Gospel Story Finder

I would like now to relate one last personal experience in faith that demonstrates these six suggestions.

On July 29, 1977, Sister Cook and I had just finished visiting the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission and were stalled in the Cochabamba, Bolivia, airport for some five hours. I recall that we were very tired, having had few hours of sleep the night before. We were both delighted to have a few hours rest in the airport. As I was drifting off to sleep, I had a very strong feeling that I should awaken and write down some ideas. The desire to sleep was strong, but the promptings of the Spirit were more powerful. I did write; in fact, I wrote for nearly three hours, solving some organizational problems I had struggled with for a number of years previously. I felt a great outpouring of the Spirit on that day and excitedly wrote down each inspired thought. The experience took most of the time of the delay.

We were then off to La Paz, Bolivia. We were graciously met by President and Sister Chase Allred at the airport and driven in their van to the mission office. We locked the car and left our luggage and briefcase in the van.

Upon entering the office, the president was confronted with the difficult case of a woman whose husband was dying. While President Allred and I assisted with her needs, Sisters Cook and Allred left for the mission home.

When the president and I returned to the van, I realized immediately that all of our goods were gone but assumed that Sister Cook had taken them with her to the mission home. While we were driving toward the home, I discovered that the right front window-wing had been damaged and began to fear that our goods had been stolen.

Arriving at the mission home, we found that our luggage had indeed been stolen. The loss of a substantial amount of money and all our clothing created an immediate but only temporary problem. More disheartening was the fact that my scriptures were in my briefcase along with the inspired ideas I had just received in Cochabamba. The overwhelming sensation of discouragement, anger, and inability to do anything about the situation was overpowering.

My wife and I prayed alone. We prayed with those present. We tried to enjoy our dinner but could not. Who could know of the great loss I personally felt? The scriptures had been given to me as a young man by my parents, a sacred inscription placed in one of them by my mother and in the other by my since-deceased father. I had spent literally thousands of hours marking and cross-referencing (and loving every moment of it) in the only tangible earthly possessions I had ever considered of much value. I had on many occasions instructed my wife that if there were ever a fire in the home, she should first remove the children and then, if there were time, save my scriptures and not worry about anything else.

The president and I had much to discuss as we were to be together only that evening. However, I felt a strong impression that we must do all in our power to recover the scriptures. After supper, all present knelt in prayer once again. We determined to search the immediate area near the mission office and in a nearby field, hoping that the thief or thieves had taken the salable items and discarded the English books.

In the prayer we pleaded that the scriptures would be returned, that the persons who had taken them would be led to know of their unrighteous act and repent, and that the return of the books would be the means of bringing someone into the true church.

Eight to ten of us then loaded into the van with flashlights and warm clothing and drove up to the mission office in the central city. We scoured vacant lots across the street and adjacent streets and alleys; we talked with guards and anyone else we could find and exhausted all possibilities. No one had seen or heard anything. Finally we returned home, dejected, able only to pray individually and wait. President Allred and I worked late into the night to finish our business, and the next day Sister Cook and I flew back to Quito, Ecuador, where we lived.

During the next few weeks, the missionaries searched the lots again. They looked in hedges and garbage cans, searched a nearby park, placed a sign on a wall where the books were stolen, requesting their return, and kept a watchful eye to see if the books might show up in an unexpected place nearby. In sheer desperation, trying to do all in their power, the missionaries decided to place an ad in two daily newspapers, offering a reward and giving explicit information concerning the books.

In Quito, Ecuador, I began a personal spiritual struggle that was a very difficult one for me. After nearly three weeks, I had not studied in the scriptures at all. I had tried on numerous occasions, but every time I read a verse I recalled only a few of the many cross-references I had made over 20 years. I was disheartened, depressed, and had no desire whatsoever to read. I prayed many times expressing to the Father that I had never tried to use my scriptures for any purpose other than glorifying his name and trying to teach others the truths that he had taught me. I pleaded with him to do whatever had to be done in order to have them returned. My wife and little children prayed incessantly for the same blessing. Even after two or three weeks they continued praying every day, “Heavenly Father, please bring back daddy’s scriptures.”

After about three weeks, I felt a strong spiritual impression, “Elder Cook, how long will you go on without reading and studying?” It seemed to me to be a test or a trial and to have something to do with the “cost” of the blessing I desired. The words burned, and I determined that I must be humble and submissive enough to start all over again.

With my wife’s permission to use her scriptures, I began reading in Genesis in the Old Testament, marking and cross-referencing once again.

On August 18, a friend, Brother Ebbie Davis, arrived in Ecuador from Bolivia and laid my scriptures on my desk along with a manila folder that contained the papers that I had written in Cochabamba and some recently prepared mission budgets that were also stolen. He indicated that they were the only things recovered, that he had been given those items by the mission president in La Paz as he boarded the plane, and that he did not know how the books were found, but that I would be told when I arrived there in the next few days to tour the mission.

