Gospel Story Finder

As I answered the phone at our chapel in Viseu, Portugal, I wondered who was calling. I was surprised to hear the trembling voice of my eight-year-old son on the line.
“Mom, Viviana was hit by a car,” he said. “She is alive, but her head is bleeding! She is going to the hospital.”
I almost fainted. What was I going to do? Fortunately, I had family nearby—two of my sisters were with me. One of them accompanied me to the hospital, while the other one went to watch and comfort my three distressed children at home.
In the middle of so much anguish, I wanted to pray but could only weep. On the way to the hospital, however, I was suddenly overcome by a feeling of peace and assurance. I felt that I didn’t need to worry; everything would be all right.
My sister noticed the change and asked, “Are you OK?” I nodded. Skeptical, she asked again, “Really? Are you OK?”
“Yes,” I replied, remaining silent for the rest of the journey.
When we arrived at the hospital, I found my four-year-old daughter conscious and only slightly hurt. After comforting her, I couldn’t stop thinking about the peace I had felt.
Viviana returned home after one day in the hospital. In talking about the accident, my sister who had stayed with the children said, “Yesterday, after the ambulance left, Vanessa and Vasco went into the house and prayed together.”
I was touched to know that in the midst of all the fear they were experiencing, my children remembered what they had been taught at home and in Primary. They were only six and seven, but they had faith in the power of prayer. They knew that Heavenly Father was able to help their little sister.
I thought about their faith all afternoon. Then a question came to mind: when did I start to feel peaceful? After figuring out how long it took to reach the hospital, I realized that my peaceful feeling came at about the same time that Vanessa and Vasco had prayed.
I know that Heavenly Father heard those sweet voices and not only blessed my daughter with health but also blessed me with peace. I will never forget what I learned that day from my children: we have a loving Father who hears our prayers and wants to bless us “with a sweet and calm assurance that he cares” (“Be Thou Humble,” Hymns, no. 130).

George, the first counselor in his ward’s deacons quorum presidency, continues to grow in both the gospel and the priesthood. He took the initiative to find out exactly what fast offerings are and what the donations are used for. “I was reading in a book about fast offerings,” he says. “That’s how I know why people donate the money and why I collect fast offerings each month.”
“It’s been a learning experience for him, but I’m impressed by how he pays such close attention to what has to be done,” Brother Bond adds. “We’re very fortunate to have him as a son.”

Soon after I was sustained last October, I traveled to Pakistan on an assignment and, while there, met the magnificent and dedicated Saints in that country. They are few in number but large in spirit. Shortly after returning home, I received the following note from Brother Shakeel Arshad, a dear member I had met on my visit: “Thank you, Elder … Rasband, for coming to Pakistan. I want to tell you that we … Church members … sustain you and love you. [We are] so lucky that you were here and we heard from you. It was just a golden day in my family’s life that we met an Apostle.”
Meeting Saints like Brother Arshad was an overwhelming and humbling experience and, using his words, “a golden day” for me as well.
Shakeel Arshad, my friend in Pakistan, sent his support to me, his brother and friend. So have many of you. When we reach out to lift one another, we prove those powerful words: “[No one] goes his way alone.”

The sunny skies of Cape Town were dark with rain clouds. Why, oh why, the children thought, would it rain today?
The special afternoon the boys and girls had been working and waiting for had finally come, and now it seemed as if their bake sale would be ruined by the storm. But they knew that Ouma (Grandmother) Fourie would expect them regardless of the weather, so they all splashed through the rain to be at the chapel at the hour she had set.
Sister Ouma greeted them in her usual loving way and then explained that the sale must be held that day since the baked goods could not be kept over. She also said the sale must be held outside so people would stop to buy.
“We’ll all pray for the rain to stop,” she directed, “and we know it will, for we need the money to continue holding our Primary. This is what our Father in heaven wants, so of course He will help us.”
There was so much assurance in Sister Ouma’s voice that as each child bowed his head and she prayed for the rain to stop, everyone just knew it would.
And it did!
The rain that had pelted unceasingly for several days stopped almost at once. The sun smiled on the children as they carried tables outside and placed on them the baked goods they had brought. After a most successful sale, the empty tables were carried back into the chapel, and the rain began again and continued steadily during the next three days.
“But what would you have done, Sister Fourie,” asked a Primary worker later, “if it hadn’t stopped raining?”
This woman, who for thirty-four continuous years loved and taught the boys and girls of South Africa, answered very softly, “But we all knew that it would!”

When our oldest children were still small, we lived on a busy street here in Salt Lake City. My wife, Verla, and I were concerned about the danger that street presented to our children. We used every opportunity to reinforce the importance of staying away from the street. In addition, this was a time in our children’s lives when they were learning about temples and eternal families. So our children’s prayers regularly included this request: “Please help us to be married in the temple and stay out of the street.”
One day after some of our neighbor’s children had gone home after playing at our house, my wife received a call from their mother. One of her children had heard a prayer while he was visiting us and had offered this variation when he said his own prayer at home: “Please help us stay out of the temple and get married in the street.”
I trust that that particular prayer was not received exactly the way it was phrased, but I do have a strong testimony of the importance of prayer in shaping our lives.

Prior to travel restrictions caused by the current pandemic, I was returning home from an international assignment which, due to scheduling issues, created a Sunday layover. I had time between flights to attend a local sacrament meeting, where I was also able to share a brief message. Following the meeting, an enthusiastic deacon approached me and asked if I knew President Nelson and if I had ever had a chance to shake his hand. I answered that I did know him, that I had shaken his hand, and that, as a member of the Presiding Bishopric, I had the opportunity to meet with President Nelson and his counselors a couple of times each week.
The young deacon then sat down on a chair, threw his hands in the air, and shouted, “This is the greatest day of my life!” Brothers and sisters, I may not throw my hands in the air and shout, but I am eternally grateful for a living prophet and for the direction we receive from prophets, seers, and revelators, especially during these times of challenge.

