderson Community Service Day.”
But Loralee insists that you don’t have to be in something like SOS to make a difference. “You don’t have to do a huge 24-hour service project to make an impact on someone’s life. The small acts of kindness, a kind word, a smile—those small acts are what count,” she says.
Small acts of service like smiling are what Loralee is known for. “She has always loved people and cared about people; she has real compassion,” says Loralee’s mother, Sandra Anderson.
In addition to Loralee’s work with SOS, she has volunteered with special-needs children and worked with Peer Leadership, a statewide organization that teaches youth to say no to drugs. She also has held many student government positions and has served as president of her Laurel class.
Loralee says she just wants to follow the Savior’s example. She says her love of the gospel deepens as she serves. “For some reason, when you are serving, humility comes upon you. You can show Heavenly Father that you love Him. My testimony has grown so much through service,” she says.
Now a freshman at BYU, Loralee is considering majoring in, what else, youth leadership. She wants to inspire youth to focus on what they each can do to make the world better. “I think people underestimate the power they can have. Individual deeds do impact lives,” she says. “The youth are going to take the world by storm.” A storm of service, that is.

For years I had sent out packages of clothing at Christmas time to families whose need I had read about in a New York newspaper. I had also included some spiritually oriented reading material.
One holiday season my husband, Will, stopped to watch my preparations. “You’re spending a lot of money on postage,” he noted. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea if I drove into the city with the packages? Our station wagon would hold a lot of them.”
I was excited at the idea! If he did that, I could send heavy winter clothing, too expensive to mail, and also food. Happily I went about gathering all I could, while Will got maps of Manhattan, the Bronx, and Brooklyn, and began to locate and schedule the stops on his route.
Early the day before Christmas, Will and our teenage boys loaded the station wagon, packing it to the roof. The day was cold and grey, but the only concession to the weather Will would make was to wear a cap. He held an office job and rarely spent time out of doors, yet he was confident that he’d be warm enough.
As I watched him back the loaded car out of the driveway, I was assailed by sudden doubts. What if the car broke down? What if he got lost? Or chilled? He was going into some of the most crime-ridden sections of the city—what if he were assaulted?
Turning back toward the house, I noticed that snow was lazily drifting down—an added worry. I went into the house and knelt down to pray for Will’s safe journey. “Dear Heavenly Father,” I began, “Will has gone on an errand for me—.” Then I stopped. I had the sudden impression that I had said something wrong. The thought came, “No, he has gone on an errand for Me.”
I was taken back by the thought. I had been thinking too highly of myself in assuming that Will had gone just for me, and that his safety depended on my prayers. At that moment, I realized that delivering the packages was his service to God, and he would be protected.
I got up, determined not to worry about Will any more, and went on with my holiday preparations. The snow that had begun so lazily in the morning was a blizzard by lunch time. In the afternoon I tried to walk to a nearby store but had to turn back because of the drifts. If they were impassable here, what must the roads be like in the city?
Dinner time came. Still no word from Will. He had said that he’d call me. My resolve not to worry was getting harder and harder to maintain. In the evening, when our sons came in from shoveling snow, one of them asked, “Isn’t dad home yet? Where can he be?”
“Mom,” said the other, “he can’t still be delivering packages at this hour. No one would let him in. I don’t want to worry you, but—.”
“He’ll be all right,” I assured the boys, but I was beginning to panic in spite of myself. Resolutely I worked at wrapping gifts, trying to ignore the kitchen clock which was now creeping toward eleven P.M.
Then one of the boys yelled with relief, “Mom, dad’s car is turning into the driveway!”
Excitedly, I grabbed a coat and went to meet him. As Will got out of the car, I noticed that he wasn’t cold and exhausted as I had pictured he would be. He looked as though he had been outdoors for a pleasant half-hour, instead of just having spent fifteen hours on snow-clogged streets, driving around abandoned cars and lugging packages up unshoveled walks.
“I didn’t have a bit of trouble,” he assured me, “and I found every family.”
That evening I gave thanks for my husband’s safe journey and for my increased understanding of the Lord’s ways.

