Gospel Story Finder

Near my family’s home in St. George, Utah, was a big hill where I loved to play. One day as I was playing there with my older brother, Dennis, I slipped and tumbled onto a huge, prickly cactus plant. I had cactus spines everywhere—in my shoes, my trousers, my shirt. Frightened and in pain, and scarcely able to move because of all those sharp spines, I started to wail at the top of my voice. Dennis tried to help by pulling out the spines, but that seemed to hurt even worse and caused my skin to bleed. Finally, to my surprise, Dennis turned without a word and ran down the hill. I thought, Oh boy, that’s great. Right when I need him, he runs away. I was afraid that I was going to be left alone with that cactus in me forever.
Soon, however, I looked up, sniffling, to see him struggling up the hill with his small red wagon. He had run home to get it, and he pulled it all the way up the hill, tugging and pulling and huffing and puffing, so that he could take me home in it.

“Money and all it can buy are also highly visible here,” comments Caroline Kwok, a Brigham Young University graduate. “I’d say materialism is one of the biggest challenges we face as members. The media is constantly giving the message that we could all be happy if we had the right clothes, the right possessions, enough money.”
And yet, although there are large private homes in Hong Kong, the vast majority of its residents struggle to make enough money to pay for a small apartment in the high-rise concrete communities springing up all over. “Most of our members fit in the lower- to middle-income bracket,” Sister Kwok points out. Sister Kwok, who has a doctorate in education, feels that a key to helping Church members deal with economic challenges is education. Hong Kong children receive a free nine-year education, but admission to schooling beyond that is highly competitive. Sister Kwok opened a night school that caters to Church members who work during the day but want to further their education. The school’s curriculum balances secular knowledge and gospel principles, with an emphasis on thinking skills. “The power to progress and grow is in each one of us,” states Sister Kwok. “We just have to gain access to it with the Lord’s help and with belief in our own abilities.”

Some time ago I went through a period in which I was plagued with many personal problems and felt that I had nobody to help me solve them. I was attending church regularly but had not been successful in finding solutions to my difficulties. Fear often overcame me, especially during the night. I was very unhappy.
One day when I was feeling particularly distraught, I tried to get in touch with the mission president. On another day I had a strong desire to reach the President of the Church. I thought if I could just speak with or write to him, he would give me the answers I sought.
While in this troubled state of mind, I attended a session of district conference in Cúcuta, Colombia. I found the answer I needed during a talk by the mission president. When President Canals asked, “When is the last time you had a spiritual experience?” I realized that I had been so preoccupied with trying to find someone to help me solve my problems that I had forgotten the Savior’s call to draw near unto Him (see D&C 88:63). In my rush to find a solution, I had forgotten the Being who had power to give me peace in my afflictions and to answer my prayers.
That very day I started the process of drawing nearer to my Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. I told Heavenly Father of my fear and anguish, and I prayed in the name of Jesus Christ that I might have His Spirit to be with me. I dropped all of my burdens at the Savior’s feet, remembering His promise: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).
I still don’t have all the answers to my personal problems, but I have received strength and comfort. I have also received impressions that if I live a righteous life, keep the commandments, and serve the Lord with all my heart, He will help me solve my problems or give me strength to endure them (see Mosiah 24:14).