We hope that young people will be willing to sacrifice the pomp and show and pageantry of the civil weddings so that they and generally their parents with them can go to the holy temple for their marriages. Often the cost of a reception or a holiday or expensive gifts would more than pay for a temple wedding. When Sister Kimball and I were married, we had no ring nor costly reception. Eight years later I bought her a small diamond. She was content to wait until then.

In spring 1834, some 200 elders, known as Zion’s Camp, marched 900 miles from Kirtland, Ohio, to aid the destitute Saints driven from their homes in Jackson County by Missourians. The Missourians’ plans to attack the relief force were frustrated when a severe hailstorm drove them away.
Two days later, mob leader Colonel Sconce and other members of the mob, humbled by the fury of the storm, met with the men of Zion’s camp to learn their intentions. Joseph spoke as follows:
“I arose, and, addressing them, [related] the sufferings of the Saints in Jackson county, and also our persecutions generally … ; and that we had no intention to molest … any people, but only to administer to … our afflicted friends; and that the evil reports circulated about us were false, and got up by our enemies to procure our destruction. When I had closed a lengthy speech, the spirit of which melted them into compassion, they arose and offered me their hands, and said they would use their influence to allay the excitement which everywhere prevailed against us; and they wept when they heard of our afflictions and persecutions, and learned that our intentions were good. Accordingly they went forth among the people, and made unwearied exertions to allay the excitement.”4

In 1997 my husband was called to preside over the England London South Mission; we began our missionary service in July. Many things were new to me. Embarking on our first round of zone conferences, I hoped to get to know our missionaries, and I hoped they would get to know me. July 11 found us on the stand in the Maidstone stake center chapel for a conference with 75 missionaries.
As we sang the opening hymn, I was suddenly overcome with nausea and dizziness. I turned to my husband and told him I was sick. My husband, an ear doctor, noticed an abnormal jerking in my eyes. He quickly summoned two missionaries to help me out of the meeting and into a classroom. What an awful introduction! Becoming sicker by the minute, I received a priesthood blessing from my husband and a faithful missionary and was then taken to the mission home. Every bump in the road and motion of the car worsened the queasiness and vertigo I felt. Soon I had completely lost my sense of balance and could no longer hear in one ear. Medical tests indicated a probable inner ear blood clot and the possibility of never regaining my balance or the hearing in my right ear.
I was scared, worried, and angry. While I believed my husband and I had been called of God, I wondered, “How can I assist the Lord in this great work if I cannot hear or even walk?” With no other family members or close friends to turn to for help, I felt completely alone. I needed a miracle. Believing I had done God’s will in accepting callings and trying to do what was right, I pleaded with Him to make me well. I was sure I had sufficient faith for a miracle.
With treatment, my balance gradually improved. But the hearing in my right ear did not return, leaving me deaf in that ear. This made me feel more discouraged. Why me? I was serving a mission for three years! Did I deserve this? Unlike Joseph, I did not view this affliction as an opportunity for good. I was more like Joseph’s brothers who, upon finding their money in their grain sacks and fearing an evil stratagem, wondered, “What is this that God hath done unto us?” (Gen. 42:28).
I had forgotten that the same Lord who can turn water into wine can make our weak things strong (see Ether 12:27), that “all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory” (D&C 98:3).
Nine years later, with my own deeper perspective, I realize that countless blessings have come from those afflictions in England. For example, like Joseph of old, I was imprisoned—not by bars but by vertigo—in a land far from the help of my extended family. But just as Joseph found support from friends, I found support from my fellow missionaries. Senior couples whom we had barely met came to the mission home and assisted me with my responsibilities to greet arriving missionaries and bid farewell to those departing.
When you hear with only one ear, understanding others when they speak can be extremely difficult, especially if they are on your bad-ear side. By necessity I have become a better listener as I focus more directly on those speaking to me. Looking directly at them helps me better grasp what they are saying and sense what they are feeling.
Partially losing my hearing has helped me develop patience for others, especially those with disabilities. It has helped me find faith to accept affliction. It has given me clarity to realize that instant, miraculous cures are not always the Lord’s will. In fact, sometimes just the opposite is true.
Would I want to go through this experience again? No. Yet has my soul been stretched and expanded from this and other challenges like it? Absolutely. Of course, while the growth has come, my hearing has not; the residue of affliction often remains. What then?
In February 2002 I was sitting across the desk from President Gordon B. Hinckley. He asked, “Bonnie, how is your health?” I answered that my health was fine, although I could not hear in my right ear because I had lost that hearing in the mission field. He then asked, “How is the hearing in your other ear?” “Fine,” I said. “Well, then,” he replied, “just turn your head.” He then proceeded to issue my current call. President Hinckley understands the principle of doing the best with what we have and making adjustments when we need to compensate.
While afflictions are never easy, all of them can give us experience and can be for our good (see D&C 122:7). To grasp those blessings, we might need to turn our heads, lean a little closer, or listen a little better. Yet in those small, humble efforts, we will find that His grace is sufficient (see Ether 12:27).

As I moved to higher grades, my dad always found ways to plant these love notes. I often found them in my locker or in my sports bags. Last year when I left for college, I had forgotten about the special business cards just as I had every year before. When I got to my dorm room and began to unpack one of my boxes, a little white card slipped out from between my things and fluttered to the ground. My dad’s business cards continued to surface throughout my first few weeks of college, offering inspiration and advice.

