Gospel Story Finder

A temple president recalls one situation when this challenge was handled particularly well. The bride’s parents were able to attend the ceremony, but the groom’s parents could not. During the engagement, the bride’s parents made special efforts to fellowship the groom’s parents. At the ceremony and on the temple grounds afterwards, the parents of the bride were careful to keep the guest list to a minimum, so the groom’s parents would not feel overpowered. It turned out to be a beautiful experience for all the parents, and for the bride and groom as well.

When our first grandson was born, the entire family rushed to the hospital. It was an amazing experience for me to see our oldest son, Matthew, holding this precious new baby boy. While standing at the nursery window with our youngest son, Chad, we gazed into the eyes of this new little spirit—so clean, so pure, so recently from heaven. It seemed that all time stood still, and for an instant, we could see the great eternal plan. The sacredness of life was crystal clear, and I whispered to Chad, “Do you understand why it is so important to remain clean and pure?” He responded reverently, “Oh yes, Mom, I get it.”

“Here we are,” Dad said softly as he turned off the car.
“Do I have to go in?” Lucy asked.
“No,” Mom said. “Not if you don’t want to. But this might be the last time you get to see Great-grandma Irma. She is very sick.”
Lucy thought about what Mother had said for a few minutes. She couldn’t imagine not seeing her great-grandmother, whom she called Grandma Irma, again. She had always liked to come here and visit. When Lucy was smaller, Grandma Irma read her the story of Pocahontas saving John Smith’s life. Lucy remembered how it felt to sit on Grandma Irma’s lap, all warm, soft, and safe.
Lucy swallowed hard. “I’ll come in,” she said.
“Good for you!” Mom told her.
Granny, Grandma Irma’s daughter and Lucy’s grandma, met them at the front door. She looked like she had been crying, and in her hand was a brush.
“Come in,” she said. “Mama isn’t doing very well today. She hasn’t had her hair combed for a while, and she says I can’t do it because I pull too hard and it makes her head hurt.”
The house smelled like the nursing home Lucy’s Primary class had visited at Christmastime.
Grandma Irma was sitting in the easy chair by the bookcase, just as she always did, but she looked different. She was smaller, thinner, and very pale. Lucy wasn’t sure what to do. Usually she skipped up to Grandma Irma’s chair for a hug and a kiss. But this time she went and sat down on the flowered couch.
“Hello, Grandma,” Lucy’s mom said, taking Grandma Irma’s hand.
Grandma looked up at her, frowned, and asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m Jane,” Lucy’s mom said.
“I knew that,” Grandma Irma said. Then she pulled her hand away and looked down at her lap.
Granny and Lucy’s mom started talking quietly in the corner of the room. Lucy’s dad sat down beside Lucy on the couch. They didn’t talk. Lucy kept glancing up at Grandma Irma. Her throat felt thick, like she was going to cry, and she wished there was something she could do to help.
Grandma’s hair was free of the long braids she usually wore wrapped around her head like a crown. Her white hair floated around her wrinkled face. Lucy thought she looked lost.
When Lucy had visited her in the past, she had watched Grandma Irma comb her hair. Lucy loved to watch her unbraid it and comb it until it hung down to her waist. Next, Grandma parted it down the middle and sectioned each half into three parts. As she braided, she flipped a piece of her hair over her shoulder with each twist. Then she wrapped her braids around her head, one in front and one behind, and fixed them there with funny, U-shaped silver hairpins. Over the braids went a hairnet as fine as cobwebs.
While she watched, Lucy liked to tell her about school and what she was doing with her friends. Grandma always told her that someday she was going to cut all her hair off so that there would be less of it to take care of, but Lucy knew that she’d never do it. On clear days, the sunshine came in through the window and touched the black-and-white picture of Grandpa Eddy that sat on the dresser. He had died a long time ago.
Slowly Lucy got up from the couch. The house was so quiet that she felt like she had to tiptoe and whisper. She crept up to Grandma Irma’s chair and put her hand on Grandma’s soft arm.
“Can I comb your hair for you?” she asked.
Grandma Irma turned her head and looked into Lucy’s face. She didn’t say anything.
“Grandma,” Lucy’s mom said, “This is Lucy. Do you remember?”
“Lucy?” Grandma Irma looked surprised. Lucy remembered that a long time ago Grandma Irma had had a baby girl named Lucy, who had died. “My Lucy?”
“No,” Lucy’s mom said softly, “she’s my Lucy.”
“Can I comb your hair, Grandma?” Lucy asked again.
“Yes,” Grandma Irma said. Granny handed the brush to Lucy. She took it and lifted a long bunch of Grandma’s hair and carefully started brushing. Her hair smelled like apricots and hair conditioner. It was hard to brush, with lots of knots, so she had to do it slowly.
After a few minutes, Grandma lifted her bony hand and put it on Lucy’s to stop her from brushing. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she said, sounding just like she used to. “If you hold my hair above where you are brushing, it won’t pull so much.”
“OK, I’ll try it.”
Grandma sighed. “That’s better.”
Lucy brushed and brushed. Grandma’s hair got softer and softer. Lucy thought about the day she had come to Grandma Irma’s house to visit and they had decided to drive over to the post office and get the mail. When they arrived home, Grandma discovered that she had locked the keys in the house. So they pushed out the screen in the bedroom window, and Grandma hoisted Lucy up. Lucy had climbed in the window, trotted through the house, and unlocked the door. When they found the keys on the kitchen table, they laughed until their tummies ached.
When Grandma’s hair was all combed out, Lucy parted it in the middle and then divided each section into three. She was glad that she had practiced braiding on her friends at school. But Grandma Irma’s hair was lots longer, so it was harder to braid. While she worked, she hummed a song that Grandma Irma used to hum while she watered all her plants.
“‘She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,’” Grandma Irma said.
“What?” Lucy asked.
“That’s the song you are humming,” Granny told Lucy. “Mama used to sing it really loud when she went out to milk the cow when she was a young lady. Then my daddy, who lived next door, would hear her and come and milk the cow for her.”
“‘She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,’” Grandma Irma said again, and smiled.
Lucy finished one long white braid and secured it with an elastic. Then she moved to the other side of Grandma’s chair and started on the other side.
“It’s time we left,” Dad said. “Are you almost finished there, honey?”
She nodded, concentrating on getting the braid smooth and even. When she was done, she put the brush on the armrest of the chair.
“I love you, Grandma,” she whispered.
“I know,” Grandma said, turning her head slowly to look at her.
Lucy watched while her mom and dad hugged Grandma good-bye. Mom was crying.
Lucy moved around to the front of Grandma’s chair and leaned over to hug her. Grandma lifted both her trembling hands and cupped Lucy’s face. Lucy tipped her chin down and Grandma kissed her on the forehead. Only Grandma Irma gave forehead kisses.
“Bye, Grandma,” Lucy said.
By the door, Granny put her hand on Lucy’s shoulder and said, “Thanks so much. You really helped out, more than you know.”
Lucy looked back at Grandma Irma. She was still slumped in her chair. She still looked tired and thin, but now her hair was hanging smoothly in two braids on either side of her face. As she watched, Grandma slid her fingers down one braid. For some reason, Lucy suddenly felt better. She smiled, hugged Granny, and skipped out into the sunshine.