Lucy took the box of valentines out of the sack. Tomorrow was Valentine Day, and she still hadn’t decided whether to give a card to Carla, the girl next door.
Lucy sighed. Nothing had been the same since Carla had moved in at the first of the year. Lucy and her mother had taken homemade cookies over to Carla and her family, but Carla hadn’t even said hello.
“She’s just shy,” Carla’s mother had explained.
Lucy quickly decided that Carla wasn’t shy—she was just a bad-tempered girl who loved to make life miserable for everybody around her. The first week after Carla had moved in, she had thrown rocks at Lucy’s dog, Jumper, and now he was afraid to go outside.
At school Carla bullied the smaller children on the playground. She was in the principal’s office at least twice a week. Lucy and her friends were embarrassed to be around her because she was loud and rough.
And now Lucy’s mother had said that she should give Carla a valentine.
“But, Mom,” Lucy argued, “valentines are supposed to be for people you like. And I don’t like Carla Bentley!”
“Carla has a lot of problems, Lucy. Maybe if she had some friends, she wouldn’t be the way she is,” Mother explained. “Sometimes people need attention so badly that they’ll do anything to get it, even things that they shouldn’t.”
Lucy sat on the floor of her room, her valentines spread out before her. She was putting two candy hearts in each one. As she wrote each name on an envelope, she checked it off her list. In class they had passed out a list with all the students’ names on it so that no one would be missed. Lucy popped a candy heart into her mouth. Only seven more, and she still hadn’t decided about Carla.
Finally Lucy checked the last name off the list. She stacked the cards carefully and put them into a bag. Then she realized that all her valentines were used up! “Mom!” she called, running into the kitchen. “Guess what! I can’t give Carla a valentine.”
“Why not?” Mother asked.
“Because I don’t have any more. Remember, we bought a box of thirty cards? Well, that was just enough for my class, so now they’re all gone.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” her mother said. “If you decide to give a valentine to Carla, we have lots of things you can make a card with.”
“Make a card?”
“Sure. Lots of people make cards instead of buying them. It’s fun to do,” Mother said, going over to her desk and pulling out a drawer. “See, we have pink and red construction paper, and I remember some white doilies in with the napkins.”
Lucy shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure that I want to, though.”
“Well, I’ll just leave the things here in case you need them. I’ll be back in a while. I have to pick up your brother at soccer practice.”
Lucy thought, If I give Carla a valentine, maybe she won’t be so mean. I could make a really cute one with some of the stickers I have.
Lucy went to her bedroom to get her sticker collection. Some stickers were funny, others were pretty, and some smelled like root beer or peanut butter or strawberry when she rubbed them. She picked out three: a heart in different shades of pink, a furry kitten, and a cluster of sweet-smelling strawberries.
Hurrying down to the kitchen table, Lucy folded a sheet of white paper in half, drew half a heart along the fold, and cut it out. When she unfolded it, she had a pattern to trace around on the construction paper.
Lucy folded a sheet of pale pink construction paper in half, then cut out two red hearts and placed them and the strawberry sticker on the front of the card. She put the kitten and heart stickers on the inside. Then she signed her name at the bottom.
Holding the card up, Lucy thought, It’s pretty, but it’s not really a valentine if there aren’t any words except my name. But I can’t write a fancy poem to a girl I don’t even like. Finally, after trying out a number of ideas on scratch paper, Lucy wrote in red ink:
“Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
I’d rather be friends
Than fight with you.”
The sun was shining on Valentine Day morning. Lucy got up early and dressed quickly so that she could run over to Carla’s without being seen. As she hurried around Carla’s front porch, the Bentley house was quiet. Lucy propped the card up against the front door, rang the doorbell, and ran. She hid behind the bushes separating the yards and watched for someone to answer the door.
Mr. Bentley opened it and looked first to the left and then to the right. Lucy could see him smile when he finally looked down and saw the card. He picked it up and closed the door.
Lucy let her breath out. That’s that, she thought. She hurried home to eat so that she could meet Kim, her best friend, before school.
The morning passed quickly. After Lucy’s class exchanged their valentines, the room mothers came in and they had a party. For treats they had red punch and cupcakes with white frosting and red gumdrop hearts on them.
Lucy didn’t see Carla until lunchtime. Carla was walking toward Lucy and Kim with a funny look on her face.
“I don’t believe it,” Kim whispered. “Why is she coming over?”
“I gave her a valentine,” Lucy whispered back.
Kim looked at her quickly. “You did? Maybe she’s going to beat you up.”
“I don’t think so,” Lucy said, smiling shyly at Carla.
“Hi,” Carla said.
“Hi,” said Lucy and Kim together.
Carla looked down at her tennis shoes. “I—I want to thank you for the valentine, Lucy.” She held out a card to Lucy.
“You’re welcome,” Lucy said, taking the card. “Thank you.“
“I didn’t have time to make one.” Carla stood awkwardly.
“Oh, that’s OK. Would you like to eat lunch with us?” She heard Kim’s sharp gasp but ignored her.
Carla’s face lit up. “OK!” Then Carla looked at Kim and added, “If you don’t mind.”
Kim looked from Carla to Lucy then back again. “Of course not. Come on, let’s get over to the tree before somebody else does.”
As the girls sat on the bench beneath the old cottonwood tree, four boys walked past.
“Hey! Happy Valentine Day!” Carla yelled happily at them.