Cindy heard a sad meowing coming from the withered marigolds.
“Oh!” she cried. “Another stray kitten.”
A month ago she had found Tinker. When her mother said that Cindy could keep the black kitten, she also made it plain that they had room for only one cat.
But now when a thin, scraggly yellow kitten crawled out of the marigolds, Cindy knew she had to help it somehow. “I can’t leave you here!” Cindy cried. “Winter’s coming, and you need a home.”
When Cindy’s mother saw the little animal, she said, “You were right, Cindy, not to leave it out in the cold. Put it in the garage and give it some milk.”
The kitten drank all the milk. Then it crawled into the box Cindy had fixed up with an old towel and went to sleep.
Cindy cared for the yellow kitten just as she did for Tinker. As it became healthy and strong, Cindy worried about where it could live. All of her friends already had pets.
One day Cindy asked her mother, “Mom, do you still listen to that radio program where people call to buy or sell something? Maybe a listener might want a cat.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mrs. Moss replied. “It will be on this evening. We can call in then.”
Later that night Cindy and her mother listened while they waited for their turn on the air. A lady had a quilt to sell, and a man wanted to buy a used lawn mower.
Finally Cindy got to tell about the yellow kitten and give their telephone number.
Soon the phone rang. A man named Mr. Willis was interested in the kitten. “I need a cat for my barn,” he said.
“Is it warm?” Cindy asked. “This kitten needs a warm place to stay.”
“My barn’s full of hay,” Mr. Willis said. “A kitten can curl up in it and keep nice and warm.”
“A kitten needs milk too!”
“Every time I milk my cows, I’ll give the kitten warm milk,” Mr. Willis assured her.
“A kitten needs someone to love it!”
“I like cats,” Mr. Willis said. “I’ll pet it every day.”
“Then I want you to have the kitten,” Cindy said.
When Mr. Willis came to get the kitten, he asked, “Does it have a name?”
“How about Marigold? I found it in the marigold bed.”
“That’s a fine name,” Mr. Willis said. “Come along, Marigold. Let’s go home. It’s almost time to milk the cows.”

Another chapter in the Bensons’ life began a few years later when Elder Benson, with the encouragement of President David O. McKay, accepted an appointment as United States Secretary of Agriculture under President Eisenhower. Sister Benson cheerfully moved her family to the nation’s capital, focusing her time and energies on her family and shunning much of the Washington social scene.
But on one occasion, as a missionary effort, Sister Benson decided to give a luncheon for Mrs. Eisenhower and the other wives of the president’s advisers. As was common practice in the Benson household, no outside help was hired for the affair. She and her four daughters spent weeks carefully planning a menu, cleaning their home, preparing entertainment, and reviewing etiquette and protocol.
If Sister Benson worried that her guests would miss the coffee, cigarettes, and card playing which normally were part of such affairs, she needn’t have. The cocktails made from ginger ale and home-bottled apricot juice were a great success, as was the entertainment—a choir from Brigham Young University that was touring the east coast.
“The most exciting part was the beautiful letters we received afterward from the women, telling us what a thrill it was to experience a touch of ‘Mormonism’ and what wonderful youth the singers were,” Sister Benson remembers.

My friends and I could hardly wait for the weekend to come so we could hit the ski slopes. We were 15 years old at the time and all good skiers.
One Saturday, we had been skiing for about half the day on some pretty steep slopes. The weather was crisp. The sky was blue. All around us there was beauty, and we were having fun on the ski jumps.
As we were coming down one of the jumps, my friend Chris slipped and fell on one of his skis. His bindings popped out, and he took a hard fall. Chris took off his glove, and we were both alarmed to see blood dripping from his arm. As Chris rolled up his sleeve, I could see that he was badly cut. I asked for one of our friends to find the ski patrol.
I helped Chris take off his sweater and removed my cotton shirt with long sleeves and made a tourniquet above the deep cut. At the same time I was prompted by the Holy Ghost to have Chris hold his arm up above his head.
The ski patrol finally arrived, but they did not know that Chris had cut a main artery in his arm because the tourniquet was so well placed that it had stopped the bleeding.
Chris was rushed to the hospital. When the doctors discovered the damage to the main artery, they said Chris would have bled to death if the tourniquet had not been placed on his arm the right way and his arm held above his head.
The accident had happened fast, so I had to act quickly. I told Chris that I had been prompted by the Spirit to do the right thing. I later realized I had also followed instructions from my first-aid training as an Eagle Scout.
That evening Chris’s parents called my home and thanked me for saving their son’s life. I hope to always remember to listen to the still, small voice that directed me at that crucial time.

