Gospel Story Finder

At 13, James Hail, a Boy Scout and member of the Biloxi Ward, Gulfport Mississippi Stake, was responsible for saving the lives of family and friends. His friend Catherine Cook, a Beehive, was also instrumental in the efforts.

James and Catherine’s families were swimming at the beach one day when trouble came up. James’s little sister Emily was being carried out to sea on a raft that was rapidly deflating, and some of the adults in the party got caught in a rip tide in their efforts to save her.

James saw what was going on, directed Catherine to take a lifesaving raft out to the adults, then went out for Emily himself. It wasn’t easy, but everyone finally made it back to the beach safe and sound. James says his Scouting experience helped him stay cool in the very dangerous situation.

I had dreamt of serving in Italy. Missions are about serving people, not about serving in areas. But I prayed that I would serve in Italy, specifically the city of Gaeta, where my father’s ancestors had lived since the 10th century.
After serving in Rome and Sicily, I received the glad news that I was being transferred to the area that included Gaeta. Before that transfer in early 2023, my companion and great friend Elder Jack Beck gave me a gift I will never forget. Elder Beck is a talented artist. From a small picture I had of my father, Elder Beck drew a beautiful portrait of him.
I looked at that portrait every day during personal study. It gave me strength to share the gospel.
As soon as I was assigned to Gaeta, I sought out my relatives. When I showed my father’s older brother the portrait, he wept. He hadn’t seen his brother for years and had no pictures of him.
I taught my uncle that one day he would see his brother again—not in a portrait but in person. I taught him that through the gospel, he could live with his brother again in love and peace with the Savior.
I saw great miracles in Gaeta as I shared with family members the good news that because Jesus Christ overcame death, loss of loved ones is only temporary (see Mosiah 16:8). I testify that through His atoning sacrifice, the Savior has made it possible for our families to be gathered eternally.

One day, Jonalin Y. received an unexpected phone call.
The groundbreaking for the Pago Pago American Samoa Temple was coming up, and area leaders asked 16-year-old Jonalin to share her testimony of the temple during the groundbreaking ceremony. There was only one problem. Jonalin had never been to a temple. She’d always wanted to go to be sealed to her family, but she didn’t know if that would happen anytime soon.
“When they announced that the temple was being built here, I wasn’t as excited or enthusiastic as everyone else,” Jonalin says. “I thought there wasn’t a point to be excited, because my dad is a nonmember and can’t come with us into the temple. A temple wouldn’t change the fact that my family isn’t sealed.”
Because of this, Jonalin was confused about being asked to speak about the temple. It seemed like all her friends were more excited about the temple than she was and couldn’t wait to go there with their entire families. “I just remember thinking, ‘I’m the girl with a nonmember dad. Why me?’” Jonalin says.
Soon Jonalin’s feelings about the temple started to change. “What changed my heart was being picked to share my testimony,” she says. “It was like God’s way of helping me know the temple is a blessing. I knew it was His way to put my doubtful heart at ease.”
“I’ve heard the temple is nice, it’s peaceful,” she says. “I’d really like to feel that for myself. Preparing to share my testimony gave me the opportunity to think about how amazing it will be to have a temple built so close to home. And it gave me hope that one day, according to God’s timing, my family will be sealed in the temple.”
Jonalin does her best to trust in God’s timing instead of her own. “God works in mysterious ways,” she says. “He knew the right time to build a temple in American Samoa, a time when everyone is in despair because of the pandemic, a time when the temple is needed by so many, and a time when he knew of my longing for my family to be sealed. His timing is the perfect time.”

