Gospel Story Finder

Since the teens in Ipswich are often the only members in their school classes, they are sometimes put into the situation of teaching their friends, not just about the Church but about truths in life.
In Lucy Fagg’s case, she had to stand up for the gospel in class. The teacher was discussing some things about the Church that were wrong. Lucy tried to avoid confronting her, but her friends kept looking at her and asking, “Is this true?”
Lucy raised her hand. “The Spirit really helped me to know what to say, to tell her and my whole class that I was a member. I also felt comfort, and I was helped to answer the questions that everyone was asking me.”
Mary Mateer had an experience similar to Lucy’s. “One time a girl in my class asked a question, and I couldn’t sit and not say anything. It felt like the Spirit was pushing me. My heart was pounding the whole time. I just remember hearing the Spirit say to me, ‘Speak about Noah. Speak about Moses.’ It was the most amazing experience I’ve ever had. The words concerning Noah were in my mind, clear as day. I remember looking around the room at the people who were listening. You could see they were really listening. I could tell they felt the Spirit and that what I was saying was true.”
Such experiences give the teens here confidence. They know that they are not alone. They can rely on the Lord for help.
For some teens, feeling the Spirit is a daily occurrence. “One of my favorite times is every night when I start reading the scriptures. The Spirit is so strong,” says Joshua Donker. “Every day I look forward to reading my scriptures and writing in my journal.”
When Diogo Serra has a little time left after he has finished taking a school exam, he prays. At first he said very short prayers, but he started thinking that he would pray longer. He says that now “I have a conversation with my Heavenly Father. I tell the Lord about my week, what I’ve done, and ask for help or advice. That really makes me feel closer to Him.”
Some of the teens in Ipswich have felt the comforting Spirit of the Lord when they were in frightening situations. Tirion Guy told a story about being on a boat on the River Thames during a windy, stormy day. “The river was choppy, and it seemed to be getting worse. I remember some of the plates in the kitchen smashed, and the chairs were going everywhere. We had to walk up the sides of the boat so we wouldn’t fall over. While I was on the boat, I felt comforted that everything would be OK. But when we got off, when we were safe and it was calm, then I cried. When I was going through it, I can’t really describe it, but I was comforted.”
Diana Nunes described one thing about the Spirit that everyone seemed to feel but hadn’t put into words. Diana remembered when she had been sent ahead to live with relatives and start school before the rest of her family moved to England. Her father had given her a blessing, promising her that she would have confidence while they were apart. Diana said, “When he finished the blessing, I knew that when I was feeling alone and no one, not even my parents, could help me, the Spirit would be there to comfort me.”
These teens in Ipswich know that there is a place to turn for comfort, for answers to their questions, and to find peace, because they know that the gift of the Holy Ghost has been given to them.

One of the Twelve recently shared a story that illustrates this principle. As a priest in high school, he was hanging out with his friends. After they got something to eat, they were driving around when someone suggested they should go to a certain movie. The problem was he knew it was a movie he shouldn’t see. Although he immediately felt pressure and anxiety about the situation, he had planned for this. This was a page straight out of his priesthood playbook.

Taking a deep breath and summoning his courage, he announced, “I’m not interested in that movie. Just drop me off at my house,” which they did. A simple play leading to a victory! Years later, one of the friends with him that night described how this example proved to be a great strength for him to courageously face similar circumstances in his own life.

In January 1989 Elder David B. Haight (1906–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles fell ill and was taken by ambulance to the hospital, where he had two abdominal surgeries. Before he was taken to the hospital, crushing pain drove him to his knees. He prayed that his life would be spared. As he prayed, he began to lose consciousness. The sound of the siren was the last thing he remembered. In his unconscious state, the pain ceased, and he found himself in a peaceful setting. He became aware of being in a holy presence.
In next month’s Liahona, look for Gospel Classics: “The Sacrament—and the Sacrifice,” Elder Haight’s testimony of the Savior and an account of what he learned while unconscious.