The joy I experienced in that moment and later that day is indescribable. To realize that my Heavenly Father could, in some miraculous way, lift those books out of the hands of thieves in a city like La Paz and return them intact, not one page removed, torn, or soiled, is still beyond me. How the faith of our family and many Bolivian missionaries was rewarded! That day I promised my Father that I would make better use of my scriptures and my time as instruments in his hands for teaching the gospel.

On Sunday, August 21, I flew to Guayaquil, Ecuador, and on to La Paz, Bolivia, arriving on August 22. Upon arrival I was given the following account:

A lady had been in one of La Paz’s hundreds of marketplaces. She saw a drunk man waving a black book around. She had the strongest spiritual impression that something holy was being desecrated. She approached the man and asked him what it was. He did not know but showed her the book. She asked if he had anything else. He pulled out another black book. She asked if there were more. He removed a folder full of papers that he said he was going to burn. She then expressed the desire to purchase those things from him, to which he agreed, for the price of 50 pesos or about $2.5, U.S. currency.

After the purchase had been made, she felt totally taken back by what she had done. She realized the books and papers were in English—she didn’t speak, read, or understand English—and she had no desire to have any English books. It would have been like one of us paying nearly 10 percent of our monthly income to buy some books in a language we could not read. She immediately began a search for the church that was named in the front of the books. After approaching a number of other churches, she finally arrived at the mission office in La Paz, directed by the hand of the Lord. She had never heard of the reward nor of the ad in the newspaper, which was to appear that very day. She did not ask for any money, not even to reclaim the 50 pesos that she had paid for the books and papers. The elders received the books with rejoicing and paid her the reward anyway.

She told the missionaries that she was associated with a Pentecostal sect, but she listened very intently as they unfolded the gospel to her. She recalled reading something about Joseph Smith from a pamphlet she had picked up in the street two or three years earlier. After their first discussion with her, they reported, “She is a golden contact.” After the second discussion, she committed to baptism. Two weeks later, September 11, 1977, on a Sunday afternoon in La Paz, Bolivia, Sister Maria Cloefe Cardenas Terrazas and her son, Marco Fernando Miranda Cardenas, age 12, were baptized into the true church of Jesus Christ by Elder Douglas Reeder.

Who could describe my deep, discouraging, depressing, disheartening, overpowering feelings of helplessness when the scriptures were lost? Who could describe my great feeling of joy and rejoicing when we saw the power of heaven revealed in this miraculous way? Our Heavenly Father does hear and answer the prayers of his sons and daughters if they exercise faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. The Lord said:

“For verily I say unto you, That whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith.

“Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.” (Mark 11:23–24.)

A true story from the USA.
“Are we there yet?” Justina asked.
“Almost,” Grandma said. The car turned around the corner, and there it was! The temple stood tall on the hill. It was so beautiful!
Justina and her family were here for the temple dedication. Mom said it was an important meeting where an Apostle would give a special prayer inside the temple. Then the temple would be ready for Church members to perform ordinances inside. “Temple dedications are broadcasted so members of the Church can watch them from their church buildings,” Mom explained. “But we are lucky to be able to attend the dedication inside the temple.”
Outside the temple doors, they were given white plastic covers to put on their shoes. Justina thought they looked silly. “Why do we have to wear these?” she asked Grandma.
“They protect the new carpets,” whispered Grandma. “Remember, we need to whisper inside the temple, OK? We want to be reverent in the Lord’s house.”
As they walked through the temple, Justina stared up at the high ceilings. It was so quiet that she wanted to walk on her tippy-toes and hold her breath. She was amazed when they began to walk up a spiral staircase. The stairs seemed to go on forever.
Finally they arrived at the room where her family would watch the dedication. “This is called a sealing room,” Grandma said quietly. “Do you know what happens here?”
Justina shook her head no.
“This is where families are sealed together forever. That means they can live together in heaven after they die. Look at the mirrors.” Grandma pointed to mirrors on both sides of the room. “See what happens when you look at your reflection?”
Justina looked in one of the mirrors and saw her reflection repeated over and over.
“Wow,” Justina said, making sure to whisper this time. “It goes on forever.”
As the dedication began, Justina thought about her family. Her parents were divorced. And she knew they hadn’t been sealed in the temple.
She looked at her mom and siblings sitting next to her. Would she get to be together with them in heaven? What if I can’t be with my family forever because we’re not sealed? That thought made her feel scared and worried.
Justina leaned close to Grandma and asked, “What happens if you aren’t sealed to your family?”
Grandma thought for a minute. Then she said, “I don’t really know, honey. But I do know that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”
Justina thought about that as she listened to the next speaker. Soon the dedication was almost over. It was time to sing “The Spirit of God.”
As Justina stood and sang, she felt a warm feeling in her heart. She knew the Holy Ghost was telling her that everything would be OK. She felt like her faith was growing.
When the song ended, Justina gave Grandma a hug. She didn’t have all the answers, but she had faith that God loved her and her family very much. She knew she could trust Him.

