Gospel Story Finder

The morning session was opened by the president with a polished and stirring address. Next we called on his second counselor. He was obviously flustered. … (We had previously indicated that both counselors would probably speak in the afternoon session. We were to go to his home for the noon meal. He had known there would be time to go over his notes, so he had left them at home.)

For want of his notes, he turned to testimony, giving an inspiring account of an administration he had performed during the week. A brother, given up by his doctors, had been called from the very shadows of death by the power of the priesthood. I do not know what was on his notes, but surely it could not have compared in inspiration to the testimony he bore.

In 2006, President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) and the First Presidency determined that there should be a temple considered for San Salvador, El Salvador. We visited a number of properties, including a full city block located in the older central part of the city. As we drove from property to property, nothing seemed right.

Eventually, we passed by an emerging area in the west part of the city. I felt something in that area and walked around a number of blocks. One property surrounded by a wall was of particular interest. I reached out to the owners and received word that the property was not available, so I went home.

But the prophet had said a temple would be built in San Salvador, so I returned to look at other properties. Once again I found myself drawn to the property with the wall, and I made contact again. They repeated that the property was unavailable.

I returned home again but couldn’t shake the feeling that this was where the temple should be. I contacted the family and asked if they would at least meet with me. They agreed to do so. Once again, I traveled to San Salvador, accompanied by Robert Fox, a friend and employee in the Church’s real estate division. That morning we knelt in prayer in my room before beginning the day and asked for the Lord’s assistance.

As we drove through the gate to the home, it was almost like entering a sacred garden. There were trees and flowers, and the busy noise from outside stopped at the gate. Mr. Roberto Dueñas, his brother, and two of Roberto’s sons were awaiting us. They greeted us and escorted us into their ancestral home—which was large and spacious.

We told them we were there by assignment of the president of our Church and that he wanted to bless the country and Church members by building a temple there. I showed pictures of other temples. I said we felt that their property, their ancestral home, was the right place.

It was no surprise when they once again declined, but we had to make the attempt. And so for almost an hour we tried every avenue of approach, such as a straight outright purchase, an exchange of property, and every other option we could think of. But they were firm in their resolve and said no to every offer.

We had done everything we could do. We had prepared. We had done the best we knew how. But it simply was not enough.

My heart was filled with an urgent prayer: “Father, please help us to know what to say or do.”

At last it became evident that our trip had been in vain. It appeared that nothing would change their minds. But as we began to prepare to leave, something happened. The Spirit of the Lord entered the room. It was tangible. Everyone in the room felt it. It was one of the most powerful spiritual experiences I have ever felt.

Roberto Dueñas, who was not a member of the Church, began to cry. Mr. Dueñas turned to his brother and said, “If we can’t sell our ancestral home, couldn’t we sell the very best of the property we have across the street?”

His brother responded affirmatively. We then talked about the other property. They owned several hundred acres across the main road from their ancestral home, with the heart of the property jutting out slightly so that every car that traveled the road would see the temple.

That was the property they offered for the temple of the Lord. It truly was a miracle. From that moment forward, the blessings of the Lord attended the process. On August 21, 2011, President Henry B. Eyring, then-First Counselor in the First Presidency, dedicated the temple to the Lord’s service.

I testify that a beautiful temple graces the hills of San Salvador not as a result of anything Brother Fox or I said or did. It stands there today because of the powerful ministerings of the Holy Spirit of our Almighty God.

Sometimes, it’s difficult to find the time to talk. If that’s the case, try some creative approaches. One young missionary told me, “I always wanted to talk to my mom. Oh, we talked about lots of things but never about anything serious or personal. We had a good relationship—we got along well—but we never really talked.
“There was so much that I wanted to tell her, so many questions I wanted to ask her before I went on my mission, but I just couldn’t do it.
“So I wrote her a letter, a long letter, and left it on her dresser. That really opened things up for us, and we had a couple of great talks before I left.”

Finally, the ongoing Relief Society learning opportunities will be effective in the lives of sisters to the degree that learning and teaching are by the Spirit. Let me tell you of a sister who helped me appreciate teaching by the Spirit.
She was an older woman, one of many immigrants who had been able to come only as far as New York City on the way to Zion. She had not had great opportunity for learning and was having difficulty adjusting to a new culture. We were the only two in our department at stake leadership meeting one night.
The board member asked us each to describe how we prepared our lessons. I had been trained as a teacher and could say some things about lesson plans and objectives; but this lovely sister, haltingly, in a language newly learned, spoke of how she studied the material and then got on her knees and asked the Lord what in that lesson she should stress for the sisters of her ward, and she said, “He always directs me.” As I heard her speak and experienced the sweetness of her spirit, I felt sure that he did, because she taught me what I needed to hear. Though it has been many years since that night in Manhattan, I have never forgotten her nor her message.

