Gospel Story Finder

Some have thought it important to give a gift to the Savior at Christmastime. President Kimball relates one such gift he received that was earmarked for the Savior. I’d like to quote somewhat from his remarks.
“In one of the stakes of Zion lives a family who also believes in a birthday for Jesus. … They gave me a crisp fifty dollar bill [and] said, ‘Today is the Lord’s birthday. We always give gifts to our family members on their birthdays. We should like to give a gift to the Saviour. Will you please place this money where it will please the Redeemer most?’
“Two days later, Sister Kimball and I were on our way to Europe for a six-month’s tour of all the missions. As we made hasty and extensive preparations, we kept thinking about the birthday gift entrusted to us, and then the thought came to us that perhaps in Europe we would find the most appreciative recipient.
“For months we toured the missions, held meetings with the missionaries and Saints, and met many wonderful folks. There were numerous opportunities to present the gift, for the majority of the Saints over there could use extra funds. But we waited. Toward the end of the mission tour, we met a little woman in Germany. She was a widow; or was she? For she had been alone with her family of children for ten years. Whether her husband was deceased or not, she did not know. A victim of World War II, he had disappeared and no word had ever come from him. It was said that he was behind the Iron Curtain. The little folks who were but children when he was taken away were now near grown, and the son was a full-time missionary among his German people.
“It was nearing the time of the temple dedication at Bern, Switzerland. I said to this good woman, ‘Are you going to the temple dedication?’ I saw the disappointment in her eyes as she said how she would like to go, but how impossible it was because of lack of finances. ‘Here is the place for the gift’ was the thought which rooted itself in my mind. I quietly checked with the mission president as to her worthiness and the appropriateness of her going to the temple; and then I gave to him half of the gift, which he assured me would pay the actual bus transportation to Bern and return.
“A few weeks later we were in southern France. … We were one hour late for our meeting at Nice. It was a hot night. The building was filled to capacity. A woman sat at the piano, entertaining this large crowd until our arrival. For one hour she had played. I was embarrassed for our delay and so grateful to her for what she had done to hold the group and entertain them that I inquired concerning her. Her husband, a professor, had died not long ago and the widow was making a meager living through her musical talents. She was a rather recent convert. Her mission president and the elder assured me that she was worthy and deserving so I left with her mission president to be given to her the other half of the Saviour’s gift.
“We completed our mission tours … and finally returned to Bern for the dedication service of the Swiss Temple. The prophet of the Lord, President David O. McKay, was present with three of the apostles. After the glorious dedication meetings were over, the regular temple services were conducted in the various languages. As I assisted the French Saints in their session, I was conscious of the little musician; and she literally beamed as she was enjoying the Saviour’s birthday gift. She had used it to pay for her transportation to the temple. Her eyes shone with a new luster; her step was lighter; she radiated joy and peace as she came through the temple with new light, new hope. And I whispered to myself, ‘Thank the Lord for good folks who remember the Redeemer on his birthday.’”4

When I was only four years old, I had pneumonia. Although I don’t remember much about that illness, two things are as vivid to me now as they were when they happened all those years ago.
I remember my mother holding me close, bundled up in a blanket, as we drove to the hospital on a very cold, snowy day. I remember the warmth and love that I felt from her.
And I remember my father giving me a priesthood blessing. I don’t remember the words, but I remember the feeling of strength and of assurance that all would be well. That’s where my testimony really started.
I had no idea how sick I was, but later my parents told me how very worried and concerned they had been, for I almost died. After spending two weeks under an oxygen tent in the hospital, however, I got better.
That illness helped me develop a strong faith in the gospel of Jesus Christ. I learned to have faith that there is a loving Father in Heaven Who cares about us, and faith that through the strength and belief of others, such as our parents, we can come through those kinds of scary times.

SISTER JAGGI: As we prepare to receive the gift of power found in the temple ordinances, the Lord confirms the temple is a place of holiness. As we prepare, we may experience more abundant peace. In late spring 2007, we stood outside the Salt Lake City Temple with our four children, family, and friends who anxiously awaited the exit of Aunt Emily and Uncle Brian who had just been sealed inside. Sometimes the waiting outside the temple can feel long, especially for little ones. I remember looking towards the north side of the temple at ground level seeing our nine-year-old, Mackenzie, wearing her white baptismal dress, peering into the stained-glass window.

She tilted her head and angled her body, studying out a hopeful view to anything she could possibly see inside. We were moved as she returned to us with enthusiastic anticipation. She expressed she just wanted to go inside the temple! It was not yet her time.

A photographer friend nearby captured this tender moment of connection and later painted this scene. It hangs in our bedroom now as a precious memory that teaches us much. Throughout her childhood, the Primary song “I Love to See the Temple” was one of her favorites and had secured its place in her bedtime medley of lullabies we would sing her and subsequent children night after night. Reflecting back, I see that the truths of this song served as a daily affirmation of her love for and preparation to enter the house of the Lord on her birthday as a 12-year-old in the Los Angeles California Temple baptistry.

