Gospel Story Finder

Jennifer Johnson, 15, of Arvada, Colorado, is confined to a wheelchair and is deaf, but thanks to the help of friends, family, and ward members, she often feels just like “any other kid.”
Jennifer was born with spina bifida, and has had more than 25 surgeries in her short life. Recently, “News for Kids,” a nationally syndicated television program, featured Jennifer going through her classes at school and working at home with her sister Julianne to accomplish their chores.
Jennifer, a Mia Maid, loves going to church and attending Young Women activities. With the help of many, she’s attended YW camp for the past two years, which has been a real treat for her.
She also gets along well at school. “Kids sometimes make fun of me and tease me,” she says. “But I want to be treated like any other eighth grader.”

The year 2000 was full of significant events for my family and me. My wife and I celebrated our first anniversary. We became parents for the first time. It was also the year I became paralyzed, just five weeks after our daughter’s birth.
That summer I had been helping an elderly sister in our ward by regularly biking the few blocks from our apartment to her home to mow her lawn, but one morning I was very tired and not as alert as I should have been—and I was accidentally hit by a car. While it is a miracle that I survived, I unfortunately did not escape without injury. One week after the accident, I awoke to the realization that I was paralyzed, unable to move any muscles below my lower chest.
Paralysis is a permanent disability. Even with all of today’s great strides in modern science and medicine, it cannot be cured. And naturally I was afraid at first, concerned with how I was going to be a husband and a father. The fear was then replaced by anger at myself for being foolish—for not stopping at that intersection and for not wearing a helmet.
I felt like a burden. It took many months at a rehabilitation hospital to teach me to live the rest of my life with my disability and how to become independent again. At the same time, living with my paralysis has helped me better understand the scriptures and our Savior’s Atonement.
Christus im Getsemani-Garten betend, by Hermann Clementz
One particular insight came while I was pondering the miracles that Christ performed. In Mark 2, Jesus forgives a paralytic of his sins and then heals him. When the scribes questioned His offer of forgiveness, Jesus said, “Whether is it easier to say to the sick of the palsy, Thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, Arise, and take up thy bed, and walk?” (verse 9).
I had read this scripture many times before, but I never understood it until after my accident. In reading the chapter, we are reminded of how truly miraculous the healing was. Today, even after 2,000 years and many medical advancements, such a healing still cannot be achieved by man alone, and I live with this reality every day. Many think that this is the lesson behind this scripture—that Christ has the power to cure even the incurable. But there is so much more to this scripture, especially as we look past the physical miracle and instead focus on the spiritual miracle.
Just as it is impossible for one with physical paralysis to “arise” and “walk,” it is equally impossible for man alone to overcome the spiritual paralysis caused by sin. I have learned that the Savior’s Atonement is the true miracle in this scripture. I may never experience the miracle of being able to physically arise and walk again in my earthly life, but I have received the greater miracle of the forgiveness of my sins through the Atonement of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. The reality of this miracle is affirmed in verses 10 and 11:
“But that ye may know that the Son of man hath power on earth to forgive sins, (he saith to the sick of the palsy,)
“I say unto thee, Arise, and take up thy bed, and go thy way into thine house.”
Being healed of the effects of sin is the greatest miracle we each receive in our lives, all because of Jesus Christ. In atoning for our sins, Christ took our infirmities and sins upon Himself. He knows what we go through in life. He understands our individual disabilities, weaknesses, and challenges, no matter how big or small. There is no other person in the world who can heal the spiritual paralysis of sin.
I am thankful for the insight that I have been blessed with. It provides needed perspective as I live with my disability and strive to use it to help me learn and grow. I have been able to stop feeling sorry for myself and go do the same things I loved to do before my accident, and I have been blessed to be able to serve in spite of my condition. Some may find it difficult to be thankful when living with a disability, but God blesses us continually—even in these times. I am grateful for my Savior, for His Atonement, and for this amazing miracle in my life.

“Come on, Jodi! It’s only one soccer match! God isn’t going to hate you for playing just this once on Sunday.”
“That’s right,” thought Jodi Allen, a seventeen-year-old from Sandy, Utah, and the best goalkeeper on her championship soccer team. “It is only one soccer match.” But to play in it would break a personal promise she’d made to Heavenly Father years before.
But how could she explain that to the teammates who were pressuring her to play? As a team, they had worked hard all season, winning the Utah state championship and traveling to the regional tournament in San Francisco, California, to compete against other winning teams from throughout the western United States. They had successfully played a couple of tournament matches and now had the opportunity to play a team that had beaten them the previous year. Jodi’s team wanted revenge, and a win for the team would place them in the regional finals.
But the game was scheduled for Sunday.
“Oh Jodi! Who do you think you are? Some of us are members of the Church too, and we’re playing on Sunday. Do you think you’re better than we are?”
So there was never a question about playing on Sunday—not even in this tournament. But making her teammates understand was another story.
“Look,” she tried to explain, “if I don’t play on Sunday, I’ll disappoint my team, and I feel bad about that. But if I do play on Sunday, I’ll disappoint so many more. I’ll disappoint myself, because I’d be breaking a promise. I’d disappoint my parents, who know how important that promise is to me. I’d disappoint my cousins, who don’t play on Sunday because of my example, and I’d disappoint my seminary teachers, who have taught me better. But most important of all, I’d disappoint God. I just can’t do that.”
It was a great explanation, but it didn’t do Jodi much good. All Saturday night the team tried to convince her to play. They made fun of her. They called her every name they could think of. Finally, at about midnight, Jodi telephoned home in tears. It wasn’t that she was tempted to give in. It’s just that she felt so alone.
Her parents listened. Her parents understood. Both her mother and father got on the telephone and had a prayer with her. After they hung up, they called an old friend in the San Francisco area and asked her to give Jodi some support.
The next morning Jodi got up and got dressed—in a dress, which she wore as she stood on the sidelines watching her team play. The final score was one-to-one. After the game, many of her teammates apologized for being so critical of her.
The team took third place overall in the tournament, which was better than they’d ever done before. Jodi thought this would be a highlight on which to end her soccer career.