My best friend Brad and I sat in his front yard, lost in conversation. He had just found out that his parents were getting a divorce, and we had spent the last several hours talking about the problems he was facing.
Then I looked down at my watch. It was past 1:00 A.M. “Oh no,” I said as I jumped to my feet, “I was supposed to be home by midnight. My dad’s gonna kill me.” I wished Brad luck in the coming days, said good-bye, and jogged the five blocks to my house.
The front porch light was still on—a bad sign. It meant Dad was waiting up for me.
I opened the front door cautiously and stepped inside. “Do you know what time it is?” boomed his voice from the living room.
“Dad, I’m really sorry. See, Brad just found out …”
“It’s after 1:00. Didn’t I tell you to be home by midnight?”
“Yeah, but …”
“There are no ‘buts’ about it. You’re more than an hour late.” He was shaking with anger. “You won’t be going out for a while, young man.”
I didn’t like being convicted without a trial. “That’s not fair. At least give me a chance to explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” he snapped. “You’re late. That’s all there is to it. Now get to bed.”
“C’mon,” I argued, “it’s not fair.”
Our conversation deteriorated from there as Dad and I traded accusations. He never listened, I said. I had no respect, he said. And so it went.
By the time I finally did go to bed, I was too upset to sleep. I was worried about Brad, and I was frustrated that I couldn’t talk to my dad about it. I wished things were different, that I could have come home and told him about Brad’s parents. But instead of talking, we only argued about my curfew for the hundredth time.
I really wanted to be able to communicate with my dad, and sometimes I sensed that he felt the same way, but for some reason, we were never able to connect.
It’s not always easy to talk to parents. Some kids, and you may be one of them, have a great relationship with their parents. These kids can talk, without fear or awkwardness, about anything and everything with their parents. But not everyone is so lucky. As a kid, I always wanted to have meaningful talks with my mom and dad, but I wasn’t able to. We had a good relationship, but we never really talked. Looking back, I realize that I expected my parents to make all the efforts at establishing communication. That’s where I was wrong. There are things kids can do to improve communication between themselves and their parents.
The first thing you can do is talk to them. It may not be easy at first, but it will be worth it. “My dad and I talked,” says a high school student I know, “but we never really sat down and had serious talks about what’s going on in my life, about problems I had, or things I wanted to accomplish. As a matter of fact, the first time I ever had a serious talk with my dad was when he was bishop and had to interview me on my birthday.
“That interview really helped me see that I could improve our communication if I met him halfway. Things didn’t change overnight, but since then, he and I both have tried harder to find the time to sit down together once in a while and talk.”
One girl I know interviews her parents about once a week. “I don’t really ‘interview’ them,” she says, “not in an obvious, formal way. But I do catch them when they’re not busy and ask them questions about their childhood, their high school days, that kind of stuff. Once they start answering, I just sit back and listen. It’s amazing what I’ve learned about my mom and dad that way.”
The more you talk to your parents in everyday situations, the easier it will be to talk to them in times of crisis and emotion. Meaningful communication doesn’t just happen—it takes practice, practice that you can often initiate.
Sometimes it’s difficult to find the time to talk. If that’s the case, try some creative approaches. One young missionary told me, “I always wanted to talk to my mom. Oh, we talked about lots of things but never about anything serious or personal. We had a good relationship—we got along well—but we never really talked.
“There was so much that I wanted to tell her, so many questions I wanted to ask her before I went on my mission, but I just couldn’t do it.
“So I wrote her a letter, a long letter, and left it on her dresser. That really opened things up for us, and we had a couple of great talks before I left.”
If time is a problem for you and your parents, use your imagination to find the time to be with them. For example, you might meet them at work and have lunch with them. Or at home, get up early or stay up late so you can talk without any interruptions. You can even make an appointment with them, write down a specific time and place, to talk about things. If you put your mind to it, you can come up with other ways to help you and your parents find the time to talk.
Of course, sometimes you’ll want your mom and dad to listen, not talk. As you’ve probably noticed, many adults suffer from acute Advice-Giving Syndrome. I know I do. My daughter Christy will often start to tell me about a problem she’s having at school or with friends, and immediately I stop listening and start telling her what she should do. I know that Christy wants to express herself more than she wants my advice, but sometimes I just can’t help myself.
A student of mine has a good approach to use on parents (or any other adult, for that matter) who tend to give advice when they should be listening. “My parents love to give me advice,” he says, “and lots of times, I don’t mind. But sometimes I really want them to listen to what I have to say, so I’ll tell them, ‘Mom and Dad, I want to tell you something, and I want you to listen—without talking—until I’m finished. I really want to tell you this, but if you’re not going to listen, I’m not going to tell you. If you’ll listen to me, then I’ll listen to what you have to say.’ That usually works.”