“Our first night out after starting on our journey, we camped on the prairie; Father had unyoked the cattle and turned them out to feed on the grass. He had to look after them to keep them from straying away. We had picked up enough fuel to make a good fire and Mother was getting supper, when all at once there came up a most terrific thunderstorm. The rain poured down in torrents and we were all drenched. Although we got into the wagon as soon as we could, the wind blew the rain with such force that the wagon was very little protection. Of course, the fire was put out and it was cold comfort for supper that night. However, the next morning the sun shone bright, everything got dry, and we jogged on our journey.”

Jackie didn’t like Mrs. Baxter very much.
When Jackie and her friend Tara played in the street, Mrs. Baxter shouted at them to be quiet. She chased Tara’s kitten away with her newspaper. And when Jackie’s Frisbee landed in the grumpy neighbor’s window box, she wouldn’t give it back.
So when Jackie and Tara saw Mrs. Baxter come out of the grocery store and something flutter from her open purse, they didn’t run to pick it up for her.
“She’s mean,” Tara said.
“The meanest lady in town!” agreed Jackie. “She wouldn’t even listen when I said I was sorry that my Frisbee broke her flowers.”
They watched Mrs. Baxter put her sack of groceries on the hood of her car and rummage in her purse. She pulled out her keys, unlocked the car, put the groceries in the trunk, and drove away.
“She doesn’t know she dropped anything!” Tara exclaimed, watching the big black car turn the corner.
Jackie ran to see what Mrs. Baxter had dropped. “It’s a five-dollar bill!”
“Too bad for her!” Tara said. “Finders, keepers—losers, weepers!”
“We can’t keep it!” Jackie looked at her friend in surprise. “We saw her drop it. We have to give it back!”
“What about your Frisbee that she kept?” Tara said. “She owes you for a new one! It isn’t stealing!”
“Well …” Jackie looked at the five-dollar bill. Quickly she stuffed the money into her pocket. “I guess it wouldn’t be stealing if I get a new Frisbee with it. Come on, let’s look for one.”
There was a sports store nearby. The girls squeezed past a display of gleaming bikes and headed toward the Frisbees.
“I wish she’d dropped a five-hundred-dollar bill!” whispered Tara. “Then we could both get new bikes!”
That would really be stealing, Jackie thought. Keeping five dollars is a lot different from keeping five hundred dollars! Or is it? She tried to ignore the tight feeling in her stomach. Of course it wasn’t stealing—Mrs. Baxter owed it to her.
“How about this one?” Tara held up a brightly colored Frisbee.
Jackie put her hand in her pocket, twisting the five dollar bill around her fingers. She thought about her mom and dad. What would they think of her if she spent the money?
Tara was waiting for her answer. “I’m not going to buy a Frisbee,” Jackie said. “It’s Mrs. Baxter’s money.”
“Wait—”
Tara tried to say something, but Jackie didn’t listen. She knew that her friend was saying that it was stupid to give the money back.
Hurrying out of the store, Jackie unlocked her bike and rode off. As she turned into her street, she saw Mrs. Baxter climbing the two front steps to her apartment building, struggling to get out her key with one hand while still clutching the grocery sack.
Jackie hesitated. She’ll probably just yell at me, she thought. Maybe Tara’s right.
Mrs. Baxter was inside by the time Jackie set her bike down and walked slowly toward the door. As she passed the window box, she noticed the broken geraniums. They had been propped up on sticks and tied in place with green yarn. Mrs. Baxter may not like children and kittens, but she loves her flowers.
Jackie stared at the doorbell. Slowly she lifted her finger and pushed. Was that thumping sound her heart pounding, or was it Mrs. Baxter’s footsteps? It was Tara running up the path to stand beside her. Jackie smiled at her friend.
The door opened two inches and Mrs. Baxter peered out from behind the security chain. “What do you want?”
“You dropped this by the supermarket.” Jackie held out the money. As she passed it through the gap in the door, Mrs. Baxter grabbed it, then slammed the door.
She didn’t even thank me for returning the money! She’ll probably always chase the kitten and shout at us and keep our Frisbees, Jackie thought.
Jackie still didn’t like Mrs. Baxter. But she liked herself. Mrs. Baxter may not like me, but I’m glad that I returned the money. She was sure that Heavenly Father was pleased with her, too, and that was what mattered.

“I was born in China,” Angel explains. “There was a one-child policy at the time, and girls were not always wanted. When I was born, the doctors said I would have health problems. They recommended that my life be terminated.” Angel’s parents were repulsed by such a suggestion and rushed their firstborn child to the safety of their home. The doctor’s ominous prediction proved false. Angel grew up strong and healthy. When she was six, her family emigrated to Canada. Today, Angel has one younger brother and three younger sisters.
Angel’s family has supported her since before she was born.