Mom hung up the phone slowly. “Ben,” she called quietly, so as not to waken the younger children. “I need your help.”
“Sure, Mom,” Ben said, closing his book. “What is it?”
“Dad is coming home from his business trip tonight,” Mom began, “but planes have had trouble landing at the airport because of the fog. I just called there. They expect Dad’s plane to land, but the bad weather has made it late—so late that Dad will miss his ride home from the airport. It’s a dangerous night for driving, but I’ll have to go and pick him up.”
“Do you want me to baby-sit?”
“No. I’ll ask Mrs. King to come over and sit while the little ones sleep. It’s awfully late, I know, Ben, but I’d like to have you come with me to the airport. I’d appreciate your company.”
“Sure, Mom!” Ben dashed to the closet. “I’ll get my coat.” It wasn’t often that Mom even allowed Ben to stay up late.
Once in the car, Ben realized how thick the fog was. It drifted past his window like clouds of pale cotton candy. He could scarcely see the white lines marking the lanes of the freeway, let alone the signs giving directions. “I sure hope you know the way to the airport, Mom. This is like trying to look through mashed potatoes.”
“Actually,” Mom replied hesitantly, “I’ve only driven to the airport once before, and that was in daylight. I know which signs to look for, but without those, I’m pretty lost. That’s one reason I asked you to come along. I hope that two pairs of eyes watching for the signs will be better than one.”
Ben stared into the milky whiteness outside his window, trying to see anything besides fog. The words of the prayer Mom had offered before they left the house meant more to him now: “Please bless us with safety and guide us to our destination.”
Mom seemed to be whispering. “Did you say something, Mom?” Ben asked.
“Yes, sweetheart, I did,” Mom answered with a smile, “but not to you. I was praying. The fog’s getting worse. I can hardly see the road at all now, and it’s too late to turn back. Please pray, too, Ben.”
Ben didn’t need to be asked. “Please, Heavenly Father,” he was saying silently, his eyes closed, “remember what Mom prayed for before. We need help to find our way through this fog.”
When Ben opened his eyes, in front of their car and a little to the right, he saw two small red lights glowing dimly through the fog. “Look, Mom,” he pointed. “Lights!”
“I see them,” Mom sighed. “They’re taillights. Another car must be in front of us. If we follow it, maybe it will help us stay on the road.”
They followed the taillights through thick fog and through thin fog. Once, when the fog cleared a bit, Ben saw that the other car was a rather ugly old green one. “It’s not a very pretty car,” he laughed, “but I don’t think I’ve ever liked one better.”
“Me, either,” Mom agreed. “Watch for signs now. We need to exit the freeway soon and take another road.”
Ben’s eyes searched for signs. In the thinner fog, he and Mom saw their exit sign at the same moment. But while they had been looking for it, they lost sight of the old green car.
“I feel as if I’ve lost a friend,” Mom said. “I wish I could thank whoever is in that car. They’ll never know how much they helped us. Without them, I don’t know if we would have made it through the first challenge of our trip.”
“The first challenge? That means there must be another one.”
“More than one, I’m afraid. It’ll be darker on this country road, and there’s only one little sign to mark the airport turn. If we miss it in the fog, we’ll really be lost. Keep praying, Ben.”
Usually when he was with Mom, Ben talked nonstop about everything he could think of. But now he was too scared. He felt that they were all alone in a big empty whiteness that was swirling in darkness. It was a lonesome and fearful feeling.
After a few minutes, Mom spoke again. “Do you know what this reminds me of, Ben?” Ben shook his head. “Remember Lehi’s dream that we talked about in family home evening a few weeks ago? Remember how all the people were striving toward the tree when thick mists of darkness surrounded them and many lost their way? Well, this is like being in a mist of darkness. We know where we’re trying to go, but we can’t see to get there. But some people made it through the mist. How did they, Ben?”
“They held on to the iron rod.”
“And what is the iron rod?”
“The word of God,” Ben answered.
“Well, I’m thinking of some of the words of God right now. I remember that He said, ‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’* I think ‘whithersoever thou goest’ even includes through the fog to the airport, don’t you?”
Ben smiled a little into the darkness. His eyes strained for a glimpse of a sign out the window, and in his mind he kept praying, “Please help us find our way.”
Mom slowed down so suddenly that they came to a complete stop. “Do you see something out there?” she asked.
Ben’s eyes ached as he tried to see. He watched one tiny patch of fog clear just enough to reveal a sign: AIRPORT.
“Oh, Ben!” Mom’s voice trembled as she turned the car. “We’re not alone out here, are we? Only one more challenge now.”
“What’s that?”
“At the airport, there will be quite a bit of traffic, and since I don’t know my way around very well, I’ll have to go slowly and follow signs. I hope we don’t have an accident in the traffic and the fog.”
Mom was right about the traffic. As they neared the airport, cars and buses and all sorts of vehicles converged from all directions, some going much too fast for a foggy night. Mom was forced to keep up with them. “I can’t see the signs, Ben, can you?” Her voice was tense. “I’m not sure where to go from here.”
Ben didn’t know how to help. He was nervous about the speeding cars all around them. Then, just ahead, Ben spotted a familiar-looking ugly green car. He relaxed his clenched hand to point; then he and Mom glanced wordlessly at each other. Mom changed lanes and followed the green car right to the entrance of the parking lot. She parked the car, turned off the engine, leaned back weakly, and looked at Ben.
“Mom,” said Ben, after a quiet moment. “Do you think Heavenly Father answered our prayers with that ugly green car?”
Mom smiled. “What do you think, Ben?”
“Well, I think …” Ben swallowed. Then he grinned. “I think Heavenly Father can answer prayers any way He wants to. Let’s go find Dad.”