In conclusion let me share an experience that is tender and even sacred to me. When I was first called to serve as Young Women general president, I felt terrified and inadequate. I lay awake for many nights worrying, repenting, and crying. After several nights of this, I had a very moving experience. I started thinking about my young women nieces, then about the young women in my neighborhood and ward, then about the young women I saw regularly at the high school, and then I envisioned young women of the Church throughout the world, over half a million of them. The most wonderfully warm feeling began to envelop me and surge through me. I felt such exquisite love for Latter-day Saint young women everywhere, each one of you, and I knew that what I was feeling was our Heavenly Father’s love for you. It was powerful and all-encompassing. For the first time I felt peace because I knew what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. He wanted me to witness to you of His great love for you. And so I testify to you again that I know beyond doubt that Heavenly Father knows you and loves you. You are His special daughter. He has a plan for you, and He will ever be there to lead you, guide you, and walk beside you (see “I Am a Child of God”). I earnestly pray that you will know this and feel this, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Fifth grade was a hard year for me. I’d had the same group of friends for several years, and I thought that we would always be friends. But soon after fifth grade started, my friends started using bad language and acting in ways I knew Heavenly Father wouldn’t like. They also started being mean to other kids in our class and talking about people behind their backs.
Eventually I became one of those kids my friends made fun of. They even gave me a mean nickname: Big-Lip Charlotte, or “BLC” for short. My feelings were so hurt. I started trying to avoid my friends at school, but it was hard because we were in the same class.
“Hey, guys!” I said one day at lunch, trying to be friendly and cheerful.
“Hey, BLC! Big-Lip Charlotte!” they chorused together as they made faces at me.
I ran away, trying to hold back tears. I ate lunch by myself and counted the minutes until I could go home.
“What’s wrong, honey?” asked Mom when she noticed my tear-stained cheeks after school.
“The kids who used to be my friends have started calling me a horrible name. I just don’t understand why they have to be so mean to me.” I started to cry again.
“Those kids shouldn’t be acting that way. But it really doesn’t matter what other people think of you. You’re beautiful, and you have no reason to listen to what those mean kids say.”
“But, Mom,” I said. “I see them every day. I do care what they think of me. And other people listen to what they say about me. How can I just ignore everyone?”
“Charlotte, the only opinions that really matter are yours and the Lord’s. If you’re OK with yourself and what you do, and if Heavenly Father is OK with your choices, it doesn’t matter what people call you or say about you. I promise.”
As I went to school the next few weeks, my old friends still laughed at me and called me names. But I soon found that I could walk around with peace in my heart. I knew that if Heavenly Father was OK with my big lips, then I could be too.
I was able to get through the rest of fifth grade. I ended up making new friends who didn’t call me names and who helped me feel good about myself. Most important, though, I learned that if Heavenly Father is pleased with who I am, then I don’t have to worry about what anyone else thinks.

“Today we’ll make pictures of our houses,” said Miss Greene, the teacher.
“Yippee!” Everyone in kindergarten loved to paint. Matt carefully dipped the tip of his brush into the orange paint. Then he made a bright roof for his house. That’s when it happened—he knocked over the orange paint, and it splattered on his shirt.
Matt looked down at the big orange blob. His mom wouldn’t like that. He didn’t like it either.
“Would you like me to call your mother and ask her to bring you another shirt?” Miss Greene asked.
“She’s shopping today,” Matt said, swallowing hard. He didn’t want to cry.
“Then we’ll just have to do our best to clean you up,” Miss Greene smiled at him.
A little later, Matt was sitting at his table, printing the alphabet. The spill had been wiped up, and his hands were scrubbed clean. But his shirt still had the orange blob on it.
“That looks like a pumpkin,” Lisa giggled, pointing at it.
Matt tried to slouch so that it didn’t show.
“We could call it your pumpkin shirt,” Bill said.
“No you can’t,” said Matt, his ears turning pink.
Everyone started working again, but Matt’s pencil kept slipping, His letters looked all squiggly.
The recess bell rang, and everyone lined up to go outside. Usually Matt hurried to the front of the line, but not today. He didn’t want to go outside and hear the kids laugh at his “pumpkin shirt.”
“Hi,” said someone. Matt looked up.
Albert stood beside him. Albert was probably the quietest kid in the class. Matt had never played games with him. He’d never even thought about asking Albert to play.
Albert dropped a blue sweater on the table. “Here, you can wear that over your shirt today. My mom always makes me take a sweater, but it’s warm enough today without it.”
Matt slipped the sweater on. The sleeves were still warm from Albert’s arms. He slowly buttoned it up. It covered up the orange blob perfectly. “Thanks!” Matt smiled at Albert.
Albert nodded and went to go outside.
“Wait,” Matt said. “Do you want to play catch with me? I brought my ball.”
Albert grinned. “I sure do!”
Matt grinned back. He still didn’t like the orange blob on his shirt, but he did like the new friend he had found.