I was able to work from home and be a stay-at-home mom for eight years, and then, because of financial circumstances, I needed to return to the workforce full-time. At that time, I had four young children and leaving them was very hard. When this happened, I was not very happy about it. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t stay home and raise my kids as I had always planned and desired to do. My perspective was limited. I was choosing to feel discouraged with my current reality and not embracing the joy of being able to provide for my family and use my skills in a different way.

I found myself adding things to my list of reasons why I should be unhappy working. When I felt I was forced to go to work, it made things hard. Now, to be clear, I loved my job and still do. I enjoyed being at work, which added to my guilt. Was I supposed to enjoy working when I could be at home taking care of my children? This misuse of energy and focus can lead us to believe that only changing what is outside of us can bring us joy. Unfortunately, this unconscious thinking can create a perpetual hamster wheel of short-lived and temporary pleasures but rob us of real joy. Ultimately, it can and will negatively impact how we feel about ourselves. The way we see our lives can help our perspective.

When we make decisions by thinking celestial, we realize that some things aren’t as important as our minds might have us think, and we put that into perspective. When I returned to the workforce, my mind wanted me to think that I couldn’t raise my children as I wanted to because I was working. What I learned is that I was absolutely able to teach my children about the gospel and share important moments with them. It just looked different from what I thought it would.

It took me many years and a lot of understanding to see the eternal perspective of my life circumstances. I learned that joining the workforce would help me to grow as an individual and put me in an environment that allows me to serve others. Now, working outside the home isn’t the path for everyone, but it happened to be the path for me. We are working towards becoming our best selves, and every step we make in the right direction is helping us move forward. The great news is that the Lord has a plan for each of His children. Trials are meant to help us learn, grow, and develop so that we can become more like our Heavenly Father. When we are on this path and can see from an eternal perspective, we can also experience the joy that the gospel brings.

For a time the Saints could not be comforted. The mourning, the black miasmic depression that descended upon Nauvoo was overwhelming. When Mary Fielding Smith, Hyrum’s wife, after midnight heard the high-pitched voice of Porter Rockwell, riding on a sweaty horse, shouting, “They’ve killed them! they’ve killed Joseph and Hyrum!” she screamed. And young Joseph wept. Soon all Nauvoo knew. Some felt bitter and wanted vengeance. Some who held command positions in the Nauvoo Legion went immediately and asked that they be marshaled. But the leaders had been told by the Prophet to stay home. That was that.

Letters came to Nauvoo from both Willard Richards and John Taylor. To reassure John Taylor’s family, Elder Richards wrote, “Taylor’s wounded, not very badly.” And peace prevailed in spite of the anguish. Many of the brethren absent on missions felt forebodings that day, even at the hour of the martyrdom. Only seven days previously the Prophet had sent letters to all the Twelve asking them to return to Nauvoo immediately. So it was that the returning Parley P. Pratt walked depressed across the plains of Illinois until he could hardly endure it. Finally he knelt and prayed for comfort; and then it was made known to him that the newspaper headlines he had seen in Chicago told the truth, that Joseph and Hyrum had in fact given their lives for the Lord’s cause, and that he was to go back rapidly to Nauvoo and tell the Saints to do nothing until the Twelve had reassembled.

Despite the provocation, then, peace and not war came in the aftermath of the Prophet’s death. With their Nauvoo Legion the Saints had power to win in any skirmish had they so chosen. But they who had been stereotyped as warlike and bitter and hostile and filled with vengeance demonstrated that they were not any of those. They were peaceful.

In spite of how hard that experience was, I forgave my friends for what they did. I knew they didn’t understand my standards and my decision to live the Word of Wisdom, so I forgave them and chose not to have any bad feelings toward them. When we finished school, I left on my mission but continued to communicate with Juan and Francisco. I wrote them frequent letters sharing with them the gospel and my testimony of Jesus Christ. I invited them to repent and to attend church. To my great surprise, one of them actually went.
I had frequently invited my friends to Sunday meetings before, but none had accepted until now. Although I couldn’t attend with Juan, my brothers and my father were there to help him and fellowship him. My family accepted him, and Juan felt very comfortable at church. He started changing little by little until he made the decision to get baptized. I was thrilled for him and even more thrilled when he told me he had learned to love Jesus Christ because of my letters. When I came home from my mission, I also stayed close with Francisco, and after some time, he and his wife also got baptized. Today, Juan and Francisco are still two of my closest friends.