In addition to learning about family history and temple work, the young women also learned how to embroider. They each embroidered their family’s last name onto a tree, and each leaf on the family tree has the name of a family member on it. At first, Tahna T., 13, resisted this part of the project because it wasn’t a skill she felt she was good at, but she learned to enjoy it so much that she continues to develop her talent with needlework.

In my own lifetime I have been a witness to the miracle of the restored gospel. When I was a young girl my family moved to São Paulo, Brazil, where my father had been called to preside over the Brazilian Mission. It was an exciting time for me and a great place to grow up. A favorite game for my brothers and me was to dress up and pretend to be missionaries. We spent hours scribbling our own missionary pamphlets and “preaching” and “transferring” all over the yard. For five years the nightly conversations around our dinner table centered on missionary work, and I listened intently to stories of faith told by missionaries. Even at that age I knew I was part of a great work.
There were only about 3,000 members of the Church in Brazil when we arrived there. I remember being in a very small Primary with a few other children, singing the same five songs every week, as those were the only ones translated into Portuguese. Two of my favorite songs were “A Luz Divina,” or “The Light Divine” (Hymns, no. 305), and something about a bunny in the middle of the woods (see “The Little Rabbit,” Children’s Friend, June 1955, 257).
In many ways our experience was similar to the early pioneers. We had no hymnbooks or pictures or lesson manuals sent from the headquarters of the Church. Everything that was needed to teach the gospel in Portuguese was written and printed in our mission home. All of us, even the children, were pressed into service to help assemble mission newsletters and lessons. No one shipped the Church to us. The prophet did not send us stake presidents or bishops. He did not send Relief Society presidents or youth programs. The Church in Brazil was made from the same material that the pioneers started with. The material to build the Church was in the people.
During our years in Brazil, we saw great growth come to the Church. Thousands became Latter-day Saints. Soon the mission was divided, districts and branches were organized, and new chapels were built. The new members were enthusiastic, and they grew in faith and became more experienced in the manner of the gospel.
A lot of years passed, and then last year I returned to Brazil to attend the rededication of the São Paulo temple. At that time I learned that there were 187 stakes in Brazil. There are now 26 missions, 4 temples, and almost 1 million members. Imagine my surprise when I walked into a stadium filled with over 60,000 members who had gathered to hear President Gordon B. Hinckley and celebrate the temple dedication. To me it was a miracle to see thousands of youth dancing and singing together. As I watched that joyful celebration, I kept saying to myself, “This is amazing! This is a miracle! How did this miracle happen?”
I marveled all that night at what I had seen. Then, the next morning at the temple dedication, I had a reunion with my Primary teacher, Sister Gloria Silveira. That was when I knew how the miracle had come about. As a new convert with no prior Church experience, Sister Silveira had come to Primary prepared to share her simple testimony and teach me the Articles of Faith in Portuguese. She and her husband, Humberto, are still faithful. They have served in many Church callings over the years, and they are still serving. When I saw Sister Silveira, I realized that the Church in Brazil had grown because of her and thousands like her. She and Brother Silveira represent people everywhere who have faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and His gospel. They have grown in knowledge and skill, and they have served in the Church (see D&C 88:80). They have shared the gospel with friends (see D&C 30:5). They work in the temple (see D&C 138:48). They taught their five children correct principles (see D&C 68:28). Of their 43 descendants, 15 have served full-time missions. Their grandchildren are now marrying in the temple, and their great-grandchildren are the fourth generation of Silveiras who are part of the marvelous work that was started by Joseph Smith. Because of them, faith has increased in the earth. They are an example of the miracle the Lord spoke about when He said that His gospel would be proclaimed by the weak and the simple (see D&C 1:23) and that by small and simple means great things are brought to pass (see 1 Nephi 16:29).

The choir leaders work with the region’s public affairs office in organizing places and times to sing. The choir is often included in public performances where the audience is not well acquainted with the Church. When asked about their most memorable performance, they immediately mention a Christmas program held at the local YMCA. Rachel Neifert of the Maryland Heights Ward says: “There were all kinds of choirs there. We sang, ‘This Is the Christ.’ Afterwards people were asking us, ‘What was that feeling?’ It was the best we have ever done. I didn’t know we could sound that good.”

“I think before every performance at least one person says, ‘Let’s try and make this like the YMCA performance.’ That was the most spiritual experience,” adds Carolyn Rees of the Spencer Creek Ward.