On September 11, 2001, the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City were hit by terrorist-controlled airliners that caused both towers to collapse. Thousands of people were killed. Out of this tragedy have come hundreds of stories of courageous, unselfish acts. One very poignant and heroic account is the Washington Post’s story of retired army colonel Cyril “Rick” Rescorla, who was working as vice president for corporate security of Morgan Stanley Dean Witter.

Rick was a very experienced ex-military combat leader. He was in his office when “the first plane struck the north tower at 8:48 a.m. … He took a call from the 71st floor reporting the fireball in One World Trade Center, and he immediately ordered an evacuation of all 2,700 employees in Building Two,” as well as 1,000 more in Building Five. Using his bullhorn, he moved up the floors, working through a bottleneck on the 44th and going as high as the 72nd, helping to evacuate the people from each floor. One friend who saw Rick reassuring people in the 10th-floor stairwell told him, “Rick, you’ve got to get out, too.”

“As soon as I make sure everyone else is out,” he replied.

“He was not rattled at all. He was putting the lives of his colleagues ahead of his own.” He called headquarters to say he was going back up to search for stragglers.

His wife had watched the United Airlines jet go through his tower. “After a while, her phone rang. It was Rick.

“‘I don’t want you to cry,’ he said. ‘I have to evacuate my people now.’

“She kept sobbing.

“‘If something happens to me, I want you to know that you made my life.’

“The phone went dead.” Rick did not make it out.

“Morgan Stanley lost only six of its 2,700 employees in the south tower on Sept. 11, an isolated miracle amid the carnage. And company officials say Rescorla deserves most of the credit. He drew up the evacuation plan. He hustled his colleagues to safety. And then he apparently went back into the inferno to search for stragglers. He was the last man out of the south tower after the World Trade Center bombing in 1993, and no one seems to doubt that he would’ve been again last month if the skyscraper hadn’t collapsed on him first.”

Amid the great evil and carnage of September 11, 2001, Rick was not looking for what might be in it for him; instead he was unselfishly thinking about others and the danger they were in. Rick Rescorla was the “right man in the right place at the right time.” Rick, “a 62-year-old mountain of a man cooly [sacrificed] his life for others.” As the Savior Himself said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

This story happened in the USA.
Maya sliced the strawberries and added them to the bowl of fruit salad. Fruit was her favorite food. She loved all the bright colors. And she never had to worry about eating it!
Maya had a lot of food allergies. She had to be careful because eating the wrong food could make her really sick. When she was little, she drank some cow milk by accident and had trouble breathing. She had to go to the hospital. She didn’t want that to happen again.
Sometimes it was hard to have to eat different things than her friends and family. But she knew it was important to stay safe.
Maya carried the fruit salad to the counter. “The salad’s ready.”
Dad looked up from the pot he was stirring. “Great! Our guests will be here soon.”
Maya heard a knock at the door and ran to open it. The Johnson family and the missionaries smiled at her from the porch. The Johnsons were family friends. Maya was happy to see them again. She opened the door wide for everyone to come inside.
While they waited for dinner, one of the missionaries showed Maya a magic trick. She couldn’t figure out how he was pulling the coin out of her ear!
Soon it was time to eat. Brother Johnson said a prayer. Then they all lined up to fill their plates.
When it was Maya’s turn, she got a big scoop of fruit salad. She skipped over some food she knew had milk in it.
Then she picked up a big bag of chips and poured some onto her plate. They looked like the same kind of chips she had eaten before. She put one in her mouth.
But as she started to chew, she had a strong feeling. Check the ingredients, a voice said in her mind.
Maya stopped chewing. She looked at the list of ingredients on the bag. The chips had milk in them!
Maya grabbed a napkin and spat out the chip as fast as she could. Her eyes filled with tears. She hadn’t swallowed it. But would something bad still happen?
“Mom! Dad!” Maya rushed over to her parents. “I put a chip with milk in it in my mouth!”
“It’s OK,” Mom said. “Let’s get some medicine.” Maya swallowed the pill Mom handed her and took some deep breaths. Dad held Maya while they waited for the medicine to work.
After a few minutes, Mom said, “How do you feel?”
Maya still felt scared. But nothing felt wrong with her body. “I think I’m OK. But could I have a blessing?”
“Of course,” Dad said. “Let’s ask the missionaries to help.”
Maya sat in a chair, and Dad and the missionaries placed their hands on her head. They blessed her to be safe. Maya felt calm. All her bad feelings were gone.
“How did you know to check the ingredients on the bag?” Mom asked.
“I felt a warning from the Holy Ghost!”
Dad gave her a big hug. “I’m so glad you listened.”
Maya nodded. She knew that Heavenly Father loved her and cared about her.
Illustrations by Chrisanne Serafin

I was down on the Indian reservation when I met a sister who had just joined the Church, a beautiful Navajo woman. My, they dress beautifully down there. I have never seen an immodestly dressed Indian woman, never seen an Indian indecently exposed. Those beautiful velvet dresses—they leave everything to the imagination. My, it’s wonderful to be modest. They get on these beautiful dresses and go out and buy their groceries at the trading post.

