Gospel Story Finder

Seventeen-year-old Charlee Hawkins loved life. A member of the Cullumber Ward, Gilbert Arizona Stake, she could always find something positive in the most difficult situations. Even when she faced her life’s hardest challenge of being diagnosed with cancer, Charlee kept smiling and found things to laugh about.
Charlee’s battle began at age 15, when a small bump appeared on her left index finger. She thought it was simply a result of practicing her golf swing as she prepared to play on the girls’ golf team at Gilbert High School.
When she had the bump removed, test results showed that Charlee had a very rare and very aggressive form of cancer, known as epithelioid sarcoma. The only effective treatment was surgery. Charlee’s finger was quickly removed.
Charlee handled the situation with humor instead of despair. She nicknamed herself “Nine” and never hid the fact that one finger was missing.
Five months later, during a routine test, doctors discovered spots in her lungs—the cancer had spread. They explained that chemotherapy wasn’t usually successful with this type of cancer and that it was impossible to remove the tumors. Charlee decided to give chemotherapy a try anyway.
The treatment made her lose her hair, but she refused to wear a wig and didn’t like hats. She told others that she might be the only “nine-fingered, bald-headed” girl they’d ever meet.
In January 2004 she celebrated what she called her “Handiversary.” It had been one year since her finger was amputated. She and her friends wore matching “Nine” T-shirts. She made hand-shaped sugar cookies with pink frosting and one finger missing.
Charlee attended two weeks of her senior year in the fall of 2004 but was too sick to continue. She had her heart set on graduating from high school, so she got her class assignments by e-mail and continued to work toward her diploma.
Charlee’s health progressively declined. The family set up a Christmas tree in her bedroom and celebrated Christmas around her bedside. Her Young Women class often came to visit her. Despite her trials, her friends and family never heard her complain.
By January 2005, Charlee’s strength was nearly gone. Sister Hawkins recalls a conversation she had with her daughter when Charlee was in excruciating pain. Charlee said, “I’m ready to go.” Her mother says she felt the Spirit guiding her as she explained to her daughter that Heavenly Father has a moment for each of us and that her moment was near. Then she felt the Spirit fill her daughter and ease her pain. Charlee said, “I’m ready to go home.”
“When she added the word ‘home,’ I knew that she knew that this place is only temporary,” says Sister Hawkins. “The veil must have been so thin that she felt safe because she knew that place was her home. It brought me such comfort and peace. I knew then that I had to let her go.”
The next day at school, classmates celebrated Charlee’s second “Handiversary” without her. They lined up for a photo with a sign saying, “We love you, Nine.” Charlee’s family provided the four-fingered cookies.
Four days later, on January 25, an assistant principal from Charlee’s school called to check on her. When she learned that Charlee wasn’t doing well, she asked if the administration could come and present Charlee’s diploma to her that afternoon. At 2:00 p.m., Charlee received recognition for what she had worked so hard to achieve.
Less than 45 minutes after her private graduation ceremony, Charlee died. Her life had touched so many. More than 1,500 people attended her funeral.
“She had an amazing attitude, a spirit that just radiated, and a great sense of humor,” says her mother. “That carried her, and that carried us.”
Charlee’s influence is still being felt. The family continues to hear from those who say her example encourages them to be better and to improve their lives. Some of her friends who are serving missions are using their experiences with Charlee to help teach the plan of salvation to others.
“She lived every day to the fullest,” says her mother. “I believe she did what she was supposed to do. She knew how to live, and she knew how to die.”