When I was about 10, my older brother had a serious health problem. The blood in his hands was not circulating properly, and they hurt very badly. At that time, my family lived in a small town on the border of Brazil and Argentina. The medical facilities there were not very good, so my mother and my brother traveled to the big city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, to see the doctor. Because my father had to work during the day, my baby brother had to stay with another family. So every day I went to visit him. And every day I prayed for my older brother.
The doctors told my mother they needed to amputate (cut off) my brother’s hands. Mother refused. “No, I know the Lord will take care of my son,” she said. One night after my mother and brother had returned home, he was in great pain. I shared a room with him, and I remember him crying because his hands hurt so much. While he cried, Mother knelt by his bed, praying. The next morning, I saw him sleeping peacefully. Mother was also asleep, still kneeling at his bedside. We were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but Mother had great faith. Eventually my brother’s hands did get better. He lost the tips of some of his fingers, but he did not have to have his hands amputated.
Mother also had great courage. And she taught us to be of good cheer. She told my brother that even though he had lost part of some fingers, he still had everything else. So my brother did not get discouraged. His first job was as a typist. Today he is an attorney.

Rigmor Heistø was already 43 years old when this story begins. It was 1963, and in many ways Rigmor was leading a comfortable life. She was married to a prominent physician and had three much-loved children. Like most Norwegians, she belonged to the Lutheran Church, the state church of Norway. She also took part in two Bible study groups.
Yet all was not well. Members of her family were struggling with health problems, and her marriage was troubled.
When Elder John Storheim and Elder John Marshall came to her door, Rigmor was immediately touched. She found their message fascinating; then she began to feel it was true. Her conversations with them answered some questions she had always had—and raised some new ones. She took her questions to her Bible study groups. Disturbed by Rigmor’s new questions, the leaders of one of the groups asked her to stop coming to the group’s meetings. Other friends begged her to stop seeing the missionaries. Her husband opposed her conversion. So intense was the pressure, in fact, that Rigmor told the missionaries not to come back, privately determining to remember the truths she had learned from them.
For several months, Rigmor prayed that she would forget the Church if—as her friends had told her—it really were the devil’s church. But the more she prayed, the more she was reminded of the Church. Finally, she went to a meeting at her church where two hymns that she had heard on a Tabernacle Choir album were played. When the pastor rose and exhorted the congregation to “remember them … who have spoken unto you the word of God” (Heb. 13:7), Rigmor knew in her heart that it was the missionaries who had spoken the word of God to her. She decided to follow her new faith, whatever the cost.
Rigmor’s husband had been influenced by an inaccurate, negative description of the Church in a book by a respected Norwegian theologian, Einar Molland. So he first withheld and then grudgingly gave his permission for Rigmor to be baptized. Rigmor was baptized in 1964; three years later, she and her husband were divorced.

A time back, I clipped a column from the Deseret Morning News, written by Jay Evensen. With his permission, I quote from a part of it. Wrote he:
“How would you feel toward a teenager who decided to toss a 20-pound frozen turkey from a speeding car headlong into the windshield of the car you were driving? How would you feel after enduring six hours of surgery using metal plates and other hardware to piece your face together, and after learning you still face years of therapy before returning to normal—and that you ought to feel lucky you didn’t die or suffer permanent brain damage?
“And how would you feel after learning that your assailant and his buddies had the turkey in the first place because they had stolen a credit card and gone on a senseless shopping spree, just for kicks? …
“This is the kind of hideous crime that propels politicians to office on promises of getting tough on crime. It’s the kind of thing that prompts legislators to climb all over each other in a struggle to be the first to introduce a bill that would add enhanced penalties for the use of frozen fowl in the commission of a crime.
“The New York Times quoted the district attorney as saying this is the sort of crime for which victims feel no punishment is harsh enough. ‘Death doesn’t even satisfy them,’ he said.
“Which is what makes what really happened so unusual. The victim, Victoria Ruvolo, a 44-year-old former manager of a collections agency, was more interested in salvaging the life of her 19-year-old assailant, Ryan Cushing, than in exacting any sort of revenge. She pestered prosecutors for information about him, his life, how he was raised, etc. Then she insisted on offering him a plea deal. Cushing could serve six months in the county jail and be on probation for 5 years if he pleaded guilty to second-degree assault.
“Had he been convicted of first-degree assault—the charge most fitting for the crime—he could have served 25 years in prison, finally thrown back into society as a middle-aged man with no skills or prospects.
“But this is only half the story. The rest of it, what happened the day this all played out in court, is the truly remarkable part.
“According to an account in the New York Post, Cushing carefully and tentatively made his way to where Ruvolo sat in the courtroom and tearfully whispered an apology. ‘I’m so sorry for what I did to you.’
“Ruvolo then stood, and the victim and her assailant embraced, weeping. She stroked his head and patted his back as he sobbed, and witnesses, including a Times reporter, heard her say, ‘It’s OK. I just want you to make your life the best it can be.’ According to accounts, hardened prosecutors, and even reporters, were choking back tears” (“Forgiveness Has Power to Change Future,” Deseret Morning News, Aug. 21, 2005, p. AA3).
What a great story that is, greater because it actually happened, and that it happened in tough old New York. Who can feel anything but admiration for this woman who forgave the young man who might have taken her life?