Anyway, after I had met this sister, one of the missionaries called me off to the side and said: “A few months ago my companion and I went into a hogan and that lady, that Indian sister, was lying on the ground on a sheepskin. She had been lying there for six long years. We called on her, and when we were leaving she called us back and said in broken English, ‘Isn’t there something you do for sick people?’ And we said, ‘Yes.’ She said, ‘Please do it for me.’”

They got down on their knees and administered to her by the authority of the priesthood and in the name of Jesus Christ. Then they left. They weren’t fifty yards away when she came out of the hogan after them and said, “Come back and see what you have done for me.” She walked.

After my graduate work, I taught at Penn State University in Pennsylvania while my husband was finishing his degree. I had just been offered a new job to teach theatre at BYU–Hawai’i. I was full of uneasy feelings at how we would be able to live with a large family in Hawai’i. I told my Heavenly Father that I couldn’t see how this would work in pleading prayer. How could we move with so much uncertainty? At that moment, I was given a vision.

The heavens opened up, and my spiritual eyes saw a path five years down the line from that moment. I could see all the uncertainty being fixed. I saw what could happen with theatre at BYU–Hawai’i. It immediately went into my testimony box; I saw something that I couldn’t deny. As Joseph Smith said, “I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it….” 1 Later after I had been teaching here for a while, I was meeting with John Bell, our prior Vice President over Academics. I shared this vision with him. He said, tears in his eyes; I have had that vision. He and I had both seen the future. We had been brought together through the Spirit’s testifying witness of truth.

It is not easy to give up our personal priorities and desires. Many years ago a new missionary in England was frustrated and discouraged. He wrote home saying he felt he was wasting his time. His wise father replied, “Forget yourself and go to work.” Young Elder Gordon B. Hinckley went to his knees and covenanted with the Lord that he would try to forget himself and lose himself in the Lord’s service. Years later, as a mature servant of the Lord, Elder Hinckley would say, “He who lives only unto himself withers and dies, while he who forgets himself in the service of others grows and blossoms in this life and in eternity.”

December 17, 2024, began like any other day in Port Vila, Vanuatu. The city was alive with holiday preparations, and I was at work in a popular clothing store, helping customers and wrapping gifts. Then, without warning, the ground beneath us shook violently.
As a 26-year-old returned missionary, currently serving in the stake Primary, I had faced many faith-strengthening trials before—but nothing could have prepared me for this. Yet, in that moment of sudden chaos, I wasn’t afraid. I distinctly heard a still, small voice tell me, “Jane, you will be OK.”
What began as a small tremor escalated into a powerful earthquake. Instinctively, people ran for safety, but before I could reach the exit, I was struck on the shoulder by a falling TV screen. I fell to the floor as darkness engulfed me.
For a moment, panic threatened to overtake me, but a quiet, reassuring feeling filled my heart. Though I was trapped, I knew I was not alone. A minute later the still, small voice said, “Turn yourself around!” As I turned my body around, I found that my hands were OK, my head was OK, and nothing on my body was injured. I could sit up a little but not stand because of a heavy wall on top of me.
Somewhere nearby, I heard the voices of a woman and her son, also caught beneath the rubble. We spoke to each other, reassuring one another that help would come. They had a phone, but reaching anyone was difficult as networks were down. Hours passed as we waited, unable to move, listening to the distant sounds of sirens and the murmurs of people working above us. I prayed, trusting that my Heavenly Father knew where I was and that He would send help.
As night fell, an unexpected blessing came—fresh air. Despite being buried beneath the collapsed building, we could still breathe deeply, and I felt a quiet peace settle over me. Though the situation was dire, I knew in my heart that God was aware of us.
Early the next morning, we heard voices above us. Rescue teams had arrived. The young man trapped with his mother called out, and soon the rescuers responded. One by one, they carefully worked to clear a path, bringing first his mother to safety and then him. Before leaving, the rescuers promised to return for me. I watched as the last bit of light from their escape route faded, and for the first time since the earthquake, I was alone.
Minutes turned to hours, and again I prayed. I reflected on the blessings of my life: the love of my family, the strength I had gained from serving a mission, and the covenants I had made with my Heavenly Father. In that quiet, sacred space, I felt an overwhelming assurance that I was in His hands.
Finally, a rescuer called my name. “Sister Jane, can you see my light?” I turned my head and saw a small beam of light piercing the darkness. “Yes!” I called back, tears welling in my eyes.
The rescue team worked carefully. They reassured me that they would proceed cautiously to avoid further collapse. I knew their work was dangerous, and I silently prayed for their protection as well as mine. Piece by piece, they cleared the rubble until they reached me. As strong arms lifted me into the light, I was overwhelmed by the sight of so many people waiting—cheering, crying, praying. Then I heard the voice I longed for most. “Jane, Mommy is here.” My mother’s arms wrapped around me, and I knew I was home.
After 27 hours trapped beneath a collapsed building, I emerged without injury. My heart swelled with gratitude—not just for my physical safety but for the undeniable presence of God in my life. Through prayer and faith, I was strengthened, comforted, and ultimately delivered.
I am grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ, for the power of prayer, and for the knowledge that no matter how dark our trials may seem, His light will always find us.