Would you ever believe that the quiet, grandmotherly lady in your ward first kissed a boy on a dare? Or that the smiling, old grandpa who’s been in your ward forever once drove his car into the side of a barn because he forgot that he had to hit the brakes instead of yell “Whoa”?
It’s probably difficult to imagine that the seniors in your ward ever did such crazy things—especially when the only thing you know about them is what bench they usually sit on during sacrament meeting. But that’s not the case for the youth in the Dalton Gardens Ward, Coeur d‘Alene Idaho Stake. They know all about the lives of the ward’s elderly members. Of course, it hasn’t always been that way. It wasn’t until their ward’s “Family History Can Be Fun” night that they began to learn about the older people’s lives.
But ever since then, their hearts have been turning—not only toward their ward’s seniors, but also toward their ancestors and toward each other.
All this turning began when the Dalton Gardens Ward youth took Malachi’s prophecy to heart and became excited about family history work (see Mal. 4:5–6).
They did this by filling out pedigree charts, having classes on the importance of genealogy, visiting with their ward’s senior citizens, and organizing a ward activity in which they acted out episodes from the lives of the grandparents in their ward family.
And what’s been the outcome of all this excitement? For one thing, the ward’s generation gap has narrowed.
“Now when you go to church, you see a lot of the young people going up to the older people in the ward and saying hi and maybe walking them to class,” says Russell Isaacson, a 16-year-old priest. “Before we might have just walked by them because we didn’t really know them at all, but now we see them as our friends.”
Desiree Wallace, 15, interviewed Virginia Gjevres about her life. Desiree found out about Virginia’s first teddy bear and her longing for a dog. And she learned that while Virginia was growing up she was so accident prone that everyone called her Calamity Jane.
“I didn’t really know Sister Gjevres before I interviewed her. I had only seen her at church. But now I just have this love for her, and I want to adopt her as my grandma,” says Desiree, who doesn’t have any grandparents living nearby.
As connections were made between the youth and the elderly in the ward family, it caused some to reflect on the importance of forming eternal connections with their own ancestors.
“The grandparents just really seemed enthusiastic about us getting to know them better. They looked so happy,” says Cassie Gatten, 15. “So it made me realize that when we do genealogy work for our ancestors who have died that they’re probably really happy about that too.”
Interviewing the grandparents about their lives, writing the scripts, finding costumes, and then having rehearsals to make sure everything was just right took a lot of time. But the youth said the time spent was worth it when they saw everything and everyone come together on the night of the activity.
“Sometimes I didn’t really feel like it was worth all the time it took to put this activity together. But then when I saw the final night and the looks on the faces of the elderly as they watched incidents from their lives acted out before them and as they realized that the youth in the ward care about who they are, it all seemed worth it,” Cassie says. “It also made me want to live my life in a way so that if someone were to write a play about me when I am old I wouldn’t be embarrassed by it.”
After acting out scenes from Reny Sampert’s life, Kim Pearson, a 17-year-old Laurel, and her group sang Reny’s favorite song, “O My Father.”
“When we were singing ‘O My Father,’ Reny got tears in her eyes, and you could tell she was really touched,” Kim says.
“This activity brought us so much closer to the older people,” says Amber Isaacson, 15. “A lot of people in the ward are related, but there are families like mine who are not, so it’s just really neat to get to know them like the relatives do.”
Even though Amber and her brother Russell don’t have any relatives in the ward, in doing this activity Russell has realized how much some of the ward’s grandparents have contributed to his life.
“Talking with the elderly in our ward helped me to understand that they are actually a part of me because they helped form the Church here in Coeur d‘Alene. And just to look at it today and see how I’m involved and see the key part they have played in my life makes me grateful that I was able to get to know them better,” Russell explains.
Learning about the grandparents in the ward has also given Russell some understanding about the effects that trials can have in a person’s life.
“Talking with Frances Young and learning about the different trials she went through in her life helps me to see how things like that have made her the great person she is today,” Russell says. “It’s just interesting how different experiences can mold a person.”
Cassie says she learned a lot of new things about the people she interviewed too, even though they were her own grandparents.
“A lot of what I learned about them was a surprise to me,” she says. “But in learning about their youth, I realized where some of their characteristics came from.”
Cassie has also learned that it is only by understanding her heritage that she is able to understand herself.
“It made me really want to figure out where I came from,” she says. “We’re made up of all these people and we don’t even know what they are, so how can we know what we are?”
Whether they learned more about themselves, about their ancestors, or about the seniors in their ward, one thing is certain for the youth in the Dalton Gardens Ward—their hearts have been turned.
“Doing this brought us so much closer to the elderly,” Amber says. “The older people were excited to share their lives with the youth, and we were excited to know about their lives. Everyone wanted to do a really good job with the skits because they had become such good friends with the elderly that they wanted their skit to be the best.”
Everyone in the ward took part in the activity. The Primary children sang, the Relief Society prepared food, the youth performed, and the older members brought their heirlooms to put on display.
A few hours before the activity started, all of the heirlooms were dropped off at the church, making several large piles of mismatched items. By the time everyone arrived, just a few hours later, the piles of items from various families had been organized into an old-fashioned bedroom, kitchen, and living room. All the mismatched items had come together to form a perfect display. And this is the way the activity affected the Dalton Gardens Ward. There was a group of people—some old, some young, some related, some not—that have now come together so well that no one would know they weren’t all from the same family.

Quade waved to his friends as he walked home from school. “See you later!”
“We’re riding our bikes to the park next week. Are you going too?” James asked.
Quade’s face suddenly felt hot.
“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t know yet.”
Quade hurried home. He pulled his green bike out of the garage and dusted off the seat. The tires were flat. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t even know how to ride it!
“Is everything OK?” Dad asked as he came outside.
“My friends want to ride bikes next week,” Quade said. “But I don’t know how. I’m afraid they’ll make fun of me.”
“You have a whole week to learn,” Dad said. “Do you want to start right now?”
Quade nodded.
Dad helped Quade fill his bike tires with air. Then Quade got on the bike. He gripped the handlebars so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“OK, I’ll hold you steady. You start pedaling,” said Dad.
Quade pedaled forward. But when the bike started moving, he got worried.
“This is too scary!” he said. He hopped off the bike. He took a few deep breaths. Then he got back on and tried again. But the bike felt so wobbly!
“I don’t think I can do this,” he said. “Can we ask Heavenly Father for help?”
Dad nodded. Quade folded his arms and closed his eyes.
“Dear Heavenly Father, please help me learn to ride a bike. Please help me to not be so scared. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” When Quade finished his prayer, he felt calm. He hugged Dad.
“Ready to try again?” Dad asked.
“Yeah.”
Dad helped Quade get back on his bike. Quade put his feet on the pedals. He held the handles and looked forward. Then he started to pedal.
For the first few tries, Quade couldn’t keep the bike up. But he kept trying. Finally he made it all the way to the end of the block without falling. He smiled and pumped his fist. He could ride without Dad’s help!
“I did it!” Quade said. “This is fun.”
“Awesome!” said Dad.
Quade practiced riding each day. The next week, his friends came to his house. They were all on their bikes.
“Hey, Quade,” James said. “Want to ride to the park with us?”
Quade put on his helmet. “Yeah! Thanks for inviting me!”
Quade hopped on his bike. With help from Dad and Heavenly Father, he was ready to ride!
This story took place in the USA.