President Ch’oi next suggested that we put an article about my search in one of the Seoul newspapers. He told me that, since the Korean War, many people trying to find lost family members had used the newspapers. We met with a reporter, who wrote a brief description of my sister and me and our history as far as we knew it. On 2 June 1984, the article appeared in the paper. We immediately received many telephone calls from people who thought we might be part of their family.
One telephone call was unusual. I couldn’t understand all the man said, but with my companion’s help, I learned that his name was Ko In Soo. He was calling from Shillim, a small village outside Weonju. He told of a set of twin girls his family had given up for adoption in the late 1950s. I doubted that my sister and I were the twins. Although our baby pictures were similar, my sister’s and my birthdates were different.
But Ko In Soo invited us to meet him. He asked us, if it were possible, to first meet with his son Ko Hun Kyu, who lived in Seoul. Ko Hun Kyu and his mother were the two who had given the twin girls to the orphanage. So we called him and arranged for a meeting.
What if the man’s story was true? Ko Hun Kyu would then be one of my relatives! I wasn’t sure if I was ready to see him yet. When I met Mr. Ko and his wife, he stared at me and said that I looked exactly like his aunt. With tears in his eyes, he began his story. He expressed deep regret for having given the twins up for adoption. I was skeptical and wanted to see proof—pictures and records. And what about our different birthdates?
Mr. Ko invited us to his home to show me the family photo album. Unfortunately, he did not have any pictures of the woman he called my mother. I was still doubtful, so we called the family in Shillim and made plans to visit them.
Shillim is a small village—so small it doesn’t even have a bus stop. But the bus driver made a special stop for us. The air was clean, fresh, and warm as we walked on a dirt path with rice fields on both sides. Ko Hun Kyu led the way. We came to the village—a small store and a group of houses. We crossed a street and saw an old man waiting at a gate for us. He was short and browned by the Korean sun.
He seemed excited, and he kept staring at me. His home was made of weathered wood, clay, and paper. We walked to the house, took off our shoes, and stepped up to the wood porch and into the room. On one side were all the family’s belongings piled against the wall—a few boxes, a folding table, some cushions, and some clothes.
The whole family gathered around me. They stared at me and talked about my eyes and facial shape being exactly the same as the person they thought was my mother. They were convinced that I was one of the twin girls they had given up.
When I asked to see their records, they brought out their dust-covered photograph albums. They turned to one picture in particular. An elderly couple were on one side of the yellowed family portrait. Their daughter—the woman they called my mother—was in the middle, and their son—Ko In Soo—and his wife were on the other side. Ko Hun Kyu was in the front row with some other children. I saw no resemblance between me and the person they claimed was my mother, although I saw a resemblance between me and the elderly couple. Was this woman really my mother? She was tiny and frail and looked much younger than her twenty-six years.
Ko In Soo told us the rest of the story. His sister, Ko In Soon, had married Kim Chin Ku, who was from another village. The couple had moved to Ch’ungpoong, where some time later she had given birth to a son. A year after the son’s birth, she had given birth to twin girls, but she died shortly afterwards. When Ko In Soo had heard of his sister’s death, he had gone to Ch’ungpoong and had brought the three children to Shillim. With several children of his own and without the means to support them all, he had decided to place the twins in an orphanage. The administrators there had recorded different birthdates for the twins because they felt that twins would have little chance of being adopted together.
In the meantime, Kim Chin Ku, my father, had married again. He had come to get the children, only to learn that the twins had been adopted. He had brought his son back with him to Ch’ungpoong. Mr. Ko told me that he had heard that the Kim family was still living there, though the father was very sick.
When he finished the story, I asked Mr. Ko if they had any other family records. Ko In Soo went to the drawers on one side of the room and pulled out a rice paper book, yellowed with age. I opened the book to see Chinese and Korean characters recording the family genealogy. What a beautiful, priceless treasure! I left Shillim feeling that I had found what I came for.

By the time Anna was two, her family was living above her father’s shop in a tiny building at Number 18 Camomile Street, London, England. Across the way stood a rank of hackney coaches. The old horses often waited for hours in the rain, and in the wintertime stamped their feet on the treacherous frozen cobblestones to keep warm. They were plagued by flies during the summer and developed harness sores from pulling their heavy loads.
There was one coal black horse there with a white flash on his forehead, and every day Anna watched him as she waited, nose against the glass, until her mother was free to take her across the street to see him.
Mary Sewell often held her daughter up so that she could feed an apple to the horse. As he ate, Anna talked to him while checking his bit or untangling a knot in his mane. The coachman was amazed that the child showed no fear.
Anna’s mother, a remarkable woman, taught her own children. She took Anna and her brother to the country each day and they returned, brown from the sun, carrying wild flowers and birds’ nests to study. To earn money to buy her children books, she wrote a reader called Walks with Mama and sold it for three pounds.
Anna was elated when the family moved to an old mansion called Palatine House at Stoke Newington, for there she was able to attend her first school.
One cloudy day when she was fourteen, Anna raced off to school in her usual hurry, forgetting her umbrella. After school that day it began to rain. At the gate Anna fell and sprained her ankle. Doctors in those days didn’t have the benefit of X-ray machines, and sometimes mistakes were made in the treatment of bones and ligaments. For the rest of her life Anna was crippled. At times she could walk a little, but much of the time she was an invalid.
The family’s move to Lancing, when Anna was twenty-five, enabled the family to keep a pony and carriage. Each day Anna drove her father to Shoreham to catch the Brighton train, and then in the evening she picked him up. During these drives Anna was unaware that she was laying up much information that she could use later in writing Black Beauty.
By the time Anna was fifty, she was virtually an invalid, but her diary reveals that she must have been a very busy one.
An entry dated August 21, 1877, reads: “My first proofs of Black Beauty are come—very nice type.”
This book that was thought over and lived with for so many years before being written comes to life in spare, direct, and truthful words. Anna’s Quaker background gave her great reverence for people and justice.
Although the book proved very popular with all age groups, the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals showed little interest. But George T. Angell of Boston, founder of the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, had been watching for a story to promote humane treatment of horses. After reading Black Beauty, he raised enough money to print 10,000 copies of the book. And he made an appeal to the readers of the SPCA magazine.
By the end of 1890, two hundred sixteen thousand copies of Black Beauty had been sold. Twenty years later the book was still selling a quarter million copies yearly.
Anna Sewell died a year after the book’s publication on April 25, 1878, of a painful lung infection. When the horse-drawn hearse arrived at the door, her mother looked down from an upstairs window and saw that the horses had bearing-reins [checkreins]. “Oh, this will never do!” she exclaimed and hurried to order the cruel, restricting reins removed. This loving mother thereby performed one more service for her daughter and for her daughter’s friends, the horses.