During another time in my life, my husband and I moved to California. I was pregnant with our first child. We knew no one in the area.
We went to church, and a woman named Virginia greeted me enthusiastically. She said she had a bunch of boys and wanted to invite me to lunch. She was very sweet.
Virginia served simple tomato soup and half a grilled cheese sandwich and was so pleasant. We became friends. And oh, we were so different! She was just so friendly! To a young soon-to-be mom who knew no one, she was a lifeline. That one invitation led to a lifelong friendship.

The first book I ever owned came to me on the heels of near tragedy. It was at a community Christmas tree party in our little country town of Clifton in Idaho. The huge tree lighted with hundreds of burning candles … set an ideal stage for that which followed. Before our horrified gaze Santa caught fire and as he ran frantically out through a rear exit he swept along with him trimmings, candles, presents, and even a part of the tree itself. …
I returned home … disconsolate and dejected because no gift was on the tree for me. The next day from out of the ruins of the fire a book, half burned, was found with my name in it. That book was Tom, the Bootblack, by Horatio Alger, Jr.

I recently met a remarkable young woman, 17-year-old Caylee, as she shared her heartfelt feelings in a stake conference. She declared that God is real, the Church is true, and President Russell M. Nelson is God’s prophet. She also bore strong witness that the negative things some say about the Church and the gospel of Jesus Christ are false.
I was impressed by Caylee’s conviction and her ability to discern what is true and what isn’t.
But I was even more impressed when I spoke with Caylee after the meeting and discovered that her discernment and conviction had not come easily. In fact, she had endured a serious challenge to her faith.
Here is what she shared.
Caylee has always been active in the Church. However, as she began to think deeply about the gospel and the Church, some serious questions arose in her mind. She felt guilty for questioning and began searching for answers.
“My problem,” Caylee says, “was I searched in all the wrong places. Rather than searching scriptures or conference talks and talking to my parents, I came upon different articles online claiming they had the answers to my questions.”
Initially, Caylee thought the online articles were shining light on her questions. However, she says, “As I continued investigating my questions, everything I read filled me with more and more questions and more and more doubt.”
Caylee began losing both faith and hope. “The light from my testimony was flickering,” she remembers, “and I gradually stopped doing things I had been taught—reading the scriptures, praying, and attending seminary.”
She eventually became overwhelmed by the darkness and confusion she felt. She says, “I couldn’t determine what was from God and what was a crazy idea twisted and created by someone to throw me off. I could no longer discern what was truth and what was deception. It was tearing me apart.”
Caylee compares her situation to Joseph Smith’s when he said, “At length I came to the conclusion that I must either remain in darkness and confusion, or else I must do as James directs, that is, ask of God. I at length came to the determination to ‘ask of God’ [James 1:5], concluding that if he gave wisdom to them that lacked wisdom, and would give liberally, and not upbraid, I might venture” (Joseph Smith—History 1:13).
At this critical point, Caylee reached out to her seminary teacher, her grandmother, and her mother. Her seminary teacher assured her that her feelings weren’t wrong and that she wasn’t the only person with questions. Her teacher shared her testimony and recommended reading material that could help Caylee in her search.
Caylee’s grandmother didn’t preach. She simply urged her to consider which sources of information uplifted her—the online information or Church doctrine? Caylee began comparing: “Which one uplifted me? Which one brought joy and peace to my soul? Which one taught me that I would be with my family forever in a state of never-ending happiness if I followed God’s commandments? Which one put nagging voices in my head?”
Caylee’s mother encouraged her to pray. Eventually, Caylee went to her room and poured out her soul to God. She explains: “Nothing happened. No angels came down. My heart didn’t fill up with peace and gratitude. I went back to my mom. We prayed together, and she encouraged me to read the Book of Mormon for 10 minutes. As I read, I felt a promise in my heart that if I continued to do this, I would see blessings. I would be able to see clearly and know which teachings were from God and which were not.”
Caylee began to pray every day and read the Book of Mormon. She stayed away from Twitter and the websites that started her doubts in the first place. She went to seminary with the intent to learn, not to look for negative things about the Church.
After about two weeks of consistent effort, she felt the negative voices get quieter. School went better. Work was more enjoyable, and she had a better relationship with her parents. She was happier.
Because of that happiness, she says, “I finally saw my answer. I was able to discern what was from God and what was not because I saw firsthand what He was doing for me when I did what He asks.”
“That,” she concludes, “is the only way you can truly discern what is truth from God and what is not. We can study and ponder and question all we want, but until we do as James directs and what Joseph Smith did—ask and act—only then can we truly know what is true and what isn’t.”

After this, my fiancé sent the missionaries to teach me. I told them I already knew the restored gospel was true and that I understood what the Holy Ghost feels like. But I was concerned that it would be difficult for me to give up smoking and drinking coffee and tea.
I began to attend church, read the Book of Mormon, and meet with the sister missionaries three or four times a week. Eventually, the Holy Ghost helped me stop smoking and drinking coffee and tea.