A wise man once said, “When a wrong wants righting, or a truth wants preaching, or a continent wants discovering (or, we might add, people need to be urged to read the Book of Mormon), God sends a baby into the world to do it” (See Conference Report, April 1960, page 84).
And so it was that on August 4, 1899, Ezra Taft Benson was born.
Almost 22 years later, in the summer of 1921, Ezra was called on a mission to Great Britain. He studied and worked hard, but wrote in his journal that he was disgusted with his “frail attempt at speaking.”
He was invited to speak at the South Shields Branch on the Apostasy but felt impressed to speak on the Book of Mormon, instead. He later recalled, “I spoke with a freedom I had never experienced. Afterward, I couldn’t recall what I had said, but several nonmembers surrounded me and said, ‘Tonight we received a witness that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and we are ready for baptism.’ … I knew that the Lord was with me.” (Sheri L. Dew, Ezra Taft Benson: A Biography, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1987, page 55.)
Today, thousands have had a spiritual awakening because they are studying and following the teachings of the Book of Mormon as the prophet has asked. Thousands feel that they have received a special personal message from the prophet as he has spoken to Church members of all ages.
Thousands are better people because they have stripped themselves of pride, as counseled by this great prophet.
I bear witness that Ezra Taft Benson was born to be a prophet, has lived so that he could be a prophet, and has been called of God to be a prophet in our day.

Some years ago a fire erupted in the middle of the night and completely destroyed a family’s home. A neighbor came by to console the family’s seven-year-old, not knowing that he (the neighbor) was about to be taught a great principle. “Johnny,” he said, “it’s surely too bad that your home burned down.” Johnny thought a moment and then said, “Oh, that’s where you’re mistaken, Mr. Brown. That was not our home; that was just our house. We still have our home—we just don’t have any place to put it right now.”

A loving mother once gave the following wise counsel to her daughter, who was unhappy with a struggling marriage. She had the daughter draw a vertical line down the middle of a sheet of paper and write down on the left side all the things her husband did that bothered her. Then, on the right side, she had her write down her response to each offense. The mother then had her cut the paper in half, separating the two lists.

“Now throw the paper with your husband’s faults in the garbage. If you want to be happy and improve your marriage, stop focusing on your husband’s faults and focus instead on your own behavior. Examine the way you are responding to the things that bother you and see if you can respond in a different, more positive way.”

This mother understood the power and wisdom of 100 percent responsibility.