When I was getting ready to go to my school’s Christmas program, I started to look pale and feel sick. I thought I was going to be sick to my stomach. I knelt and asked Heavenly Father to help me feel better for the program. When I got to school, I started to feel better. When I went on stage, I felt perfect! I knew that Heavenly Father had helped me. When I got home, I thanked Him for helping me feel better.
Johnny Richardson, age 9Ogden, Utah

The shrieks of delight told me the party had started. Needing a break from studying my Gospel Doctrine lesson for the next day, I went to the living room and looked in. There they were, most of my daughter’s track team, eager to celebrate “taking state.” They had just come from the meet, and some were still dressed in their uniforms.
The ten o’clock news announced the sports, and every eye was turned toward the TV. Yes, there was the announcement that they were now number one. What a pleasure to see our school’s name flash across the screen!
After the news, the coach brought out his part of the evening’s entertainment, a video of the track meet. I watched for a few minutes and then went back to my studies. I could hear the enthusiasm of the team members as they watched the video of the meet. “Look at her go! Run! Run!” “Why did you drop the baton?” “She catches it! Go. go!” “Turn it back, and let’s see that again.” “Wow! You really do know how to pour it on.” “She wins!” “Boy, that looks terrific on color TV.”
I closed my bedroom door, so I’d be able to concentrate. Some time later I suddenly noticed how quiet the house had become. Again I went to the living room and looked in. The track meet video was over, and two of my daughter’s teammates were adjusting another video, this time a movie.
I had picked up my studies once again when Kate burst into my room and closed the door behind her. Her quick, agitated movements told me that something was not right.
“Hello, Kate. How’s the party going? It sounds like fun.”
“Okay, I guess. I’m not at the party anymore.” An apologetic sadness came over her face as she looked away.
“So tell me why you’re not at the party anymore. It is rather late and quiet. Have they gone home?”
“They’re still here. The party’s no good anymore. I’m going to my room to study.” Tears welled up in her eyes.
“What happened? You’re the hostess. This is your party. Why are you going to study now?”
“Mother, I can’t stay in there. They’re showing a video movie rated R. How can I stay there? I have never seen an R-rated movie and never want to. How can I stay there?” she demanded.
Whatever answer I gave I would be responsible for. While her father was out of town I was the head of the family, and I needed help. Should I ask them all to leave? Or should I tolerate this movie in our home? Either way, what would be the implications for my Kate? What should I do?
Stalling for time, I began to question her. “Are you sure that it’s R rated?”
“They told me it is.”
“Do they know that you left? Did you tell them you would not stay and watch?
“Yes, I told them. They didn’t seem to care. No one even asked me to stay or tried to talk me into staying.” More tears welled up. “What shall we do? What do you think Dad would do?”
I agreed that it was a good and heavy question. I said a silent prayer.
“They already know I’m not staying to watch. I’ll just study, and when they’re through they can take their old movie and go home.” Kate seemed decisive.
Voices came from the living room. “‘Bye, Julie. See you Monday.” Kate went to tell her best friend good-bye. I followed her, thinking I should tell them to leave and wishing her father were home.
Then someone began playing the piano. A few voices took up the melody, and then more voices joined in. From the door Julie saw the coach disconnecting the video machine, and she and Kate walked back into the living room.
We sang and told stories and laughed. The track party was a success.
I later asked why Julie had started for home. Kate replied, “Julie said that when I wouldn’t watch the R-rated movie, she decided that she wouldn’t watch it either. She said that when I had the courage to leave, she also found the courage to leave. That’s what made them change their minds about watching the R-rated video. I guess that this was a time when just one person could influence the crowd for good. And, Mother,” Kate cried jubilantly, “I was the one—and I did!”