Living near the coast on Vancouver Island, Marnie gets many opportunities to go to the ocean. “I hike to Witty’s Lagoon sometimes. You can see whales and sea lions there,” said Marnie. “Once when I was there with my friends Kara and Nina and my sister Stephanie, two sea lions came up not far from us and played for fifteen or twenty minutes. When we got out of the water, they swam away. Another time our family was at Witty’s Lagoon with Brother Bedesso from our ward. We put inflated inner tubes on each end of a big log we found so that it would float better. Then Dad, Brother Bedesso, Stephanie, Kristy, Melissa, and I all sat on the log and sailed in the lagoon. Later that day we caught a dogfish, which is a kind of small shark.
“I like to swim in fresh water, too,” said Marnie. (There are two fresh-water lakes near Marnie’s home.) “I like to wade in the water and put logs out to sail.”
“Our family goes to Sealand sometimes. There are three killer whales there, and we know that if we stand in a certain spot, the trainer will pick us to feed the whales. So Stephanie, Melissa, Kristy, and I have been able to feed the whales.”
Marnie does her share to help her mother, Linda, and her father, Doug, do the housework and yard work. “I help clean the house, and I put my laundry away and make my bed. Sometimes I take care of Kellie, and I make supper every Saturday. Well, not exactly every Saturday, but lots of Saturdays. In the summer I water the raspberry bushes.
“Each day Stephanie, Melissa, Kristy, and I draw sticks with jobs written on them to see who clears the table after supper, washes the dishes, and dries the dishes. One stick says that that person gets the day off. If you get three days off in a row, the next day you have to do the clearing, washing, and wiping all by yourself.”
Marnie, Melissa, and Stephanie are in the same class at school. “It’s a combined class with twenty-one other students,” Marnie explained. “Having sisters in your class is neat. We don’t always do our homework together, though, because we don’t always have the same homework. Sometimes,” she added, “being in the same class can cause problems. Like today: I expected Melissa to bring home her social studies book because she always brings her books home.”
“And Marnie usually ‘forgets’ her books,” Melissa put in.
“Well, we have a social studies test tomorrow,” added Marnie, “and not one of us brought our book home to study, because we all thought that someone else would bring hers.”
“In Primary Melissa and I aren’t in the same class, but sometimes our teachers let us sit together during opening exercises and Sharing Time. I like Primary. One of my favorite lessons that I learned in Primary was from a talk that one of our leaders gave. She said that once when she was little and had gone out trick-or-treating, some teenagers took her bag of candy away from her. Her brother saw how sad she was and gave her his bag of candy. I thought that was a good lesson.” And it’s a lesson that Marnie Payne lives by.

I often reflect on the day my sister Maryann and I first came to Hawaii. I was 6 years old and she was 5. I couldn’t imagine why my parents would allow their children to leave them at that age but that event impacted me for the rest of my life. I remember in those days the Pan American flight came once a month to Samoa, and it was a big island event. I can still smell the captivating fragrance of the moso’oi leis and the strumming of the guitars as busloads of people would gather at the airport to see who was coming and who was leaving that day. I remember my mom and dad whispering to us as we huddled for the final goodbye: “You are going to get a better education, then you will come back”. So my sister and I came with my grandfather, Miki Ah You. Uncle Junior often said my grandmother spoiled us more than her own children. Now that I’m a grandmother myself, I know exactly how that feels.

I remember when we first went to Laie Elementary School. My sister and I were placed in the same kindergarten class. I was so embarrassed to be in the same class as my younger sister. It was a thing then to change your name when you come to America. You know, Enele became Henry, Tomasi became Tom. So my aunt’s husband, Komisi, took us to school that first morning and without telling me, he changed my name to “Lorrance”. Because they called me “Louena” at home or ‘ENA for short, he thought the best way to fa’apalagi my name was to call me “Lorrance”. Mind you, the only real English words I knew then was yes and no. Throughout the day when my teacher asked me something I would simply answer “Yes” or “No”.