Eliza was scared and bit her lip to keep from crying as she watched her mother gather some clothes into a bundle.
“Pa won’t like it,” she said, “leaving me alone in the cabin.”
“It can’t be helped. Besides, twelve is plenty old enough to stay by yourself.” Ma was worried, so her voice was sharp. “Pa and Josh will be back from the trading post by nightfall. Tell them Cousin Tom came for me. Minnie needs help, what with John breaking his leg and the sick twins and all.”
“But, Ma,” Eliza said softly, no louder than a whisper, her voice betraying her concern—“Indians.” Just the word sent tingles up and down her spine.
“Eliza, there’s nothing for you to worry about. We haven’t seen an Indian in three months. Pa says there’s been a truce.”
Anxiously Eliza looked around the room, hoping to find some reason for Ma to stay home. Her eyes glanced at the table in the middle of their one room.
“The pie!” she exclaimed. “What about the pie to surprise Pa and Josh?”
“We’ll have to make it another day.”
Eliza was distressed that her mother could brush aside something as important as the pie. It was supposed to be a very special pie, the first to be baked in the new oven Pa had built in the wall next to the fireplace. Ma had just finished putting the flour, spices, and apples on the table when Cousin Tom arrived to fetch her.
Eliza followed them outside and watched her mother hand her bundle to Cousin Tom.
“Keep busy, Eliza,” Ma instructed. “Mend Joshua’s shirt. Put the flour and the pie tin away.” She gave Eliza’s pigtail an affectionate tug as she hugged her. Then she and Cousin Tom were gone, and Eliza was alone in the forest clearing.
Eliza turned and went back into the cabin. Everything was neat and clean. That morning her mother had said, “No pie until chores are done.” So Eliza had swept and made Ma and Pa’s bed and then her own and Joshua’s up in the loft. She had dusted the four ladder-back chairs, the welsh dresser, the night table, and even the books on the shelf beside the fireplace. Ma claimed that, next to Pa and Josh and her, the books were her most priceless possessions.
What will I do if the Indians decide to break the peace and raid today? Eliza wondered. Her heart started pounding. Where are Pa andJosh? They should be back by now.
Leaving the pie makings on the table helped her pretend that her mother was only out picking more apples. They had brought two fruit trees all the way from Grandpa’s farm in Massachusetts.
Now the silence in the cabin seemed to echo in Eliza’s ears. She got out the mending but just couldn’t make her fingers behave. She wondered if Ma ever felt this way when Pa wasn’t around.
Whenever Eliza thought about the pie, her lower lip began to quiver. Frustrated, she thought, Why did Uncle John have to break his leg? She had wanted so much to hear her father’s exclamation when he saw the pie. She wished she knew how to mix the dough.
“Why don’t I try?” Eliza said out loud to the empty cabin. She stood at the table and tried to remember what her mother had told her about pie making. She was glad she had asked so many questions.
Keeping busy, wondering if her pie would taste good, and remembering her grandma rolling dough for pies back in New England, made Eliza forget her fears. Pa will have his pie, she decided. And before long it was in the oven. While it baked, Eliza mended Joshua’s shirt. She even hummed to herself.
How foolish I was, she thought, to be afraid to stay by myself! Soon the pie—brown and with its juices bubbling through the cuts in the crust—was cooling on the window ledge. Every few minutes Eliza put the mending down and went to the window to inhale its fragrance. Somehow the scent of spices and baked apples and piecrust pushed some of the loneliness out of the cabin.
Just before Eliza turned to sit down in a chair facing the window, she sensed something. She had not really heard a noise, yet, like a trapped animal, she sensed danger. Slowly, hesitantly, she turned. There, with the window frame making his head look like a painting, was a face she would never forget. The brown skin had vividly colored bands radiating from the sides of the Indian’s nose, and the corners of his mouth turned down. Brown, almost black, eyes watched Eliza with a stony expression.
The girl stared, motionless. A second Indian appeared in the doorway, and a third, carrying a tomahawk, peered through the window on the other side of the door.
The Indian at the window raised his hands to take the pie.
“No!” Eliza cried. Without thinking, she ran to the window and grabbed the pie. “No!” she repeated.
The Indian grunted. Eliza whirled to face the Indian who had left the doorway and entered the room. He had stopped momentarily to watch her but was now approaching the shelf beside the fireplace. Ma’s books! Eliza knew she must not let him harm Ma’s precious possessions.
Anger flooded through her. He had no right to enter the cabin and carry off her parents’ belongings. She must stop him. But how?
Quickly she ran to the welsh dresser. Holding the pie in one trembling hand, with the other she gathered four pewter plates and spoons and a knife. The Indian watched, apparently intrigued at her action. Walking past him slowly, she nodded her head toward the door and, with pounding heart, headed in that direction. The curious Indian followed.
Once outside, Eliza sat down on the ground in front of the cabin. The Indians squatted around her, their dark eyes alert. Carefully she cut the pie, first in half and then one of the halves into three big pieces and one little one. She put each piece onto a plate and then handed a serving to each Indian. Then she gave them all spoons. Deliberately, slowly, she took a bite from the small piece. Silently she prayed it would be good.
The Indians watched intently. Each one picked up a spoon and, turning it around in his hand, examined it carefully before he, too, started eating. Soon their pieces were gone. The younger one handed his plate back to her, rubbed his stomach with one hand, and pointed to the remaining pie. Eliza wanted to cry. She had hoped she could save some for her father, but she was afraid to not give second helpings to the Indians. Quickly those pieces disappeared into their mouths. Each in turn picked up his plate and licked it clean. Smiling at each other and then at Eliza, they stood and then silently faded into the forest.
Eliza was alone once more, but she didn’t move. While the deep purple shadows of the trees crept unnoticed across the clearing, her thoughts centered on the Indians.
She had been terrified until she grabbed the pie from the window ledge. Is this true of most fears, she wondered, that worrying makes them seem more dangerous and that action sends them flying? She looked at the forest. Instead of concentrating on the hidden dangers, she would remember the deer seeking shade from the hot sun, the food provided for the squirrels, and the beauty of the trees against the sky.
She stood up, tall and straight. What am I doing, sitting here daydreaming, she thought, when there’s still time to make another pie. She picked up the dirty dishes and, with a light step, headed for the cabin.