I used to give an assignment to students in my introductory psychology classes that involved turning the other cheek. (I know this may sound a little on the draconian side, and I did provide alternative assignments if students didn’t want to do this one. But most of them chose this.) Here’s how it went.

Students were to pick someone with whom they had an important and ongoing relationship—such as a spouse, a parent, a sibling, or a dear friend. It was to be someone who really cared about them and who was emotionally stable. They were to ask that person to pick one thing he or she would like the student to change within the relationship and to explain that thing in depth. That’s a pretty scary thing to do for most of us, especially with someone we’re close to. There were some ground rules, of course. The person had to agree to do this calmly, in a kind way, to stick to one issue, and to stop the discussion at any point the student asked them to. The students were not to defend themselves during this discussion but only to ask questions or restate what the other person was saying until they understood the other person’s point of view about this issue completely. Then, at another time, the students could give their point of view if they wanted to.

It’s pretty tough to take a nondefensive stance when we’re being criticized, but we can learn so much from this! I had lots of students say when they wrote about the experience, “What would have happened to my marriage if I’d never found out how my spouse felt about this?” Or, “I wish I had really understood my mother’s point of view before.” There were no disasters, I’m happy to report.

“Are General Authorities human?”
I suppose this is a question that is in many minds and has been from the very beginning. It arises, in the very nature of things, because of the high regard in which we hold the offices that these Brethren are called to fill.
I recall an incident from early Church history, from the days of persecutions and difficulties. Heber C. Kimball, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, found himself in circumstances where he sought hospitality from a member of the Church, a widow woman. She offered him what she had—bread and milk—and provided a room with a bed for him. He went to retire. She thought: “Here’s my opportunity. I would like to find out [and this is, in effect, the same old question: Are General Authorities human?] I would like to find out what an Apostle says when he prays to the Lord.” So after the door was closed, she crept quietly up to it to listen. She heard Brother Kimball sit down on the bed. She heard each of his shoes fall to the floor. She heard him lean back on the bed and then utter these words: “Oh Lord, bless Heber; he is so tired.”
… This is a subject about which people often have incorrect concepts. Many people had this same question in their minds during the time of Joseph Smith. He said: “I was this morning introduced to a man from the east. After hearing my name, he remarked that I was nothing but a man, indicating by this expression, that he had supposed that a person to whom the Lord should see fit to reveal His will, must be something more than a man. He seemed to have forgotten the saying that fell from the lips of St. James, that [Elijah] was a man subject to like passions as we are, yet he had such power with God, that He, in answer to his prayers, shut the heavens that they gave no rain for the space of three years and six months; and again, in answer to his prayer, the heavens gave forth rain, and the earth gave forth fruit [see James 5:17–18]. Indeed, such is the darkness and ignorance of this generation, that they look upon it as incredible that a man should [speak] with his Maker.”

When I stepped out the front door to get the newspaper, I saw an unpleasant sight. A reddish mound of fire ants had formed in the night, rising through the crack between the lawn and the sidewalk.
Though my husband and I hadn’t lived long in Texas, USA, I knew from painful experience that the ants’ stinging bite, not their color, had earned them their nickname. I headed for the garage, where we kept the pesticide. I then read the instructions on the label.
“[This pesticide] is highly attractive to fire ants,” it read. “They will carry it into their mound, feed it to their queen, and the colony will die.” The label instructed me to sprinkle some granules on and around the mound. The ants would do the rest.
I was skeptical. The fire ants seemed pretty clever to me, able to build tall mounds in a single night. I doubted they would fall for disguised poison, but I sprinkled it on anyway.
A short while later I found the mound bustling with activity. I kept my distance but stooped to watch the fuss. They were as ecstatic as if it had just rained manna from heaven. They were hoisting the white granules in their tiny pincers and knocking over one another in their haste to get the poison into their mound.
I watched in horrified awe. They were willingly taking poison into their home. Apparently, the words “highly attractive” had not exaggerated. Somehow the pesticide company had been able to make something bad—lethal even—look extremely good.
I had never seen a more striking example of how bad could be made to look good. It made me think of how Satan does the same thing. I was comforted to realize that although he can sprinkle his disguised poison around my home, he can’t bring it in—unless I let him. So how could I keep it out?
One of my favorite scriptures came to mind: “For behold, the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil.” With that Spirit, Mormon explains, we “may know with a perfect knowledge” whether something is of God or of Satan (Moroni 7:16).
That experience of watching those doomed ants filled me with gratitude that my husband and I could judge and know for sure whether to allow something into our home. Our job was to teach our children to follow the Spirit of Christ so that they too could know poison when they came upon it.
As I stooped there, watching those insects transport every last granule into their mound, I vowed to do all I could to keep poison out of my home.