Emily peered through a rain-lashed cottage window at the storm raging outside. Gigantic waves were crashing right over the dunes that protected their little fishing resort from the Atlantic Ocean.
“Mama!” she cried, “Don’t you think we ought to get out of here? It’s a terrible storm!”
“Get away from that window,” her mother whispered from the couch. “If it breaks, you’ll be hurt by flying glass. I just can’t think what to do. My head hurts, and I feel so sick and cold. Pile another blanket on me, will you, dear?”
Emily did, then tried to think of what else she could do. The cottage was perched on a narrow strip of barrier beach separating Cape Cod from the ocean by about five miles of normally calm water. It could only be reached by a boat or by driving twenty miles from a coastal town. There was no electricity, telephones, or running water. This late fall weekend, Emily and her parents had driven out for one last visit to catch some sun and to close up the cottage for the winter. Emily’s dad had gone fishing in their boat before Emily or her mother were awake and wasn’t back yet. If he’d known how sick Mother is, Emily thought, he never would have gone.
Emily’s mom looked white and weak. “We’re the only ones on the beach today,” she said, her teeth chattering. “If we drove out, we’d be stranding your dad. Besides, if the storm is going to be severe, the coast guard will raise the storm flag. Look out the back window and see if it’s flying.”
Emily ran to the window that faced the mainland. She steadied the powerful binoculars on the window sash, focusing on the lighthouse and the Coast Guard station beside it. But the storm-warning flagpole wasn’t there. It must have been broken off by the wind, she thought.
As she stared through the binoculars, an enormous wave crashed upon the bank under the lighthouse. Great chunks of paving tore away and fell into the rolling sea.
“Mama!” she cried, terrified. “The flagpole is down, and the lighthouse banking is crumbling. The waves are awful!”
“Try the radio again,” her mother whispered.
Emily turned the dials of the battery radio again and again, trying to reach a station, but all she heard was static. The cottage smelled of damp wood, and it shook in the wind. The roar of the storm was unrelenting. She clutched Clover, her tiny white kitten, and tried not to cry. Her dad was out in this storm. What if his boat capsized?
Suddenly, as she stared out the window, Emily saw their car tossed into the air by a gigantic wave. “Mama, get up, get up,” she screamed. “The car is gone. We have to get out of here somehow!”
Her mother’s eyes were glazed now, and her lips were cracked. She tried to talk, then lay back and closed her eyes, instead.
Emily looked out the window again and could see nothing but water. The waves had beaten down most of the dunes and were reaching higher and higher. The roof of the house next door went floating past, tumbling end over end and finally breaking into pieces. “The Jenkins house is gone!”
But her mother was either asleep or unconscious. Emily began weeping with fear—great tearing sobs that shook her small frame and left her gasping for breath. “Heavenly Father, please help us!” she prayed.
Feeling a little more calm, she said aloud, “There must be something you can do. Think, Emily, think!”
As she looked around her for ideas, a thought slipped quietly into her mind. The old ship’s lantern! Maybe I could signal with it.
She ran into the tiny kitchen, pulled the stepladder over to the cupboard, and climbed up to get the big kerosene lantern that had once hung in a captain’s cabin on a clipper ship. Dad always kept it filled and trimmed for emergencies. It was sturdy and swung from a gimbal that kept it steady even in a high wind.
With trembling fingers she lit the lantern. Then she ran out to the back porch and looked for a place to hang it. The beam with the hook, the one that usually held her dad’s fishing boots, was too high for her to reach, so she raced back to the kitchen and dragged the stepladder out to the porch. Climbing up, holding the lantern carefully so that the kerosene in it wouldn’t spill, she hung it on the hook.
If anyone could see the light from across the raging waves, it would be the lookout in the Coast Guard station. But as Emily peered through the drenching sheets of rain, she thought, It’s not good enough. No one will know what the light means. I need something to make a signal with.
Searching the woodpile by the stove she found a small sheet of plywood. Frantic with haste, she scrambled up the ladder again and started passing the plywood back and forth across the glow of the lantern, creating three short, three long, three short intervals of light—SOS—over and over again. She tried to count out loud to keep it regular. The rain whipped her long brown hair around, sometimes stinging her eyes. Three short, three long, three short—would anyone notice? Could anyone even see such a tiny light across the miles of turbulence?
Soaked to the skin, shivering, and miserable, she kept on. Her arms trembled with fatigue. Her legs ached from trying to keep her balance in the howling wind.
Suddenly she heard a shrieking and rending above the constant roar of the storm and almost lost her balance. A whole house came sweeping by the porch, breaking up in front of her eyes. A refrigerator was flung into the air and landed almost at her feet. A propane gas tank went sailing by like a kite. The waves were now as high as the ground the cottage was on and pounding higher each minute. She could feel its timbers shaking. Numb with fear, she felt like a mechanical doll. Don’t think. Just keep moving the plywood.
Listen—what’s that? Over the roar of the wind, she heard the thrum of a powerful engine. Then she saw a searchlight coming closer, sometimes hidden by the surf, then reappearing. The Coast Guard must have seen her signal.
“Over here!” she called but knew that they couldn’t hear her. She didn’t dare stop signalling. What if the house blew down before they arrived? On and on she worked. Three short, three long, three short.
Then, miraculously, the boat was there. Voices shouted through the howling wind. Strong arms lifted her from the ladder and set her in the bow of the boat. “Check the house,” she heard someone cry.
“Clover, Clover,” Emily screamed when a wet ball of white fur was thrust into her arms. Soon her mother was carried out and placed in the bow under a canvas shelter. Engines roaring, the boat backed away from the cottage.
“You were great to signal like that,” one man shouted to Emily over the wind, wrestling the boat around to face the mainland. “We didn’t know anyone was out here. You’d better get under cover. We’re not out of this mess yet.”
Emily curled up close to her mother, whose eyes had fluttered open for only a moment while she was being rescued. Clover was buried under Emily’s arm, shivering and still frightened. Emily prayed for the man steering the boat—and for her father out somewhere in the storm.
Mountainous waves rose all around them. The boat reared and bucked and plunged. Emily glimpsed debris sweeping by—a chair, a green cooler, a door.
“There goes your house,” one of the men called. “There’s nothing left now but ocean—not even sand. We got you off just in time.”
“We’re almost there,” the pilot shouted many minutes later.
Emily peered over the canvas and saw a sight that she would never forget. Most of the boats anchored in the harbor were thrown up on shore, smashed and broken by the storm. The pier had been swept away, and the fish house was dangling over the water, swaying crazily in the wind, half its foundation gone.
Emily later remembered little of landing, thanking her rescuers, or riding to the hospital in a wailing ambulance. Sometime later, Uncle George gently shook her. “Wake up,” he said. “It’s time to go home.”
“Where’s Mom?” she asked sleepily. “Where’s Clover? Has Dad come back?”
“Your kitten’s in the car. Your mother’s in intensive care, and the doctor says that she’ll be fine. Your dad …” He shrugged and looked away. “He’s a good seaman. He’ll be OK.”
For five days and nights the storm raged. Emily’s mother finally came to stay with her at Uncle George’s, shaken and weak but a lot better.
On the fifth day, Emily’s father chugged into the harbor. He was starving, cold, and exhausted; his boat was badly damaged. He had thrown out sea anchors, he explained, and had miraculously ridden out the storm.
“You were so brave!” he told Emily, hugging her. “To think of signaling like that and staying with it so long! You must have been frightened.”
“I was,” she said, stroking Clover, “but I prayed.”
He held her close. “So did I.”