Anthony sat on the narrow ledge of a rice terrace. He looked gloomily down on the thatched roofs of the huts in the tiny Asian village below. This was supposed to be the happiest vacation of his life, but it was turning out to be one of the saddest.
That was over thirty years ago. The soldier had managed to get Father to the United States, where he had gained his citizenship and a good education. But he longed to return to his homeland to visit Grandfather. On Anthony’s twelfth birthday, Father gave him a watch of his own and the exciting news that they would make the long-awaited journey to his homeland to spend a month with Grandfather.
Two days ago Anthony’s dream of meeting Grandfather had finally come true. But now it seemed that Grandfather wasn’t the man Anthony had been dreaming about at all. How could an old man with only one, blackish tooth be a hero? Why, if Grandfather could stand up straight, he still wouldn’t be as tall as Anthony!
Grandfather’s bones stuck out. His skin was as tough and wrinkled as an elephant’s. His bare feet were so wide that they looked almost like a duck’s. His pants were tied about his waist with a piece of twine, and the pockets had been torn off to patch holes.
How Anthony wanted to be back home! He didn’t like the hut he had to climb up to, to go to sleep. It was more like a playhouse than a real one. He didn’t like having to sleep on the hard wood floor, sandwiched between people who knew only a few words of English. He didn’t like eating rice for breakfast. He didn’t like eating from dishes “washed” with grass “rags.” He didn’t like everyone in the village pointing at Father and calling him “U.S. boy.” Most of all, he felt uncomfortable around the old man who was Grandfather.
“Anthony.” Father’s voice came from the direction of the village. “Grandfather and I are going to the cave where he hid the Americans. Do you want to come too?”
At last! Thought Anthony. Maybe there’ll be a little excitement.
It was a long walk to the cave. His feet were beginning to ache from following Grandfather and Father over the hundreds of terraces. Anthony’s sneakers didn’t curl around the terrace ledges as Grandfather’s bare feet did. Looking at his birthday watch, Anthony noticed that nearly two hours had passed since they had set off for the cave. Would they ever get there? Grandfather is probably lost, Anthony thought.
Suddenly pain shot through Anthony’s leg like lightning. He turned, screaming, and saw a snake slithering into a rice paddie. In the same instant, Grandfather’s knife whizzed past, slicing the snake’s head off.
Anthony’s leg was already throbbing, and dizziness sent him stumbling from the sturdy ledge to the oozy ground nearby. He heard Father and Grandfather jabbering to each other in that strange language. Then Father started to run—away from Anthony.
Anthony wailed in pain and terror as he twisted in the mud of the soggy terrace. “Father! Don’t leave me! Please! It hurts! Oh, it hurts! Don’t leave me!” But Father kept running.
Grandfather quickly retrieved his knife and wiped off the snake’s blood on a clump of grass. Opening a small bottle that had been attached to the twine around his waist, he poured a smelly liquid on the knife. Then he knelt and looked into Anthony’s eyes. “U.S. boy—stop cry!” he ordered. But Anthony continued to scream for Father as if he hadn’t heard.
Grandfather gripped Anthony’s shoulders tightly. “U.S. boy—stop cry!”
This time something in Grandfather’s tone pierced Anthony’s fear. He knew that Grandfather was right. He must stop crying and lie still so that Grandfather could help him. Clenching his teeth and fists against the pain, he choked back his tears and held very still.
Grandfather took off Anthony’s T-shirt and tied it firmly above the bite. Then he cut Anthony’s swollen leg with the knife and sucked out as much of the poison as he could, spitting blood and poison onto the ground. The pain made large tears spurt down Anthony’s face, but he bravely allowed Grandfather to do what had to be done.
When Grandfather finished, he carried Anthony to a dry spot and gathered grass and dirt clods to prop under his head. With another firm look, Grandfather commanded, “U.S. boy, stay! I get medicine.”
Anthony nodded feebly. He awoke as Grandfather patted a mixture of leaves and mud onto the wound. The mixture seemed to relieve the pain a little, and Anthony dozed off again. When he next awoke, Father and two other men were moving him onto a stretcher. As they traveled toward the village, Grandfather jabbered with the men. Several times Anthony heard him say, “U.S. boy” with tones of both concern and pride.
Over the next few days, all the villagers came to help Anthony recover. Several boys near his age showed him the games of their village and taught him a few words in their language. The girls brought him bananas and special mixtures of rice and vegetables. The women showed him how they wove beautiful pieces of cloth.
Grandfather bragged to the villagers about Anthony’s bravery and called him a hero. But Anthony knew who the real hero was.
Each day, Grandfather brought a small present that he had made and wrapped in a banana leaf. After the present was unwrapped, Grandfather gave Anthony a lesson on weaving small baskets or carving wood trinkets.
The day that Anthony no longer needed to rest, Grandfather gave him a knife in a beautiful, carved holder.
Anthony had a surprise of his own. “Close your eyes Grandfather.” Then he buckled his birthday watch onto Grandfather’s wrist. When Grandfather opened his eyes and Anthony saw the look of joy and pride on his face, Anthony knew that he had the best grandfather in the world.