When I was younger, I followed bad examples. I was curious to do the things my friends were doing. But I started feeling lost and sad. To make things worse, my family went through a lot of trials. My mom was diagnosed with a serious illness, and my brother tried to take his own life.
With all of this going on, I lost faith. It was hard to go to church because I didn’t feel like I belonged. But after a while, my leaders’ lessons made me realize that I still believed, even though my testimony was weak.
I had to work hard to stop doing and even thinking about things I knew were bad for me. I often prayed for the Lord’s help as I repented. Then one day, I found a photo of when I was a little girl and President Russell M. Nelson visited our ward. He was carrying me. I knew the photo was a reminder that God was looking out for me.
I know Jesus Christ sacrificed Himself for my sins. He can sustain us through hard things and help us find the right path, even if we get lost for a time.
Maria O., Ecuador

“Come on, Danny,” Jim called, “let’s practice diving.”
“I’m coming,” Danny replied, scowling as he read the notice beside the dressing room door at the swimming pool.
“How can a guy be in two places at the same time?” he grumbled.
Tryouts for the swim team were scheduled for two o’clock on Saturday—the same day and the same time he’d promised Mr. Duncan he would pitch in an exhibition baseball game for the boys and girls at the school for handicapped children. But when Danny had agreed to pitch for the game, he had forgotten that the team tryouts would be on the same day.
“Watch this,” Jim yelled as he dived into the pool.
Danny gave a whistle of admiration and thought, Jim will make the team for sure. I guess I’ll just have to tell Mr. Duncan I can’t pitch that game because I want to be in the tryouts.
“I hope we both make the team,” Jim said. “It means that we’d be invited to compete in the state swim meet and that we could swim in an Olympic-size pool.”
“Dreamer,” Danny chuckled. “OK, let’s practice diving. We’ve got to sharpen up before the tryouts.”
As he stood on the diving board the swinging doors leading to the pool opened and a boy he had never seen before came in with a woman helping him. His arms and hands were moving all the time and his head wobbled a little. He was having trouble walking, and his legs didn’t seem to go where he wanted them to. A lump caught in Danny’s throat as he thought, I’ll bet he’s from the handicap school.
“Let’s go in here, Richard,” the lady said. “The pool is shallow at this end.”
“OK,” Richard agreed.
Danny didn’t want to hear anymore. He quickly dived into the water and swam for the ladder. “Jim,” he said, climbing out, “I’m going to get out for a little while.”
“What’s the matter?” Jim asked, puzzled.
“I have a problem,” Danny replied. “I think I’ll go home. If you want to come along, I’ll tell you about it.”
Later, as they walked along, Danny explained his problem to Jim. Then he said, “I had made up my mind to tell Mr. Duncan I couldn’t pitch that game because I really want to try out for the swim team. But when I saw that boy who could hardly walk and might never have a chance to catch a ball. …” His voice trailed off. “Jim, what would you do if you were me?”
“Me?” Jim said. “I’d try out for the swim team. Danny, you can’t always be worrying about other people.”
“I guess not,” Danny agreed and went over to see Mr. Duncan.
“I’m glad you stopped by,” Mr. Duncan said. “I just received this letter from the youngsters at the handicap school. They’re really excited about our game.” He showed Danny the letter. “But we have a problem—we’re short of players and are going to have to find some substitutes.”
Danny read the letter, and then he felt worse than ever. Somehow he didn’t have the heart to tell Mr. Duncan now that he wouldn’t be able to pitch the exhibition game. He handed the letter back and said, “You’ll find somebody, I’m sure.”
“How about your friends, Danny? Would they help out?”
Danny shook his head. “I don’t think they can. The game is scheduled at the same time as the swim team tryouts. Most of my friends will be there.”
“I see,” Mr. Duncan said. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to keep on looking.” Then the older man put his arm around Danny and added, “We’re counting on you though, Danny. I’ll stop to pick you up on Saturday.”
Danny’s hope collapsed. “All right,” he answered and left. Now he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t think that the swim coach would change the tryout time till later just for one boy.
All the rest of the week Danny and Jim practiced swimming and diving. They worked hard, laughed, and had fun, but best of all they improved their form and strokes and were sure they could make the team. However, Danny’s promise to Mr. Duncan to play in the game Saturday kept crowding into his mind. He knew he would soon have to decide what he was going to do.
“Who did Mr. Duncan get for substitutes?” Jim asked, bobbing to the surface of the water.
“I don’t know,” Danny said. “I wish I did.”
He had a heavy, uneasy feeling on Saturday while putting on his swim trunks. He sat down on his bed, his thoughts completely mixed up. Then he thought of something that was at least worth a try, and he pulled his baseball suit on over his swim trunks.
Right on the dot, Mr. Duncan arrived in his station wagon. The same boy Danny had seen at the pool was with Mr. Duncan. Danny gulped. “Hi, Richard,” he said, and the boy’s face brightened as he returned the greeting.
Mr. Duncan nodded at Danny and then said disappointedly, “We had to call off the game because we couldn’t find enough substitutes.”
Danny looked at Richard and thought about the other boys and girls at the school who had counted on seeing a baseball game. He knew he couldn’t disappoint them. The idea that had come to him was so simple he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.
“Mr. Duncan,” Danny said, “would you mind driving over to my school for a minute? Maybe we can have that ball game after all.”
Danny caught the swim coach, Mr. Webb, in the hall and asked if the tryouts could be held later in the afternoon so that the boys could play baseball for the handicapped children.
“I wish you’d talked to me about this earlier,” Mr. Webb told Danny. “Some of the boys are already in the pool. However, I’ll see what I can do. It sounds like a great idea to do something for those boys and girls. They have a rough time and the least we can do is arrange for a baseball game if they’ve been counting on it.”
Pushing through the double doors that led to the swimming pool, Mr. Webb blew his whistle and when the boys gathered around, he explained to them why Danny was in his baseball uniform instead of in his swim trunks.
“If any of you would be willing to go over to the school and play a quick exhibition baseball game, I’d be willing to postpone the tryouts for a couple of hours,” the coach promised.
The boys looked at each other. No one spoke for a few moments. Then Jim said, “Well, I think Danny has a great idea. Sometimes it’s good to worry about other people. I’m willing.”
“Me, too,” the other boys agreed.
“Thanks, guys,” Danny said. He smiled at Jim, who gave him an understanding wink in return, and then Danny hurried out to tell Mr. Duncan and Richard the good news.