On April 29, 2019, my father-in-law, who was 95 years old, was baptized. It was truly a miracle for his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. We had waited for his baptism for a long time. What a gift for our family!
What changed him? Why did he commit to be baptized?
A few months before his baptism, he had a stroke and was hospitalized. My wife, Tazuko, returned home to see him. He was very pleased to see her. He had been afraid that he wouldn’t see her before he died. He started to tell her many things that he was worried about. He was thinking about his funeral.
But Tazuko told him, “Father, if you trust in God and leave everything to Him, your mind will be at ease and you will feel peace.” She explained about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness and what the Savior Jesus Christ has done for us. They talked about the spirit world, where my father-in-law’s wife, his oldest son, and his parents already are. “The next world will be amazing,” she said.
She also told him that it is better to be able to go there without sin. She said that thanks to the Atonement of Jesus Christ and thanks to baptism, he could be spotless before God. He thought a little and said, “I want to be baptized.”
Then he said, “It has been wonderful to see your children establish their own faith and continue to go to church, keep the commandments, and rely on God. I am so impressed with them.” And softly and with emotion, he said, “Family is really important! It is wonderful that our family can be one.”
After he joined the Church, I asked my father-in-law why he finally committed to be baptized. He replied without any hesitation, “I chose the right.”

Kay Lynn Wakefield learned an important lesson from a woman who worked at the Garden Tomb. “As we were hurrying along,” says Sister Wakefield, “the sounds of a clear soprano voice filled the air. I felt so drawn to the ethereal sound that I left the crowd and went to find out where it was coming from. And then I saw her! A little English lady sweeping one of the paths in the garden.
“As I visited with her, she expressed to me the joy she feels each day as she sweeps the paths at the Garden Tomb, often singing all the way. I told her that the Tabernacle Choir was going to sing in the Garden Tomb that day. Her eyes filled with tears, and she said, ‘Yes, I know, and I feel so privileged to be here today to hear them.’ Then I embraced her and left to again join the crowd. Once again I had been reminded not to be so intent on reaching the final destination that I forget to enjoy the journey.”

I was in the Navy at the end of World War II, when I was a very young man. My training took place near San Diego, California. Everyone in the Navy had to know how to swim, or they wouldn’t let him out of boot camp (training camp). I had learned to swim as a boy and could do it quite well.

One day an officer said, “All of you who can swim get to go to San Diego for the day. Those who can’t must have a full day of swimming lessons. So those of you who can swim, line up over here, and we’ll put you on a bus and take you into town.” I lined up with the swimmers—there were about thirty or forty of us. But instead of having my group get on a bus, the officer marched us into the gym, where the swimming pool was.

I thought, You’re mixed up, fellow. We’re the ones who can swim. But, of course, I said nothing. We prepared for swimming and were ordered to jump into the deep end of the pool.

Most of us obeyed, but about ten men in our group didn’t know how to swim. They had thought that they could go to San Diego without measuring up. The officer didn’t let them just stand there—he pushed them into the water. He let them go under the water, come up gasping for air, and then go down again. When they came up for the second time, a big bamboo pole was held out to them, and they were pulled to safety. Then the officer said sternly, “Don’t you ever lie to me again!” I tell you, I was glad I hadn’t tried that! The experience taught me the value of being honest and true to yourself at all times.