As a boy I loved to play soldier. I imagined myself as a great hero, and my fantasies included ceremonies of pomp and grandeur during which my country decorated me for courageous feats. As I grew older, I graduated from college and from Army ROTC. I was commissioned as a second lieutenant. I began to realize I might actually be placed in situations that would demand courage, and my hopes of becoming a hero grew and grew.
I attended helicopter pilot training and won my silver wings. I served 22 months in Europe. Then I was assigned as a medical evacuation helicopter pilot in Vietnam. As I waited for the actual transfer orders, my desire for greatness became an obsession.
I soon learned that the real experience of war wasn’t anything like the battlefields of my childhood imagination. The sight and stench of combat made me ill. My inner courage wasn’t as strong as I had thought, and I often found myself scared beyond any fear I had previously known. I sought the Lord as a source of strength, promising that if he preserved my life, I would spend my remaining days serving him in whatever manner he desired.
I still retained a vain hope that somehow I might earn the coveted Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) without serious injury to myself or my crew. The DFC is the mark of an aviator’s display of valor above and beyond the call of duty while under hostile fire. I dreamed of having the medal pinned on my chest.
Three months after I arrived in Vietnam, just about dusk one evening, a radio call came in to the operations office requesting a patient pickup at an insecure landing zone (meaning our forces were still in contact with the enemy).
As our helicopter followed a river through the Tuy Hoa Valley into a mountain pass, we were enveloped in torrential rain. It was extremely difficult to locate the landing area. Soldiers on the ground directed us with a flashlight beam.
We wanted to land up the slope from the casualty to allow those transporting him more clearance from the rotor blade. Turbulent winds whipped across the uneven terrain, causing the chopper to fishtail wildly and aborting our first landing attempt. This also meant the enemy had seen our landing spot and would be preparing to fire on us. A lull in the wind allowed us to land, and enemy tracers ripped like fiery baseballs through the night.
Our friendly forces returned fire. We made a hasty pick-up of the wounded and asked for flares to be shot into the sky to illuminate the surrounding mountains as we departed through lightning, thunder, and heavy rain. A few bursts of enemy ground fire bid us farewell.
As a result of this action, I was recommended for a DFC. But the recommendation was reviewed and downgraded to an Air Medal with a “V” for valor. I was disappointed, but remembered my promise to the Lord and was satisfied that my life had been spared.
About a month later, my crew made another perilous medical evacuation, this time on the side of a 60-degree mountain slope under a double canopy of foliage. This meant that we had to maneuver our helicopter down through the first cover of branches and leaves and over to an opening in the lower canopy of foliage where a hoist could lower a litter for the wounded soldier. Our rotor blades were literally inches from the branches, and the rotor wash of air bouncing off the foliage made hovering critically unstable. Despite these obstacles, the mission was successful, and the crew felt it deserved special recognition. We were once again recommended for the DFC, but again it was lessened to an Air Medal.
I was furious! “Do those people know what it’s like to put your life on the line every day?” I fumed. “They must be crazy to think this kind of flying is part of normal duty!” But in the quietness of my quarters, I remembered the words of my patriarchal blessing, which reminded me that the Holy Ghost would guide me. I thought, “That’s right. The Spirit made this mission and all the other missions, as hazardous as they may have been, possible for me.” And I knew Heavenly Father had protected me. No crew members who had flown with me had ever been harmed. I realized I had a great deal to be thankful for.
With only three months left on my tour of duty, I was called on another hoist rescue. This time it was in the Ashau Valley. Two casualties had to be moved from a dangerous location in another double canopy area. Once again we hovered between the trees like a sitting duck, protected only by cover shots from our troops but threatened by incoming enemy fire. Things went well until we started to bring the second patient up through the lower canopy.
Rifle fire sprayed around us. The crew chief was going to cut the cable, dropping the wounded man back to the ground and to possible death. “No!” I yelled. “Tell me when he’s clear of the trees.” The crew chief kept the litter bearing the wounded man coming up and yelled, “Clear!” as soon as it got above the trees. I moved the helicopter up, then forward, while the wounded man dangled below, slowly being drawn into the cargo area. Finally the terrified soldier was inside and we were on our way back to the base. What an experience! What excitement!
Back on the ground, the crew hugged each other. We were grateful to acknowledge that we were delivered by the power and mercy of God. We also felt sure we would merit a DFC. The recommendation was written up and submitted with assurance that it would be approved.
The awards ceremony was scheduled for July 8, 1968, two days before my departure from the country. I didn’t have to fly any more combat missions, and I had been informed that the DFC had been approved. I was going home and would be a hero, finally receiving the award I had longed for for so long.
Since many of the officers were receiving decorations, the first sergeant was left in charge of the awards formation. Those of us who were recipients were out in front of the other men. I was second in line, next to the detachment commander, who was also receiving a DFC. This was the moment of glory I had been waiting for since childhood. This was the ceremony of grandeur envisioned in the dreams of my youth.
The commanding general’s helicopter touched down. His aide-de-camp scurried from the craft to talk to the first sergeant, as the first sergeant called us all to attention. The two men exchanged comments, then the sergeant took several steps and stood right in front of me. He saluted.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but your DFC has been downgraded. Take your place as fifth in formation.”
Pow! My dream was shattered. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. I had to bite my lower lip to make sure I was in the real world and not having a bad dream. I was angry and hurt. Was this the type of gratitude bestowed for dedicated service which I considered above and beyond the call of duty? I did an about face, took two steps forward, made a right face, and moved to my new location as fifth in formation.
As the detachment commander had his Distinguished Flying Cross pinned on his pocket, I had to fight back the tears. I was happy for my boss and his deserved recognition, but I was disappointed at my own situation. When the general came to me, I snapped a salute. He returned it and pinned another Air Medal with a “V” for valor onto my shirt, saying, “Captain, this represents a lot of flying. I respect you for your contribution and congratulate you.” My heart was filled with resentment. How could he do this to me? I choked out a half-hearted “Thank you, sir.” We saluted and he moved on.
As I stood there with those mixed up feelings, I asked the Lord why this had happened. Surely there must be a mistake! It wasn’t fair! Then my spirit became calm as the words of my patriarchal blessing came to mind once again, telling me not to let Satan keep me from growth and development, telling me that the Lord would try me to prove my worth. The Spirit spoke to my soul, telling me that God had kept his promise to me—I was returning to my loved ones unharmed, I still had work to do in this life, and God had preserved my life. “Seek not after your own heart,” the Spirit whispered, “for the praise and rewards of men.”
I have reflected upon these thoughts over the years as I have tried to keep my end of the bargain—that I would serve the Lord with all my heart. I realize that the Savior provided temporal and spiritual rescue for us all, and his reward was a wooden cross and a crown of thorns, with no “V” for valor. What right, then, did I have to feel disappointed that I hadn’t received earthly recognition for saving the lives of a handful of men and women? I am now satisfied that the opportunity to repent of my sins and work out my mortal probation is reward enough for anything I do in this life.