“Once when I was three years old, I was playing with a group of youngsters and we found a box of matches. We decided to light them just for fun. As we were striking them, one fell on me and set my clothes afire. I still have scars on my leg and abdomen as a result of our misbehavior. In those days, doctors didn’t know as much about caring for burns as they do now. As my leg began to heal, the burned tissue and muscle drew up, and my knee wouldn’t straighten out. Every day my parents and the doctor would lean on my knee and try to straighten it a little bit. Then I wore a splint for many months, and finally my leg straightened out. I won a lot of footraces afterward, but it was foolish for us to have played with those matches in the first place.”

One of my daughters-in-law spent many years feeling that God had placed a pavilion over her. She was a young mother of three who longed for more children. After two miscarriages, her prayers of pleading grew anguished. As more barren years passed, she felt tempted to anger. When her youngest went off to school, the emptiness of her house seemed to mock her focus on motherhood—so did the unplanned and even unwanted pregnancies of acquaintances. She felt as committed and consecrated as Mary, who declared, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord.” But although she spoke these words in her heart, she could hear nothing in reply.

Hoping to lift her spirits, her husband invited her to join him on a business trip to California. While he attended meetings, she walked along the beautiful, empty beach. Her heart ready to burst, she prayed aloud. For the first time, she asked not for another child but for a divine errand. “Heavenly Father,” she cried, “I will give you all of my time; please show me how to fill it.” She expressed her willingness to take her family wherever they might be required to go. That prayer produced an unexpected feeling of peace. It did not satisfy her mind’s craving for certainty, but for the first time in years, it calmed her heart.

The prayer removed the pavilion and opened the windows of heaven. Within two weeks she learned that she was expecting a child. The new baby was just one year old when a mission call came to my son and my daughter-in-law. Having promised to go and do anything, anywhere, she put fear aside and took her children overseas. In the mission field she had another child—on a missionary transfer day.

Shortly thereafter I boarded a train in Osaka for Yokahama and a ship that would take me home. Brother and Sister Sato came to the station to say good-bye. Many tears were shed as we bade one another farewell.
It was a very chilly night. The railroad station, what there was left of it, was very cold. Starving children were sleeping in the corners. That was a common sight in Japan in those days. The fortunate ones had a newspaper or a few old rags to fend off the cold.
On that train, I slept restlessly. The berths were too short anyway. In the bleak, chilly hours of the dawn, the train stopped at a station along the way. I heard a tapping on the window and raised the blind. There on the platform stood a little boy tapping on the window with a tin can. I knew he was an orphan and a beggar; the tin can was the symbol of their suffering. Sometimes they carried a spoon as well, as if to say, “I am hungry; feed me.”
He might have been six or seven years old. His little body was thin with starvation. He had a thin, ragged shirtlike kimono, nothing else. His head was shingled with scabs. His one jaw was swollen—perhaps from an abscessed tooth. Around his head he had tied a filthy rag with a knot on top of his head—a pathetic gesture of treatment.
When I saw him and he saw that I was awake, he waved his can. He was begging. In pity, I thought, “How can I help him?” Then I remembered. I had money, Japanese money. I quickly groped for my clothing and found some yen notes in my pocket. I tried to open the window. But it was stuck. I slipped on my trousers and hurried to the end of the car. He stood outside expectantly. As I pushed at the resistant door, the train pulled away from the station. Through the dirty windows I could see him, holding that rusty tin can, with the dirty rag around his swollen jaw.
There I stood, an officer from a conquering army, heading home to a family and a future. There I stood, half-dressed, clutching some money which he had seen but which I could not get to him. I wanted to help him, but couldn’t. The only comfort I draw is that I did want to help him.
That was 38 years ago, but I can see him as clearly as if it were yesterday.
Perhaps I was scarred by that experience. If so, it is a battle scar, a worthy one, for which I bear no shame. It reminds me of my duty!