Julius and Sabina Kasue of Chyulu were two of Kenya’s early converts. They both came from Christian backgrounds and had studied the Bible. In 1981, while living in Nairobi, Kenya’s capital, Julius was introduced to the Church by Dennis Child, a Latter-day Saint working there. Julius frequently read the Book of Mormon and missionary pamphlets and discussed them with Brother Child. Julius recalls, “It was when I read the Book of Mormon for the second time and then prayed about it that I felt something burning in my heart.”5 Although Julius had a witness of the truth, he waited four years before being baptized in February 1986. His wife, Sabina, was baptized the following November. Soon after their baptism, Brother and Sister Kasue left Nairobi and returned to Chyulu, the area of their birth.

As John’s condition worsened, he and I continued our practice of beginning and ending each day with prayers of gratitude. As we did so, we found that grief did not overwhelm us or our posterity. Each one had opportunities to hug Papa and express their love and gratitude for him. We found moments of joy. Peace seeped into the hearts of our posterity and others who visited, strengthening them and softening their grief too.
However, despite the peace that prevailed in our home, watching my vibrant, exceedingly active husband deteriorate and lose 50 pounds in a month was heart-wrenching. Late at night on April 21, John lay in bed. He was surrounded by his children and me. We sensed that his spirit would depart his body at any moment. I lay beside him, holding his hand and whispering words of love and gratitude for our life. I thanked him for the inspiring example he had set as he responded to his afflictions by turning to the Lord in faith and gratitude. I kissed him. Within seconds, he was gone.
After John’s body was taken away, our family sat together in our home. Tears fell from our eyes as we expressed thankfulness that John’s mortal suffering had ended. Words of gratitude spilled from my mouth as I thought of the many tender mercies Heavenly Father had given to us (see 1 Nephi 1:20). God had enabled me to care for John in our home, despite having physical issues myself (which actually necessitated multiple surgeries not long after John died).
As we talked, I was comforted as I expressed thanks for the eternal promises of our temple covenants (see Doctrine and Covenants 132:19–20). I told my children I felt like Johnny was hugging me, confirming what I was saying as I expressed gratitude. What a joyous feeling! I reminded my family of President Russell M. Nelson’s words in November 2020: “Practicing gratitude may not prevent us from experiencing sorrow, anger, or pain, but it can help us look forward with hope.”1
Suddenly, I felt a heavenly embrace so strongly that it filled me with awe. I also felt that John was well and happy and that I should be too. Right then, I promised myself—and my sweetheart—that I would be.

Since this was all back in the '60s, there were no computers, and until I could take a typing class in high school, my mother had to type all of my term papers and book reports. She taught me another principle that I have used many times in my life with my children and many other people with whom I have been associated.

It is “ Do not let your lack of planning become my emergency.”

In other words, if she was going to type my book report, she would not be doing it late the night before it was due. I had to allow her several days to fit in the time to type it for me. It took pressure off both of us when I took a typing class and was old enough to type my own reports. Let’s hope all of us never let our lack of planning become someone else’s emergency. As a child and a teenager, my parents truly taught me to organize myself and “prepare every needful thing” as the scripture says.

An elder from Germany told how he had always known that he did not know the truth. He described how he sometimes prayed to God to find it. After leaving the military service, he was employed in Switzerland. One day, living alone and feeling lonely, he prayed again, “Please God, send me the truth.” A few days later when he was walking down the street, a stranger approached him and said, “Young man, I am supposed to talk with you, but I don’t know why.” In this missionary’s words, “I looked into his face and knew he had the Spirit of God. His face was beautiful.” The stranger was a Church member who had been walking down the same street and felt inspired to speak to an unknown young man on a busy street in Switzerland. This elder spoke of his mission as a privilege.