Alaina could hardly wait to try on the jeans she had bought at a garage sale. The fringed denim pants were exactly what the other girls in her sixth grade class were wearing.
Until she started middle school, she hadn’t minded wearing the second-hand clothes she and her mom found at garage sales. Then she started noticing that the other girls were dressing differently.
Her friends talked constantly about clothes—what was cool, what wasn’t. The jeans, Alaina decided, were definitely cool.
In her room, she pulled on the jeans, happy to find that they fit perfectly. Hearing a crinkling sound, she slipped her hand into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill.
She stared at it, hardly able to believe her eyes. Five dollars! That would pay for her school field trip to the planetarium next week.
The five-dollar bill was more than just money. It was a way to help her family. Ever since her dad had started his own consulting business last year, money had been tight in her family. They had been eating out of their food storage. A half-smile crossed her face. Alaina and her brothers frequently joked about all the ways her mom had found to serve cracked wheat.
The smile vanished as she recalled President Hinckley’s talk about the Six Bs. Be grateful. Be smart. Be clean. Be true. Be humble. Be prayerful.
Her family had talked about them in family home evening, and one of her friends had given a talk on them in Primary. If she kept the money, she wouldn’t be true—not to herself or to her beliefs. She would not be clean, either. Just the thought of keeping something that didn’t belong to her made her feel itchy. She knew she wouldn’t enjoy wearing the jeans if she kept the money.
Alaina thought of the other Bs. Stealing—and that’s what keeping the money would be—wasn’t being grateful, smart, humble, or prayerful. It went against everything she believed.
She found Mom in the kitchen, putting away the few groceries they’d bought. Mom turned and smiled. “Hey, those look great on you.”
When Alaina didn’t return the smile, Mom gestured to the chairs around the kitchen table. “What’s wrong?” she asked, sitting down. “Don’t you like the jeans?”
Alaina unfolded the five dollar bill and placed it on the table. “I found this in one of the pockets.”
Mom nodded slowly. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Would you take me back to that garage sale? I want to give the money to the girl who sold me the jeans.”
Her mom leaned across the table to give Alaina a quick hug. “I sure will.”
At the garage sale, Alaina handed the money to the girl and explained how she’d found it in the jeans. The girl gave Alaina a puzzled look, then thanked her.
Alaina wore the pants the following Monday. Her friends complimented her on them, and she smiled. Looking good was nice. Feeling good was even better.
“Be true to your own convictions. You know what is right, and you know what is wrong. You know when you are doing the proper thing. … Be loyal. Be faithful. Be true.”President Gordon B. Hinckley(Ensign, January 2001, page 10.)

It was Memorial Day evening. Jason Booker, 13, told his mother he was going for a walk. He headed up the hill to the creek where the night before his father and some other men had built a rock wall to contain the high runoff. Jason was just going to see how it was holding up.
“I was in the circle in front of Sims’s house when I heard a rumbling and cracking noise. I looked up the hill and saw the trees falling over, and rock and mud was coming down. I ran down the street and told my parents. Some friends who were visiting us left. We got the younger kids out of bed and into the car. I walked back up the hill with my dad. We got to the edge of the circle, and the mud was completely surrounding the Sims house up to the eaves. It started to move, and we just got out of there.
“We drove out of the area. The officials wouldn’t let us back into our house that night because more mud slides were coming down. On Tuesday they let us back in to get some clothes and necessities. Our house was still okay on Tuesday, but when we woke up Wednesday morning, we saw our house on the national news. We didn’t even know the mud had hit it until then.”
Jason’s house wasn’t destroyed, but the basement was filled to the ceiling with mud and the house was surrounded by several feet of mud. With the help of ward members and volunteers, the Bookers are restoring their home.

Two and one-half years passed, and before I knew it, I was home again. I remember hearing someone mention a name: Elisa Rogers, a young woman who was in charge of a university dance at the Hotel Utah. There was something special about that name. I decided I ought to meet her.
I remember the first time I saw her. As a favor for a friend of mine, I had gone to her home to pick up her sister. Elisa opened the door, and I stared. There she was, beautiful, 1.65 meters tall, blue eyes, blond hair.
She must have had a feeling also, because she said to me, “I know who you was.”
She quickly realized she had made a grammatical error. To fully appreciate that, you have to remember that she was an English major.
Even after all of these years, she has remembered the embarrassment of that moment. Of course, my retelling this story doesn’t make matters better, but I trust she will forgive me.

One of the most special moments that took place at family home evening was when our son, Renan, was preparing to be baptized. Our two older daughters, Cynthia and Lilian, offered to teach the lessons for the month preceding his eighth birthday. My husband and I loved watching them teach the meaning and purpose of baptism—the same lessons we had taught them as they prepared for baptism. Four years later Renan followed the examples of his older sisters and taught lessons about baptism to his younger sister, Ellen.