I’m grateful that our youth leaders planned a visit to the temple. As we were preparing for this trip to Apia, Samoa, we were happy for this rare opportunity. We joyfully went into the temple to do baptisms for the dead—for those who are in the spirit world waiting for us to find our family history and do work for them.
During baptisms, I saw a young man in our group baptized for Faataga Agavale, my grandfather. I felt tears of joy in my eyes, and I knew his spirit was there. I was very happy we were able to do work for him in the temple.
Saini Agavale, Samoa

I am, admittedly, not very good at this. The “I’ve got this” mentality overtakes me sometimes.
Shortly before general conference last year, when they knew I was extra busy, the sister and brother who minister to our family offered to bring some soup. They sent a kind text to my husband and me. True to form, I quickly responded to say we were good and no soup was needed. My gracious husband, on the other hand, responded with a message that soup would be great, inviting them to minister to us in that way. I should have done better.
In anticipation of Doug’s surgery in St. Louis, I asked for the name of a stake Relief Society president I could call there, just in case I had some extraordinary need for help. That was way out of my comfort zone, but I asked and received the number for Sister Diana Taylor, who is a stake Relief Society president in the area.
I called Sister Taylor and explained why we were coming to St. Louis and assured her I would let her know if and how I needed her help.
The next day, she sent me this text: “Sister Johnson, 10 hours is a long time to be waiting alone while Brother Johnson is in surgery. I would be happy to come to the hospital to be with you if that would help. I could come the whole time or part of the time. We could share the Spirit of Christ as we pray and remember the blessings of a loving Father in Heaven, the blessings of sisterhood, the blessing of families and of service.”
Perhaps you’ve guessed my first reaction: “I’m good. I’ve got this alone. I’ll wallow in my sadness by myself!” And I was just about ready to send a response that declined her invitation—until I remembered what I had preached in the April 2023 general conference and thought that I ought to practice it:
“How does the Savior relieve us of the burdens of living in a fallen world with mortal bodies subject to grief and pain?
“Often, He performs that kind of relief through us! …
“… We are a conduit through which He provides relief.”1
I responded with this text message: “I don’t want to trouble you at all. Perhaps you and I could have lunch together. That would be a nice break from the talks that I am writing.”
The Lord sent Sister Taylor (right) to minister to me while I was waiting for my husband to come out of surgery.
Sister Taylor and I walked to a restaurant. We sat outside because it was a sunny day and enjoyed lunch together. And in the end, I trust that both of us found needed relief.
I was alone in St. Louis. Doug was in a surgery lasting more than 10 hours. How was the Savior going to help me, to relieve me of loneliness and frustration and worry? He sent someone to minister to me, someone who was magnifying her calling and keeping her baptismal covenant by comforting someone who stood in need of comfort (see Mosiah 18:9–10). If I had failed to receive her, I would have failed to receive Him.

You know what makes me smile most? When Mama says she called me her little china doll—I was a baby then. I don’t remember much about that but I remember some kids saying, “Cindy, Cindy, Cindy, yeah, yeah, yeah,” and making funny faces, and Mama shooing them away and then holding me against her and crying. I don’t understand it yet.
I remember when a strange man came to our house when the chapel was finished. He was from Salt Lake.
“He’s an apostle of God,” Daddy told me. I stood and stared at him and pinched his arm until Mama pulled me away.
“Don’t bother Brother Kirkham, Cindy,” she said.
“It’s all right, Sister Abbott,” he said. His eyes twinkled and he lifted me onto his lap. He put one hand on my hand.
“Cindy’s no bother.” He smiled, and I felt something warm inside of me. “Brother and Sister Abbott, this spirit is so special in God’s eyes,” he went on, “that she was sent to earth for her mortal body in such a way that she cannot be tempted by this world. She will return to God as pure as she came. You have been chosen to take care of this special spirit. Try to understand her for she certainly holds hands with God.”
Mama didn’t cry as much after the apostle went away, and Daddy began to whistle. The children didn’t say, “Cindy, Cindy, Cindy, yeah, yeah, yeah” anymore. They took my hand and said, “Come and play with us, Cindy.”