Many years ago, while I was mending a fence, a small sliver of wood entered into my finger. I made a meager attempt to remove the sliver and thought I had done so, but apparently I had not. As time went on, skin grew over the sliver, creating a lump on my finger. It was annoying and sometimes painful.
Years later I decided to finally take action. All I did was simply apply ointment to the lump and cover it with a bandage. I repeated this process frequently. You cannot imagine my surprise when one day, as I removed the bandage, the sliver had emerged from my finger.
The ointment had softened the skin and created an escape for the very thing that had caused pain for so many years. Once the sliver was removed, the finger quickly healed, and to this day, there remains no evidence of any injury.

In the summer of 1971 I was an undergraduate here at BYU and had been home from a mission for less than a year. I was in school and working hard in classes and at a part-time job.
I was assigned by my elders quorum president to home teach several people that summer.
My companion and I began contacting our people, two of whom were not much involved in the Church at the time. One of these was an attractive young lady who lived alone in a basement apartment. She seldom attended Sunday meetings and didn’t “do appointments” with home teachers. She would talk to us if we happened to catch her at her apartment. It usually took several attempts each month to connect with her. As the weeks passed, we made a special effort to get to know her. I think she was beginning to trust us, and even like us. She was becoming less evasive and guarded.
She was an interesting and engaging person. Attractive and witty, she held her own in conversation. She resisted being anyone’s service project and telegraphed just enough cynicism and mistrust to keep herself isolated from the well-intentioned. I sensed that she had been injured by people she had trusted the most and that her edginess and cynical humor were worn for self-protection. I was beginning to take on this relationship as a personal challenge, and I’ll admit that I was beginning to enjoy the challenge.
One day, walking alone past her apartment on my way to campus, I decided to stop and knock on her door and see if I could catch her at home. I had some pretext for stopping. I don’t remember what it was, but it was enough of an excuse to make the call seem comfortable. No one answered the door, so I went on my way.
A few days later I was in the company of my brother, Gene, who was serving in the bishopric of the same ward I was attending. He had just extended a calling to me in an interview and we were visiting for a few minutes before his next appointment. He asked me about my home teaching assignments and particularly how our efforts were going at helping this young lady. I mentioned casually that I had recently stopped by her place on my way to the campus but hadn’t found her home.
At that moment the expression on my brother’s face changed visibly. He looked carefully at me, put his hand on my forearm, and with that voice and expression I had come to know so well—the voice of the older brother—he said, “Michael, don’t ever, ever go over there on your own. Don’t risk being alone with her by yourself. Take your companion or call one of your quorum leaders or call me, but don’t go alone.”
I nodded and mumbled something like “fine” or “okay” and changed the subject to something that would let me quickly end the conversation. I ended it and left. I don’t know to this day if my brother heard the edge in my voice or noticed that I was suddenly very turned off. I was eager to get out of there and to get away from him. I was mad. He had given me some very direct counsel, and I had chosen, in an instant—as we so often choose on those occasions—to take offense.
Looking back on it, my reaction embarrasses me. It is very clear to me now why I was so offended. This response from my brother had cut me to the quick. He had felt impressed to tell me in that moment exactly what I most needed to hear. He had spoken the truth in love and courage, and I had retreated in resentment to sulk.
Ironically, his uninvited counsel worked. I followed his advice, and I was a lot more careful about home teaching and lot of other things throughout the rest of that summer. The effectiveness and care of my service improved. I don’t have much to report about the other events of that season. The summer passed quietly with no drama and no heartbreak. By the way, that young lady moved from the ward at the end of the summer feeling better about her relationship with the Lord and with His church.
I truly believe now that through that one moment of unsolicited warning, delivered by an inspired messenger, I had been rescued from a temptation I was beginning to caress in my mind and heart.
But I rewarded my rescuer with a cold shoulder for several days afterward.
A cold shoulder and the resentment of another are often the reward for speaking the truth in love and courage. But that speaking out and reaching out are what great and inspired people do. My brother had put up a guardrail for me to glance off of. I was close to an edge that I did not see—or did not want to see.