Collin Davis, a teacher in the Midvale First Ward, Midvale Utah Stake, is one of few people who can say they have survived a direct lightning strike. The experience taught Collin a great lesson in treasuring life and strengthened his faith that his Heavenly Father watches over him. Here is part of Collin’s story in his own words:
“I had gone over to Midvale Middle School to help coach a Little League football team. The evening was wet, rainy with thunder and lightning. I was on the field surrounded by 15 anxious little football players, going through the normal drills. We had been out there for approximately 20 minutes, and I was soaking wet from top to bottom.
“Without warning, a light flashed and cracked over my head. The sound was terrifying, and the force threw the boys to the ground. A lightning bolt struck me on the back of my head, traveled down the middle of my back and down my right leg and foot. The boys said I lit up like an electric man, that even my eyes glowed. It left a burn down my back. My baseball hat and my clothes were torn off me, and ashes remained where they had been burned.
“My best friend, John, said he kept telling me to ‘roll over and cry, roll over and cry,’ but I did not respond. A man on the field turned me over and stated that I was dead. I had no heartbeat or pulse, and I was not breathing. Immediately a coach began CPR on me and with the help of others continued to work until the paramedics arrived. They shocked my heart to get it to beat normally. Then they put me on life support systems and took me to the hospital.”
Collin recovered more quickly than anyone expected, although he experienced tremendous pain. At first he couldn’t walk, but now he is walking and doing some jogging. He had played football and run track in school and hopes to be able to participate in sports again.
Collin says he learned some things from the experience. He said, “I learned you can’t choose when you die. It might be today, tomorrow, next week, or in years. You can’t put things off until tomorrow, but do all you can do today. It also taught me or at least left no doubt in my mind that God really does watch over us.”