Rachel put her key in the lock. Coming home to an empty apartment was the worst part of every day. It wasn’t really empty, but for the three long hours until Mom arrived home from work, it felt that way.
The first time she’d come home to the Mom-less apartment, Rachel had thrown herself on her bed and cried herself to sleep. But now, seven months later, instead of crying each day, she planned something to keep her busy until Mom came home. This helped a little, but down deep she was still afraid to be in the apartment alone.
Today Rachel had a video Mom had borrowed from the Richardsons, a family who lived downstairs. She took the tape out of the box, which was labeled “From Grandma, with love.” She loaded the tape into the VCR on her way to the small kitchen. She could see the TV while she fixed herself a snack.
The video began in the middle of the tape. A man was talking. How boring, Rachel thought. I wonder if there’s anything else on the tape.
She opened a jar of peaches and dished some into a plastic bowl. When she picked up the jar to put it back into the refrigerator, her elbow bumped the bowl of peaches, splattering peach halves all across the floor. The bowl landed upside down in its own puddle of peach juice.
“What a mess!” She glanced over at the TV. The man was still talking: “… young girls, learn from your mothers the important homemaking skills you will use in your own home.”*
Yeah, skills like how not to make a mess when you’re getting a snack, Rachel thought. As she worked, she began to scold herself again. Then the man’s words caught her attention once more: “Now I want to talk to you children who do not feel safe and who are frightened. … Sometimes you may feel all alone. You need to know that even when it seems that no one else cares, your Heavenly Father does, He will always love you. He wants you to be protected and safe.”
Who was this man? His kind eyes and smile sympathized with her and her loneliness. He told a story about Jesus blessing children while angels came down and fire surrounded them. The man continued: “I promise you, dear children, that angels will minister unto you also. You may not see them, but they will be there to help you, and you will feel of their presence.”
The words filled her heart with calm. Maybe it was true. Maybe angels were there to help her. Maybe the calm she felt right now was their presence.
Well, whatever this feeling is, I hope it won’t go away. It’s very nice, Rachel thought as she wiped up the floor.
By the time she finished cleaning up the peaches, she wasn’t hungry anymore, so she returned to the living room.
The man’s talk was over, and a very old man was on—he looked like a great-grandpa. Surrounded by children, he was singing a song Rachel had never heard. He kept repeating the words “Mormon Boy.” Afterward he said to the children, “I love you, and you, and all of you.” Rachel pretended he said it to her too.
Who were those men? Why did they make her feel so good? Were there really angels? What was a “Mormon boy”? Was it a nationality, like being a French boy? Maybe Mom could answer some of her questions.
But Mom was so tired after work that she only wanted to get supper over with and go to bed. Rachel didn’t want to bother her with questions.
After Mom went to bed, Rachel decided to watch the video again. Maybe that same good feeling would return.
Rewinding the tape to the very first, she lined up several dolls on the couch, and flopped down among them.
The man with the kind eyes spoke. “We shall now be pleased to listen to the closing remarks of President Ezra Taft Benson, our beloved prophet, which he has asked me to read. Following the presentation of his message, we shall see a delightful television clip of President Benson singing to the youth, whom he loves.”
Rachel told her dolls, “The grandpa who sings is a prophet!”
“… And as you listen, I pray that you will know that this is a personal message just for you.”
“He’s talking right to us,” Rachel told her companions.
“How I love you! How our Heavenly Father loves you!” were the prophet’s words.
The warmth of the message wrapped around Rachel. And for a moment, she was calm and happy again. From the bedroom, Mom’s voice interrupted. “Rachel! Turn off the TV and go to bed!”
Rachel sighed. To her dolls she said, “Come on, we’ll watch more tomorrow.”
The next morning Rachel tried to talk to her mom about the videotape. “Mom, are there really angels?”
“I’ve never seen any.” Mom still seemed tired.
“Are there prophets?”
“Oh, maybe there were back in Bible days. There aren’t any now.”
“Oh.” She decided to say no more about the video for a while.
That day after school, and the next several days as well, Rachel dreaded coming home from school until she remembered the talk. Sometimes she kept the talk on in the background as she did her chores or her homework. Other times she arranged her dolls on the couch and sat with them, listening.
Rachel was happy when she listened to the talk, although there was a lot she didn’t understand. What were Latter-day Saints? What was a Book of Mormon? The prophet wanted them to read it. What about Primary? Sacrament meeting? He wanted her to attend, but she didn’t know what they were. He also said to pray, something Rachel and her Mom hadn’t done in years, although they used to back when Daddy was still alive.
Rachel began praying each night, which made it easier to keep hold of the special feeling the talk gave her.
Mom noticed a difference in Rachel. “Something good must be happening at school. You’re a lot happier lately.”
Before bedtime on Friday, Mom had news that abruptly ended Rachel’s happiness: The Richardsons were being transferred.
“Would you return their video in the morning?” Mom asked. “They’re leaving tomorrow.”
“But that’s so soon!” Rachel exclaimed. “I wasn’t exactly done with it.”
“Well, honey, it’s just a video. I’ll get another one after work tomorrow.”
“But I want this tape.”
“What’s on it?” asked Mom.
“I don’t know what it’s called. Their grandma copied it for them off the TV.”
“If you find out what it is, maybe we can copy it from the TV ourselves sometime,” Mom suggested.
What a simple solution! “That’s a great idea, Mom,” Rachel said. “Thanks! Good night.”
The next morning Rachel woke up extra early so that she could watch the video before returning it. She closed her eyes tight, trying hard to memorize all her favorite parts. She fast-forwarded the tape to President Benson’s singing and his words, “I love all of you.” She whispered, “I love you, too,” rewound the tape, and ran downstairs to the Richardsons’.
Their door was wide open. Two men were carrying a sofa from the nearly empty apartment. Rachel followed them out to a truck parked at the curb. “Where are the Richardsons?”
“They’ve gone ahead in their car,” one of the men answered. “Didn’t you get to say good-bye to them?”
Rachel shook her head. Holding up the video, she added, “I was supposed to give them this. It belongs to them.” She hesitated. “And I wanted to ask them the name of the program on it so that I could tape it off the TV sometime.”
“Well, I’ll see them in just a few hours. I’ll give it to them and ask them to write and tell you the name of it.”
“Thank you very much.”
A week passed. Each afternoon before climbing the stairs to her apartment, Rachel checked the mailbox for the Richardsons’ letter. Every day it grew harder to recall her favorite parts of the talk. Every night she prayed that the Richardsons’ reply would come.
When Rachel woke up Saturday morning, she said to her dolls, “I just know the letter will come today!”
As she and her mom spent the morning doing housework, Rachel kept peeking out the window. “I’m waiting for the mail,” she explained. “The Richardsons are going to send me a letter that tells the name of their video so we can tape it off the TV.”
“They may not have had time to write yet, what with moving and unpacking and all,” Mom said gently.
Rachel’s heart sank. She let the curtain fall back into place and began folding clothes. Mom was probably right; the Richardsons would be too busy to write.
In spite of this, Rachel checked out the window once more. “The mail truck’s pulling away!” She ran out the door and down the steps to the cluster of mailboxes. Unlocking theirs, she reached inside for the mail.
“A bill, an advertisement, another bill—that’s all! That can’t be all!”
“Is something wrong?” said a voice behind her.
“Can we help you?” another voice joined in.
“Oh, I was hoping for something to come in the mail today, but it didn’t, after all.” Rachel turned around to face two strangers. Schoolteachers? She thought. Why are they wearing name tags?
“Do you live here?” one of the ladies asked.
Rachel nodded.
“Do you know the Richardsons?”
Again Rachel nodded.
“We stopped by to visit with them, but apparently they’re gone.”
“They moved last week,” Rachel said.
“Where did they go?”
“I don’t know, but my mom might be able to find out. You can come ask her.”
While talking to the ladies, Rachel had glimpsed “Latter-day Saints” on the little name tags! “Do you know a really old man, a prophet, named Ezra Taft Benson? I heard a talk by him, but someone else read it for him, and I wonder …”
The ladies smiled at her, then at each other as they followed Rachel up the stairs to her apartment.