In the 1830s, missionaries baptized Mary Grimshaw and her family into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Grimshaws immigrated from England to the United States and made their home in Nauvoo.
Mary was given the assignment of helping Emma Smith, the wife of the Prophet Joseph Smith, with her laundry each week. Mary and Emma worked side by side in the Smiths’ kitchen.
“I’m so glad that you have agreed to help me,” Emma said as she lifted a large tub of water onto the black coal stove.
“I’m glad that I’m able to help,” Mary answered while she put shirts and dresses into the water to simmer and soak.
The kitchen air soon became hot and moist, and it smelled of strong lye soap. Mary wiped the perspiration from her forehead. She dipped a wooden spoon into the water and pulled out a shirt. Kneeling beside another tub of sudsy water, she scrubbed the shirt up and down the washboard. When the shirt was scrubbed clean, Mary handed it to Emma.
Emma rinsed it first in one tub of cool, clear water, then in another tub of clear water. The last tub had a few drops of bluing added to the water to make the shirts whiter.
After each article of clothing was washed and rinsed, it was pulled through a hand-turned wringer, which looked like two rolling pins hooked together with a crank on one end to turn them. The wringer was attached to another galvanized metal tub. As the clothes went through the wringer, the water was squeezed out and ran into the tub to be saved and reused. The clothes were then hung neatly on the clothesline to dry.
“Thank you for your help,” Emma said.
“Oh, it was fun. I enjoy having an excuse to come to your home,” Mary told her.
Mary did enjoy helping on laundry day at the Prophet Joseph Smith’s home. For five years Mary faithfully returned each week.
Then one sad day the Prophet Joseph Smith was shot and killed. Wanting to go and comfort Emma in some way, Mary said to no one in particular, “Sister Emma needs me more now than ever.”
As she walked to the Smiths’ house, she smoothed the braids that hung from both sides of her head, straightened the apron tied around her waist, and forced on her best smile.
She thought of how different the day felt. The very air was filled with sadness and uncertainty. She wondered about her future and the future of the Church. Stepping on to the porch, she knocked on the wooden door.
Emma looked pale and lonely, and her eyes were red and swollen.
“I’m so sorry,” Mary heard herself say. “Do you still want my help today?”
“Yes,” Emma replied. “I was hoping that you would come. Please go into the kitchen and get started.”
As Mary began to sort the clothes, she jumped back unexpectedly. On top of the pile of clothes lay a man’s shirt. The left side was stained with blood, and there was a small hole singed by gunpowder. The sight of it made Mary feel weak. She fell to her knees and sobbed uncontrollably.
At the close of the day, Mary wrote in her diary, “Today I washed the shirt the Prophet Joseph Smith was shot in.”
Mary’s faith in the gospel grew. She sustained Brigham Young as the new prophet. Later she crossed the plains with the other pioneers and made her home in Smithfield, Utah.

Elsie Smith, 17, whose house didn’t burn, spent nearly every Saturday for several months helping clean up sites where houses were burned. “Kids from other stakes came every week to help,” she says. “Only 2 of the more than 600 homes that burned in our ward area belonged to members, but we helped everyone.”
Elsie came to the understanding that we all have good and bad things happen to us. “Your Father which is in heaven,” the Lord taught, “maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust” (Matt. 5:45). Elsie says, “It’s how we handle what happens that is important.”

Susan Wells remembered Christmas two years later in Salt Lake in December 1849, when there was a more formal party:
I well remember Brother Brigham’s [Christmas] party [of 1849]. Like the girls of today, on receiving my invitation the first thought was “nothing to wear.” This was literally true, as all our clothing was shabby and patched. Necessity is the mother of invention, so, after careful consideration, the wagon cover, that had done such faithful service in our journey across the plains, was brought out. We couldn’t afford canvas [for our wagon cover, so] our cover consisted of several thicknesses of unbleached factory [cloth]. This was carefully dyed and as good luck would have it, it turned out a very pretty brown. We made this into dresses for myself and sister, trimmed with silk from an old cape of mother’s. This cape, black, lined with light brown, not only furnished trimming for our dresses, but I made poke bonnets from the black with quilled lining of the light brown. I had embroidered buckskin moccasins . . . , but I believe for this occasion father, who was a shoemaker, made me a pair of slippers from his old boot legs. I tell you my first ball dress was stunning.