Jessica gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She felt very grown-up. Nana (her grandmother) had made her a new Sunday dress for her baptism this week. It was a beautiful dress with daisies and a green sash. The sleeves reached to her elbows and were trimmed with the same delicate lace that Nana had sewn on the hem. It looked like a dress from a fancy department store. Nobody would ever know the material came from a dress Jessica’s mother wore at a senior dance! That was what made Jessica feel so grown-up.
She sat on the edge of Nana’s bed and tried to remember her mother. Sometimes it was awfully hard! She looked at her family’s last picture on Nana’s dresser. Mommy and Daddy were posing with a wheelbarrow full of vegetables from Poppy’s garden. They had put four-year-old Jessica at the top of the heap. They were laughing at Jessica because she had peeled a small ear of corn and was eating it.
The memory of that day was like a dream, but the pain of it was still sharp four years later. After everyone had posed for pictures, they had gone in to clean up. They were tired from working in the garden all day. Nana had decided to take a nap.
Poppy and Daddy walked down to the barn to check a sick calf.
Mommy said that she was going to make a salad and grill hamburgers for supper. First, she would need to buy some hamburger buns at the market in town. Jessica asked Mommy if she could go with her to the store. Her mother smiled and said, “Sure, sweetie!” She strapped her daughter into her car seat. Mommy drove down the dusty, unpaved road to town.
They had not gone far, when a dog ran in front of their car. Mommy swerved to avoid the animal and ran the car into a tree. Jessica was unharmed, but her mother was hurt. A passing motorist stopped, put them into the back of his station wagon, and took them to the hospital.
Jessica remembered the prayer her mother whispered over and over as they bumped along the dirt road in the back of the stranger’s station wagon: “Heavenly Father, take care of my family.” Then, after they arrived at the hospital emergency, Mommy spoke once more before they separated mother and daughter—“Jessica, I love you.” Jessica watched them put her mother on a bed and take her away.
Jessica did not remember much about her overnight stay in the hospital. She did remember that her mother did not go home when Nana and Poppy picked her up. Daddy said Mommy fell asleep and never awakened. He told his little girl that Mommy went to live with Heavenly Father.
The happiness Jessica had enjoyed a few moments ago slowly seeped away, and tears began to roll down her cheeks. She missed her mother so much! If only Mommy could see how pretty she looked.
It would be so nice if Mommy could be at her baptism.
Jessica felt prompted to kneel beside Nana’s big bed. She folded her arms and began to pray. “Heavenly Father, I thank Thee for blessing me with a neat dad. And I thank Thee for Nana and Poppy. I love them! But Heavenly Father, I miss my mom. I wish she could be here for my baptism on Saturday. Sometimes it is hard not having a mom like my friends. …” She began to cry.
A calm feeling crept into her. She lifted her head, remembering when her family had been sealed in the temple shortly before her mother died. Because they were sealed, Daddy said, they were a family for eternity. He said that even though Mommy was no longer with them on earth, she was waiting for them in the spirit world. He said that Mommy could see their family and still loved them. So, Jessica thought now, Mommy will be at my baptism in her own way.
Once more the eight-year-old stood to look at herself in the full-length mirror. This time her grin grew wide as she understood what it meant to be an eternal family. When she wore her new dress this Sunday, Jessica would feel very close to her mother.

When I accepted the gospel at age 18, I recognized that I had tasted the sweetest fruit above all. I felt great joy, but I thought about the members of my family, who were lost and wandering. I felt great sorrow from being the only member of the Church in my family, but I didn’t know how to open others’ eyes and ears to the truth.
I attempted in many ways to convince my family to listen to the missionaries. But the more I tried, the more hesitant they became.
I became discouraged, and so I thought about not going to church anymore. But as I prayed, a scripture came to my mind: “After this should [you] deny me, it would have been better for you that ye had not known me” (2 Nephi 31:14). I prayed harder, read the scriptures, attended my Church meetings, and focused on the blessings in my life. As a result, the pain began to vanish.
As my birthday approached, I felt inspired to have a birthday party at my house and to invite all of my Church friends, including the full-time missionaries. I wanted my family to have closer interaction with members of the Church, who seem to me to be the happiest people in the world. For me, the party felt just like family home evening.
After that day, things changed. The missionaries were welcome in our house and became great friends with my family. One day my father announced that he wanted all of our family to listen to the missionaries and go to church. I was shocked.
Three years after my baptism, my family was all baptized. At the baptismal service, my mother bore her testimony, and my father thanked the missionaries. Ward members were amazed at their conversion.
How did it happen? All of the tears I shed and the goals I set played a part. But most of all, the heart of my father was softened by the love and friendship of the missionaries and ward members. All of the members were missionaries because of their examples of living the gospel of Jesus Christ. I am grateful for them and for Heavenly Father’s plan, which allows families to be together forever.