A couple of years passed, and Frances moved into our ward. Truthfully, it wasn’t exactly “our” ward since I wasn’t a member yet, but I thought of it that way. By this time I had two little girls, and I could see how the Church auxiliaries were blessing their lives. Come rain or come shine, Frances, my new visiting teacher, visited me with a lesson, a laugh, a story, or a helping hand. I recall when Frances came one hectic afternoon. Seeing that I couldn’t sit and talk, Frances stirred my culinary concoctions on the stove while I tended to my daughters’ needs.
Years passed and I moved. As much as I hated to leave my Church friends, I soon found another group of sisters with strong testimonies and big hearts in the Relief Society in “my” new ward. A Relief Society teacher gave us a decorated to-do list and encouraged us to write “Be kind” at the top of our lists each day. The sisters sitting beside me and I thought it was a grand idea, especially since it supported the Relief Society motto “Charity never faileth” (Moroni 7:46).
Then I read a story about a pioneer woman. When that woman was a child, the prophet asked her family to help settle a Latter-day Saint community in a remote area. Tragedy befell when one of her siblings died. Her mother was distraught, and deep sadness permeated the family.
One day this little girl was looking out the window. As far as she could see, a blanket of snow surrounded the family’s modest home. As the little girl stared at the horizon, she saw two people trudging toward the house. On they came, slowly making their way, and suddenly the child realized who they were—they were her mother’s visiting teachers.
That story inspired me. I was baptized in May 1983. It is an honor to be a visiting teacher myself. I love associating with so many women who exemplify the “virtuous woman” whose “price is far above rubies” (Proverbs 31:10). It is wonderful to be with women who are also striving to be kind, to love one another, and to bring others unto Christ.

I was about to go to my room when Reggie drove up, waved, and parked his car. He was young and wiry and came up the steps two at a time. He told me of his small business, his young children, and lack of work, and finally that he simply could not see how he could pledge fifty pounds.

I gripped his shoulder. “Let me suggest that you discuss this with your family and with the Lord. You are not wanting to build this church for me, but for the Lord. Perhaps He has a way in mind for you. But most of all, don’t be depressed. No one expects you to do more than you are capable of doing.”

Reggie was in a hurry, and there was obviously nothing more that I could say. I knew that unless these leaders made their own commitments, their people could not be expected to respond. I did not have much time to think about Reggie; before my visitor was out of sight, a young hotel employee called me to the phone.

This time there was a definite air of excitement among them that had not been there before. I began to speculate, gave up, and asked Reggie to give his report.

“I didn’t see how I could possibly get the fifty pounds, but my wife and I decided to make the pledge anyhow and hope we could find a way to get it. After pledging the fifty pounds, I contacted a nursery to see what I could do. I got a contract to bring in wild flower seeds—we have the most beautiful flowers in the world here in western Australia. I was lucky; the nursery had just received a request for these seeds from a U.S. company. My family and I have given our Saturdays and every possible hour after work to gathering them. We have not only earned our pledge money, but we’ve also received some side benefits from the work. The children enjoyed the family outings as well as the opportunity to earn extra money. We have started some projects of our own at home that we could never afford before.” He looked at each of us and smiled, “It sure has been a great benefit for us!”

The Las Vegas Nevada Redrock Stake might seem a funny place for stars to be born. But youth there really shined when they put on a play called “Star Child” for their stake as part of their youth conference activities. The play, which focuses on some of the same eternal principles that are important to know before entering the temple, provided a lot of fun for the youth and great entertainment and learning for the audiences. And while there were plenty of challenges, the youth all say they feel they had heavenly help making the play a success.
These priests from the Bend Third Ward, Bend Oregon Stake, made it! They biked along the Oregon coastline and crossed the California border in four and a half days. To accomplish their goal, the boys had to average 80 miles per day. To keep their bodies going, the young men ate mass quantities of bananas, bagels, and pasta. To keep their minds and spirits going, the boys sang hymns while they rode.
“It sounds a little weird,” says Matt Dustin. “But it worked. By singing as a group, we stayed together. We also stayed happy and cheerful.”