When I was a Beehive, our stake leaders decided to hold a New Era Bowl. The Mutual groups of each ward and branch were to form teams, and each team was to read the back issues of the New Era for a whole year, then come together for a competition. For weeks at Mutual activities, my team members and I studied the magazine issues and quizzed each other.
One Sunday afternoon, as the competition grew nearer, I took a couple of New Era issues with me to a nearby canal bank to read. It was quiet there, and I could count on not being interrupted. I sat on the bank by the slow, brown water and read article after article. I only remember one article in particular, now. It was an article on Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. The last paragraph challenged every person to ask God if Joseph Smith was a prophet and if the Book of Mormon was true.
“Well, of course I knew it was true,” I thought. “I was baptized, wasn’t I? I went to church, didn’t I? I had borne my testimony in sacrament meeting, hadn’t I? Of course I knew. Surely people like me didn’t have to actually go through the motions of praying about it.”
Then I read the paragraph again. “Every person …”
Well, every person would probably include me, I reasoned. Sure, I could pray—what could it hurt? I set the magazine down, and there in the dirt of the canal bank I got on my knees. This would be simple. I would ask, and God would answer that it was true. I bowed my head, but before I got one word out, fears began to creep in.
I had asked for things in prayers before and had not received the answers I wanted. When I was nine, I prayed to be able to walk on water like the Apostle Peter. I tried it in the bathtub. It hadn’t worked. When I was 10, I prayed that if God could move mountains, could He please move a perfume bottle on my dresser just to let me know He could. Didn’t happen. What if Heavenly Father really didn’t answer prayers? Maybe He just didn’t answer mine.
Yet somehow I couldn’t back away. The article said every person.
Pushing my fears aside, I finally started my prayer and explained the problem to Heavenly Father. I told Him about the article I’d read. I told Him I was pretty sure the Church was true anyway, but the article said every person should pray. Then I said, “Please help me know if the Church is true. I think it is, but would Thou help me know?” Then I ended my prayer.
I never made it to my feet before a warmth that was physical as well as spiritual filled my whole body, mind, and heart. There wasn’t a corner of me that wasn’t filled with confidence, the confidence of knowing—really knowing—the Church was true, Joseph Smith was a prophet, and the Book of Mormon was true.

Jon Huntsman, Sr., is one of the most successful businessmen in America. (His corporate jet enables President Hinckley to travel the world.) He has founded a number of companies in the republics of the former Soviet Union. Two of his former employees were in my MBA class at BYU and told me of the box factory he created in Russia to help this emerging economy. Initially the company was told it would have to pay a certain tax rate on boxes sold to Russian customers and a much lower rate on boxes shipped for resale to other former republics. After the company started producing boxes, a tax administrator came and informed the company that the rates were being increased on the exported boxes--to a point that made the company completely unprofitable. However, the official said, if certain amounts could be paid under the table directly to the tax official, he could "take care of them." It is Jon Huntsman's policy never to pay a bribe. He never has, he never will. The official was insistent. Jon Huntsman decided to sell the factory to local management for one dollar rather than pay a bribe. He lost his investment of millions of dollars but he would not compromise his integrity for money.

I am a level 5 gymnast at my gymnastics club, and I was having a very good season. The state meet was coming up, and if I did well in the state meet, I would qualify for region. But the region meet was going to be on a Sunday. I had been working so hard to get to this point, and I wanted to go, but I felt like I shouldn’t.
A couple days later was fast Sunday, and I told my mom and dad what I was going to fast for. Together with my family we fasted that I would know what the Lord wanted me to do. I fasted Saturday night, all the way to Sunday dinner. Boy, that was hard.
That night when I was sitting with my mom, I decided that I shouldn’t go. I felt good and peaceful about my decision. The next day my mom got an email saying the region meet was changed to Friday. The following week I competed at state and took first place all-around, and now I get to go to regions in Colorado.
I know my prayer was answered. My faith in fasting and prayer is a lot stronger.

Several years ago my family was going through a difficult time. My parents had separated, and our family began to forget God’s love.
To our great fortune, one of my mother’s friends saw our need to draw closer to God and introduced us to the full-time missionaries. As they taught us the gospel, we realized that God had a plan for us, and despite our many challenges, He had not abandoned us. After we had come to understand these principles, my mother, sisters, and I decided to be baptized.
As we attended our Sunday meetings, our testimonies of the gospel grew. I soon desired to serve a full-time mission. It was not an easy decision, however, because I was the man of the house. My mother needed my help. Moreover, I began to receive many job offers and was accepted by several universities. I concluded to ask God for help and direction.
After praying, I turned to my scriptures and came upon the following verses:
“Wherefore, your family shall live.
“Behold, verily I say unto you, go from them only for a little time, and declare my word, and I will prepare a place for them” (D&C 31:5–6).
In that instant I strongly felt the Spirit and knew that what I had read was Heavenly Father’s word to me.
Not long after that experience, I received my mission call. Before being set apart as a full-time missionary, I made a promise to my Heavenly Father that I would do His will as a missionary—that I would work diligently and sacrifice my all for Him. The only blessing I prayed for was to see my family together again someday.
My first year as a missionary was challenging, but my companions and I worked with all our hearts. About this time I received a marvelous letter from my mother telling me that my father had returned home! At that moment I remembered the promise I had made to God, and I recalled His promise in the Doctrine and Covenants: “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise” (D&C 82:10).
Several years have passed since my mission. Today my family and I still find joy in the gospel and through our covenants with God. I know that He lives. I know that He loves us. I know that He sent His Son to save us. I also know that when we make promises to Him and are faithful to those promises, He is faithful to us.