Because of my father’s experience, he was very anxious for me to have a good education. When I’d say, “But I don’t want to go to school,” he’d say, “Then I’ll go in your place. Do you think the teacher would mind? I wonder if I can fit into the seat at your desk?”

That always made me laugh because I think it would have frightened my teacher to see a grown man coming to school, and I knew he couldn’t fit into the small seat at my desk. So I would go to school.

Sometimes I’d complain, “My teacher makes me work too hard.” Then Dad would just smile and mess up my hair and say, “I doubt it.” (I’m not sure, but the way he smiled always made me feel as though he wanted that teacher to make me work hard. I never could understand why, for I thought the only good thing about school were the recesses.)

Later when I had graduated from high school, served a mission, and completed my courses in college, I went on to earn a Ph.D. from a school in New England. (Ph.D. just means you are a doctor that doesn’t give shots or fix broken legs. In fact, I’m not sure Ph.Ds can fix much of anything.)

When I received my diploma I wanted my father to have it. He had never received a graduation diploma from any school and I thought he deserved this one. I told him that although my name was on it, the diploma should really be awarded to him. I told him they probably just made a mistake in the printing. That made him laugh and then it made him cry. I wasn’t sure then why it made him cry—but I know now.

My father died last year, and now he is getting more of the education that he always wanted when he was a little boy. And me? Well, my wife and I have children of our own in school. And when they say, “But I don’t want to go to school,” I say, “Then I’ll go in your place. Do you think the teacher would mind? I wonder if I can fit into the seat at your desk?” And when they say, “My teacher makes me work too hard,” I just smile and mess up their hair and say, “I doubt it.”

Fathers, I guess, are like that. In His own special way, I think Heavenly Father is like that too.

Have a good year in school and learn all you can. It is going to be important to you for a long, long time. In fact, it will be important forever.