During the recent flood disaster at Rexburg, Idaho, one man was separated from his family by the raging torrents. He feared the worst but six hours later found that all had survived the ordeal. The next day he remarked: “I have lived my life under the false illusion that security was achieved by the accumulation of this world’s goods; but now, with all that swept away by the flood and my wife and children spared and at my side, all is well. I feel like a millionaire, and we are ready to start all over again.”

When I was six years old, my parents divorced. Though I continued to live with my mom, my dad was still present in my life after the separation. I stayed at his house on weekends and for one day in the middle of the week.
Despite his efforts to be a good father, when I was seven, he betrayed my trust in a very serious way. This breach of trust marked the beginning of a growing distance between us. When he called the house, I would avoid answering the phone. When I was older, I demanded that I be able to choose when I went to stay at my dad’s house, rather than be forced to go when the custody order mandated me.
When I was in high school, visits gradually became a lot less frequent. I saw him only two or three times a month. When I went to college, the space between calls grew, until I would talk to him about once a semester. My relationship with my dad had become more of a formality than a true parent-child connection.
During my second year of college, I decided to talk to him about the incident from my childhood that I felt had damaged our relationship so many years ago. I hoped for closure, forgiveness, and a chance to start over. I e-mailed him my thoughts and waited for a reply.
Some time later I received his e-mail in reply. Before I read my father’s response, I prayed and asked Heavenly Father that His Spirit be with me as I read the e-mail. This was such an important moment in my life—I was about to see what my dad had to say and what direction our relationship would take. I was scared and felt very alone.
Indeed I was alone, sitting in my room with my computer. I needed support. I continued to pray to Heavenly Father and felt His Spirit. At last I had the courage to read.
My dad replied with a very short e-mail in which he denied any memory of what I was saying and said that it was a really bad time for him to discuss our past.
The way he dismissed something that was so important to me and didn’t seem to want any sort of reconciliation hurt me deeply. I felt deserted by my father, racked with grief over the troubled relationship we had had for more than a decade.
As I sat in my chair sobbing, I felt the Spirit around me. I had never felt my Heavenly Father’s presence so strongly. I literally felt “encircled about eternally in the arms of his love” (2 Nephi 1:15). I felt reassured and loved as I sat crying.
My relationship with my earthly father may have been lacking, but my Heavenly Father was with me. His presence is strong in my life. I know He loves me, cares for me, and will always want a relationship with me. I know that He is my Father. And He is not going anywhere.

The greatest joy of his childhood, Bishop Brown recalled, was his horse. “I always had a horse from the time I was quite small. I was the oldest of three boys in our family, and we had lots of fun together. One day the three of us rode to town bareback on my horse. My father had given each of us some cap pistols, and on the way home the horse stepped on an old wagon rim while crossing a stream. The rim flipped up and hit the horse. He reared up, and we all slid of his back into the water. Our pistol caps were ruined. The horse walked out and waited quietly for us on the bank.”

As I approached my 18th birthday and prepared to enter military service in World War II, I was recommended to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. Mine was the task to telephone President Paul C. Child, my stake president, for an interview. He was one who loved and understood the holy scriptures. It was his intent that all others should similarly love and understand them. Since I knew from others of his rather detailed and searching interviews, our telephone conversation went something like this:
“Hello, President Child. This is Brother Monson. I have been asked by the bishop to visit with you relative to being ordained an elder.”
“Fine, Brother Monson. When can you see me?”
Knowing that his sacrament meeting was at six o’clock, and desiring minimum exposure of my scriptural knowledge to his review, I suggested, “How would five o’clock be?”
His response: “Oh, Brother Monson, that would not provide us sufficient time to peruse the scriptures. Could you please come at two o’clock, and bring with you your personally marked and referenced set of scriptures.”
Sunday finally arrived, and I visited President Child’s home on Indiana Avenue. I was greeted warmly, and then the interview began. He said, “Brother Monson, you hold the Aaronic Priesthood. Have you ever had angels minister to you?”
My reply was, “No, President Child.”
“Do you know,” said he, “that you are entitled to such?”
Again came my response, “No.”
Then he instructed, “Brother Monson, repeat from memory the 13th section of the Doctrine and Covenants.”
I began, “Upon you my fellow servants, in the name of Messiah I confer the Priesthood of Aaron, which holds the keys of the ministering of angels …
“Stop,” President Child directed. Then in a calm, kindly tone he counseled, “Brother Monson, never forget that as a holder of the Aaronic Priesthood you are entitled to the ministering of angels.”
It was almost as though an angel were in the room that day. I have never forgotten the interview. I yet feel the spirit of that solemn occasion. I revere the priesthood of Almighty God. I have witnessed its power. I have seen its strength. I have marveled at the miracles it has wrought.