Joseph Smith’s life was an example of unselfish sacrifice for the gospel of Jesus Christ. Though the Prophet Joseph suffered greatly, he remained optimistic and overcame many persecutions. Parley P. Pratt tells of a heartrending experience of being with the Prophet in jail in Missouri in the winter of 1838–39. Those six months of suffering and confinement tutored this foreordained, preeminent Prophet.
In the jail the Prophet and his brethren had listened to the boasting and the despicable abuses the guards had committed among the “Mormons.” Finally the Prophet could abide their sordid cursing no longer. Suddenly, he stood and in “a voice of thunder” said: “ ‘SILENCE, ye fiends of the infernal pit. In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you, and command you to be still. …’
“He stood erect in terrible majesty. Chained, and without a weapon; calm, unruffled and dignified as an angel. … [The quaking guards shrank] into a corner,” dropped their weapons, “begged his pardon, and remained quiet till a change of guards.”
Brother Pratt writes further: “I have seen the ministers of justice, clothed in magisterial robes … ; I have witnessed a Congress in solemn session … ; I have tried to conceive of kings, of royal courts, of thrones and crowns … ; but dignity and majesty have I seen but once, as it stood in chains, at midnight, in a dungeon in an obscure village of Missouri.”

I awoke to the screech of the alarm clock, which seemed designed to double as an air raid siren in the event of a bombing. The man who had invented this clock must have been an electronic mastermind. He had somehow combined the gentle lowing of a disgruntled water buffalo with the cheerful melody of a less-than-well-oiled disc brake and five or ten of the world’s other most annoying sounds. My companion, whose hearing range automatically excludes the top 10,000 kilocycles before 7:00 A.M., had not stirred, so I staggered over to the still frantic clock. Then I realized that it was Christmas morning! All over the world, children would be awakening early and scurrying excitedly to the Christmas tree to find the gifts left by the traditional visitor. I silenced the clock and looked around. This was definitely not like the Christmas of childhood memory.
I was in a small apartment, nearly 7,000 miles from home in a land where words like thermostat and central heating described facilities available mostly to the well-to-do. I dove back into my bed (a mat on the floor) as the icy bite reminded me that my pajamas were not constructed for warmth. There is something unsettling about seeing your breath when you are indoors. It does not conjure up the same feeling that one receives while looking at a cheery Christmas postcard depicting rosy-cheeked children with clouded breath, gleefully frolicking around a newly built snowman. No, this was quite a different feeling.
I reached for the heater, trying to keep as much of the surface area of my skin from contacting the frigid air as possible. To my dismay, the heater would not light. Further inspection revealed the worst—no more gas! In our excitement and busy schedule during the holiday season, we had forgotten to have the tank refilled. Morning study would be held shivering under a blanket. My sometimes overactive imagination recalled a book I had once read on the Donner party, a group of early pioneers who had become trapped in the Sierra Nevada mountains during the winter, eventually freezing to death. What a wonderful Christmas this would be!
After a freezing morning study period, during which my toes and fingers threatened permanent inactivity, we sat down to a Christmas feast of mugi (a Japanese wheat cereal) and mizo (a soup made of bean curd). I tried to imagine myself eating roast turkey and drinking eggnog, but the consistency was simply not there. I tried to console myself with the thought that we were eating more healthy foods than Americans. No fat-ridden meats and calorie-strewn desserts for us! When I found that we were out of cinnamon and butter and would have to eat the mugi plain, however, all attempts at rationalization died. The Sugar Plum Fairy would be replaced by the Pickled Radish Ogre this year. What a wonderful Christmas this would be!
At 10:30 A.M. sharp, as families celebrating the day were just finishing the unwrapping of gifts, we bundled up and set out for church. Since the church was some distance, we rode our bicycles. The “Green Dragon” bicycle, as it is nicknamed by the missionaries, is built like an army tank, for durability rather than looks or speed. Like its military counterpart, it comes in a lovely shade of camouflage green. Although the army’s tank is said to weigh a few more pounds, the bicycle makes up for this by its ability to reach excessive speeds, sometimes 15 or 20 miles per hour. Both are able to withstand mortar fire for prolonged periods of time. Finally, it is fitted with a unique, slow-acting brake system that avoids sudden stops by bringing the vehicle to a standstill only after 50 yards of desperate braking, at the same time emitting a sound which is guaranteed to alert all other motorists within a two-mile radius. This would be as close as we would come to a one-horse open sleigh.
The meetinghouse is the top two stories of a small three-story building near the Kumamoto train station. We were having a special Christmas sacrament meeting. I was to be the program’s principal speaker. I have learned just enough Japanese to begin a very impressive sounding sentence while lacking the skills to finish it. Japanese is interesting in that you must think backwards to translate. If then you become stuck in midsentence and still think in English, being somewhat new to the language, you must look ahead in the sentence, think forward what you desire to say, and then translate backward and finally say it. (I won’t attempt to even broach the subject of pronunciation.)