If you’ve ever felt that way, you’d like to meet Anna Ruth Aaron, 15, of the Lubbock, Texas First Ward. She was afraid, too, until she tried missionary work.
“I was afraid to talk to my friends about the Church,” said Anna Ruth. “But I’ve always been very open with the fact that I’m a Mormon. My friends know my views on drinking and smoking. At parties, if a newcomer tried to pressure me into something against my standards, my friends would tell him to stop.
“I always dreamed I could be a missionary and bring one of my friends, or the whole group of them, into the Church.”
Dreams have a way of making fears disappear. At least that’s what Anna Ruth discovered when she found herself talking to a good friend about the Church.
“I’d known Diane Swann a little, but from the first day of the new school year, we became very close friends. We started walking home from school together and spending time together. One day as we were walking home, something told me ‘Ask her … ask her … ask.’
“So I said, ‘Diane, can I ask you something? I’ve never done this before, and I’ll admit I’m scared, but I would like you to meet the missionaries for my church. You could listen to one of the lessons they have, which will explain what my church is like. If you don’t want to I’ll understand, and it won’t affect our friendship at all.’
“Diane replied, ‘Yes, I’ll listen to one lesson, but I want you to know right now, I’m not going to join your church.’”
Anna Ruth arranged for the first lesson, Diane came, and there was a good spirit there. Diane asked her mother if she might continue the lessons and her mother said yes, but she said that Diane would not want to join the Church. Diane continued the lessons, the missionaries challenged her to be baptized, her mother gave permission—and Diane joined the Church.
How did Diane feel about Anna Ruth talking to her about the Church?
“I didn’t feel offended, but I was surprised,” said Diane. “My mother was surprised when I told her I was interested in the Church, because religion wasn’t discussed much in our home. My brother teased me about it, but my mother was very supportive, and came to the baptism. I think it’s a very good idea to talk to friends about the Church, because if Anna Ruth hadn’t done that for me, I wouldn’t be in the Church. Don’t be afraid to ask.”

I recall one woman, whom I’ll call Ella, who as a child was criticized harshly by her parents and peers. Later, as an adult, during and after Relief Society lessons, she became discouraged as she compared herself to the other sisters. She was certain that they were all more intelligent, better organized, and stronger in the gospel than she was. Her husband began to avoid her after Relief Society because she was so unpleasant.

Eventually, Ella saw that her self-condemning attitude was harming her testimony and her marriage. She decided to change. Taking specific inventory of herself, she made a list of strengths and weaknesses. At first, she had trouble accepting her strengths, and she all too readily accepted her weaknesses as permanent and unchangeable. However, using the list, she determined to overcome one weakness and to develop one strength at a time.

Through her self-evaluation, she discovered that one of her weaknesses was saying things too quickly without stopping to think if her remarks would be hurtful to others. Realizing the harm her comments could cause, she practiced thinking before she spoke. Eventually, as she ceased to wound others through thoughtless remarks, she gained a new sense of self-mastery. She also developed her housekeeping skills, which gave her definite evidence of achievement in something that was important to her and was a service to others.

After overcoming a few of her weaknesses and refining a few of her strengths, Ella began to believe that she was a person of worth. She did not expect confirmation or praise from others for her efforts. Hers was an internal, personal effort—an effort to live in accordance with God’s laws. Her self-esteem really was self-esteem. And, as her self-esteem increased, her marriage improved. Her husband began to relax and enjoy her obviously more pleasant outlook and behavior. Then he, too, began to examine and improve himself—with beneficial results.

“When I was about seven, Dad sort of hoodwinked me into milking cows. He said, ‘You’re not big enough to milk the cows.’
“Well, I knew I was big enough to milk them, so I said, ‘Of course, I can milk them.’ I got up early, got the bucket, and went out and milked the cows.
“My dad then said, ‘I believe you can milk the cows. You’ve got the job!’ For the next dozen years I milked eight to twelve cows each night and morning.
“Dad was a lot smarter than I was. One day I said to him, ‘I don’t want to milk cows.’ He replied, ‘That’s OK. You don’t have to want to. … as long as you do it.’”

As all of you are aware, last fall a terrible storm hit Central America. For six days and nights, Hurricane Mitch locked in over that area and particularly over Honduras. The winds blew ferociously, and the rains fell without letup. Rivers swelled and took with them houses that had been built along their banks. More than 200 bridges were washed out in Honduras, destroying means of travel. The soil from the highlands washed towards the sea in a deluge of filthy mud. Houses were filled to the tops of the windows. Yards and streets were filled. People fled in terror, leaving all behind them.
One of our bishops secured a big truck and went about gathering his people, taking them to higher ground. When the truck could no longer get through, he somehow secured a boat. He was looking after his flock.
I went down there to see what had happened and to give comfort, where possible. I beheld a miracle. I witnessed in operation the simple and marvelously effective organization of this Church.
Every member of this Church has a bishop or a branch president. I have only commendation for other relief efforts which came in from across the world. But I have unending admiration for the wonderful manner in which the Church operated. The bishops appealed to their stake presidents, who appealed to the Area Presidency, who appealed to headquarters here in Salt Lake City. Within hours great quantities of basic foodstuffs, medicine, and clothing were on their way from our storehouses.
A warehouse was rented in San Pedro Sula in the area of the greatest damage. It was the bishops who marshaled their people to work shifts in the warehouse putting into plastic bags enough food to take care of a family for a week, clothing to put on their backs, medicine to safeguard them against disease. Every bishop knew his own people. He, with his Relief Society president, knew their needs. These were not faceless strangers working as employees of government. They were friends, each a member of a ward family small enough that they knew one another’s needs. There was no argument, no greedy grasping for food and clothing. Everything was orderly. It was systematic. It was friendly. It was motivated by love and concern, and it was done quickly to meet an immediate need. It was the gospel at work in a quiet and magnificent manner.
The waters finally subsided, but mud was left in a thick and ugly coating on everything. Nothing became more valuable than shovels and wheelbarrows. And together, again under the direction of the bishops, the mud was cleaned from the houses.
We visited a meetinghouse on a Saturday. There were many people there, with a bishop, a loving father to his flock, giving direction. The pews, which had been floating in the water, were taken out and carefully cleaned. Mud was scraped from the walls and the floors. Then the mops came out and the polishing cloths, and before nightfall that Saturday evening, the building had been made ready for worship services on the Sabbath.
I stand in humble gratitude and respect and admiration for the bishops of this Church. In the most dire of circumstances, I watched them in La Lima, Honduras. I spoke with them, shook their hands, loved them. How thankful I am for these men who, without regard for their own comfort, give of their time, of their wisdom, of their inspiration in presiding over our wards throughout the world. They receive no compensation other than the love of their people. There is no rest for them on the Sabbath nor very much at other times. They are the ones closest to the people, best acquainted with their needs and circumstances.