“They’re putting the Angel Moroni statue on the temple!” cried Nicole. Joey, her three-year-old brother, ran to the window to see.
Nicole’s best friend, Kim, was visiting from next door. She and Nicole watched the machinery and workers swarming over the building as the statue was lowered into place. “Remember our tree house that used to be over there?” Kim said sadly.
“A tree house is for a little time,” Nicole said. “A temple is forever.”
“Not being a Mormon, I wouldn’t know,” answered Kim.
Nicole remembered watching day after day as the equipment crunched and leveled the desert. It had seemed like the groundwork had taken forever. But gradually the majestic, white Las Vegas Nevada Temple had risen at the foot of Sunrise Mountain. Six white spires reached toward the sky.
“They’re like fingers,” Mom said, “directing our thoughts heavenward.”
And now a great statue of the Angel Moroni, golden, with uplifted trumpet, was placed on the spire over the east entrance.
By November, grass, shrubbery, and flowers had all been planted behind a graceful iron fence. Trees were in place. The temple was completed.
Nicole invited Kim to go to the temple open house with her and her family.
“I’m not a Mormon,” Kim reminded her.
“Everybody is invited to the open house before the temple is dedicated,” Nicole assured her.
“My parents may not let me go,” said Kim. “They think Mormons are strange.”
“Do they think my family is strange?”
“Of course not,” said Kim. “They know you.”
Nicole laughed. “If they knew other Mormons, they wouldn’t think they were strange, either.”
“Let’s ask if I can go,” said Kim.
A few minutes later Nicole burst back into the house. “Kim’s mom said she could go to the open house!”
The next morning Nicole lay on her stomach in the living room. Using her new magic markers, she made a poster for Primary. Mom held Joey on her lap, reading a story about a tiger to him. When she finished, Joey asked to hear it “lots more.”
After Mom read it again, she closed the book. “It’s time to get ready for the open house,” she said.
Nicole called Kim, then scurried upstairs to dress. Mom and Dad were waiting for her when she came down.
“Where’s Joey?” Mom asked. “I dressed him in his new suit and told him to wait here.”
Nicole went to find him. She came back leading a squirming Joey. Everybody laughed—Joey had found the magic markers. He had bright orange and black stripes on his face and arms.
“I’m a tiger,” he announced.
“Tigers can’t go to the temple,” Mom said. “Temples are quiet places. Let’s wash the stripes off so that a reverent Joey can go.”
Just as Kim arrived, Mom returned with a freshly scrubbed Joey. They all walked across the street to the temple and waited their turn to sit in the rows of chairs where people helped them slip surgical booties over their shoes.
“These are to keep the new carpet clean,” Nicole explained quietly to Kim.
“No, Joey,” Nicole heard Mom whisper.
Joey had booties on both hands and feet. “A tiger has four paws,” Joey protested as Mom took the booties from his hands.
“Remember that the tiger changed his stripes back home—you’re Joey,” Mom reminded him softly as she tried to calm him down.
Nicole and Kim went ahead, followed by Mom, Dad, and Joey. Men and women dressed in white directed lines of people walking silently on the soft, rose-colored carpet.
Looking at lovely pictures on the rose-tinted walls, Kim whispered, “Why do you have pictures of Jesus everywhere? I thought you worshiped Mormon.”
“Our church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” Nicole whispered back. “Mormon was a keeper of ancient records and a prophet, but we don’t worship him.”
The two girls stopped to look at the beautiful white baptismal font resting on the back of twelve oxen. “We do baptisms for the dead here,” Nicole quietly told her friend.
Kim’s eyes widened. “You baptize dead people?”
“No, no!” whispered Nicole. “Everyone eight years of age or older needs to be baptized to live with Heavenly Father again. Many people have died without baptism, so living people come to the temple and are baptized for them.”
Nicole and Kim passed elegant tables on which were beautiful vases with lovely flower arrangements. Nicole was happy to share this quiet beauty with her best friend.
The two girls peeked into a sealing room. “This is where I’ll be married,” Nicole said softly. “I’ll be dressed in my white wedding gown, and my Church friends and family will be with me.”
In the celestial room, Nicole gazed at the crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead. Sunshine sifted through the cut-glass windows, splashing bits of rainbows about on the room’s furniture and white walls.
“Where’s Joey?” Mom whispered worriedly. “He slipped away from me at the door.”
Nicole began a frantic search. She turned when she heard a low growl. There was Joey’s head behind a big potted palm!
“Never bother a tiger!” he growled softly.
Nicole took his hand and said calmly and quietly, “Tigers are not allowed in the temple—only reverent people. You changed your stripes. You’re Joey, remember?”
Dad carried Joey the rest of the way. At home, he said, “Now you can be a tiger again.”
“This tiger changed his stripes,” said Joey. “I’m Joey now, and when I grow up, I’m going to the temple again.”
The next day when Kim came, she said, “I told Mom and Dad all about the temple, and we’re all going to the open house today!”
After Kim left, Nicole ran to tell Mom. “Do you think they might join the Church?” she asked.
Mom took hot loaves of date nut bread from the oven. She sliced one, spread honey on three slices, and gave one to each of them and to Joey, who had followed his nose to the kitchen. “We can hope so, but you and Kim will still be friends if they don’t, won’t you?”
Nicole smiled at Joey licking honey from his bread. “Yes, Mom, but you know—if a tiger can change his stripes, anything is possible.”