I think my planned speech on “the meaning of Christmas” came out as a third-person account on the wise men’s camels. The members, however, were kind as always and smiled even at the more blatant grammatical errors, although I saw one or two of the sisters wince. I knew it had gone badly afterwards when one of the brothers told me that the talk was “good.” In Japan, everything is on an elevated level. If they don’t say it was “terribly good” or “amazingly skillful,” then it was really bad. “Terribly” or “amazingly good” mean just plain good. If in fact it really was excellent, then the complimentary phrases will be repeated 10 or 15 times. My talk, therefore, being only “good,” was not good at all. It’s all a little confusing.
After church, we returned to the apartment for lunch. Again the usual Christmas feast gave way to tuna fish sandwiches and soup. No figgy pudding.
Afternoon dendo (proselyting) was without success, unless you count success as making a large dog very happy by allowing him to take two missionaries by surprise and chase them unceremoniously out of his yard. Things turned from bad to worse when I was attacked by the flower cart. Really, it happened. I was riding along minding my own business when out of thin air an old woman pulling a flower cart appeared in my path. To this day I believe nothing outside of a formula racer could have appeared that quickly from nowhere. But from the looks of the cart, it had been a few years since the last Grand Prix. I tried to swerve and brake but clipped the side of it, sending me sprawling on the roadside, Swedish knit and all. The Japanese, due to their attention-shunning nature, try to ignore anything less than a major traffic fatality, so she kept right on going without a second look. I was tempted to cry “hit and run,” but she probably hadn’t done any running since before I was born. Besides, with my complete ignorance of the road rules here, I was probably somehow at fault. There wasn’t much to do but dust myself off, check for bodily damage (of which there was none), and thank the Lord that one of the few inexpensive things here in Japan was dry cleaning. With that I set off after my companion, who was losing a personal battle to not let the humor of the situation (from an observer’s standpoint) show on his face. At the time, I did not find it at all funny, however. What a great Christmas!
With afternoon dendo finished, we again returned to the apartment for dinner, the crowning event of Christmas Day. The curry and rice, however, did little to enhance the day.
We left the apartment to proceed directly to the evening’s only appointment, the Nagata family. I was grateful that the day was nearly over. It had become somewhat of a physical and mental marathon in which I had dropped out, mentally at least, at the 400-yard mark. The moment we emerged from the covering that roofs the apartment’s walkway, it began to rain, then snow. Real snow! Not enough to cover the ground, of course. Anyone living above the 38th parallel would scoff at it, yet there it was, the only bit we received all year. I had always thought that it would be more homelike to have a white Christmas, but at the moment I could only shake my head at the incredible timing that began the downpour as I left umbrella-less to face the elements. What a wonderful Christmas!
The Nagata’s invited us in with the customary Japanese formality, which we gratefully accepted partly due to an established sense of custom and partly because we would have accepted an offer to step into almost any shelter if it had been warm enough. The Nagatas were an elderly couple whose children had long since left home. They had allowed us to talk with them several weeks earlier and had shown interest during the subsequent introductory lesson, so we had made a December 25 appointment for lesson 1.
As we finished renewing introductions and cultural niceties and began to teach, it struck me that we were teaching about the birth and life of Christ on Christmas Day, a unique opportunity. I was glad that I knew the lesson well enough to be able to add some extra comments and feelings relating to the Christmas season. As the lesson progressed something special happened—not an event so much as a feeling, yet one so tangible that all within the room could feel it. I could see on the faces of the family the whisperings of comprehension as they heard for the first time the story of mankind’s greatest benefactor. We taught of the Atonement, the mighty struggle that took place within the Savior’s suffering body so our sins could be purged at the price of life’s blood; then the glorious renewal, the answer to Christ’s humble request, “Glorify thy Son, that thy Son may glorify thee” (John 17:1).
The Spirit was with us that night as we spoke. The Nagatas knew that we were not just two young men giving an historical account but two messengers testifying of their Master. We then instructed them in the simple steps of prayer. After offering a prayer of his own, my companion invited Mr. Nagata to do the same. As that humble little man, for the first time in his 60 years on earth, began to call upon his Eternal Father, I felt a happiness and a sense of purpose that transcended all other feelings. Gone was the cold, the loneliness of Christmas away from home. Banished were the thoughts of rebelliousness and complaint. The single purpose of a mission from God became very clear as a tangible blessing was manifested. Mr. Nagata had told us of the joy he had felt when some of his children had called from America, for Christmas. I could imagine that the Lord felt that sort of joy after a beloved child called from even greater time and distance.
As we rode home that night, the cold didn’t seem to bite quite so hard. Maybe I was too busy marveling at the many blessings the Lord had given me. The chance to live in an age when I could travel thousands of miles in a single day to share what I had been given. The love of family and friends. The joy of knowing my purpose and reason for living. The apartment beckoned as we rounded the final corner knowing that some hot chocolate and a blanket were moments away. A starlit Christmas night, now devoid of clouds, testified of an Eternal Creator with endless dominions who had sent his Son on a night like this. What a wonderful Christmas it had been!