Well, I look about you and you look like a convention of the teenagers that have graced our home while we have been raising our eight children, sharing with us hundreds of gallons of ice cream and great barrels of carmel popcorn. On one occasion, when I was downtown, I called home and a young man answered the phone. I asked for each of my children in turn and he said, “None of them are here right now.”

I said, “Oh? Who is this?”

He said, “This is Brent.”

“What are you doing, Brent?”

“Oh, Bill and I are just sitting here having some chocolate ice cream and watching television.”

It is always open house at our place, and they know it. I thanked him kindly and told him to keep taking messages, and if anyone needed me I would be home soon.

While flying from Erie to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, several years ago, I sat next to the minister of a large Protestant church. He was dressed in the garb of the clergy, so was easy to identify. After I had introduced myself as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, he asked, “Do you know what we ministers talk about when we meet together? We talk about the Mormons. We see the young and the elderly, teenagers, small children, and the newly married crowding into your chapels. Every age-group seems comfortable and happy being together in your church.” I explained how we are concerned about people of all ages.
That experience reminded me of the difficulty Moses had persuading Pharaoh to let the Israelites leave Egypt. One plague followed another until the Egyptian ruler finally gave in. After being threatened with hordes of locusts, Pharaoh agreed to let the men go if Moses would leave the women, the young, and the old behind. (See Ex. 10:3–11.)
However, Moses insisted that all should go. He said, “We will go with our young and with our old, with our sons and with our daughters, with our flocks and with our herds will we go” (Ex. 10:9). Moses refused to divide the people of God.
All ages would share the adventure and the dangers together, just as our own pioneers did 132 years ago during their great exodus. The solidarity of the people of all ages is God’s way of doing things. It is our way because it is his way.
Life is not stationary. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years all tick away at the same clip for everyone. No age-group can be isolated. None of us can settle into infancy, youth, middle age, or old age. We all grow older, and, incidentally, it is an exciting thought if the accent is on growing. “Though our outward man perish,” said Paul, “yet the inward man is renewed day by day” (2 Cor. 4:16; italics added).
I cannot think on my own life without feeling deep gratitude for the older people who have walked and talked with me. A great-aunt taught me many lessons in her own sensitive way. A lovely grandmother has influenced not only her own grandchildren, but also many of their friends. A patriarch, by living righteously and by giving a beautiful blessing, changed the course of a young man’s life. Elder LeGrand Richards’s powerful voice and testimony have brought the truth of the gospel to all who will listen, and a few others besides. Our great prophet-leader, President Kimball, has influenced so many of us through his dedication and incredible energy.
All are needed; all are to serve. Those of you with experience and maturity, who have seen the Great Depression, the ravages of two world wars, a society that has emerged from the horse and buggy era to silver Concordes splitting the sky at 1,400 miles an hour have so much to offer. It is to you, the elderly, I address my brief comments.
Few men whose names occur in the New Testament have so little said about them as did Mnason. His name appears only once: “one Mnason of Cyprus, an old disciple, with whom we should lodge” (Acts 21:16). As the early missionaries traveled, they wanted to be with an elderly disciple, one with whom they felt comfortable. Apparently, they were seeking his wisdom and his knowledge.
“Then what can we do?” I can almost hear some of our older members of the Church inquiring.
First, take time with the Savior. If you feel you do not know him yet, then think of him often. Read about him. Invite him in. It is never too late to make a friend, and he is the best friend you will ever have.
Second, tell of past decades when life was different. Keep alive the recollection of your struggles and achievements. Take time to share the truths that never change. Show how solutions to problems sixty, seventy, and eighty years ago are just as valid and helpful now as they were then. We need to learn from you.
Third, look to your ancestors. Temple doors stand open bidding you welcome. So many need you to perform their earthly ordinances. The extra time you often have enables you to bless those who need you to do their earthly work for them. They are waiting for you.
Fourth, there is so much for you to do in the mission field, either as a couple or, if you do not have a mate, as an elder or sister missionary. It is true, you will not be tracting quite like the younger missionaries, or at least not as long, but you will be influencing the inactive, providing welfare service instruction, serving in our visitors’ centers, meeting the town fathers, and helping those that need your leadership example, your judgment, and your ability to teach. Investigators in Stuttgart, West Germany; Hermosillo, Mexico; Williamsport, Pennsylvania; and Rocky Ford, Colorado, will listen and, yes, be baptized because of you.
Fifth, realize that you are needed and loved and that you can be useful to many in so many positive ways. Only too often an elderly person will retreat into a state of feeling unneeded, left out, or even passed by or rejected. Usually nothing could be further from the truth. Please communicate openly so we will know of your feelings.
Sixth, hold family home evening. If you are now alone, invite friends to stop by each Monday night. If you feel lonely, others probably do, too. Loneliness can only be dispelled by helping others feel less lonely. Family home evening is an ideal opportunity to share, to worship, and to heal.
Seventh, whenever possible, walk each day. Enjoy this lovely world that the Savior has provided, and invite others to walk with you, sharing the beauties and miracles of nature together. “Add life to your years, not just years to life” (“The Problem of Old Age,” Time, 23 July 1966).
Eighth, for heaven’s sake, forget your regrets. The many years you have lived have been filled both with success and with experiences you might change if you could. But you can’t, so stop any self-inflicted sadness or despair. When the Savior said, “Judge not,” he was speaking, in part, about your relationship with yourself (see Matt. 7:1). Live the repentant life happily. The scripture “Men are, that they might have joy” (2 Ne. 2:25) applies to you right now.