Darrell Bevell had a decision to make. It wasn’t an easy one.
Growing up as the son of a football coach, Darrell had always enjoyed sports, whether it was basketball, baseball, or football. If his parents wanted to keep him happy, they put a ball in his hand. Consequently, whatever sport was in season Darrell was playing it. Big ball in the winter, small ball in the spring, oval ball in the fall. He was a good basketball and baseball player, but it was football where he really excelled. And as a quarterback it had always been Darrell’s goal to earn a football scholarship to a major college.
“I had been recruited by Arizona State, Washington, New Mexico, BYU, Utah, and Wyoming. Most of the big schools in the West were interested in me,” says Darrell. “I had a really good junior year and played well in the first two games of my senior season when I broke a finger on my throwing hand. I missed the rest of the season, and most of the teams that were recruiting me backed off because of the injury.”
Darrell eventually signed to play football at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff. It wasn’t exactly a big-time college football program as had been his plan, but school would be paid for and he was going to play college football.
“When I signed for that scholarship to play football, that was my dream. That’s what I always wanted to do. Right then I said, ‘Nope. I’m not going on a mission.’ I didn’t stop and really think about it because I got caught up in the excitement and everything.” That was the spring of 1988.
After signing with Northern Arizona, Darrell headed north from his home in Scottsdale, a suburb of Phoenix, to Flagstaff for two-a-day football practices in August. All he had on his mind was football. The mission thing had been decided, he thought.
“During those summer practices, I had been playing pretty well,” Darrell recalls. “But for some odd reason, right before the season started, it popped into my head, ‘Go on a mission.’ I knew I was about ready to turn 19, and I was still going to church every Sunday. But I again said, ‘Nope. I’m not going on a mission.’”
And that’s when an amazing turn of events took place. Almost immediately after deciding for the second time he wouldn’t go on a mission, Darrell began struggling on the field. “It was really amazing. A guy would go out for a short pattern and I’d throw the ball at his feet,” Darrell says. “So I called my dad and told him how this dang mission kept popping into my head and that I was starting to play terrible.”
Darrell’s father, Jim, told him to think about a mission and then pray about what he should do. “I did that, but I told the Lord in my prayer that I couldn’t quit the team because the season had already begun. I did promise the Lord that as soon as the season was over I’d begin thinking about a mission,” he recalls.
There was only one problem with that plan. When the season ended, Darrell didn’t think about a mission again. He had redshirted during his freshman season, so even though he was a sophomore in school, he was still only a freshman in football eligibility. And when the Lumberjacks’s starting quarterback the previous two years went down with an injury in spring practice, Darrell emerged as the number one quarterback. His dream had finally come true. He was going to be the starting quarterback for Northern Arizona University.
“After everything had been decided and I had talked to the coaches about being the starter, boom, going on a mission popped right back into my head,” says Darrell. “It had been a long time since I’d even thought about going on a mission, so I started praying about it. I kept praying and praying until I finally knew a mission is what I needed to do. I already knew the Church was true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I just decided I should go on a mission too.”
Now he had a problem of a different sort. For two years, Darrell had been concentrating on football and telling everybody he wasn’t going on a mission. Now that he had decided to serve the Lord, he had to tell his coach he wouldn’t be his quarterback. Driving to Flagstaff with his father to break the news to the coaching staff, Darrell had a good case of butterflies in his stomach. “When I got to his office, I was really nervous,” he says.
After the quarterback and the coach shook hands, Darrell said, “Coach, I’m going to go on a mission for my church. I’m not going to come back next season.”
Obviously, finding out your starting quarterback is leaving the team for two years isn’t the kind of news that helps a coach sleep well at night. After hearing Darrell’s decision, he began trying to dissuade him. Darrell listened as his coach told him how football players who go on missions lose their drive to play after they return home, and how he was throwing away a chance at stardom. “I was believing a lot of what he was saying. But I’ve always been the kind of person who makes a decision then sticks to it. That’s something I’ve always tried to do. Since I’d already made my decision to go, it wasn’t that hard, regardless of what the coach was saying.”
So long, Flagstaff, Arizona. Hello, Cleveland Ohio Mission.
“I had a great experience, and I loved my mission. The work was really going well there, and we had a lot of good missionaries,” Darrell says. “Of course, I wanted to play football after my mission, but I figured the Lord would take care of that. I had always wanted to play football, and somehow I knew it was going to work out.”
When Darrell’s mission was almost complete, he began thinking more and more about football. He knew the coaching staff at Northern Arizona had been fired, so he was an unknown commodity to the new coaching staff there. The great mystery in Darrell Bevell’s life was where he was going to go to college. Would he ever get to stand on the field and throw balls to open receivers? Would anybody offer him a scholarship?
One of his assistant coaches at Northern Arizona had taken a job as an assistant at the University of Wisconsin, and he remembered Darrell. In need of another quarterback in the program, the assistant got in contact with Darrell’s dad and asked if he thought his son would be interested in playing football in Wisconsin. Considering Wisconsin competes in one of the country’s top football conferences, and that it plays its home games in a 75,000-seat stadium, Darrell’s dad figured he might be able to persuade his son to check out the school.
After he finished his mission in October of 1991, Darrell made his recruiting trip to the University of Wisconsin and became convinced that was the place for him. “I basically decided then that I wanted to go there,” he says. He sat out the entire 1991 season and got ready for 1992.
During his freshman season of 1992, Darrell broke into the starting lineup in Wisconsin’s second game against Bowling Green State, and helped engineer a win over then number-12 ranked Ohio State in the Badgers’s fourth game. What made that victory all the better is that it was televised nationally by ESPN. Needless to say, a lot of people in Scottsdale, as well as those who knew him as Elder Bevell in Ohio, were crowded around their television sets. A shoulder injury hampered his play the remainder of the season, but he still completed 51 percent of his passes and threw for eight touchdowns. The future is extremely bright for Darrell as he prepares for his sophomore season. And the missionary work continues.
“It seems like every time an article is written about me, the first thing it says is my name and that I’m a member of the Church or that I’m a returned missionary,” he adds. “If I were at BYU, nobody would have cared. It would have been the same old story. But here at Wisconsin, not that many people know about the Church so it’s a bigger deal.”
A big deal just like Wisconsin’s victory over Ohio State. However, Darrell still knows that was just one game, and winning football games isn’t the most important thing in his life. “Beating Ohio State on national television was nice, but how long does that last?” he asks. “Seeing someone going into the waters of baptism is so great. I remember I was able to baptize a woman the day before I went home from my mission. I know that ordinance is something that is going to last forever. It’s something I’ll always remember. I don’t think that when we get into the afterlife someone’s going to say, ‘How about that one drive against Ohio State when you were five for five and you were able to pull it out on national television?’ But I might see that woman I baptized and have her come up to me and give me a big hug and say thank you very much.”
Maybe it’s a little strange to Wisconsin football fans that while most 23-year-olds have already graduated from college, Darrell Bevell is only a sophomore. Maybe Darrell’s teammates can’t understand why he would take two years off from football, not make a cent on his mission, and not be able to go to movies, watch TV, or date while he was a missionary. Maybe they never will understand. But Darrell does. In his life, he’s glad his job on the football field didn’t interfere with his call to the mission field.