I attended many general conference sessions in the Tabernacle, always being edified and inspired by the words of the Brethren. Then, in October of 1963, President David O. McKay invited me to his office and extended to me a call to serve as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He asked that I keep this sacred call confidential, revealing it to no one except my wife, and that I be present for general conference in the Tabernacle the next day, when my name would be read aloud.
The following morning I came into the Tabernacle not knowing exactly where to sit. Being a member of the Priesthood Home Teaching Committee, I determined that I would be seated among the members of that committee. I noticed a friend of mine by the name of Hugh Smith, who was also a member of the Priesthood Home Teaching Committee. He motioned for me to sit by him. I couldn’t say a thing to him about my call, but I sat down.
During the session, the members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles were sustained and, of course, my name was read. I believe the walk from the audience to the stand was the longest walk of my life.
It has been nearly 44 years since that conference. Until the year 2000, when the Conference Center was dedicated, it was my privilege to deliver 101 general conference messages from the pulpit in this building, not including those given at general auxiliary conferences and other meetings held here. My remarks today bring the total to 102. I have had many spiritual experiences over the years as I have stood here.
During the message I delivered at general conference in October 1975, I felt prompted to direct my remarks to a little girl with long blonde hair who was seated in the balcony of this building. I called the attention of the audience to her and felt a freedom of expression which testified to me that this small girl needed the message I had in mind concerning the faith of another young lady.
At the conclusion of the session, I returned to my office and found waiting for me a young child by the name of Misti White, together with her grandparents and an aunt. As I greeted them, I recognized Misti as the one in the balcony to whom I had directed my remarks. I learned that as her eighth birthday approached, she was in a quandary concerning whether or not to be baptized. She felt she would like to be baptized, and her grandparents, with whom she lived, wanted her to be baptized, but her less-active mother suggested she wait until she was 18 years of age to make the decision. Misti had told her grandparents, “If we go to conference in Salt Lake City, maybe Heavenly Father will let me know what I should do.”
Misti and her grandparents and her aunt had traveled from California to Salt Lake City for conference and were able to obtain seats in the Tabernacle for the Saturday afternoon session. This was where they were seated when my attention was drawn to Misti and my decision made to speak to her.
As we continued our visit after the session, Misti’s grandmother said to me, “I think Misti has something she would like to tell you.” This sweet young girl said, “Brother Monson, while you were speaking in conference, you answered my question. I want to be baptized!”
The family returned to California, and Misti was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Through all the years since, Misti has remained true and faithful to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Fourteen years ago, it was my privilege to perform her temple marriage to a fine young man, and together they are rearing five beautiful children, with another one on the way.
My brothers and sisters, I feel privileged to be standing once again at the Tabernacle pulpit in this building which holds for me such wonderful memories. The Tabernacle is a part of my life—a part which I cherish.
I have been honored and pleased during my lifetime to raise my arm to the square in sustaining nine Church Presidents as their names have been read. This morning I joined you in sustaining once again our beloved prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley. It is a joy and a privilege to serve by his side, along with President Faust.
As this building is rededicated today, may we pledge to rededicate our lives to the work of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, who so willingly died that we might live. May we follow in His footsteps each day, I pray humbly in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Two faithful missionaries were serving in Europe in an area where not many people were listening to their message and being baptized. They felt like they should try meeting people in a four-story apartment building. They started on the first floor and knocked on each door, giving their message about Jesus Christ and the Restoration of His Church. No one would listen to them. They knocked on every door on the second floor. Again, no one would listen. The third floor was the same. And so was the fourth—until they knocked on the last door of the fourth floor.
When that door opened, a young girl smiled at them. The missionaries gave their message to the girl, her sister, and her mother and then gave them a copy of the Book of Mormon. The mother finished reading the whole book in a few days! Not long after, this wonderful family was baptized.
The charming young woman who opened the door is now my wife, Harriet. She has blessed the lives of many people through her happy personality and her love for the gospel. She truly is the sunshine of my life. How grateful I am that the two missionaries did not stop at the first floor! How often have I given thanks that they kept going—even to the fourth floor, last door.

Dr. Audrey Tarr and her husband, David, had been living in Oregon, where she practiced obstetrics and gynecology with an additional specialty in urology. She and David, a recently retired engineer, were trying to figure out what was next for them.

“I had thought about sometime in the future serving as an area medical advisor for one of the many missions in the Church,” said Dr. Tarr. “But we got a call from Church headquarters with this opportunity to serve now as a practicing physician.”

She felt it was especially important for her to come, as she is a female physician who has worked to build awareness of health issues unique to women. Dr. Tarr is concerned about the high cancer rates among women in American Samoa and plans to help the Department of Health improve health prospects for local women.

While they are in American Samoa, Elder David Tarr—a seasoned aerospace engineer—is serving with the engineering and maintenance team at the hospital. He says life as a missionary has been interesting. “Since I wear my missionary badge, everyone knows I am a member of the Church. It’s been a great chance to answer questions from others and share spiritual experiences I have had.”

We would certainly still need to negotiate when we disagreed, but our negotiations would take a very different turn. I saw two such men—changed men—negotiate for a place in a cafeteria waiting line a few years ago. One, the younger man, tried to get the older man to go ahead of him, because he thought the older man’s time was more valuable than his. But the older man refused. They were negotiating their disagreement as I watched, both determined that the other would go first. I remember that the older man won his point. His name was Spencer W. Kimball. The younger man must have thought that the time of the president of the Church was more valuable than his. But I suppose President Kimball thought that the younger man’s stomach needed something in it sooner than his did. There was disagreement and negotiation. But think of what a disagreement that was, and think of the smiles on their faces as they found, together, a path of peace.