Bernard Baruch, on his eighty-fifth birthday, said (in a news report dated 20 August 1955), “To me, old age is always fifteen years older than I am.” Yes, there is much for you to do.
Shifting now to a different perspective, those who are younger may ask, “What can we do?”
First, it is certainly our responsibility to keep in touch with you our parents, our grandparents, and elderly friends, to say hello and to express our love for your influence. Perhaps we should place a telephone call this afternoon or write a letter or note to say “remember when”—and then—thank you dad, mom, bishop, teacher, or friend.
Second, we must develop a partner relationship with you that will help all of us serve better in the kingdom by serving together. You stake presidents, bishops, quorum presidents, and auxiliary leaders are to call our older members to positions of meaningful responsibility. Can any of us imagine what the body of the General Authorities would be like without those magnificent men in their eighties and nineties who inspire, teach, and help carry the kingdom forward?
Third, we must listen carefully to what you older and often wiser people have to say. A listening heart is a loving heart. Please forgive our impatience and may we concentrate upon your counsel.
Fourth, we must be certain as we hurry through life that we tend to your needs as you have so kindly tended and cared for our needs through decades of patience and love. May we wipe away your tears as you have so skillfully and lovingly wiped away ours.
In closing, I say to you—our elder mentors, our examples, some of our dearest friends—thank you, and may we be one, as the Father and the Son are one, I pray in the blessed name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Sunshine highlighted the autumn leaves as Lottie and her collie, King, picked their way down the rocky path to the springhouse to fetch a crock of butter. She held up her long skirt that she wore to school so as not to dirty it. Despite Mama’s lecture, however, she had discarded the stiff high-button shoes in the weeds. The cool grass chilled the bottoms of her calloused feet. She hadn’t worn shoes all summer (except to church because Mama insisted), and she hated to start now. Mama said that a ten-year-old girl should act like a lady, but Lottie didn’t feel like a lady as she ducked under a low limb of an apple tree.
As she opened the wide, heavy door of the springhouse, she felt a chill sweep past her, and she was grateful for King’s companionship. Although Lottie had three older sisters, they stayed at the house to help Mama with the three younger girls and her little brother.
It was damp and dark in the springhouse. The icy springwater flowed briskly through the long troughs where they kept their perishable foods. Maybe I’d better get one more crock, thought Lottie. It takes a lot of butter for hot cakes for all of us. Just then Lottie lost her footing on the slippery floor. As she grabbed a shelf to break her fall, the fancy butter crock that she had just chosen slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a sickening crash! Pieces of blue pottery scattered in all directions!
Tears welled up in Lottie’s eyes as she remembered Papa’s words of caution: “These are hard times and we cannot afford any waste.”
Fearful of being late for school and of getting a tongue-lashing from Mama, while King licked up the splattered butter, she stuffed as many pieces as she could find into her apron pocket, grabbed another crock of butter, and hurried toward the house.
Lottie quickly pushed the pieces of broken crockery into a crevice in the old stone fence at the edge of the field and ran back to the house. As she neared it, the smell of bacon floated out with the chimney smoke to meet her.
“What kept you, Charlotte?” asked Papa as Lottie appeared in the doorway.
“I guess I’m a little slow this morning, Papa,” Lottie answered, trying hard to smile. She felt Papa’s sideway glance every so often during breakfast. It was a questioning expression that Papa always wore when he knew that there was something that he should know but didn’t.
“Anything special going on at school today?” he asked.
“No, not much,” Lottie answered, trying to be cheerful.
“I have a busy day ahead of me,” he said. “I need to mend some fences to get ready for the new herd.”
Lottie nearly choked on a bite of bacon. What if Papa checks that particular fence? she wondered. It wouldn’t have been such a big thing to Mama had it not been her favorite crock, nor to Papa had it been empty, nor to herself if careful inventory would not be taken, but she knew that an accounting must come.
It came sooner than Lottie had anticipated, for Papa was waiting outside the barn as the girls came home from school. “Come into the barn, girls. We need to talk.”
The four girls looked at each other, recognizing the concern in Papa’s voice.
“I happened onto these pieces of Mama’s best crock today while I was mending the stone fence,” he said, displaying the broken pieces. “Who can tell me how they got there?”
A big lump jumped into Lottie’s throat. She hung her head. The older girls looked at each other and then back at Papa.
“How about you, Charlotte?” Papa’s voice, although even and mild-tempered, thundered in Lottie’s ears.
“I don’t know, Papa.” It was a lie, and she knew it—and she knew that Papa knew it. But somehow, down deep, she secretly hoped that he didn’t.
“I suppose that the wind broke it and scattered the pieces into the fence,” Papa said, looking hard into each girl’s eyes. Finally he sighed and said, “All right, get to your chores.”
Lottie’s mind wasn’t on her work. It was on her last Primary lesson. “The best remedy for a guilty conscience,” Sister Thompson had said, “is to repent and admit what you’ve done wrong.” Gathering her courage, Lottie walked slowly back to the barn.
Papa looked up, pitchfork in hand. “You want to tell me something, Charlotte?” After a long, awkward silence, he prodded gently, “It was you, wasn’t it, Lottie?”
“Yes, Papa. I suppose that I have to tell Mama too.”
“It’s up to you. You’ve always been taught to do what’s right. Listen to your conscience; then decide.”
As Lottie dragged into the house, Mama was fixing supper. The tears Lottie hated were back again.
“Oh, Mama,” Lottie sobbed, “I broke it.”
“Broke what?” asked Mama, giving her a hug.
“Your best crock—and King ate it!” Lottie clung to Mama and cried even harder.
“He ate the crock?” Mama smiled and wiped Lottie’s tears.
“No, the butter,” Lottie explained, still sniffing. “Mama, I’m so sorry.”
“Well, I’m glad that you were honest and told me.”
“I just had to tell you and Papa, Mama. I felt so bad.”
“That’s a thing called conscience,” said Mama.
“I guess I just found out that I have one,” Lottie said, finally able to smile.