Paul Hanks gripped the handle of his canvas duffel bag with a sweaty hand and listened to his mother repeat the instructions that she had been drilling into him all week.
“Now, your bus will get to Cheyenne in the middle of the night, and you’ll have to change bus stations there. Just go outside the depot, look across the street, and you’ll be able to see the other depot. Go over there and buy your ticket right away, even though you’ll probably have a couple of hours before your bus leaves, and—”
“You’ll get to Grandma and Grandpa’s in the middle of the morning!” Paul’s two little sisters, who had heard the speech as many times as he had, finished their mother’s sentence in shrill unison.
“Maybe you should send them, too, Rose,” Paul’s father said with a chuckle. “It’s just a bus trip. He’ll be fine.”
“Sure, Mom,” Paul reassured her. “I remember how the rest of us did it when Dad couldn’t go a couple years ago. I’ll be OK.” Then, thoughtfully, he added what he’d been thinking ever since he’d found out that he’d be going to Wyoming by himself for the summer. “You know, I wish I was going by covered wagon or pulling a handcart. All the challenges are gone now. I’m going to be doing in a few hours what the pioneers spent most of a summer doing—and some of them died in the effort.”
“No challenges!” his mother exclaimed. “I’m worried to death about turning a twelve-year-old boy over to an impersonal bus company, and you’re looking for challenges! I suppose you want to hunt buffalo too!”
Paul grinned. “Well, it might keep me from getting bored.”
Before he could continue, a big silver bus pulled up to the curb, and a voice over a loudspeaker announced that it was the bus to Cheyenne and that it was ready to board. Paul hurriedly hugged his sisters and father, gave his mother a quick kiss, and, hopping that he looked more confident than he felt, boarded the bus. As it pulled out of the depot, he waved from a window seat, then settled back to watch the prairie whiz by.
Paul was sound asleep when the bus reached Cheyenne, and the driver had to wake him. But Paul managed to retrieve the big suitcase that he had checked, and he struggled across the street with it and his duffel bag. He bought his ticket, checked his suitcase again, then bought some cookies and a can of pop from a vending machine. He was glad to go back to sleep again on the bus when he was finally headed north.
Paul was tired of sleeping, tired of sitting, and tired of reading, when the bus pulled into a small rural town in northern Wyoming at midmorning. He was glad to see Grandma and Grandpa Hanks waiting for him. They loaded Paul’s baggage into the back of a battered pickup and, amid lots of hugs and questions about his trip and the family, had him sit between them on the seat.
“We have one stop to make before we go home,” Grandpa told Paul. “If you’re going to be my best hand for the summer, you need some irrigation boots and a shovel.”
“That’s great,” Paul agreed. “I’d love to have my own shovel, but not those hot, heavy rubber boots. I brought a couple pairs of old sneakers. I’ll just use those.”
“But your feet will be wet and muddy all the time,” Grandma protested.
“Now you sound like Mom.” Paul grinned. “A little mud never hurt anyone.”
It was after lunch before Paul and Grandpa Hanks left the house to irrigate.
“You drive,” Grandpa told him as they neared the pickup.
“Me? Oh boy!” Paul climbed in proudly, then found it wasn’t as easy as it looked to work the clutch on the old pickup and back up smoothly. He killed the engine a time or two and jerked the pickup so much that Grandpa had to hold his hat with one hand and the dashboard with the other. Maybe it’s a good thing that the pioneers had horses, Paul thought.
“By the time your father was your age, he could drive everything on the place,” Grandpa said. “Why, I started him guiding the truck across the field while I fed hay to the cows off the back of it when he was only eight years old. When we got to the end of the field, he just turned off the ignition key and waited for me to turn the truck around and start us back. It was a proud day when he could reach the brake and the clutch pedals without getting off the seat and when he could shift gears without taking his eyes off the road. You turn here.”
Paul turned the pickup at the head of a grassy field and stopped beside the dam in the irrigation ditch.
“Whew!” he gasped. “That was fun. I’m too young to drive at home. I wish I could live in the country all the time.”
“We’ll see how you feel about that in a few weeks,” Grandpa replied. “Now let’s walk down the field and see if the water has run all the way through.”
Paul took his new shovel and followed Grandpa down the field. He helped reset the irrigation dam twenty rows from the last setting and learned to carefully shovel cutouts. They had to be just so—too deep, and the turbulent water would wash away the sides of the ditch; too shallow, and the feeble stream of water wouldn’t reach the end of the field. After only a few minutes of digging, the shovel handle had made blisters on Paul’s hands. He was hot and thirsty, and there were two more fields to irrigate before chore time. By the time they had finished irrigating, Paul could almost drive the pickup without it jerking.
Grandpa proudly pointed out the various crops that they passed: a new variety of field corn that was supposed to produce superior silage, a field of alfalfa for hay, a field of oats, and a small field of winter wheat. “Wheat for man, and corn for the ox, and oats for the horse,” Grandpa said, quoting the Word of Wisdom scripture that was familiar to Paul too.
“It’ll be a good crop,” Grandpa said, “if the irrigation water just holds out. We’ll have to make the most of what we have.” He pointed out one field where the water that ran through it would be used on the field below it. “Every drop counts.”
Besides irrigating, the chores that Paul was to help with included feeding a few pigs and a couple calves (Grandma tended the chickens), calling the saddle horses in from pasture for grain, watering the stock, and milking and feeding the milk cow. But when Grandpa saw Paul’s broken blisters, he decided to wait a few days to see if Paul remembered how to milk.
When Grandpa asked the blessing at suppertime, he said, “Father in Heaven, we thank Thee for this fine young man who has come to brighten our days and ease our way …”
That night as Paul settled onto the fluffy feather pillow and cool, smooth sheets with the moonlit tree-limb pattern on them, he decided that he had had enough challenges for one day.
In the next few days the blisters on his hands turned into calluses as Paul followed Grandpa and helped irrigate and rode horseback to move a dozen heifers to a different pasture. He carried heavy buckets for Grandma and still found plenty of time to watch the baby chicks and play with a litter of kittens.
On Saturday afternoon, when he and Grandpa went to make the second irrigation settings of the day, Paul counted the rows to where he thought he should move the dam.
“Not there,” Grandpa told him. “Go more than twice as far.” When he saw that Paul didn’t understand, he explained. “Tomorrow is Sunday. If we spread the water farther, it can run over twice as long. We can leave it safely until early Monday. We’ve labored our six days. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a day of rest.”
They were on the last field, setting long sets with small, shallow cutouts, when Paul heard a splash, a sickening snap, and a cry of pain. He turned in time to see Grandpa sliding in the mud with one leg in an unnatural position under him. Paul ran quickly to him. “Grandpa, are you all right?”
Grandpa grimaced and gasped in pain. “My leg is broken. You’ll have to go for help. Tell your grandma to call for the county ambulance—and don’t you let her get all upset! Tell her I’m going to be fine. Looks like you’ll have to do chores by yourself. Can you do it?”
Paul nodded.
“Now go—and be careful.”
Paul put his shovel over his shoulder and ran toward the pickup. At least we can call the paramedics, he thought. What would I have done on the prairie in a handcart company?