One experience that helped me learn this lesson took place when Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles visited our mission, together with the three other missions in Santiago. There were over 1,000 missionaries gathered in our chapel where my husband had been asked to conduct the meeting. Elder Holland entered the chapel, took the seat next to my husband, leaned over to us, and said, “Okay, here’s what we are going to do. Sister Wright, you will speak first and represent all of the mission presidents’ wives here. Then President Wright will follow.”
I honestly didn’t hear the rest of the agenda. It had never occurred to me that Elder Holland would ask me to speak, so I had made no preparations. I prefer time to prepare to speak, time to gather my thoughts a little at least, but I would be speaking immediately after the opening hymn and prayer.
As my thoughts began to swirl, I felt the sudden desire to share my message in Spanish. However, though we were a year into the mission, and I had worked very hard to learn Spanish, I was still struggling with the language, and I was definitely not fluent in it. The translator was available to me if I spoke in English, but this was a Spanish-speaking mission, and I really wanted to speak in Spanish. Speaking would be a hard thing for me to do in English; speaking in Spanish felt like a giant leap. So amid the sound of 1,000 missionaries singing “Called to Serve” (Hymns, 249), I took a deep breath, confessed my inadequacies to my Father in Heaven, and pled for help to be rescued by the Spirit.
I told Heavenly Father that I had no idea what to say or how to say it in Spanish, but I promised Him that I would open my mouth and do my best, having faith that He would fill it (see Moses 6:32). In that moment, I felt a peaceful assurance come over me. After the prayer I rose to the pulpit and began to speak. Words I had pondered before came back in that needed moment, even in the foreign language I was struggling to communicate in. I sat down after my short three-minute talk, still feeling at peace but unsure about how effectively I had communicated.
After the meeting, the brother who had translated for Elder Holland approached me and said, “Sister Wright, I had no idea you spoke Spanish so well!” I replied, “I don’t.” He assured me that I hadn’t made any mistakes.
I am sure that none of those missionaries remembers anything about my short message that day. But for me it was a life-changing experience. I learned to put my trust in Heavenly Father and the Savior, that They could and would strengthen me despite my weaknesses when I was willing to take a leap of faith. If I had chosen the safe route and used the translator, I might never have learned how They rescue us when we open ourselves to letting God prevail.2

Some years ago, long after he had returned from his mission, Bishop J. Richard Yates, now of the Durham Third Ward in the Durham North Carolina Stake, was out on the family farm in Idaho, helping his father milk the cows and do some of the evening chores. Because of limited family circumstances, Richard’s father, Brother Tom Yates, had not been able to go on a mission in his youth. But that disappointment only strengthened Brother Yates’s vow that what he had not been able to afford, his sons would certainly realize—a full-time mission for the Lord—whatever the sacrifice involved.

In those days in rural Idaho it was customary to give a young man a heifer calf as soon as he was old enough to take care of it. The idea was that the young man would raise the animal, keep some of the offspring, and sell others to help pay for the feed. Fathers wisely understood that this was a way to teach their sons responsibility as they earned money for their missions.

Young Richard did well with that gift of a first calf and, over time, expanded the herd to eight. Along the way he invested some of the income from the milk he sold to buy a litter of pigs. He had nearly sixty of those when his call finally arrived. It was the family’s plan that they would sell future litters of the pigs to supplement income from the sale of the dairy milk to cover the costs of Richard’s missionary labors.

That evening out in the barn, long after a wonderful twenty-four months were safely concluded, this young man heard something of which he had known absolutely nothing while on his mission. His father said that sometime within the first month after Richard had left, the local veterinarian, a close family friend and tireless worker in that farming community, had come to vaccinate the pigs against a local threat of cholera. But in an unfortunate professional error, the vet gave the animals the live vaccine but failed to give adequate antiserum. The results were that the entire herd of pigs came down with the disease; within a few weeks most of the animals were dead, and the remaining few had to be destroyed.

With the pigs dead, obviously milk sales would not be enough to keep Richard on his mission, so his father planned to sell one by one the family’s dairy herd to cover the costs. But beginning with the second month and virtually every month for twenty-three thereafter, as his parents prepared to send him the money for his mission, either one of their cows suddenly died or else one of his did. Thus the herd decreased at twice the rate they expected. It seemed an unbelievable stretch of misfortune.

During that difficult time a large note became due at the local bank. With all else that had happened and the inordinate financial problems they were facing, Brother Yates simply did not have the money to repay it. There was every likelihood they would now lose their entire farm. After much prayer and concern, but with never a word to their missionary son, Brother Yates went to face the president of the bank, a man not of our faith who was perceived in the community to be somewhat stern and quite aloof.