The Second Call came some time later. Closer to the end of our time in Chile. This time it came to the mission home at a very late hour. It was not a call from a General Authority, nor a concerned parent -- but from a University Co-ed who I'm sure had not taken into account the four hours difference in time zones. It was rather late at night. She began by introducing herself and helping me to understand the nature of her call. "this is highly unusual" she said "I hope you won't be angry with me for calling you". But I must have some answers about one of your former missionaries". In words similar to those of the General Authority, she said. "President Christensen, I need to know what kind of missionary he was". You need to know brothers and sisters, that we love each of the 563 missionaries assigned by the Lord who served with us in Chile as if they were our own sons and daughters. Probably much like Helaman felt about his 2060 sons who labored with him in the trenches of war. I responded "Yes, he was a fine missionary." She asked a few other questions to which I gave short, positive, answers. Then, after a moment of silence I could hear in her voice. NOT A NON-SMILING VOICE neither was it a CHEERFUL - CHUCKLING voice, but kind of a desperate and pleading voice. "President Christensen, I appreciate your answers, but I can't tell if you are being honest with me." "I am considering a long term relationship with your former missionary -- I need to know what kind of a missionary he was, how he treated his companions, was he obedient, was he extraordinarily good, did he honor his priesthood and live with a sense of sacrifice," and as she went on, I was thinking to myself -- "Wow, I prefer to be interviewed by a General Authority, this girl is tough!!! As she spoke and with each question, I was beginning to examine what I truly knew about this Elder, about our interviews, about his work ethic, about his level of obedience as a missionary, and about his companionship relationships. Then she asked the most penetrating questions of all.

"President, I understand that you have several daughters." "Yes I do" I responded, "six to be exact." Then she pulled out her most soul searching question -- "Would you want one of your daughters to marry this missionary?" "Do you believe him to be the kind of priesthood holder based on his performance in the mission field who can lead me and our children to the Celestial Kingdom? Would you feel 100% comfortable based on his constancy and obedience in the mission field to be the father of your grandchildren?" Do you see what I mean? This girl was tougher than 'Mike Wallace' on 60 minutes! Our telephone conversation continued -- I remained loyal to the missionary. I did not utter a single negative word about him in any way. However the questions and the process had been a searching one for me. Instead of answering her with comments about the missionary, I took a turn to ask her some questions. "I am not your bishop or priesthood leader so you don't need to answer theses questions but maybe they will help you." I responded. Then I asked her about her prayers? Had she fasted? If she had counseled with her parents? If she had listened to and paid attention to her feelings as directed by the Holy Ghost? I told her that I admired her for her desire to search and find answers to important questions about our former missionary.

In her case, unlike the General Authority, I sensed that she wasn't comfortable with the feelings she had felt. I suggested that her 'questions and concerns' were perhaps a signal or a flag that maybe the Holy Ghost was trying to tell her something. I told her that I had taught our missionaries on occasion, that IF THERE'S A QUESTION about something -- a kind of gnawing doubt or an absence of 'PEACE', THEN MANY TIMES -- THAT IS THE ANSWER. I shared with her that in my experience, affirmative "yes" answers from the Lord come in peaceful feelings, and gentle nudgings -- not in confusion. This telephone call continued on for a few minutes longer and then ended cordially. She expressed gratitude and we said good bye.

A few months later we received a special thank you note from her informing us that she had received a call to serve a mission of her own in a far away European nation. The Spirit had helped her sort through her feelings and the answer she sought had come.