My husband and I were missionaries serving in Tarbes, France, in the Pyrenees Mountains. It was Christmas Eve, and we decided to go down to the city at Verdun Plaza to give away copies of the Book of Mormon. The street was deserted, and we started to ask ourselves what we were going to do with so many books. Suddenly, we saw a young man who seemed to not know where to go.
We approached him and offered him a Book of Mormon. He became joyful as he listened to us talk about the gospel. He explained that he was alone that Christmas night and that he would read the Book of Mormon and not feel alone.
After he left, we looked around the street again and saw a woman walking slowly toward us in the cold night. A glimmer of happiness shone in her eyes when we presented her with a Book of Mormon. She told us that she had become a widow recently and was happy that we were concerned about her. She said she was extremely grateful to us. As she walked away, we saw her hold the book against her heart.
That night we distributed every copy of the Book of Mormon that we had brought with us. Most of the people who we gave them to were alone, distressed, and very much in need of love. We went back home that night with the impression that we had received the greatest Christmas gift because of the joy that we were able to give to others.

Thus the Lord, by revelation, brings inspiration into one’s mind as though a voice were speaking. Elder Harold B. Lee gave this testimony:
“I have a believing heart because of a simple testimony that came when I was a child, I think maybe I was around ten—maybe eleven—years of age. I was with my father out on a farm away from our home, trying to spend the day busying myself until father was ready to go home. Over the fence from our place were some tumbledown sheds which had attracted a curious boy, adventurous as I was. I started to climb through the fence and I heard a voice as clearly as you are hearing mine—‘Don’t go over there!’ calling me by name. I turned to look at father to see if he were talking to me, but he was way up at the other end of the field. There was no person in sight. I realized then, as a child, that there were persons beyond my sight and I had heard a voice. And when I had heard and read these stories of the Prophet Joseph Smith, I, too, know what it means to hear a voice because I’ve heard from an unseen speaker” (Divine Revelation, Brigham Young University Speeches of the Year, Provo, 15 Oct. 1952, p. 6).

It’s what’s inside that counts, at least that’s what Mom always said. And while Joshua didn’t understand everything that that meant, he was sure that his mom knew what she was talking about when it came to chocolate-covered cherries. They were one of his dad’s favorite treats at Christmastime, and they had become one of Josh’s also.
This wonderful candy was shaped like a little pitcher’s mound with a swirl of chocolate on top. And while the chocolate outside was good, it was the inside that Joshua really loved: a gooey, sticky, sweet, white cream and liquid surrounding a delicious maraschino cherry. The liquid center sometimes made it a little difficult to eat without making a mess, but that challenge was all part of the fun.
Sometimes he bit right into the top and looked down as if looking into a volcano with a red-hot-lava cherry. Sometimes this caused the side to break, and the hot lava came gushing out onto his hand, making him slurp and lick as quickly as he could to keep from getting sticky all over. Sometimes he tried to eat one in one gigantic bite. Being only six, that was a lot of candy in his mouth and sometimes a little juice squirted out onto his chin.
But his favorite way to eat a chocolate-covered cherry was to turn it upside down and carefully nibble off the bottom piece of chocolate. That left him with a little cup full of delicious syrup with a cherry floating in it like ice cream in root beer floats. Then he would sip a little juice and nibble a little chocolate. He could eat the cherry inside whenever he wanted, but he usually saved it for his last bite!
One Saturday before Christmas, Dad asked that magic question, “Who wants a chocolate-covered cherry?” The family had just finished lunch, and Joshua thought that it was the perfect time for just such a treat.
Joshua and his brother, Jacob, both cried, “Me! Me!” Jaclyn, their older sister, would certainly want one, too, but she had finished lunch early and was in another room on the computer.
“Wait!” Dad said. He was standing in the kitchen, holding the box of cherries with a sad look on his face. “There are only two chocolate-covered cherries left. What should we do?”
Josh thought about it. They could cut one in half. They had done that before with other candy. But cutting a chocolate-covered cherry would only make a big mess and ruin the candy. They could just quietly eat them in the kitchen, and Jaclyn wouldn’t even know. But he knew that that wasn’t really fair.
He started to think about the family home evening lesson they’d had that week. They had learned that Christmas is the celebration of Christ’s birth and how He came to earth to give us all a very special gift that only He could give. The family had talked about how Christmas isn’t about all the things you get but about showing love to your family and friends.
Suddenly a wonderful and terrible thought entered his mind. It was terrible because it meant missing out on his favorite treat. It was wonderful because it was what Joshua knew that Jesus would want him to do.
“Dad,” he said, “you can give mine to Jaclyn.” He almost couldn’t believe his own mouth was saying those words. But as soon as he said them, he felt a wonderful, warm feeling inside. It was as if his whole insides had become like the inside of a chocolate-covered cherry—sweet and happy.
“Are you sure, Josh?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Josh said, this time with a smile on his face.
Dad gave the last piece to Jaclyn, and Josh couldn’t believe that he could be so happy about not getting a chocolate-covered cherry.
That night, after pajamas were put on, teeth were brushed, prayers were said, and Mom and Dad had kissed everyone and tucked them into bed, Joshua lay awake thinking about his day. As the glow from the Christmas lights on the house filtered into his room, he thought about his decision to give the last chocolate-covered cherry to Jaclyn and how happy she had been and how wonderful that had made him feel. And then he realized his mom was right—it is what’s on the inside that counts!