Last summer the youth in our ward were challenged to read the entire Book of Mormon. Eventually the summer came to an end, and I finished the Book of Mormon. As I kneeled to pray and asked if the book was true, I remember thinking that this was it—I would finally have the experience that everyone seems to talk about where they are overcome by the Spirit.
The truth is, when I prayed, I didn’t feel that way. At first I was a little upset. Why hadn’t I received such a witness? Was I not worthy? But I soon realized that though many people might feel the Spirit confirming truth to them very strongly when they pray about the Book of Mormon, there are many others who don’t have that same experience. Just because you may not receive an extremely strong confirmation does not mean the Book of Mormon isn’t true or that your testimony is not as strong as someone else’s. It simply means that the Spirit can speak to people in different ways and at different times.
For me, this experience taught me that we don’t always receive answers in the way we expect. I thought I would feel an overpowering spiritual impression after I prayed about the Book of Mormon—but I didn’t. Honestly, I believe I already knew it was true.
Though I may not have felt the Spirit very strongly at that time, I knew I had felt it while reading about Alma’s conversion and about Ammon and his brothers bringing thousands of Lamanites to the gospel, and about Christ teaching the Nephites after His Resurrection. I realized that feeling the Spirit while reading different parts of the Book of Mormon also confirmed to me that the entire book was true.

Isn’t it nice to have a plan for your life? To have everything figured out? I thought I did, until I was diagnosed with a chronic health condition called polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS).
When I was diagnosed, I grew angry and confused at times, and I focused all of my energy on getting rid of this condition.
I later realized that that wasn’t how God wanted me to view this trial. The Spirit helped me break free of these three unhealthy perspectives I struggled with and replace them with better ones:
At first, I thought I had done something wrong to deserve this disease and that if I changed my habits, I could be “fixed.”
I obsessively researched and tried many “solutions” that did little to help.
When I turned to Heavenly Father for answers, the Spirit helped me realize that we aren’t to blame for many struggles we face—some challenges just come with mortality. Elder Anthony D. Perkins of the Seventy said, “Suffering does not mean God is displeased with your life.”1 By letting go of blame and turning to faith, I was able to find hope and peace.
I believed that I could be healed completely if I just had enough faith, and I was constantly disappointed when I wasn’t. Eventually I learned that it’s also important to have faith not to be healed.
My “thorn in the flesh” has also helped me rely on God, thereby turning my weakness into a strength. I’ve learned that overcoming challenges can mean being able to manage them by relying on strength from the Savior, rather than getting rid of them altogether.

When Bobby Collins (name has been changed) sent his mission papers off, he was surprised that he did not get back a large white envelope containing his mission call. Instead, he received a letter from the Church’s Missionary Department asking about his tattoo.
When Bobby graduated from high school, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go on a mission. He moved away from home to work, and he liked the independence of not having his parents around all the time. At about the same time, his best friend and his cousin both got tattoos. “That kind of lowered my guard,” he says.
Bobby had always been good at art, so he designed his own tattoo. He knew tattoos were discouraged by the Church and that his mother wouldn’t like it, and before he went to get it, he asked his brother what he thought about it. His brother had some good advice. He said, “Life already gives us so many scars. Why would you want another one?”
But Bobby had already made up his mind. Six weeks and 700 hard-earned dollars later, he had a huge tattoo all the way up one leg. “It was really painful. It was bloody,” he remembers. And “getting one made it easier to think about getting more.” He didn’t get any more, but after strengthening his testimony of the gospel, he did decide he wanted to serve a mission.
As painful as getting his tattoo was, the pain of regret that Bobby felt was much worse. He was very worried about whether or not he would be able to serve a mission. He wanted to get the tattoo removed but couldn’t afford to. He worried what his future spouse and children might think of it.
“That letter from the Missionary Department scared me a lot,” Bobby says. “My biggest fear was that this one thing was going to hold me back from serving a mission.”
Bobby had to do what the Missionary Department asks all missionary applicants who have tattoos to do. On his original application he told them a little about his tattoo. The letter he received later requested a few more details, including an explanation of when and why he got it and where it is located on the body as well as a description or photograph of it. He was also asked to describe how he felt about it.
When a missionary candidate with a tattoo applies, General Authorities review each case and decide whether that candidate will be allowed to serve a mission. Some cannot.
Bobby did receive his mission call. He is grateful to be a missionary and sorry that, now a representative of the Lord’s Church, he once decided to get a tattoo.
“I just hope people will follow President Hinckley’s counsel,” Bobby says. “I know that he is a prophet of God. If he says it’s important, then it’s important.”
Bobby has some counsel of his own too, the same counsel his brother gave him: “Even though we can be forgiven through the Atonement, why do something else that’s going to leave us scarred?”