I’m so hungry!
Me too. Let’s stop here.
Hmm. I’ll just have a snack at home.
Want one? Here.
Oh, I didn’t see you pay for it.
Oh … uh … I didn’t. I just took it. Some of the other kids take stuff all the time.
I can’t take this. I wouldn’t feel good about it.
I don’t really feel that good about it either.
I think I know what will make us both feel better.
You were right. I feel a lot better after taking it back.
Me too. It always feels good to do the right thing.

Last May our oldest grandson Tanner graduated from high school. During those years he had the opportunity to participate in the special needs seminary class. He was assigned to work specifically with Alex who had both mental and physical disabilities. Every day he would walk with Alex from the high school to the Seminary building and then be his friend in the classroom as well. It just so happened that Alex and Tanner were also both in the same ward.

At the end of the school year all of the graduating seniors spoke in a special Sacrament meeting. Alex had been preparing his talk for weeks and was the first on the program to speak. When he stood at the pulpit, he was absolutely paralyzed and could say nothing. Finally, his mother stood beside him, but she couldn’t get him to say anything either. As the situation became more desperate, Tanner felt impressed to go to the pulpit. He put his arm around Alex and read the first line of his talk. Then Alex repeated it. They then continued this pattern, until Alex successfully delivered his message. The trusting hearts they had built during that school year paid dividends in that meeting.

When it was Tanner’s turn to speak, he said, “Today I want to tell you about the seminary steps.” His talk went something like this:

“Every day I walked Alex up the steps to the Seminary building. One day he fell and hurt himself. He was so discouraged that he just sat on the stairs and said he couldn’t go on. I urged him and nudged him and encouraged him, telling him that I would help him make it up those steps and that it would be worth it because of all the fun things the teacher had prepared for us in class that day. Finally, I got him to class. The next day the same thing happened, and I had to encourage and help him all over again. And there were many subsequent days that he sat on the stairs fearful that he would stumble and hurt himself again. But he learned to walk with a more courageous heart, and we made it, day by day. Now we are graduating and moving on to new things.

“Today I feel somewhat like Alex on those seminary steps. In my heart, I feel scared to go on. I’ve come from many good experiences at the high school and made it through challenging classes. Now I have some steps to climb to get to the next level, to go to college, to serve a mission, to be ordained to the Melchizedek priesthood, etc. I need courage.; I need help. Sometimes I don’t know how I am going to do it. But then I remember that I have family, friends, leaders, bishops, many people who will be there to urge and encourage me on. And especially I will have a loving Heavenly Father and power from His Son Jesus Christ that will strengthen my heart and help me climb every step of the way.”

Question: What is the worth of a soul? Permit one other little “for instance.” This is quite tender to me because I remember it vividly. I was near the scene where it happened, and, more particularly, I had a little girl exactly the same age when it occurred. I’m going to read the story because the reporter says it better than I.

At 4:45 on a Friday afternoon in April 1949, a laughing three-year-old child was playing with her small friends in a grassy vacant lot beside her home. Suddenly she disappeared. She had fallen into a long-abandoned well. Fifteen minutes later her mother called the police and reported that her daughter was wedged in a rusty old shaft. Half an hour later firemen were pumping oxygen into the small opening. At the end of an hour, efforts to raise Kathy with a rope had failed, and at 6:00 power equipment began digging a parallel hole. During this brief time the girl called back bravely to the familiar world above her. She always answered those she loved with courage: “Yes, I’m all right.” She wanted to please. “Will you try to grab hold of the rope, Kathy?”
“I am. I am.” Then her voice ceased, but she had spoken long enough to convince those above her that she was unhurt by her fall.

By the time I reached the lot, it was no longer vacant. Under a blaze of light men and machines began to battle with Mother Earth. Men by the hundreds began to volunteer their help. Circus midgets lived in the vicinity arrived and risked being lowered by their feet into the crumbling old shaft. There were boy scouts, long thin men, acrobats, engineers, firemen, and contractors. They were men with dark skin, with red hair, with fierce accents and waving hands. Some wore patched pants; others, well-cut business suits. All were drawn by the human drama, wanting to help. By daybreak people throughout the world were invisible spectators. Newspapers, radios, and television put aside war and international news to headline the story of a desperate rescue attempt.

Bill Yancy, a thirty-eight-year-old contractor who was one of the nation’s underwater demolition men who often cleared the water of mines in the fortified beaches long before the first troops landed, was on the scene. He was the last man out of the hole. At one stretch he moved back five back-breaking feet of earth in less than half an hour.

An ex-sandhogger and boilermaker left his home in San Fernando Valley the minute he heard of the accident. In spite of the stabbing pain of a hernia this man stayed at his dangerous job beneath the ground until he himself collapsed and was rushed to the hospital.

The father of five children sneaked out of his home to volunteer his help, although he had not done any deep excavation work for a long time. “I didn’t want to worry my wife,” he said, “but I have good reasons at home.” There were so many more.