In 1897, Elders David O. McKay and Peter G. Johnson were laboring in the town of Stirling, Scotland. They were discouraged because the people were not listening to their message. As they walked along, Elder McKay noticed an inscription above the door of a new building. “Whate’er thou art, act well thy part.” This so impressed these two young men, they decided right then to do their best.
Many years later the building was demolished, but because it had meant so much to President David O. McKay, the stone with the inscription was placed on the grounds of the mission home in Edinburgh. It is affectionately referred to as the “David O. McKay Stone.”

“Daddy!”
The tremulous little voice in the quiet darkness was followed by muffled sobs.
“Daaaddy!”
This time the plea was louder and more fearful.
Footsteps hurried down the hall toward the voice. Then, click, the bedroom filled with light. Stevie’s dad stood in the doorway. “Stevie, what’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?”
Stevie nodded.
Dad sat on the bed and smoothed the boy’s hair, then gently wiped away the tears.
“You’re OK now, Son.”
“I dreamed”—Stevie tried to stop sobbing and catch his breath—“that you and Mom”—he sniffed—“were gone and that … I’d never see you again!” Stevie looked up into his dad’s brown eyes. “I was all alone.”
Dad wrapped his strong arms around Stevie in a loving hug. “You know Stevie, there used to be another little boy very much like you. Once he, too, was afraid that he was all alone. Do you want to hear about him?”
Stevie nodded.
* * *
Carlos was just about your size when his parents sent him to Mexico to stay with his grandmother. Carlos’s family was moving to a different part of Colorado, and Carlos’s father told him that as soon as they had found a new house and moved into it, they would send for him.
Carlos’s Uncle Pablo drove him to Mexico. They traveled over hot, dusty roads and through deserts and mountains. Finally, in one little village next to the mountains, his uncle smiled at Carlos and said, “We’re here.”
As they drove up in front of a tiny white adobe house, chickens scattered in every direction, flapping their wings and squawking at the car and its passengers.
An old lady came out of the house. She had dark brown skin and white hair. Carlos’s uncle threw his arms around her and kissed her cheek.
“Carlos,” his uncle said, “do you remember your grandmother?”
“Bienvenido (welcome), Carlos.” The woman smiled at him.
Carlos just stood there. He hadn’t been with his grandmother since he was a baby, and he didn’t remember her at all. Finally he looked up at his uncle. “Uncle Pablo, I don’t want to be here!” Carlos whispered, even though he knew his grandmother couldn’t understand English.
“Now, Carlos, remember that you agreed to give it a try here. It’s just for a little while,” Uncle Pablo said, “Here, see if you’re strong enough to carry this into the house,” Pablo took the old, battered suitcase out of the car and handed it to Carlos.
Carlos dropped the suitcase just inside the door. He walked through both rooms of the house. The wooden furniture looked strange to him, as did the pictures with beads hanging from them on the walls. In the middle of the larger room stood a tall, wooden machine with rows of string going up and down; on the floor around it lay several balls of colorful yarn.
Carlos walked out the back door and into the cooking shed, where black pots and pans hung on the wall and firewood was piled in the corner. He saw that his uncle and grandmother were still talking, and he decided that somehow he’d think of a way to get his uncle to take him back to Colorado.
Carlos went through the backyard to the other side of the house. He saw some boys playing in the street and walked closer to watch them. Suddenly a dog ran up and started barking at him. The boys stopped playing, and one of them called the dog. They all yelled a greeting to Carlos, but he couldn’t understand them. They called again, and when he still didn’t respond, they started to laugh.
Carlos turned and ran away from them. I can’t help it if I don’t understand Spanish! he thought.
Carlos ran through the village and didn’t stop until he’d climbed a small hill. From the top of the hill he could see his grandmother’s house. “Oh, no!” he agonized. “Uncle Pablo’s car is gone!”
The sinking sun had turned the faraway clouds into a red, orange, and pink sunset before Carlos returned to his grandmother’s house. She was busy making dinner in the cooking shed. When she looked up and saw Carlos, she put down the bowl she was holding and grasped his shoulders. “Carlos!” she cried, then went on excitedly in Spanish.
Carlos didn’t understand her words, but he understood that she had been worried about him and that he wasn’t to wander off again without telling her. Grown-ups are all alike in every language, Carlos decided.
During dinner Grandma tried teaching him the Spanish names of the things that she pointed to: mesa (table), plato (plate), tenedor (fork), pan (bread), frijoles (beans), arroz (rice), limonada (lemonade). Carlos ate only a little of his food. When his mother made Mexican food, it was always a treat, but now all he wanted was a hamburger with catsup and mustard and pickles.
After dinner Grandma worked at her loom by the dim light of a kerosene lamp, weaving fabric from the colorful yarns. As she worked, she sang softly and looked up every few minutes to smile at Carlos. Carlos sat on the floor watching his grandmother, wishing that she had a television set.
Grandma let Carlos sleep in the only bed in the house. She covered him with a sheet, let down the mosquito netting, then tucked its edges under the mattress. “Buenas noches (good night), Carlos.” She went into the other room and put out the lamp.
Darkness closed in on Carlos. Crickets chirped nearby. He turned over and looked out the window at a bright star and wondered if that same star was shining down on his parents. All day he had fought tears, but he couldn’t stop them anymore. Soon he was sobbing out of control.
Grandma lighted the kerosene lamp again and came into the room. Lifting the mosquito netting and sitting on the bed next to Carlos, she pulled him up into her arms. “Carlos, Carlos.” She put her soft cheek against his forehead and gently rocked back and forth, humming softly.
“I want my dad … and my mom,” Carlos sobbed.
Grandma got up, took his hand, and led him to a wooden chest in the other room. From the chest she took brightly colored fabric and soft-colored dresses and placed them aside. Then she took out what looked like a small, woven blanket with broad stripes of green, red, white, and orange. One of the corners was slightly burned. She held it out for Carlos to take. “Sarape,” she said.
Then the old woman brought out something wrapped in white lace. She took off the lace, revealing a book. Smiling at Carlos, she opened the book so that he could see it. Black and white photographs filled each page. She turned the pages slowly, smiling at pictures of a bride and a groom and babies. Pointing to a picture of a young boy, she said, “Tu papi (your daddy).”
Carlos looked closely at the picture. It was like looking at himself. It was his father, standing with the same sarape over his shoulder. Also in the picture was a beautiful young woman with her arm around him.
Carlos ran his fingers over the coarse fabric of the sarape. His father’s fingers had probably felt this fabric the same way when they were the same size as Carlos’s were now.
He looked up from the picture at his grandmother. She wore her white hair combed straight back—the same way it was in the picture—only then her hair had been black. She’s still pretty, Carlos decided.
As he looked at his grandmother, she smiled, but a tear ran down her cheek too. Suddenly Carlos understood that she loved his father as much as he did and that she was as lonely for him as he was. “Grandma,” Carlos said simply, putting his arms around her.
Tears came to both their eyes, but this time they were tears of joy.
When Grandma had tucked Carlos back into bed, she placed the sarape on the end of the bed.
“Thank you, Grandma,” Carlos said, smiling up at her. “Everything is going to be good, I can tell.”
Grandma smiled at Carlos, then bent down and gently kissed him good night, “Te quiero mucho (I love you a lot), Carlos.”
* * *
Stevie snuggled down under the covers.
Dad gently brushed Stevie’s hair to the side of his face, then left the room. Soon he was back—with a brightly colored sarape that was slightly burned in one corner. He spread the sarape over Stevie. “Te quiero mucho, Stevie.”