One who caught the spirit of this work was Wilford Woodruff, and his journal is full of memories and details. Wilford Woodruff is the man who wrote in a journal almost every day for sixty-three years, thereby producing perhaps the most important single historical treasure we have in the Church. Why did he keep the journal? Because the Prophet admonished him to. By my estimate, more than two-thirds of what we have of firsthand records of Joseph Smith’s discourses and counsels to his brethren would have been lost had it not been for Wilford Woodruff’s makeshift shorthand and then staying awake, often till past midnight, transcribing his notes into readable English. In that journal Brother Woodruff recorded the Prophet’s announcement that the Saints could be baptized for the dead in the Mississippi River prior to the temple’s completion, but that there would come a time when the Lord would accept that no longer. They would have to do it in the temple. This privilege was received with great joy, and people flocked to the riverside to be baptized on behalf of departed relatives and friends. Not understanding at first, they were baptized without regard to gender—men for both men and women, and women for both men and women—and without a recorder present. But with the benefit of further thought and revelation, the Prophet was able to put this right, so that things were done in order, witnessed, and properly recorded.

I am not the only one to take honoring the Sabbath day this far. I recall a story from the Ensign that struck me when I read it, and it has never left me. Two farmers were haying their fields. They were both in a hurry because they had to harvest the hay before the weather turned on them. It was late at night, and each farmer could see the lights from the other farmer’s tractor across the fields. One of the farmers was the bishop of the ward, the other a ward member. The ward member kept checking his watch, wondering if the bishop would stop haying at midnight when the Sabbath day began. As the time grew short, the bishop continued to hay. At exactly midnight, the ward member turned off his tractor and finished for the night to honor the Sabbath. As he looked across the fields he saw that his bishop powered down his tractor right afterwards. The next day at sacrament meeting, the ward member said that he was glad the bishop had his watch as well so he knew he had ended his work on time to honor the Sabbath day. The bishop replied to his ward member that he did not have a watch with him the night before, but he knew he wouldn’t need one. He told the ward member that he knew all he had to do was watch the ward member’s tractor across the fields, and when his lights went out, it would be exactly midnight. These farmers believed in precisely following the Lord’s command.

Insight Number One
When he was thirty years old, Roland Crabtree was sprawled under an army truck in his little garage. A Cadillac pulled in, and the driver asked if the boss was around. “I hollered out that I’d be through in a minute,” said Brother Crabtree. The customer responded politely, “Take your time, I just want to talk to you about a job.”
The car had trouble with the left rear wheel. Several other garages had refused help. Brother Crabtree fixed the wheel. It took three and a half hours and nine dollars worth of parts. He charged him eighteen dollars. The man gave Brother Crabtree a thousand dollars and told him to keep the change. He refused; he said there wasn’t that much to it.

I am an eyewitness of that truth. Over a lifetime, my wife has spoken for the Lord and served people for Him. As I’ve mentioned before, one of our bishops once said to me: “I’m amazed. Every time I hear of a person in the ward who is in trouble, I hurry to help. Yet by the time I arrive, it seems that your wife has always already been there.” That has been true in all the places we have lived for 56 years.
Now she can speak only a few words a day. She is visited by people she loved for the Lord. Every night and morning I sing hymns with her and we pray. I have to be voice in the prayers and in the songs. Sometimes I can see her mouthing the words of the hymns. She prefers children’s songs. The sentiment she seems to like best is summarized in the song “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.”
The other day, after singing the words of the chorus: “Love one another as Jesus loves you. Try to show kindness in all that you do,” she said softly, but clearly, “Try, try, try.” I think that she will find, when she sees Him, that our Savior has put His name into her heart and that she has become like Him. He is carrying her through her troubles now, as He will carry you through yours.

During a childhood camping trip, Elder Steven R. Bangerter and his family rode dirt bikes to the top of a mountain. On the way down, he lost his way and became separated from the others.
As he knelt that afternoon and pleaded with his Father in Heaven for help, in his mind’s eye he saw the trail he had lost. Just as he started down it, “my brother reached the top of the trail on his motorcycle, embraced me, and guided me back through the dark to the camp, which was hours away.”