At the end of that first day, the teacher asked my Aunty Leise, who came over from her class to pick us up, “Is something wrong with your niece? Every time I called her name she would just answer ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. It was only then that I learned of my new name. So I struggled through that whole first year with my insecurities of being in a new environment. When we got to first grade, I had a kind, patient teacher, Sister Ruby Enos, who kept me in during recess and worked with me while the other kids were out playing. She taught me to read and write and speak English. When I finally was moved up a grade that year, I felt my first sense of accomplishment!

Have you ever been so afraid and discouraged as you faced a challenge that seemed far beyond your ability? Have you ever wanted to give up? I did at that time.

As I reflected on the times in my life when I was immersed in the scriptures, unvaryingly I was keeping a study journal in which I wrote impressions and scripture passages that inspired me. So I found a notebook and a pen and put them with my scriptures. At first, writing about what I read was a chore; it took too much time and effort. Really, I just wanted to have a spiritual snack and then move on with my daily work. But I persisted, and the scriptures came alive. I found myself thinking, dissecting passages, and applying them to my life. Simple phrases provided solutions to perplexing parenting problems. I soon found I could take notes, and it didn’t really take any longer than reading alone. I have also found that as I reread past reflections, I find answers to current questions and concerns. It is as if the Lord gives me insight a couple of weeks before I need it.
Erica Miller, Utah, USA

Watoy paused under the colorful Filipino flag outside his school before heading inside.
“Good morning, class,” his teacher said. “It’s time for our morning prayer.”
All around, Watoy’s friends each touched their foreheads, chests, and shoulders to form the shape of a cross. Then they recited the prayer they always said at the beginning of class. As usual, Watoy didn’t join them. Instead, he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and said his own silent prayer. He prayed about different things each time, the way he was taught to pray at home and in Primary.
When he finished and looked up, he saw that his teacher was watching him with a confused expression on her face.
“May I talk to you after school?” she said.
Watoy swallowed and nodded. Was he in trouble?
When classes had ended for the day, Watoy’s teacher walked over to him.
“I see that you never cross yourself or recite our morning prayer,” she said. “Will you please tell me why?”
Watoy breathed a sigh of relief. His teacher wasn’t upset, just curious! He thought about how to answer.
“Well,” he began, “in my church, when we pray, we talk to Heavenly Father about many different things. And the cross reminds us of when Jesus died. But Jesus is not dead. He lives!”
His teacher thought about this for a moment and then nodded slowly.
“Thank you for sharing this with me,” she said.
As Watoy walked to football practice, he felt warm and good inside. He liked teaching others about Jesus Christ.