Paul hurried to the house and told Grandma to call the county ambulance. Then he did the chores by himself, just as Grandpa had asked. Later, after the ambulance had taken Grandpa to the hospital, Paul kept on helping Grandma with the work around the farm.

The next day was Sunday, and Paul went to church with Grandma. He thought about Grandpa’s broken leg and about all the work that had to be done on the ranch, and he realized that the “challenges” he had been wishing for had come after all. They were not the kind he had expected, but they were real enough.

When Grandpa came home from the hospital, Paul was waiting for him. “How is your leg?” he asked.
“It’ll heal,” Grandpa said. “And you did fine while I was gone.”
Paul smiled. “I guess the pioneers had challenges enough.”
Grandpa smiled back. “They sure did. And so do we. The important thing is to do what needs to be done.”
Paul nodded. He knew now that real challenges were not something to hunt for just to keep from getting bored. They were opportunities to serve and to grow.

(To be continued.)

Lisa stood in the doorway of Grandpa’s bedroom. She wanted to talk to him, but he was sound asleep. There was so much to say and so little time. Grandpa couldn’t even get out of bed now.
“I’ll be thankful if I get to see another crocus,” he had said. Those words brought back vividly all the hurt and pain she had felt when Keekee, her pet hamster, died.
Lisa hurried out of the house and went directly to the far end of the garden where Keekee was buried. Since it was mid-January, the plants were bare. Not a leaf or bud anywhere. She and Grandpa had put Keekee to rest between the red rose bushes. She swallowed hard, remembering it all.
“I won’t ever see Keekee again,” she had cried.
“Death isn’t forever, Lisa,” Grandpa comforted.
After Grandpa talked to her, some of the pain seemed to ease.
“By loving Keekee,” he said, “he will always live in your heart. All else can fade away but love is forever.”
They stood beside the grave. “What would you like to say on the marker?” Grandpa had asked.
Lisa hesitated. “Name and dates, I guess.”
“Don’t be ashamed to say what’s in your heart,” encouraged Grandpa.
Lisa looked into Grandpa’s warm brown eyes, then down at the ground. “I love you, Keekee …” she whispered.
Grandpa smiled. “Each time you read those words, Lisa, your memory of Keekee will come alive. Dying is a fact of life. One day we all must go away for a while.”
“Will that happen to you, too, Grandpa?”
“Yes, Lisa, but you must remember that separation is not a final thing and that someday we’ll all be together again.”
Now it is Grandpa’s turn to go, Lisa thought sadly. All the pain of parting came back again. Once more she looked over the garden. Every year she and Grandpa had planted bulbs along both sides of the walkway but now Grandpa was too ill. She remembered how one by one she had handed Grandpa the crocus bulbs and watched him place them into freshly dug holes. Then he covered them gently, almost with a prayer.
Lisa went back to Grandpa’s room. He seemed to still be asleep but then he opened his eyes. “Is that you, Lisa?” he asked.
“Yes, Grandpa, is there anything I can do for you? Anything you want?”
“Just sit and talk to me,” he said, taking her hand.
“The garden misses you, Grandpa. We don’t want you to go.”
“It will only be for a little while. In Heavenly Father’s time it will only be like a winter away. Plants sleep during the winter and wake up in the spring. So it is with people. We are parted for a while and come together again in a world where there is no more separation.”
Grandpa’s hand became limp and he fell asleep.
Lisa went out into the garden again.
“Grandpa loves you,” she spoke to the lilac tree and the rosebushes as though they could understand. “If you could give him a flower, it would make him so happy.” But only the silence and the cold wind answered her. Every day after that, Lisa carefully examined each plant, but there wasn’t even a sign of a swollen node.
Mother had asked Lisa to help in preparing the house for company who would want to visit with Grandpa. “Friends and relatives will come to see Grandpa often,” she said, “and you must keep the porch and steps clean.”
Many people did come to see Grandpa, and each day he seemed to sleep a little longer. Sometimes he didn’t know Lisa was there beside him. One day as she was sweeping the porch, the pain of losing Grandpa seemed to grow so big within Lisa that she thought it would burst. She began to cry. The broom slipped from her hand and fell beside the steps. As she stooped to pick it up, something caught her eye. It was half-hidden under the porch and behind the steps. She got on her knees and could hardly believe what she saw. In a sheltered place, well-protected from the wind and cold, was a purple crocus poking up from the dark earth. Although it was still winter, a flower had been born.
Lisa rushed to Grandpa’s bedroom where he lay sleeping. “Please wake up, Grandpa, and see what I found!” she cried. But Grandpa didn’t stir. Lisa waited and waited. She was about to leave the room when Grandpa opened his eyes.
“Look, Grandpa. Look what I have for you!” Lisa said softly.
“A crocus,” he whispered. “How wonderful!” He took the flower and held it to his face. “Where did you find it, Lisa? We took up all the bulbs last fall.”
“I guess we missed this one. It was in the corner by the steps.”
Grandpa smiled. “Lisa, did I ever tell you the story about the tree that began to sprout leaves in the winter? At the time, people called it a miracle. It brought new hope to many who needed it. Later it was discovered that a steam pipe near the tree had a leak and the warmth made the tree think it was spring—time to wake up and time to show its leaves. People talked about it for months afterward. Many felt it was a message from God, telling them that they should never despair.”
Lisa sat quietly thinking about the miracle tree. She looked down at Grandpa, who had fallen asleep again, the crocus still in his hand. Lisa stood beside the bed for a long time. Slowly some of the pain she felt began to ease. Grandpa’s going away didn’t hurt quite as much now. She knew that one day they would be together again.
“I love you, Grandpa,” she whispered, recalling his words, All else can fade away but love is forever.