During a demanding time of my life, I was called to be the Relief Society president in my ward. I felt intimidated and inadequate, but I tried to be optimistic as I began serving.
Not long after I was set apart, despair and dread overtook me. I knew I needed the Savior’s help. I prayed often, asking Heavenly Father for direction.
One day, I was talking to a friend of mine, and when I told her about my calling, she looked thrilled. “That was the best calling I have ever had!” she said. “I learned so much.”
I was so confused by her reaction and wondered why I didn’t feel the same way about my assignment.
I wanted to feel better about the calling and learn to love it, so I prayed to feel “more joy in his service.” I received a prompting to further develop three Christlike attributes.
Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith.” The times I struggled most in my calling were always when I doubted God’s power. Over time, I watched Him perform miracles for me and others.
For example, when I got a text from a sister telling me she couldn’t attend an event because of some family issues, I felt prompted to go visit her.
She told me the traumatic, heartbreaking challenges her family was going through. I had no idea what to say—I had never encountered similar issues in my own life. I prayed as we talked, and the Spirit inspired me with comforting words to share with her.
We can accomplish what’s required of us through God’s power. “If thou art sorrowful, call on the Lord thy God with supplication, that your souls may be joyful” (Doctrine and Covenants 136:29). When I gave my trust and faith to God, He returned it with support and joy.
Confidence includes self-assurance and acceptance. “Spiritual confidence increases when you accept that ‘often trials and tribulations are allowed to come into [your life] because of what [you] are doing right,’” Elder Jörg Klebingat of the Seventy taught. God loves me enough to challenge me.
At the beginning of my service, I hesitated to share my ideas in ward council meetings. I felt like I shouldn’t be trusted with stewardship over the Relief Society.
With more time and experience, I learned that I wasn’t just a placeholder in this calling—God called me so I could learn to serve and love my ward members. I possessed unique talents that could benefit others.
As I became more confident in my capacity to receive revelation, I found it easier to help the sisters in my ward. And eventually, I realized that my insights were valuable to ward council meetings. This realization filled my heart with joy and belonging.
God didn’t give me this calling by accident. I needed to learn submission. Elder David P. Homer of the Seventy taught: “The choice to submit our will to God’s is an act of faith that lies at the heart of our discipleship. In making that choice, we discover that our agency is not diminished; rather, it is magnified and rewarded by the presence of the Holy Ghost, who brings purpose, joy, peace, and hope we can find nowhere else.”
When I aligned myself with God, other parts of my life fell into place. I found it easier to recognize the Spirit, make decisions, love my ward, find friends, strengthen my mental wellness, and so much more. Submitting my will also included delegating responsibilities to my counselors and allowing them to support and help me. Through all of this, my devotion to God grew, and my heart softened.
I was not happy when I received the calling, but I found joy in the experience. Once I accepted God’s plan for me, I didn’t feel upset or resentful anymore. Submitting brought me peace.
I am still learning to find joy in my calling. I’ve grown significantly, but I’m not perfect at it.
If you are called to serve in your ward or branch, act on it. “While serving is not always convenient, it is always rewarding.” Magnifying your calling will bring increased joy to your life, no matter what capacity you serve in.

In the fall of 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic had the world on its knees. We were certainly all affected in some way.
Given my vocation in the culture and tourism industries, the pandemic posed a serious challenge to me professionally. So, I was full of expectation when I learned that our beloved prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, would deliver a special address to the world on Nov. 20, 2020.
As he began, President Nelson told of some of the challenges he had experienced in his life and expressed great concern about the pandemic. Then he said, “There is, however, a remedy—one that may seem surprising—because it flies in the face of our natural intuitions. Nevertheless, its effects have been validated by scientists as well as men and women of faith.
“I am referring to the healing power of gratitude.”1
President Nelson invited us to use social media as our personal gratitude journal and to express our thanks to God in our daily prayers for the innumerable blessings in our lives.
I applied the “therapy” he suggested and felt it helped me in that difficult time to experience healing and have a cheerful, believing heart.

Sister Soares: My father and the rest of us in my home were not religious. But my dad always said prayers, every night, kneeling, and I would watch him from when I was very little. He did not teach me with words, but he taught me by action. And when I was little, I also remember that sometimes I said the name of God in vain. I did not know that I was doing something wrong, and my mother taught me that I should not speak in that way. She wasn’t religious but knew what was right and wrong. When I was nine years old, a girl in my neighborhood, who was also nine, invited me to go to Primary for the first time.
Elder Soares: You grew up in the Church without your parents in the Church and still you built your faith in the gospel, and now you have decided to dedicate your life to teaching our children that same faith.

Elder Hugh B. Brown of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles (1883–1975) once shared such a lesson he learned while pruning a currant bush on a farm in Canada.

As he went about cleaning up and repairing his property, he came across a currant bush that had grown over six feet high and was yielding no berries. Therefore, he pruned it back drastically, leaving only small, teardrop-shaped stumps. The sight made it appear as if the currant bush were crying, and Elder Brown thought he heard the bush say:

“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. … And now you have cut me down. … I thought you were the gardener here.”

Elder Brown replied, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. If I let you go the way you want to go, you will never amount to anything. But someday, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to think back and say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.’”