The day school was out at the beginning of each summer, our family went to our ranch in Wyoming. It was there with my parents and brothers and sisters, and a few cousins mixed in, that I learned about family loyalty; love and concern; birth and death; that one must finish a job once it is started; and, to quote my father, “There are only two things important—the family and the Church.”
One year my father was waiting for us as we arrived. He said he had a big job for my brother Clay and me to do that summer. I was about twelve at the time, and my brother was two years older. Pointing to the field by the side of the house, my father said, “Do you see all of these lambs in that field? I’ll share the money we get for the ones you raise when we sell them in the fall.” Well, we were excited. Not only did we have a significant job to do, but we were going to be rich! There were a lot of lambs in that field—about 350 of them. And all we had to do was feed them.
However, there was one thing that my father hadn’t mentioned. None of the lambs had mothers. Just after shearing, there was a violent storm that chilled the newly shorn sheep. Dad lost a thousand ewes that year. The mothers of our lambs were among them.
To feed one or two baby animals is one thing, but to feed 350 is something else! It was hard. There was plenty of grass, but the lambs couldn’t eat the grass. They didn’t have teeth. They needed milk. So we made some long, V-shaped feeding troughs out of some boards. Then we got a great big tin washtub, ground up some grain, and added milk to make a thin mash. While my brother poured the mash into the troughs, I rounded up the lambs, herded them to the troughs, and said, “Eat!” Well, they just stood there looking at me. Although they were hungry and there was food in front of them, they still wouldn’t eat. No one had taught them to drink milk out of a trough. So I tried pushing them toward the troughs. Do you know what happens when you try to push sheep? They run the other way. And when you lose one, you could lose them all because others will follow. That’s the way with sheep.
We tried lining up the lambs along the troughs and pushing their noses down in the milk, hoping they’d get a taste and want some more. We tried wiggling our fingers in the milk to get them to suck on our fingers. Some of them would drink, but most of them ran away.
Many of the lambs were slowly starving to death. The only way we could be sure they were being fed was to pick them up in our arms, two at a time, and feed them like babies.
And then there were the coyotes. At night the coyotes would sit up on the hill, and they’d howl. The next morning we would see the results of their night’s work, and we would have two or three more lambs to bury. The coyotes would sneak up on the lambs, scatter the herd, and then pick out the ones they wanted and go after them. The first were those that were weak or separated from the flock. Often in the night when the coyotes came and the lambs were restless, my dad would take out his rifle and shoot in the air to scare them away. We felt secure when my dad was home because we knew our lambs were safe when he was there to watch over them.
Clay and I soon forgot about being rich. All we wanted to do was save our lambs. The hardest part was seeing them die. Every morning we would find five, seven, ten lambs that had died during the night. Some the coyotes got, and others starved to death surrounded by food they couldn’t or wouldn’t eat.
Part of our job was to gather up the dead lambs and help dispose of them. I got used to that, and it really wasn’t so bad until I named one of the lambs. It was an awkward little thing with a black spot on its nose. It was always under my feet, and it knew my voice. I loved my lamb. It was one I held in my arms and fed with a bottle like a baby.
One morning my lamb didn’t come when I called. I found it later that day under the willows by the creek. It was dead. With tears streaming down my face, I picked up my lamb and went to find my father. Looking up at him, I said, “Dad, isn’t there someone who can help us feed our lambs?”
After a long moment he said, “Jayne, once a long, long time ago, someone else said almost those same words. He said, ‘Feed my lambs. … Feed my sheep. … Feed my sheep.’” (John 21:15–17.) Dad put his arms around me and let me cry for a time, then went with me to bury my lamb.
It wasn’t until many years later that I fully realized the meaning of my father’s words. I was pondering the scripture in Moses that says, “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of [all mankind].” (Moses 1:39.) As I thought about the mission of the Savior, I remembered the summer of the lambs, and, for a few brief moments, I thought I could sense how the Savior must feel with so many lambs to feed, so many souls to save. And I knew in my heart that he needed my help.

“Growing up in Queens, New York, I sometimes felt lost in the crowds of people living in the inner city. At times I felt quite isolated and lonely, even though I was surrounded by so many people.
“When I was introduced to the gospel of Jesus Christ, I started to experience the Light of Christ coming into my life. As I accepted invitations to read the scriptures, to pray, and to ponder, the light inside of me started to grow. I felt very known to God, where I previously felt unknown to everyone else.
“As a teenager, I leaned into that light early, and I stay leaned in to this day. President Russell M. Nelson teaches that it’s ‘vital’ to experience the love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ—especially in our present day and age. I’m grateful for that critical experience in my youth and that Their love and light continue to propel me forward today.
“God’s love and light keep my divine identity as a beloved daughter of God in the forefront and is how I choose to present myself and navigate my way in my daily life. It has also allowed me to see the divinity of all of God’s children—my brothers and sisters. God’s love can pierce the very center of the hearts of His children. When we feel it—when we experience it for ourselves—we come to know why ‘it is the most desirable above all things … and the most joyous to the soul’ (1 Nephi 11:22–23).”