Another priesthood calling that I have been thinking about came to me many years later, when I had my own family. We had moved back to Frankfurt, Germany, and I had just received a promotion at work that would require a great deal of my time and attention. During this busy season of my life, Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin extended a call to me to serve as stake president.
During my interview with him, many thoughts raced through my mind, not the least of which was the unsettling worry that I might not have the time this calling would require. Although I felt humbled and honored by the call, I briefly wondered if I could accept it. But it was only a fleeting thought because I knew that Elder Wirthlin was called of God and that he was doing the Lord’s work. What could I do but accept?
There are times when we have to step into the darkness in faith, confident that God will place solid ground beneath our feet once we do. And so I accepted gladly, knowing that God would provide.
In the early days of this assignment, we were privileged as a stake to receive training from some of the greatest teachers and leaders in the Church—men like Elder Russell M. Nelson and President Thomas S. Monson came to our area. Their teaching was like the dew from heaven and an inspiration for us. I still have the notes I took during these training sessions. These Brethren gave us the vision of what it means to establish the kingdom of God by building personal testimonies and strengthening families. They helped us see how to apply gospel truth and principles to our specific circumstances and for our specific time. To put it another way, inspired leaders helped us to see the why of the gospel, and then we had to roll up our sleeves and go to work.
It wasn’t long before we realized that there were a lot of things a stake presidency could do—so many, in fact, that if we didn’t set inspired priorities, we might miss doing the important ones. Competing priorities began to arise, deflecting our focus from the vision shared by the Brethren. There were many “good” things to do, but not all of them mattered most.
We learned an important lesson: the fact that something is good is not always reason enough to require our time and resources. Our activities, initiatives, and plans should be inspired by and grounded upon the why of our priesthood service and not by any flashy trend or interest of the moment. Otherwise, they can distract our efforts, dilute our energy, and get us caught up in our own hobbies, spiritual or temporal, that are not at the center of discipleship.

On a Monday evening not long ago, my wife, Lesa, and I stopped by the home of a young family in our neighborhood. While we were there, the family invited us to stay for family home evening, telling us their nine-year-old son had prepared the lesson. Of course we stayed!
Following the opening song, prayer, and family business, the nine-year-old began by reading an insightful question included in his handwritten lesson: “How does the Holy Ghost help you?” This question began a meaningful family discussion as everyone shared ideas and insights. I was impressed by our teacher’s lesson preparation and his very good question, which stirred in me over and over again.
Since then, I have continued to ask myself, “How does the Holy Ghost help you?”—a question especially relevant for Primary children turning eight and preparing for baptism and for those children who have recently been baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. It is also relevant for the thousands of recent converts.