Heber C. Kimball was ordained an Apostle in 1835 by the Prophet Joseph Smith, who considered him a man of great integrity. Two years later, while sitting in the Kirtland Temple, the Prophet Joseph whispered to Elder Kimball that the Lord wanted him to go on a mission to England. He would be the first Church missionary sent to a foreign country, a thought that was overwhelming to Elder Kimball.

“The idea of such a mission was almost more than I could bear. … I was almost ready to sink under the burden which was placed upon me,” he said. But despite the inadequacy he felt, Elder Kimball accepted the call and went to England. “The moment I understood the will of my Heavenly Father, I felt a determination to go at all hazards, believing that He would support me by His almighty power, and endow me with every qualification that I needed.” (See History of the Church, 2:489, footnote.)
Elder Kimball had the faith of Nephi. He knew that “the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Ne. 3:7).

Later that year we settled near the mine in Sudbury, Ontario. I remember lying awake one night after getting a letter from Sam. He wrote that his mom and he had let in a pair of Mormon missionaries that were knocking on doors enroute from Lethbridge to Cranbrook. Sam let them in because he knew a good LDS family, and he didn’t think it would hurt to learn more. He wrote that they were coming back on their return trip through town.
I fell asleep about then, thinking that our new house was quiet, peaceful, and that it was nice that my family was together under one roof. At that time, I was not afraid of anything, because I knew we’d pull through. We had before.
Something told me we were together forever.

When Elder Ringger and I first arrived in Sofia, Bulgaria, on 30 October 1988, we had been led to believe, through our indirect “third-party” contact, that we would be met at the airport and that proper appointments had been made. (Incidentally, it had been our experience that most leaders in these totalitarian governments did not confirm any arrangements in writing.) So we went to Bulgaria in faith. We arrived late at night. No one was there to greet us. We took a taxi, which delivered us to the wrong hotel. Once we made that discovery, we trudged, luggage in hand, through a snowstorm until we finally found our correct accommodations. Our frustration continued the next day as bilingual telephone operators at the hotel were not able to help us identify either the office or the leaders with whom we needed to meet. We were at a complete dead end. All we could do was to pray for help.

Our prayers were answered. In a marvelous way, a day later, at 10:00 A.M., we met with Mr. Tsviatko Tsvetkov, head of the religious affairs department for the country. He had just returned to the city, and his interpreter was available also. Incredible!

At first, the atmosphere was pretty cold. He didn’t know we were coming. Through his interpreter, he scolded, “Nelson? Ringger? Mormons? I’ve never heard of you.”

I replied, “That makes us even. We have never heard of you, either. It’s time we got acquainted.” Everyone laughed, and we went on to have a great meeting.

Elder Ringger and I returned to Sofia in February 1990, at which time, as authorized by the First Presidency, an apostolic dedicatory prayer was given on February 13 at Park Na Svobodata, which means “Liberty Park.”

On this visit we again met with Mr. Tsvetkov and other governmental leaders and also with many representatives of the media. The director of the International Foundation in Bulgaria asked if could help provide teachers of English. We assured him that we could. Capable teachers were called and sent to fulfill that request. This director came to Salt Lake City in October 1990 to continue our friendship. With gratitude, he praised the work of our missionary sisters and couples who had begun teaching in Bulgaria. Their contacts have provided excellent referrals, and several individuals have since joined the Church.

A new mission, the 268th mission of the Church, was created on 1 July 1991. Kiril Kiriakov now serves as president of the Bulgaria Sofia Mission. President and Sister Kiriakov were both born in Bulgaria. Official recognition for the Church was granted by the Bulgarian government on 10 July 1991. Congregations of Saints and friends are growing in Bulgaria.