The parallel hole reached the fifty-seven-foot level early Saturday morning. The parallel hole had been started the night before. By Saturday night a steel casing had been completed in the new shaft, but workers hit a sand pocket and water had flowed into the tunnel. Pumping began desperately. Seldom had so much prayer power been focused on one person or on any one rescue. Exhausted gray-faced men continued their dangerous work around water, sand, and cascades of rock.

And what was happening around the world! Men on a lonely watch on a ship far at sea followed the progress and took up a collection. Hard coalminers in Denver had offered help, a neighbor brought a chocolate cake, the only offering she could think of. One unidentified man brought over seven hundred gallons of coffee and stacks of doughnuts for the workers.

Meanwhile, sitting side by side in a parked car during most of these frantic operations were the girl’s white-faced mother and father. Beneath the giant machines and rigging, bright lights, and microphones booming directions lay a tiny figure whom none of these gallant rescuers had ever seen. Was all well with her? Was there water where she lay? Did she know moments of consciousness and fear?

Fifty-three hours later, after a total expenditure of a half-million dollars, Bill Yancy was lowered into the rescue shaft on a bucket fastened to the end of a cable. The trapped girl’s own doctor, clad in a blue jacket, aviator’s cap, and dungaree trousers, began his descent while the world waited above. Then the answer came up. Men had lost. Kathy Fiscus, the little girl whom the whole world had come to know, was dead. She had gone shortly after she had last spoken.

And that was all the facts I had to report but not the end of the story. I knew there was something to explain the frantic, futile fight. I looked around the city room. There were the usual reports—wars, strikes, famine, family in trouble, racial problems—and suddenly I saw the contrast. There on the vacant lot in San Marino, California, the whole world had united for a few hours over the life of one little child. Men had not lost. The little girl had got people loving one another. No distinction of color, race or creed, rich or poor rose to mar the efforts of men and women who fought to save one who was made in His image. That was the story, that was the miracle, of little Kathy Fiscus.

In September 1830, Newel Knight and his sister Anna’s husband, Freeborn DeMille, attended the Church’s second conference, held at Fayette, New York.11 Newel was ordained a priest, and Freeborn was baptized.

At Fayette, Newel Knight became the young prophet’s confidant during a crisis caused by Hiram Page’s claim of receiving revelations for the Church through a peepstone. Newel wrote that Hiram Page carried “quite a roll of papers full of these revelations,” which led many astray. Joseph Smith “was perplexed and scarcely knew how to meet this new exigency.” Sharing the same room, the two friends spent the greater part of the night in prayer. In response, Joseph received a revelation (see D&C 28) that spelled out the proper channels for revelation to reach the Church. Newel reported, “Brother Page and all … present renounced the stone, … much to our joy and satisfaction.”

My friend Donna grew up desiring to marry and raise a large family. But that blessing never came. Instead she spent her adult years serving the people in her ward with unmeasured compassion and counseling disturbed children in a large school district. She had crippling arthritis and many long, blue days. Yet she always lifted and was always lifted by her friends and family. Once when teaching about Lehi’s dream, she said with gentle humor, “I’d put myself in that picture on the strait and narrow path, still holding to the iron rod but collapsed from fatigue right on the path.” In an inspired blessing given just before her death, Donna’s home teacher said the Lord “accepted” her. Donna cried. She had never felt her single life was acceptable. But the Lord said those who “observe their covenants by sacrifice … are accepted of me.” I can envision Him walking the path from the tree of life to lift Donna up with gladness and carry her home.

Men turn from evil and yield to their better natures when mother is remembered. A famed officer from the Civil War period, Colonel Higginson, when asked to name the incident of the Civil War that he considered the most remarkable for bravery, said that there was in his regiment a man whom everybody liked, a man who was brave and noble, who was pure in his daily life, absolutely free from dissipations in which most of the other men indulged.

One night at a champagne supper, when many were becoming intoxicated, someone in jest called for a toast from this young man. Colonel Higginson said that he arose, pale but with perfect self-control, and declared: “Gentlemen, I will give you a toast which you may drink as you will, but which I will drink in water. The toast that I have to give is, ‘Our mothers.’”

Instantly a strange spell seemed to come over all the tipsy men. They drank the toast in silence. There was no more laughter, no more song, and one by one they left the room. The lamp of memory had begun to burn, and the name of Mother touched every man’s heart.

Sister Jill Berrett, a full-time missionary in the Vancouver mission, tells of an investigator who toured the meetinghouse at the invitation of her 18-year-old friend. “While she was on the tour she became so excited she wanted to take the lessons right away. Her friend gave her a Book of Mormon, and another friend invited her to Young Women camp. She felt so loved and so involved that she began referring to the ward as ‘her ward’ even before she was baptized.”