Carlos was just about your size when his parents sent him to Mexico to stay with his grandmother. Carlos’s family was moving to a different part of Colorado, and Carlos’s father told him that as soon as they had found a new house and moved into it, they would send for him.
Carlos’s Uncle Pablo drove him to Mexico. They traveled over hot, dusty roads and through deserts and mountains. Finally, in one little village next to the mountains, his uncle smiled at Carlos and said, “We’re here.”
As they pulled up in front of a tiny white adobe house, chickens scattered in every direction, flapping their wings and squawking at the car and its passengers.
An old lady came out of the house. She had dark brown skin and white hair. Carlos’s uncle threw his arms around her and kissed her cheek.
“Carlos,” his uncle said, “do you remember your grandmother?”
“Bienvenido (welcome), Carlos.” The woman smiled at him.
Carlos just stood there. He hadn’t been with his grandmother since he was a baby, and he didn’t remember her at all. Finally he looked up at his uncle. “Uncle Pablo, I don’t want to be here!” Carlos whispered, even though he knew his grandmother couldn’t understand English.
“Now, Carlos, remember that you agreed to give it a try here. It’s just for a little while,” Uncle Pablo said. “Here, see if you’re strong enough to carry this into the house.” Pablo took the old, battered suitcase out of the car and handed it to Carlos.
Carlos dropped the suitcase just inside the door. He walked through both rooms of the house. The wooden furniture looked strange to him, as did the pictures with beads hanging from them on the walls. In the middle of the larger room stood a tall, wooden machine with rows of yarn going up and down; on the floor around it lay several balls of colorful yarn.
Carlos walked out the back door and into the cooking shed, where black pots and pans hung on the wall and firewood was piled in the corner. He saw that his uncle and grandmother were still talking, and he decided that somehow he’d think of a way to get his uncle to take him back to Colorado.
Carlos went through the backyard to the other side of the house. He saw some boys playing in the street and walked closer to watch them. Suddenly a dog ran up and started barking at him. The boys stopped playing, and one of them called the dog. They all yelled a greeting to Carlos, but he couldn’t understand them. They called again, and when he still didn’t respond, they started to laugh.
Carlos turned and ran away from them. I can’t help it if I don’t understand Spanish! he thought.
Carlos ran through the village and didn’t stop until he’d climbed a small hill. From the top of the hill he could see his grandmother’s house. “Oh no!” he agonized. “Uncle Pablo’s car is gone!”
The sinking sun had turned the faraway clouds into a red, orange, and pink sunset before Carlos returned to his grandmother’s house. She was busy making dinner in the cooking shed. When she looked up and saw Carlos, she put down the bowl she was holding and grasped his shoulders. “Carlos!” she cried, then went on excitedly in Spanish. Carlos didn’t understand her words, but he understood that she had been worried about him and that he wasn’t to wander off again without telling her. Grown-ups are all alike in every language, Carlos decided.
During dinner Grandma tried teaching him the names of the things that she pointed to: mesa (table), plato (plate), tenedor (fork), pan (bread), frijoles (beans), arroz (rice), limonada (lemonade). Carlos just picked at his food. When his mother made Mexican food, it was always a treat, but now all he wanted was a hamburger with catsup and mustard and pickles.
After dinner Grandma worked at her loom by the dim light of a kerosene lamp, weaving fabric from the colorful yarns. As she worked, she sang softly and looked up every few minutes to smile at Carlos. Carlos sat on the floor watching his grandmother, wishing that she had a television set.
Grandma let Carlos sleep in the only bed in the house. She covered him with a sheet, let down the mosquito netting, then tucked its edges under the mattress. “Buenas noches (good night), Carlos.” She went into the other room and put out the lamp.
Darkness closed in on Carlos. Crickets chirped nearby. He turned over and looked out the window at a bright star and wondered if that same star was shining down on his parents. All day he had fought tears, but he couldn’t stop them anymore. Soon he was sobbing out of control.
Grandma lighted the kerosene lamp again and came into the room. Lifting the mosquito netting and sitting on the bed next to Carlos, she pulled him up into her arms. “Carlos, Carlos.” She put her soft cheek against his forehead and gently rocked back and forth, humming softly.
“I want my dad … and my mom,” Carlos sobbed.
Grandma got up, took his hand, and led him to a wooden chest in the other room. From the chest she took brightly colored fabric and soft-colored dresses and placed them aside. Then she took out what looked like a small, woven blanket with broad stripes of green, red, white, and orange. One of the corners was slightly burned. She held it out for Carlos to take. “Sarape (serape),” she said.
Then the old woman brought out something wrapped in white lace. She took off the lace, revealing a book. Smiling at Carlos, she opened the book so that he could see it. Black and white photographs filled each page. She turned the pages slowly, smiling at pictures of a bride and a groom and babies. Pointing to a picture of a young boy, she said, “Tu papi (your daddy).”
Carlos looked closely at the picture. It was like looking at himself. It was his father, standing with the same sarape over his shoulder. Also in the picture was a beautiful young woman with her arm around him.
Carlos ran his fingers over the coarse fabric of the sarape. His father’s fingers had probably felt this fabric the same way when they were the same size as Carlos’s were now.
He looked up from the picture at his grandmother. She wore her white hair pulled back in a bun—the same way it was in the picture—only then her hair had been black. She’s still pretty, Carlos decided.
As he looked at his grandmother, she smiled, but a tear ran down her cheek too. Suddenly Carlos understood that she loved his father as much as he did and that she was as lonely for him as he was.
“Grandma,” Carlos said simply, putting his arms around her.
Tears came to both their eyes, but this time they were tears of joy.
When Grandma had tucked Carlos back into bed, she placed the sarape on the end of the bed.
“Thank you, Grandma,” Carlos said, smiling up at her. “Everything is going to be good, I can tell.”
Grandma smiled at Carlos, then bent down and gently kissed him good night. “Te quiero mucho (I love you a lot), Carlos.”

When I was 11, I started doing yard work for Grandpa. Either he would pick me up in his white Dodge Dart or I would ride my Schwinn Stingray across the overpass to his house. At first all I did was mow his lawn, but later I started pruning, planting, and working the compost pile. When we worked in the garden, Grandpa always wore a pair of brown trousers stained with paint and grass. He cinched the trousers high on his waist with a ragged belt that was too long, and tried to keep his plaid shirt tucked into them. On his head sat a mesh golf cap, and in his hand he carried his working cane, a dull-colored hardwood cane my sister Kris had bought in Salt Lake City, as a Christmas gift for him one year.
The handle of the cane was curved like the wood on Mom’s bentwood rocker, but rougher, and the shaft disappeared into a round rubber toe like the kind used on crutches. This cane was not as stiff as Grandpa’s first cane, nor as elegant as his second, but it was more useful than both of them. He not only used it around the house for opening cupboards or reaching for the phone book, but outside as a garden tool.
When he needed to water a dry spot out between the pine trees, he would hobble through the grass, pulling the hose along behind him with his cane. In early spring, after I had pruned his fruit trees, he held the discarded limbs in place with his cane while I tightened the twine around them. And over Memorial Day weekend we planted his garden together: I dug the furrows and bent low to plant the seeds, and he followed behind, pushing the soil over the seeds with the handle of his cane, then tamping the soil until it was firm. Later in the summer, he would hold the clambering delphinium stocks away from the fence while I tied them to stakes. And in October he would sit patiently under his pear tree in a chair, staring into the boughs, pointing with his cane to a piece of fruit I had missed.
After a few years, during which it was used for virtually everything, the cane was all scratches and dents. Part of the handle had splintered badly, then worn smooth again so that I could feel a slight depression when I held the cane. The upper part of the bow was discolored from being held so much, and near the rubber toe were splashes of paint and grease. When Grandpa first got this cane I didn’t like it much—there was nothing distinctive about it—but after years of constant use it developed a personality. It didn’t protect or dazzle, but it served well.