After he had heard the explanation of this considerable misfortune, the banker sat for a moment, looking into the face of a man who, in his own quiet and humble way, was standing up to trouble and opposition and fear as faithfully as had Rudger Clawson and Joseph Standing. In that situation I suppose Brother Yates could not say much more to his banker than “Shoot.”

Quietly the bank president leaned forward and asked just one question. “Tom,” he said, “are you paying your tithing?” Not at all certain as to how the answer would be received, Brother Yates answered softly but without hesitation, “Yes, sir, I am.” The banker then said, “You keep paying your tithing, and you keep your son on his mission. I’ll take care of the note. I know you will repay me when you can.”

No paperwork or signatures were exchanged. No threats or warnings were uttered. Two good and honorable men simply stood and shook hands. An agreement had been made, and that agreement was kept.

Bishop Yates says he remembers hearing this heretofore unknown story with considerable emotion that evening, asking his father—the note to the bank long since repaid—if all that worry and fear and sacrifice had been worth it just to try to live the gospel and keep a son on a mission. “Yes, Son,” he said, “it was worth all of that and a lot more if the Lord ever asks it of me,” and he continued with his evening chores.

Physically, Tom Yates was a slight man—under five feet eight inches in height and weighing less than 150 pounds. His body was stunted somewhat from a near-fatal case of polio contracted in his infancy. But Richard says he does not ever remember thinking of his father’s physical stature one way or the other. To this son he was simply a spiritual giant, always larger than life, leaving his children a legacy of devotion and courage longer than all eternity.

As a 13-year-old, I had an opportunity to spend a few days at a vacation home that belonged to one of my friend’s parents. Three of us young men, full of excitement, traveled by train for several hours with his family to get there. When we arrived, we found a small lake within walking distance of the vacation home.
One day, the three of us decided to go swimming in the lake. An elderly neighbor, seeing where we were headed, warned us that some parts of the lake had deep spots that could be dangerous. Ignoring his warning, we jumped into the water. I was a beginning swimmer but felt reassured because I could touch the bottom of the lake.
We had been in the lake for a long time when I inadvertently drifted into one of the deep spots. I suddenly felt as if the water were swallowing me. I couldn’t feel anything solid beneath me, and I desperately flailed my arms and legs to try to stay afloat. I felt I was in great danger, and I felt guilty for not heeding the earlier warning. I prayed for help from God. I prayed with all my heart.
The neighbor who had warned us was still near the lake. When he realized I was in difficulty, he ran to the shore. He tried to reach out to me with a tree branch, but I was too far away. He motioned for me to swim toward a large tree near the edge of the water. “Just look at the tree!” he said. “Keep moving toward the tree.”
Fixing my sight on the tree, and making a huge effort, I fought my way in that direction. Finally, I could touch the bottom. I gained a firm foothold and, knowing I was free from danger, made my way out of the lake. Breathing deeply, I dropped to the ground. The man and my two friends gathered around me and made sure I was all right.
When I was in trouble in the water of that small lake, the man on the shore called, essentially, “Look to the tree, come toward me, and live.” As I made every effort to move toward him, I eventually found a place where I could stand on my feet and move to safety.

“No, bishop, I don’t think I’m going on a mission,” I said each time my bishop invited me to consider going on a mission.
When my family joined the Church, there were many things we had to learn and unlearn. As first-generation Church members, we had never before considered or discussed going on missions. The sacrifice seemed to be too great.
Still, I was an active member of the Church. I attended all my meetings and accepted responsibilities as they were extended. I was in my second year of studying accounting when the bishop called me to be the financial clerk.
One Wednesday I was faced with trying to find an error in the records. I felt helpless as I labored to find the three centavos’ difference between the Church’s and the bank’s records. The report was due the next day, and that deadline compounded my distress. I realized the only sensible thing to do was to ask for help.
I explained my predicament to the bishop. It surprised me when instead of immediately reviewing the report, he invited me to kneel and pray with him as we explained our problem to the Lord. When we got up from our knees, the bishop asked to see the report. Almost immediately and without using a calculator, he pointed to a column and said, “This is where your problem is.”
I totaled the numbers, and he was right. I felt I had just witnessed a miracle. My young and feeble testimony of the Church and Church leaders was strengthened.
While I was still caught up in this experience, the bishop asked, “Now are you going on a mission?”
This time, I said, “Yes.”
As I left the meetinghouse that night, I had with me all the missionary papers I needed to fill out. I was soon called to serve full time in the Philippines Baguio Mission.
It has been many years since that night and that answered prayer. After completing a two-year mission, I returned to school and obtained my college degree, four years behind most people my age. But if I had to do it over again, I would still choose to serve.
I’m thankful for a bishop who set a good example and obeyed a prompting to ask the right question at the right time. I’m also thankful to Heavenly Father. He not only helped me find the three centavos to reconcile my report, but He also blessed me with a wealth of missionary experiences without price.