The cool evening air felt good on my face as my companion and I were frantically riding our bikes back to our apartment to make it home on time. The May weather had been typical for Texas, hot and humid, so the crisp evening air was a welcome feeling.
I began thinking of the success we were enjoying in the city of Brownsville. A family of five was baptized last month and another family of five was to be baptized this month. Suddenly that warm, familiar, and welcome feeling came over me, and I was prompted to look back. Through the trees I saw a row of houses a little way off the road—houses I had never noticed before!
When we reached the apartment I told my companion, Elder Maughn, that we needed to go back to those houses in the morning and meet a few people. Then we planned our day for the ’morrow and went to bed. I could hardly sleep for the excitement of that day. We had challenged a family to be baptized, and they accepted, and now it seemed that the Lord had more people for us to teach.
The morning came not too soon for me. After a shower, breakfast, and study class, we headed out for the houses I had noticed the last night. It was easy to see why we had missed them before. Somehow between the junkyard and bushes and the low-hanging trees, there was a road. Actually, it was more like an alley. It was so rough that we could hardly get our bikes down it.
There were about seven houses down this road, so we began at the first and worked our way to the last. Yes, number six was the house. We knocked at the door, and a woman answered. Her face radiated with a warm, kind, and protective glow. We introduced ourselves and said we had a brief message about the Lord. She invited us into a small, two-room house.
As we entered the living room, we were greeted by no less than five children, ages ranging from eleven down to two. The children giggled as we spoke to them. We told her we would like to return when the father was home, and she invited us back that evening.
The rest of the day my head was spinning with thoughts of how we would teach the family. We knew with the Lord’s help and consent we would help this family become members of his church.
Somewhere between banging on doors and lunch a fearful thought came over me. Tithing! Reflecting back about that family we visited earlier that morning, I wondered how they would accept the principle of tithing. I thought of that family of seven and their home, which apparently had only the bare necessities. The kitchen had just a table and benches in it. The other room, which was divided in half and separated only by a curtain, was both the bedroom and the living room. The only furniture in this room was one chair and a tattered couch. How would this family be able to budget tithing?
Paying an honest tithe seemed to be a stumbling block to some of the people we had taught before, and I worried about this all day. Silently I prayed that this family would gain a strong testimony before we were to teach the principle of tithing to them.
Again the cool evening air felt good on my face as we rode back to that home to meet the father and begin teaching his family. The father held as many of the children as he could, and the others huddled close by. We felt a warm, familiar feeling as we visited with them and explained our message about the Lord’s true church.
After a brief prayer we started with the filmstrip Man’s Search for Happiness. It would keep the children interested, and parents always seemed to enjoy it. I glanced over at the mother during the part about leaving the premortal existence, and I thought I saw traces of tears in her eyes. I couldn’t help but again glance over at her during the part about death and our spirit returning home to loved ones. Yes, this time it was plainly clear. That sweet mother had tears in her eyes and half way down her face.
The mother was still wiping away the tears when the film ended, so I quickly bore my testimony to the truthfulness of the concepts taught in the film and the truthfulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. We then proceeded into the rest of the discussion. It was accepted well, very well. After arranging another appointment for the next night, we offered prayer and were on our way.
I noticed that there was no car in front of the house, and again I wondered how they would accept the principle of tithing.
When we reached our apartment, Elder Maughn and I knelt down and prayed. We prayed to our Heavenly Father to bless this family with a strong testimony and to provide a way that they could keep the commandments.
When we knelt for personal prayer I stayed on my knees a little longer than usual before climbing into bed. When the time came, how could we present the commandment of tithing so the Spirit would touch them with a testimony and a desire to keep it?
The family was progressing well. Every lesson was a spiritual experience for all of us. Members visited them and took them to church. Finally the challenge was given to be baptized, and they accepted.
The next step was the lesson on the commandments. I cleverly arranged it so my companion would present the concept on tithing. Yes, I would give the first concept, he the second which was tithing, then I would continue with the third and so on. This way I wouldn’t have to ask the family to keep the law of tithing and wonder about their answer.
That moment seemed to come all too soon. When we entered the home that evening and settled down for the lesson I began the discussion with the first concept. Before I had completed two sentences the father eagerly asked a question, and my companion answered it and continued on with my concept! He then finished the first concept, and now it was my turn—tithing! I said a quick silent prayer and proceeded with confidence.
I explained what the word tithe meant, how it was a commandment anciently and now also in our day. Then I came to the part I dreaded—to ask the family to keep the law of tithing. This fine brother answered back, but I was so worried that I didn’t hear the answer. I hurriedly continued on with the concept and then realized he had answered yes! I was then at the part where the question was to be repeated so I confidently asked again, “Will you keep the law of tithing?” Again the answer was yes. I then bore my testimony with tears in my eyes that it was a true commandment and that many blessings would follow.
That following Sunday, just a week before the family was to be baptized, I looked eagerly for them. When Sunday School began, the family was not there. I didn’t see them anywhere. Perhaps they had decided they couldn’t keep the commandments after all, I thought to myself. I wondered if the problem was tithing.
Then just before sacrament meeting started, in through the front doors walked the family. I hurried to greet them. I had a smile on my face from ear to ear I’m sure. They explained that they had walked all the way, at least four miles I think, and the father carried two of the little ones.
We sat down in time for the meeting to start, and all I could think about was this family. What an example to me. I loved them already, and I had only known them for three weeks.
After sacrament the mother grabbed me and pulled me aside and said, “Here, Elder Myers. Here’s ten dollars. My husband gets paid every two weeks, and we wanted to start paying tithing now.” I stood there for what seemed like an eternity and just looked at the mother, with sincerity and humbleness written all over her face. I looked at the ten dollars. Her husband made two hundred dollars a month, and they were willing to keep the law of tithing. What a faithful family.
I guess I hesitated too long, for the mother said, “Isn’t it enough?” I quickly turned my head for tears began to fill my eyes. I found the second counselor in the bishopric and asked him to explain to this good sister about filling out the tithing slip.
As he explained the process to her, I slipped away to an empty room. I tried to hold back the tears, but “Here, Elder Myers” kept ringing in my ears. I thanked my Father in Heaven for this great opportunity and the testimony he had given to this family.
That following week the family was baptized.
Even now that I have returned home from my mission and have continued on with my life, I still think of this wonderful family and the great lesson they taught me about tithing. Every time I pay tithing I can still hear those words from that sweet sister, “Here, Elder Myers. Isn’t it enough?”

1 Senora Chali sat quietly in the cool shade of the trees in the backyard and read from her Bible. She found comfort in reading the words of the prophets and the stories of Jesus’ life.
2 The senora worked as a maid for a lady who lived in a large house and who sometimes rented rooms to other people. At this time a family from the United States was staying there. Senora Chali thought that they were a nice family and that their children were well behaved.
3 As the senora continued her reading, the family’s little girl came into the yard. Seeing the book, she asked, “Are you reading the Book of Mormon?”
“What is the Book of Mormon?” Senora Chali asked.
“It’s a book like the Bible that we Mormons believe in. Joseph Smith translated it from some golden plates given to him by an angel,” the child explained.
4 Senora Chali had not heard of the Book of Mormon before. In the weeks that followed, she wanted to ask the family about the book, but she couldn’t find the courage to do so. Then one day the family moved back to the United States. The Senora continued to read her Bible and wonder about the other book.
5 Some years later two young missionaries from the United States came to live at the house. As she became acquainted with them, they offered her a copy of the Book of Mormon. After all the years of waiting and wondering, she could hardly wait to read it!
6 From the very start of the book, the senora knew that the writings were truly the words of prophets. She could tell that it was a book much like the Bible, just as the little girl had told her. Senora Chali now could sit under her shady tree and read the Book of Mormon every day.
7 The missionaries were busy with their charlas (discussions) and tracting, and they forgot to ask the senora if she had read the book. Then they were transferred to another area.
8 Many months later Elder Scott Kelly and I were sent to the city. We also came to live at the house where Senora Chali worked. One morning as we were leaving to go tracting, she asked, “Do you have any other books that I can read besides the Book of Mormon? I have already read it three times.”
9 We were surprised to learn that Senora Chali had read the Book of Mormon and wanted to know more. We had been so busy asking others if they wanted to learn about the Church that we had neglected to ask her. We told her that we would teach her the gospel if she would like us to. She agreed, and in a short time she was baptized!
10 She became one of the most active members in the branch. She told her friends about the gospel and the Book of Mormon, just as the little girl had told her about them many years before.