My friend Melinda and I were trying to decide who to share a batch of freshly baked cookies with. After a minute of thinking, we both looked at each other and said, “Sister Cobabe!” She had been our Mia Maid adviser, and I often baby-sat her two young children. She was one of our favorite people.
We wrapped the cookies up and wrote a short note. It read: “We think you are a wonderful person. Thanks for all you have done. We hope you have a wonderful day. Love, Wendi and Melinda.”
We left the cookies on the doorstep, rang the doorbell, and ran, leaving our surprise on the Cobabes’ porch.
In Young Women class the next week, Sister Cobabe approached me and handed me a card. I walked over to Melinda, and we read the card together. It said:
“I wanted to thank you both for the cookies. They were so good! I also wanted you both to know that I think the love you show to me and others is wonderful. I really needed a lift the day you brought the card and the cookies over. The next day, I had a death in my family. It was such a comfort knowing someone was thinking of me. Always remember you deserve only the best in life. Love you both, Sister Cobabe.”
I felt a warm feeling blanket my heart. A large smile crept onto my face. We had really helped her.
Melinda and I recalled that her name had seemed to occur to both of us out of nowhere. Now we realized that we had received a prompting to give the cookies to her.
My heart swelled as I read the note again. Even though it was only a small gesture of kindness, Sister Cobabe had really needed it. The Lord had used me to help someone else.

Shortly after Elder Hinckley arrived in England, he got sick, and “it seemed that everyone was prejudiced against us,” he recalled. “Those first few weeks, because of illness and the opposition which we felt, I was discouraged.” During this difficult time, he wrote a letter to his father, saying that he felt he was wasting his time and money.

His father sent back a short note: “Dear Gordon, I have your recent letter. I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work.”3 Elder Hinckley did just that: he stayed and worked hard.

Years ago, I received the phone call that no one ever wants. A police officer told me that my wife had just been in a car accident, she was unconscious, and they were rushing her to the emergency room. It turned my life upside down.

Thankfully, she and the other driver were OK. In the days that followed, with all kinds of tests, and more questions than answers, we learned that she had had a cluster of seizures out of the blue.

We were full of questions, and we were scared. We didn't know what impact this would have on our lives. Our first baby was nine months old and had to be weaned that weekend. Would we be able to have more kids? Would this impact my wife's ability to work or do things independently? Would there be short- or long-term health ramifications?

If you've had an experience like this, you know that, even though intellectually you understand the situation, it weighs really heavily on your heart. I can still remember the feeling of walking back to my bedroom after talking with someone about logistics, and the tears just coming to my eyes as the emotions welled up.

That Sunday when I came home from church, my home teacher, who happened to be a nurse, was waiting for me in my driveway. He came in and just sat and talked with me. I don't even
remember exactly what he said, but his love and reassurance gave me so much peace and confidence. He answered the call that day.

Because of the situation, we learned that my wife couldn't drive for at least three months. Our Relief Society president said she would talk with the sisters about lining up some potential people to help with rides. Later, she came over to our house with a list of over 20 sisters who said they would love to help.

I will forever be grateful for the way all of these people answered the call with a spirit of "Here am I, send me."

In the meantime, Elder John E. Forsgren had been set apart to preach the gospel in Sweden. He proceeded to the city of Gefle on June 19, 1850. His younger sister had been told in a dream that a visitor was about to come with three books and that those who believed in them should be saved. She accepted the gospel when her brother came with the Bible, the Book of Mormon, and the Doctrine and Covenants. Her brother Peter had a lung disease that the doctors said had no cure. Elder Forsgren laid hands on his brother’s head, and Peter was healed by the power of the Lord. Peter was the first to receive baptism in Sweden. He was baptized on July 26, 1850. His sister and two others were baptized on August 3.

Elder Forsgren was soon arrested and banished but found many opportunities to preach the gospel before the highest police officers and judges and in the courtrooms. With the help of the American consul and the captain of a ship bound for New York, he was able to escape to Denmark. He arrived back in Copenhagen on September 18, 1850.

Tessa sat on her bed and wiggled her tooth as hard as she could. It just wouldn’t come out! She pushed. She pulled. But the tooth was still there, and it hurt!
She slid onto the floor with a thump! She tried to think of what else she could do. In Primary she learned how you could ask Heavenly Father for help when you have a problem. Tessa got an idea. Maybe she could pray and ask Heavenly Father to help her tooth fall out!
She knelt by her bed and started to pray.
“Heavenly Father, I need help. My tooth hurts, and I want it to come out. I will wiggle it right after this prayer. I know that You can make it fall out.” She finished her prayer and began wiggling her tooth. Nothing happened. Her tooth stayed in.
OK, she thought. Maybe I just need to try something different.
She remembered that her friend Amy lost a tooth once by biting an apple.
Tessa went to the kitchen. She smelled the chocolate-chip cookies Mom was baking. She could hardly wait to try one. But first she reached for a bright green apple.
Tessa sat down at the table and said another prayer. This time she asked, “Heavenly Father, please make my tooth come out when I bite the apple.”
One bite later, the tooth still hadn’t budged! Tessa sighed and put the apple down. Didn’t Heavenly Father hear her prayer? Didn’t He want to help her?
Beep! The timer for the cookies went off. Mom opened the oven and checked the cookies.
“It looks like they need to stay in for a little longer,” Mom said.
“Why can’t we take them out now?” Tessa asked.
“We could,” Mom said, “but they wouldn’t be crispy the way you like them.”
Tessa thought for a moment. Maybe just like she needed to be patient for the cookies, she needed to be patient for her tooth to come out on its own!
She felt peaceful. She knew Heavenly Father loved her and had heard her prayer.
Tessa ran upstairs to her room and knelt down. “Heavenly Father,” she said, “thank you for hearing my prayers. I understand. Sometimes the answer is to wait.”