“Mom!” The high-pitched wail made me wince.
What now? I wondered. The children had gone to bed, and I was going about my evening activities. My husband was at a late meeting.
I went upstairs, bracing myself for what I thought was another argument between siblings, and found my youngest child, Michaella, with red-rimmed eyes. “My ear hurts, Mom.”
Oh, no, I thought. Why does this always happen at night? I couldn’t justify the expense of an emergency-room visit for an ear infection, so I used all the home remedies I knew and tucked her in. “Try to sleep now,” I said. “I’ll call the doctor as soon as her office opens in the morning.”
Downstairs again, I felt anxious and could not concentrate. I went to the kitchen and halfheartedly began to wipe the counters. Then with a sudden motion I threw down the cloth. I headed back upstairs to check on Michaella, moving softly in case she was asleep. I stopped halfway up. Through the open door at the top of the stairs, I could hear sobs.
I could not take it. I couldn’t just stand by, helpless, while my child suffered. I sank down on the stairs, tears running down my face. I prayed. I pleaded. I trembled as I told the Lord I would do everything I could to help my daughter and then I would leave the rest up to Him. After taking a few deep breaths, I climbed the rest of the stairs, sat on my daughter’s bed, and smoothed her damp hair.
“It hurts bad, Mom.” The usual dimple in her cheek wasn’t there. Her face was pale. Fatigue and pain had made dark smudges under her eyes.
I decided I would not wait until my husband returned; I would risk looking like an overanxious, overprotective, and overreacting mother. “I’m going to call our home teacher, OK?”
Michaella nodded.
I made the call, feeling somewhat awkward. When I asked our home teacher if he would give Michaella a blessing, his answer was, “Of course.” A short while later he arrived, smiling, as if driving out late at night was his favorite thing to do.
While he performed the blessing I felt hope lighten my heavy heart. I thanked him as he left, then put Michaella to bed again. She was asleep within minutes.
The next morning she seemed so much better, I was tempted to skip calling the pediatrician. But I had promised the Lord I would do everything I could.
Later that morning, I watched the doctor closely. She peered through her scope into Michaella’s ear and said, “You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?” It wasn’t really a question; it was a statement.
“She slept straight through the night,” I said.
I took a mental photograph of the doctor’s astonished face.
I knew then that we had had our own little miracle. No seas were parted, no lepers cleansed, no dead raised. It had simply been a night of peace, without pain, for a little girl.
For me, it was enough.

My brethren and sisters, last Sunday as I sat in my study thinking of what I might say on this occasion, I received a phone call telling me that Staff Sergeant James W. Cawley of the U.S. Marines had been killed somewhere in Iraq. He was 41 years of age, leaving behind a wife and two small children.
Twenty years ago Elder Cawley was a missionary of the Church in Japan. Like so many others, he had grown up in the Church, had played as a schoolboy, had passed the sacrament as a deacon, and had been found worthy to serve a mission to teach the gospel of peace to the people of Japan. He returned home, served in the Marines, married, became a policeman, and was then recalled to active military duty, to which he responded without hesitation.
His life, his mission, his military service, his death seem to represent the contradictions of the peace of the gospel and the tides of war.

In New York City, there presides in a stake of the Church a young man who, as a boy of 13, led his quorum of deacons in a successful search for the Christmas spirit. He and his companions lived in a neighborhood in which resided many elderly widows of limited means. All year long, the boys had saved and planned for a glorious Christmas party. They were thinking of themselves, until the Christmas spirit prompted them to think of others. Frank, as their leader, suggested to his companions that the funds they had saved so carefully be used, not for the planned party, but rather for the benefit of three elderly widows who resided together.

The boys made their plans. As their bishop, I needed but to follow. With the enthusiasm of a new adventure, the boys purchased a giant roasting chicken, the potatoes, the vegetables, the cranberries, and all that comprises the traditional Christmas feast. To the widows’ home they went, carrying their gifts of treasure. Through the snow and up the path to the tumbledown porch they came. A knock at the door, the sound of slow footsteps, and then they met.

In the unmelodic voices characteristic of 13-year-olds, the boys sang: “Silent night, holy night; all is calm, all is bright.” They then presented their gifts. Angels on that glorious night of long ago sang no more beautifully, nor did Wise Men present gifts of greater meaning.

I gazed at the faces of those wonderful women and thought to myself, “Somebody’s mother.” I then looked on the countenances of those noble boys and reflected, “Somebody’s son.” There then passed through my mind the words of the immortal poem by Mary Dow Brine:

Not one of those boys ever forgot that precious pilgrimage. Christmas gifts had become Christmas blessings.