“We started a tradition in our ward of helping each young man achieve his ‘triple crown’: Chief Scout Award, Queen’s Venturer Award, and full-time missionary,” Brother Molnar said. “One young man, Gordon Mitchell, got the ball rolling by doing a lot of things on his own. He persisted until he became the first young man in our ward to earn his Queen’s Venturer Award. He is now attending Brigham Young University, ready to go on his mission when he turns 19.

“His example encouraged his peers to strive for their ‘triple crown’ too. This year, our ward had six young men earn their Queen’s Venturer Award. This is an outstanding number for any one group, as there were only 33 recipients out of about 1,200 Venturers in the B.C.–Yukon Area. And, incidentally, out of the 33 recipients, 11 were Latter-day Saints.” Brother Molnar says he expects all seven of his Queen’s Venturers to go on missions.

Seven out of seven. Now that’s a record anyone in Scouting should understand.

When Aunt Jane came to visit, she always brought a present for Hannah and her little sister, Cara. Hannah held her breath as Aunt Jane opened her suitcase and reached inside. Aunt Jane’s eyes twinkled as she pulled out two dolls—one dressed in blue and one in green.
Hannah reached out to touch the doll in the dark green velvet dress. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” she said.
Frilly lace trimmed the dress. It looked old fashioned. The doll’s face and hands were carefully painted. Her eyelashes looked so real that Hannah just had to touch them.
“I picked these two dolls out especially for my two favorite nieces,” Aunt Jane said.
Hannah laughed. “We’re your only nieces, Aunt Jane.”
Aunt Jane smiled. “That doesn’t mean you’re not my favorites!”
Cara looked at the doll in the green dress. She smoothed her fingers down the dress. “She’s really pretty.”
Hannah showed the other doll to Cara. “This one’s pretty too.”
Cara barely even looked at the doll in the blue dress. “I want this one,” she said, pointing to the doll in the green dress.
Hannah saw the longing in Cara’s eyes, and her heart sank. What should she do?
Then Hannah looked at the blue dress the other doll was wearing. It looked a lot like a dress her grandma had given Hannah last year. It even had a white collar and red trim around the hem like Hannah’s dress.
Hannah looked back at Cara’s face. Then she picked up the doll in the blue dress. “I like this one,” she said. And she really did.

Violet was asleep when a rumbling sound woke her up. At first, she thought it was thunder.
But the rumbling got louder and louder. It shook her bedroom windows.
Violet sat up quickly. This was an earthquake!
She and her family had moved to Peru not long ago. She knew that earthquakes often happen here. And she and her family had prepared for them and practiced what to do. But this was much scarier than she thought it would be. She could feel her body shaking!
Violet ran to the kitchen and crawled under the table. A few seconds later, her brother and sister joined her. So did Mom and Dad.
“Good job remembering what we practiced,” said Dad. “Is everyone OK?”
Violet’s brother and sister nodded.
But Violet was scared. She closed her eyes. It was hard to ignore the shaking around her.
Then Violet remembered to pray. She folded her arms and bowed her head. “Dear Heavenly Father,” she whispered, “please take care of my family.”
Violet kept praying. She felt like someone was giving her a hug. When she finished, she looked up. Mom and Dad had their arms folded. Her brother and sister did too. They were all praying! The ground was still shaking. But Violet felt peaceful in her heart and mind.
At last, the shaking stopped. Violet and her family stayed under the table a little longer, just to be safe.
“How do you feel?” Mom asked Violet.
“OK,” Violet said. “At first I was really scared. But praying helped me feel better.” She gave Mom a hug. She was glad Heavenly Father had helped her feel peace.
Illustrations by Toby Newsome
Talk to your family about what to do in an emergency.

Photograph from Getty Images
While on my mission in the Philippines, my companion and I taught a particularly powerful lesson about the importance of studying the Book of Mormon daily. At the end of the lesson, my companion bore one of the most powerful testimonies of scripture study that I had ever heard. She testified that reading the Book of Mormon added a new power into her life that was impossible to explain.
It was obvious that her experience with the Book of Mormon had changed her life, and I wanted that for myself.
I decided that night that I would read the Book of Mormon again. From the beginning.
I spent a lot of time on my knees explaining to God that I wanted to experience the conversion and power that comes from the Holy Ghost.
The answer I received was: Read. Just read.
So that’s what I did. I threw myself into reading with a new vigor. I paid special attention to each verse, chapter, and page. As I read, I found verses that answered my questions, soothed my worries, and helped lift the burdens of those I was teaching.
After about a month, I realized that something inside of me was changing. My capacity to love others increased; I had more hope in the future; I was able to work harder and longer each day; I was more focused on the work; and I started to feel so much joy.
One day in my studies I came across a quote from President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994), former president of the Church: “There is a power in the [Book of Mormon] which will begin to flow into your lives the moment you begin a serious study of the book. … When you begin to hunger and thirst after those words, you will find life in greater and greater abundance.”1
As I continued to study, I began to really understand what he meant. I was finding life in greater abundance.
Looking back, I am convinced that one of the reasons I was put with that companion was so I could be there that night to hear her testimony. I felt like all the good parts of life—love, hope, trust, hard work, determination, and joy—were amplified.
There was a new light in my life, and I knew that it was real.