Several years ago one of my favorite articles of clothing was a khaki-colored pair of cotton slacks my parents gave me one year for Christmas. I wore them almost every chance I got.
One afternoon I happened to have them on while working in the computer lab of the BYU Harold B. Lee Library with the freshman English class I taught. Sitting at the terminal, I had the misfortune of pressing my leg up against the underside of the computer table and feeling myself come into contact with something sticky. As I drew my leg slowly away from the table, I saw that my favorite pair of slacks was attached to the table by a strand of freshly deposited, pink Hubba Bubba bubble gum. It stretched, like a suspension bridge, between the blob of gum beneath the table to the blob of gum resting just above the right knee of my slacks.
In near panic I tore my slacks from the offending gum and then did my best to tear the offending gum from my slacks. I succeeded in getting most of the Hubba, but not all of the Bubba, off. There remained, firmly entrenched in the intricate cotton weave, a sticky stain of an unmistakably gray-pink about the size of a quarter.
I quickly dismissed my class and, using my briefcase as a shield to cover up the stain, hurried across campus to my car, and raced home for help. “My wife will know what to do,” I thought. “After all, she’s had a lot more experience with laundry-related emergencies than I have.” And I was right. “You’d better take them to the dry cleaner and pray he can get the gum out,” she urged. “But don’t get your hopes up.”
I followed her advice and took the slacks to the dry cleaner. I was told they would be ready in a week.
It wasn’t easy waiting. I was always reaching for the slacks that weren’t there. I worried that they had been irreversibly damaged and that modern dry-cleaning technology might not be up to the task.
At the end of the specified cleaning time I got my slacks back, miraculously minus the Hubba Bubba, with not even a hint that they had ever been in a gum fight. I was overjoyed. I had my favorite slacks—the prodigal ones—back again. Had I a fatted calf, I would have been tempted to kill it, but settled, instead, on wearing my slacks to church the next day.
After my experience with the bubble gum, I have been much more careful with my slacks, avoiding doing anything that might cause them a stain or a tear. I have taken particular care, before sitting down at any desk or table, to first check for a Hubba Bubba booby-trap. But I have found that no matter what I do to protect them, the slacks still get a little dirty—with nothing as serious as the gum, of course—but dirty nonetheless, and I have had to make sure they are cleaned regularly to keep them free from stains and looking good.

We are often unaware of the distractions which push us in a material direction and keep us from a Christ-centered focus. In essence we let celestial goals get sidetracked by telestial distractions. In our family we call these telestial distractions “Saturday Morning Cartoons.” Let me explain.

When our son, Larry, was five years old, I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said he wanted to be a doctor like his Uncle Joe. Larry had experienced a serious operation and had acquired great respect for doctors, especially his Uncle Joe. I proceeded to tell Larry how all the worthwhile things he was doing would help prepare him to be a doctor.

Several months later, I asked him again what he would like to be. This time he said he wanted to be an airline pilot. Changing the goal was fine, so I proceeded to explain how his various activities would help him achieve this goal. Almost as an afterthought I said, “Larry, last time we talked you wanted to be a doctor. What has changed your mind?” He answered, “I still like the idea of being a doctor, but I have noticed that Uncle Joe works on Saturday mornings, and I wouldn’t want to miss Saturday Morning Cartoons.”
Since that time our family has labeled a distraction from a worthwhile goal as a Saturday Morning Cartoon.

For a long time, whenever I searched the Topical Guide or the index of the scriptures to write a talk, I preferred finding scriptures in the Book of Mormon, the New Testament, and even the Old Testament over scriptures in the Doctrine and Covenants. Sure, a lot of the information in the Old Testament has old book names and seems hard to understand, but the Doctrine and Covenants has just numbers—no interesting book names at all.
My feelings about the Doctrine and Covenants changed when we studied it in seminary. I had already tried to read through the entire standard works during my personal scripture study, which I had started when I was eight, but I had skipped the Doctrine and Covenants. The Doctrine and Covenants seemed to be just tedious numbers and instruction—no storylines, no main characters, no wars, no challenges. How could it mean something to me?
So the Church history and Doctrine and Covenants year of study came. During my previous two years of seminary, I had fulfilled my goal to read the entire book of study (the New Testament and then Book of Mormon) as we studied it in seminary throughout the school year. I couldn’t skip that goal just because of a bunch of boring numbers, so I took up the challenge.
Throughout the year, my seminary teacher taught us the historical context of each section in the Doctrine and Covenants. This instruction really helped me understand what I read on my own. The greatest thing I learned that year in seminary was that I was wrong—the Doctrine and Covenants is not a book of boring numbers that doesn’t apply to me. On the contrary, I found that I connected to this book of scripture in a special way because the people the Lord talks to in the Doctrine and Covenants are a lot closer to me in lifestyle and time period than the people in any other book of scripture.
My experience with the Doctrine and Covenants taught me that if, for whatever reason, I feel uninterested in any type of gospel instruction, I’m usually missing out on something great. With patience and a sincere desire to learn, I came to appreciate the Lord’s revelations to the Prophet Joseph Smith in the Doctrine and Covenants, as well as all the writings of ancient and modern prophets. Through this experience the Holy Ghost touched me and the gospel blessed my life every day.