Boo found Daddy’s toolbox and took out a big hammer. She pounded with the hammer—Bang! Bang! Bang! But Daddy took the hammer away. “No, no, Boo,” Daddy said. “Those are my things.”
Boo is a little girl, bouncy when she walks, giggly when she talks. Boo is busy! She is busy learning about everything—where she can play and where she can’t, what she should do and what she shouldn’t.
In Big Sister’s room Boo wanted to climb up to the mirror and put colors on her face! But Big Sister scooped her off the chair. “No, no, Boo,” Big Sister said. “Those are my things.”
When Boo wanted to poke the shiny needle from Mommy’s sewing basket into the bright cloth or to cut with the sharp scissors, Mommy put the sewing basket up on a high shelf. “No, no, Boo,” Mommy said. “Those are my things.”
Boo tried to dip a paintbrush into Big Brother’s paint box so she could dab and dribble the paint. But Big Brother took the brush away before the dribble dropped. “No, no, Boo,” he said. “Those are my things.”
Boo was sad. She sat in a corner. She didn’t feel bouncy. She didn’t feel giggly. She didn’t have anything to keep her busy.
Mommy looked at Daddy. Big Sister looked at Big Brother. The next day Big Sister played ball with Boo. Then they played dolls. Big Sister read lots of stories to Boo. Boo was busy!
Boo was so busy that she didn’t hear Daddy pounding. She didn’t see Mommy sewing or Big Brother painting.
In the morning they all said, “Come with us, Boo. We’re going to the Yes-Yes Place.”
The Yes-Yes Place was a playhouse. Daddy had built it. Big Brother had painted it. Mommy had sewed the curtains and made the little furniture. And it was all for Boo.
Boo sat in the little chair and looked in the little mirror and put little-girl makeup colors on her face. She pounded with her rubber hammer. She cut bright cloth with her safe scissors. She painted with her jars of finger paint. And no one said, “No, no!”

When President Dieter F. Uchtdorf was just 11 years old, he worked as a laundry delivery boy. He had to pedal so hard pulling a heavy cart behind his clunky workhorse of a bicycle that he sometimes thought his lungs would burst. It wasn't until he joined the German Air Force many years later that he realized how his childhood affliction would create a lifelong blessing. Doctors who examined him discovered evidence of lung disease that had been healed, and they wondered what treatment he had received for it. President Uchtdorf had received no medical treatment for his lung disease, because hadn't even known he had the disease. He realized then that without his hard work in the fresh air as a child, he would never have become a pilot.[20] We might add that he also would never have become the senior vice president of flight operations for Lufthansa, one of the largest airlines in the world--an experience that undoubtedly prepared him, in turn, for his current administrative responsibilities as a member of the First Presidency.

Right after I was married, I was called as home teacher to four families. The father of one was active but not spiritually converted. The young husband in another wasn’t a member of the Church and wouldn’t attend with his new bride, who was a member. The third couple was inactive—even though the husband was formerly in a stake presidency and the wife had been a stake Primary president. The fourth family, the Smiths, was happily very active in the Church: the father was on the stake high council, and the mother was the ward Relief Society president.
The third couple, we learned, had become inactive because they had not felt a part of the ward. We convinced them that we were their friends and were interested in them. Then we helped the wife see that the Church needed her special talents of teaching children. She began attending Sunday School and later accepted a calling as a Sunday School teacher. When my wife was asked to bake cookies for the ward Christmas party, we asked this couple if they would make the cookies, and then we invited them to come to the party as our guests. When they moved to a new ward later, they didn’t become inactive again but remained active.

I remember meeting with a man some time back. Seventeen years before, his wife had a problem. She embraced another man in a moment of weakness, and then this was kept a secret for 17 long years. And this good brother, her husband, who had kept the law, who had never violated the code, all of a sudden found out about this, and it almost totally destroyed him. He came to see me and he asked, “What do you think I should do?”

And I said, “You must forget and forgive. And when I say forget, it must be taken from your mind forever and ever.”

He said, “But I can’t. I can’t get it off my mind, seeing her in someone else’s arms.”

And I said, “Then you remember what it was like in the temple, and you view her in your mind every time kneeling across the altar from you. I am sure she has been punished enough and has suffered enough; she needs no more. She has repented, and you forgive her.”

Well, he took that advice and was kind enough to follow it.