Starting in my junior year of high school, my life began to get off track. I went to church only to pacify my parents, not because I wanted to. Towards the end of the year, I felt I had hit rock bottom. Nothing was going right, not at school, not at work, and especially not at home.
One day I went to my sister’s house. At that time my brother-in-law, Gerry, was in the bishopric. I began to tell them all the things in my life that were going wrong. After patiently listening, Gerry suggested that I start reading the Book of Mormon 30 minutes a day. I figured I had tried everything else and nothing had worked, so I decided to give it a try. Gerry promised me that if I truly tried to read for 30 minutes a day for a whole month, things would start to change for the better.
I started reading that very night. I think it was the longest half hour of my life. The next day was just an average day; nothing great and nothing horrible happened.
But change takes time. The next week was not an easy one. I missed the extra half hour of sleep, but I stuck with it. Soon I started to notice little things just happened to work out for the better.
At this time, I received the biggest blessing I have ever had in my life, although I didn’t recognize it at first. I had the opportunity to go to Ireland to work for the summer. I was already two weeks into my month of reading, so I decided to continue the Book of Mormon test while in Ireland and read it every day. And I did.
My life began to change dramatically. I began to love the things that I used to detest. I looked forward to going to church at my little branch in Galway. I gained a more positive outlook on life, and my testimony began to grow in leaps and bounds. One day I wrote in my journal:
Today was the most wonderful day. I woke up and went to church at 10:30. Today was our branch conference. It was the most spiritual meeting I have ever attended! I don’t think that I have ever felt the Spirit so strongly before. The people here in Galway are the friendliest, most generous, righteous people I have ever met. They give me strength. They are so firmly rooted in the gospel; I learn so much just by their examples. I think that today is the first time I have ever known or felt absolutely positive that the gospel is right and true.
Reading the Book of Mormon was no longer a chore. It was something I began to look forward to every day. My time in Ireland was soon up, and I had to return home. I knew that facing my old home life and my old friends was going to be a great challenge.
When I got home, it wasn’t as bad as I thought. My mom and I actually saw eye to eye on a lot of things, and I grew to love her with all my heart. As the wrinkles in home life began to iron out, so did things with my friends. I stopped hanging out with some of my old friends and started associating with a different group of girls. This was hard, but I had a lot of support. My life took a 180-degree turn.
Throughout this whole process I had the scriptures and a sister who was sent straight from heaven. My sister always knew when things were getting rough, and she would write me little notes of encouragement. She gave me a compass to remind me every day of the changes I had made in my life and to keep going in the same direction.

In November 1998, a lady named Miss Sugimoto came to our school to teach us about Japan. She told us that they have tea ceremonies in Japan and that we were going to have one, too. I know that I’m not supposed to drink tea, and I started to feel scared inside. I said a prayer to Heavenly Father and asked for help. I then remembered a story that I had read in the Friend magazine about a girl who had to make the same decision I had to make. When the day came for the tea ceremony and they put the cup in front of me, I explained that I didn’t want to taste it.
After I had made my decision not to drink the tea, a friend tried to make me change my mind. She said that if I didn’t drink it, she wouldn’t be my friend anymore. Even though she said that, I didn’t drink it. I know that I made the right decision and that Heavenly Father knows it, too.

After serving a mission to Sweden, I moved to Provo to attend BYU. I worked part time at the MTC. One day I passed a young woman in the hall who looked familiar. I glanced at her nametag and saw that her name was Sister Gurr. I was surprised to see Lisa, the former cheerleader from my high school! I stopped her and told her who I was, and she was equally surprised. I then thanked her for living true to her standards and keeping her covenants at that party so long ago. She was truly a wonderful example and affected my life for good by staying true to who she was and what she believed.

“I ran for president of my high school Women’s Association and lost. I felt that losing left me out of everything, and I really wanted to be in. But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I worked with one of my teachers to plan a marvelous party for the girl who beat me.
“When you lose and you’re really hurt, you can just reach out. If someone offends you or gets the honor or the award or job that you wanted, you just say to someone, ‘What can I do for you?’ And then you try to reach out to another and away from your own hurt.”

The children of the Calderón family started a great transition for their family. Jared, age 15, was the first to join the Church, followed a year later by his sister, Angie, 13. Their parents joined the Church three years after Angie’s baptism.
At first this family from Costa Rica had no idea how much the gospel of Jesus Christ would change their lives. They were introduced to the Church by a family member in 2002, and for many months afterward the Calderóns regularly invited the missionaries to their home so they could learn more. As they did so, the family experienced a transformation—a true conversion.
Before the family joined the Church, the Calderóns were concerned that Jared and Angie were having a hard time getting a moral and spiritual education in a world that downplays religion.
The gospel, the Calderóns found, had answers to the problems they were facing. “When we came to understand the gospel and started applying its teachings, that knowledge changed the way we lived,” says Brother Calderón. “We learned who we are and how we can return to our Heavenly Father. Because of what we found, we have lived a richer spiritual life.”
It wasn’t always easy to accept readily what they were learning from the missionaries, but as they tested gospel principles, they gained a testimony of them. “As we learned about gospel standards,” says Sister Calderón, “we tried to stay within the boundaries of worthiness. I gave up drinking coffee. (And I drank plenty of coffee before then!) We made goals as a family to not swear, to speak kindly to each other, and to keep other good principles.
“The main sacrifice we made was our pride,” she continues. “We had to learn to be humble, but as we’ve tried to learn and live with humility, we’ve received many blessings and experienced great progress as individuals, as a couple, and as a family.”
Jared Calderón was the first of his family to join the Church; he was baptized in June 2003. Angie followed in July 2004. Their parents were baptized in April 2007. And finally, shortly after the youngest member of the Calderón family, James, turned eight in 2007, he was baptized.