Jerry and Karen Johnson served in Hong Kong, teaching English as a second language. One day after class, near the end of their mission, a little second-grade girl, to whom Sister Johnson had become very attached, came up to her and, putting out her arms as though she were an airplane flying, asked, “Meiguo?” meaning “America?” Sister Johnson looked at her and said, “Yes, we are returning to America.” She buried her head in Sister Johnson’s chest and sobbed. “I held her tight and sobbed right along with her,” Sister Johnson said. “Fifty other students gathered around, sobbing right along with us. Our mission has placed us in the center of a whirlwind of love that seems to envelop us.”

A few days after Thanksgiving, my three-year-old son, Drew, started to get sick. He woke up every morning, ate breakfast, got dressed for the day and seemed fine, but as the day progressed, he became lethargic and wouldn’t eat.
This continued for several weeks. Finally, on Friday, December 18th, I carried Drew into the doctor’s office around 3:00 in the afternoon. Drew couldn’t stand or walk and his skin was ashen.
I looked at the doctor and said, “This is how he has been every afternoon and evening for the past three weeks.” The doctor took one look at Drew and immediately admitted him to the hospital. They ran tests but could not figure out what was wrong with him.
The next day, Drew was transferred to another hospital. That Sunday morning, I was feeling crestfallen. After two days of numerous tests from two different hospitals, no one knew what was wrong with my son. To top it all off, it was the Sunday before Christmas. My favorite sacrament meeting of the whole year is the Christmas program and I was going to miss all the beautiful songs and talks in our ward.
As my husband and I were walking with Drew toward the room in the hospital where a sacrament meeting was to be held, I was miserable. I approached the table where the programs were, picked one up, and was still walking forward and looking down when I bumped into someone.
I looked up and said, “I’m sorry,” but no one was there. As I looked into the room where sacrament was to be held, it looked like an auditorium. On the stage there were chairs for the speakers, a piano, and a table set for the sacrament with a few chairs behind it. The room was sparsely filled with sick children and their parents, many hooked up to their portable IVs.
As I scanned the room, I felt the presence of angels. We took our seat and tears flowed down my face as I felt God’s love for His children who were sick and suffering, stuck in a hospital with all manner of illnesses at the most wonderful time of the year.
It turned out to be the most beautiful sacrament meeting of my life.
The doctors never did find out what was wrong with Drew. He was given medicine to treat his symptoms and then released from the hospital the next day. He has had no repercussions since, but that Christmas sacrament meeting will stay with me forever.