I received permission from my dear friend and emeritus General Authority Seventy, Elder Robert E. Wells, now 97 years old, to share his experience of more than 60 years ago:
While living in Paraguay in 1960 and employed as an international banker, Robert Wells, then 32 years old, and his wife, Meryl, were each a pilot in two different planes, flying home from Uruguay to Paraguay. Encountering thick clouds, Robert and Meryl lost visual and radio contact with each other. Robert quickly landed, where he learned his wife’s plane had crashed. Neither his wife nor the two friends flying with her had survived. His children, at home in Asunción, were ages seven, five, and two.
Elder Wells spoke of his grief:
“Words will forever be inadequate in expressing the pain that swelled within me, consuming my emotions and numbing my senses. Profound tears of sorrow simply wouldn’t stop flowing. To make matters worse, as my mind was attempting to deal with the devastating realization of my wife’s passing, I found myself experiencing tremendous guilt for feeling I was responsible for the crash.”
Robert blamed himself for not having had the plane inspected more thoroughly and for not giving his wife better instrument flying instructions. He felt he was guilty of neglect.
Robert said:
“My mind went into a dark daze. … I simply existed—[for the sake of the children,] nothing more.”
“I … lost my desire to continue on.”
In time, Robert was blessed with a deeply spiritual experience. He recounted:
“One evening, about one year later, while on my knees in prayer, a miracle occurred. While praying and pleading to my Heavenly Father, I felt as though the Savior came to my side and I heard an audible voice speaking these words to my soul and to my ears: ‘Robert, my atoning sacrifice paid for your sins and your mistakes. Your wife forgives you. Your friends forgive you. I will lift your burden. …’
“From that moment, the burden of guilt [and despair] was amazingly lifted from me. I had been rescued! I immediately understood the encompassing power of the Savior’s Atonement and … that it applied directly to me. … I … experienced light and joy like I had never before known. … I had been given an unearned gift—the Lord’s gift of grace. … I didn’t deserve it—I had done nothing to merit it, but He gave it to me nonetheless.”

It was a hot day, and Audrey and her mom were driving home from the grocery store. Among the bottles and packages was a special treat that Audrey had picked out: a box of rainbow ice pops. They were Audrey’s favorite kind of ice pop, even if they did make her mouth turn blue and red. She could hardly wait to get home, have a rainbow pop, and play in the sprinklers to cool off.
“Oh dear,” Mom said, slowing down the car. “All the traffic is stopped ahead.”
As they slowly moved forward, Audrey saw several people standing in the road wearing hard hats and bright vests. They were holding up signs to stop the cars. They looked hot and sweaty.
“Roadwork,” Mom said. “I forgot they were doing that today. I guess we won’t be getting home soon. We’ll just have to be patient.”
“Mom, we need to get home soon, or all my rainbow pops will melt,” Audrey said.
“I’m sorry, but if we’re stopped a long time they probably will melt,” Mom said.
“Can I have one now?” Audrey asked.
“You know we have rules against eating in the car,” Mom reminded her. “Especially sticky things. Sorry, honey.”
Audrey frowned. She was sad to think her rainbow pops might be puddles by the time they got home.
Just then they pulled up next to a road worker. “I need you to wait right here, ma’am,” he said to Audrey’s mom. Then he pulled out a rag and wiped his forehead. “Sure is a scorcher,” he said.
Then Audrey got an idea. She reached into a shopping bag, pulled out the box of rainbow pops, and handed it to Mom.
Mom smiled at Audrey. “Great idea,” she said. She handed the box through the car window to the road worker. “Maybe this will help,” she said.
The man grinned. “I’ll have no problem sharing these. Thank you, ma’am.”
Mom pointed to Audrey. “It was my daughter’s idea. I bought them for her.”
The man waved to Audrey. “Thank you, miss. You’ve made our day.”
Audrey grinned back. She was glad the rainbow pops wouldn’t be wasted.
“That was very kind of you, Audrey,” Mom said. “Maybe when we get home we can make some juice pops instead.”
“Maybe,” Audrey said. She didn’t like juice pops as much as rainbow pops, but she was still glad she gave away her rainbow pops.
As they drove past more road workers, Audrey saw some of them holding up their rainbow pops to stop traffic, while others were doing their work with red or blue mouths. Audrey was sure they all looked a little cooler and a little happier, and that made her as happy as Christmas in July.

The summer before my junior year of high school, I took my first job as a cashier at a fast-food restaurant. The first couple of days were a little shaky. But as time passed, I became one of the fastest button pushers and food gatherers you’ve ever seen.
One day halfway through the summer, it seemed like nothing was going right. Some orders had come out wrong, and the customers were not happy. I had been yelled at more than once. Several times, customers demanded to see my manager. I worried that this one bad day would get me fired.
Soon after the crowds had gone, two young boys came in. When I read their order back to them, the older boy used the Lord’s name in vain and said, “Can’t you get anything right?” I apologized and fixed the mistake. When he handed me a ten-dollar bill, I realized there weren’t enough one-dollar bills to make change. I explained this to the boy, and he cursed again.
As I was putting their order together, I noticed an elderly woman in line talking to the older boy. When I handed him his order, he looked down and apologized for what he had said.
When the woman reached the counter, she said, “I can’t believe how that boy treated you. There was no reason for such behavior.”
I smiled and told her it didn’t bother me. “It’s all right; I’m used to it.” I turned to put the lid on her drink and was surprised that I felt like I was going to cry. I guess it was because someone understood and took the time to talk to me decently.
When I gave her the order, she handed me one-dollar bills to pay for it. I looked up at her, and she said, “I overheard you say you needed one-dollar bills.” Then she winked at me and left.
The rest of the day didn’t seem so bad. I never saw her again, and I don’t think she knew how much she helped me that day. We don’t always know why certain people come into our lives, but this woman was there to help me when I needed it.
No one should ever have to say “It’s all right; I’m used to it.” Now I try extra hard to be nice to people every day. Then, before I go to bed, I ask myself, “Was someone’s day made better or a burden made lighter because of coming in contact with me?” When the answer is yes, the feeling is wonderful.