Now there has been added another element. It began some years ago when drought in Africa brought hunger and death to uncounted numbers. Members of the Church were invited to contribute to a great humanitarian effort to meet the needs of those terribly impoverished people. Your contributions were numerous and generous. The work has continued because there are other serious needs in many places. The outreach of this aid has become a miracle. Millions of pounds of food, medical supplies, blankets, tents, clothing, and other materials have staved off famine and desolation in various parts of the world. Wells have been dug, crops have been planted, lives have been saved. Let me give you an example.
Neil Darlington is a chemical engineer who worked for a large industrial company in Ghana. Eventually, he retired.
He and his wife were then called as a missionary couple. They were sent to Ghana. Brother Darlington says, “In areas of famine, disease, and social unrest, we were there as representatives of the Church, extending a helping hand to the destitute, the hungry, the distressed.”
In small villages they drilled new wells and repaired old ones. Those of us who have fresh, clean water in abundance can scarcely appreciate the circumstances of those who are without.
Can you picture this couple, devoted Latter-day Saint missionaries? They drill into the dry earth. Their drill reaches the water table below, and the miracle liquid comes to the surface and spills over the dry and thirsty soil. There is rejoicing. There are tears. There is now water to drink, water with which to wash, water to grow crops. There is nothing more treasured in a dry land than water. How absolutely beautiful is water pouring from a new well.
On one occasion, when the tribal chiefs and the elders of the village gathered to thank them, Brother Darlington asked the chief if he and Sister Darlington could sing a song for them. They looked into the eyes of the dark-skinned men and women before them and sang “I Am a Child of God” as an expression of their common brotherhood.
This one couple, through their efforts, have provided water for an estimated 190,000 people in remote villages and refugee camps. Contemplate, if you will, the miracle of this accomplishment.

When President Heber J. Grant was a child, his mother tried unsuccessfully to teach him to sing. So, Heber joined a singing class at age 10—but he couldn’t even “carry a simple tune.” The music teacher “gave up in despair” and said that Heber “could never, in this world, learn to sing.”

But Heber was determined and set his mind to the goal of learning to sing. He practiced for hours whenever he was traveling alone and out of earshot of anyone who might hear. He recognized that good things often take hard work to accomplish, saying, “I would gladly give two or three months of my spare time if by so doing it would result in my being able to sing one or two hymns.”

Through much perseverance and practice, Heber gradually improved. The key is that he kept trying. He sang the first hymn he learned hundreds of times. Eventually, through his persistent effort, he learned to sing.

Out of the darkness of the early morning came eight rafts of various shapes and designs with their youth crews and supporters. It was the annual raft race for the Auckland New Zealand Harbour Stake, and the first of 12 races was underway.
Races were varied, including combined young men/young women teams and a leaders team. A good day was had by all with the Takapuna Ward young men regaining top prize, the Title of Liberty Challenge Shield.
Work on the Takapuna Ward raft started five months earlier as their deacons, teachers, and priests spent many hours splitting bamboo, heating and bending it into shape, and then lashing every crossbeam. More than 5½ miles of twine (9 km) was used to tie over 3,000 knots—all of which held the raft together. When all the lashings were completed, it was time to stretch the canvas over the frame.
The young men and women helped sew the canvas at the top. Then it was painted and left to dry. Practices were held at every opportunity if the sea at Takapuna Beach was smooth enough and everyone got in the racing mode. All the boys and girls got closer together, and a really strong brotherhood and sisterhood was formed.
One thing teachers quorum president Hunter Amende learned from all the hard work and paddling was, “There is no I in team.”