Gospel Story Finder

My father was a customs official, but he was also an enthusiastic dancer and operated his own dance school. A few years after my parents’ divorce, my father met Gretl at the dance school. Their relationship was short, however, because my father died from a ruptured appendix when he was only 35 years old. As he lay dying he must have hoped that Gretl would take me on, knowing that my mother did not look after me. For this reason, my father married Gretl just three hours before he died. Gretl, however, was extremely young and still under her parents’ influence. There was no way she could look after me, so I grew up in foster homes.

Christianity celebrates the life and ministry of Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God the Eternal Father. Christian churches with great variations of doctrine dot the land the world over. When 14-year-old Cortnee, a daughter of a mission president, entered a new high school as a freshman, she was asked by classmates if she was a Christian. They scoffed at her response that she was a Mormon, a common reference to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Upon arriving home she asked her mother, “Mom, are we Christians?”
Growing up in my family, we lived as devout members of another Christian faith. I was baptized a member of that church shortly after my birth. Our family went to church each week. For many years my brothers and I assisted the pastors who conducted our Sunday services. I was taught the importance of family prayer as our family prayed together each day. I thought that someday I would enter the full-time ministry in my church. There was no question in our minds that we could define ourselves as devout Christians.
When I was a university student, however, I became acquainted with the members and teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a Christian faith centered on the Savior. I began to learn about the doctrine of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ in these latter days. I learned truths that I had not known before that changed my life and how I viewed the gospel. After much studying, prayer, and faith, I chose to embrace beautiful restored truths found only in this Church.
The first restored truth that I learned was the nature of the Godhead. The true Christian doctrine that the Godhead consists of three separate beings was known in biblical times. God bore witness of Jesus, His Only Begotten Son, on several occasions. He spoke at Jesus’s baptism: “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.”1 Jesus Himself testified of God, His Father, when He said, “And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.”2 After Jesus’s death and Resurrection, we learn that Stephen, “he, being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up stedfastly into heaven, and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right hand of God, and said, Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son of man standing on the right hand of God.”3 What a dramatic testimony of the Godhead from that disciple of Christ.
The knowledge of God and His physical separateness from His Son and the Holy Ghost was lost after the death of Christ and His Apostles. Confusion and false doctrines about the Godhead were fashioned out of the Nicene Creed and Constantinople councils, where men declared that instead of three separate beings, the Godhead was three persons in one God, or the Trinity. Just as Christian Protestant reformers struggled with these creeds of men, I did as well. The teachings about the Trinity that I learned in my youth were incomprehensible to me.
However, when I was introduced to the glorious truths of the First Vision experienced by the Prophet Joseph Smith, it was a stunning awakening for me to finally understand the truth about the nature of God the Eternal Father and His Only Begotten Son. Joseph declared: “I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!”4 This heavenly vision restored the wondrous yet plain and precious knowledge of God and His Son to the earth again, dispelling at once the teachings I had learned about the Trinity.
I know that heaven-sent revelations have replaced the gross errors of man-made doctrines concerning the Godhead. I know that God is our Heavenly Father. His Son, Jesus Christ, is my Savior. The Holy Ghost testifies of the Father and the Son. I express my profound gratitude to God for introducing the resurrected Lord Jesus Christ to mankind in these last days. The Savior lives; He has been seen; He has spoken; He directs the work of His Church through apostles and prophets today. What magnificent truths He has taught as the Good Shepherd who continues to look after His sheep.
The second restored truth I learned as an investigator of this Church was the reality of additional scripture and revelation. The prophet Isaiah saw in vision a book that he proclaimed was part of “a marvellous work and a wonder.”5 I testify that the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ is that book. It is a sacred record written by prophets of God to persuade all people to come unto Christ, and it helps to reveal the gospel of Jesus Christ in its fulness. The Book of Mormon tells of prophets and other faithful members of the Church who took upon themselves the name of Christ, even before the Savior’s birth.6 This book tells of the resurrected Christ teaching men what they must do to gain peace in this life and eternal salvation in the world to come. What could be more Christian than seeking to take His name upon ourselves and follow His counsel to become like Him?
President Gordon B. Hinckley has said, “I cannot understand why the Christian world does not accept this book.”7 I first read the Book of Mormon at the age of 21. I then asked God if it was true. The truth of it was manifested unto me by the comforting power of the Holy Ghost.8 I know that the Book of Mormon is a second testament of Jesus Christ. I join my testimony with the prophets of this sacred book to declare that “we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ.”9 I am deeply grateful for every word that He has spoken and for every word He continues to speak as He quenches our thirst with living water.
Another restored truth of the gospel I became acquainted with was the restoration of priesthood authority, or the power to act in God’s name. Former prophets and apostles, such as Elijah, Moses, John the Baptist, Peter, James, and John, have been sent by God and Christ in our day to restore the holy priesthood of God. Every priesthood holder in this Church can trace his priesthood authority directly to Jesus Christ. Men now possess the keys to establish the Church so that we can come unto Christ and partake of His eternal ordinances of salvation.10 I testify that this is the Church of Jesus Christ—the only church authorized with true priesthood authority to exercise the keys of salvation through sacred ordinances.
Cortnee asked, “Mom, are we Christians?” As a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, you are a Christian, and I am too. I am a devout Christian who is exceedingly fortunate to have greater knowledge of the true “doctrine of Christ”11 since my conversion to the restored Church. These truths define this Church as having the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Like other members of the Church, I now understand the true nature of the Godhead, I have access to additional scripture and revelation, and I can partake of the blessings of priesthood authority. Yes, Cortnee, we are Christians, and I testify of these truths in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Not long after being called as a stake patriarch, one of us gave a 93-year-old sister her patriarchal blessing. The words pronounced in that blessing were a heaven-sent message of approval for a life well lived in valiant service to the Lord. More than reassurance, she was given additional counsel and direction for her life both here and hereafter. She was also told that the long-awaited reunion with her beloved eternal companion who had passed away years ago was not far off. Both she and the immediate family members present wept and embraced and celebrated her willingness to seek this revelation from the Lord.

Shortly thereafter, this stalwart sister passed through the veil.

I treasure the memory of that day when I began more fully to understand the power of a patriarchal blessing in whatever season of life it might be received.

At the age of eight I was baptized in borrowed white trousers. They were too long, but my mother tucked the legs up and fastened them with a few stitches. This worked fine until they got wet. As I stepped out of the water the weight of the wet cloth broke the stitches. I tripped over my borrowed pants and fell to my knees. The thought immediately came to me that this was a reminder to always kneel and pray for the help of our Heavenly Father in everything.

President Marion G. Romney was talking about the work which involved our parents. The other day we heard a story in our council meeting that I saw raise the ire of the brethren. It was all righteous ire because of the things that had happened. A father who had been very careful in his investments and in his service had saved hundreds of thousands of dollars for his sweet little wife who had helped him to gather it. But unfortunately he died first and was laid away. His wife became a little older, and somewhat senile. She was put in a rest home. The money went to the children’s bank accounts, and she went on suffering. Maybe she didn’t fully understand all the suffering that came to her; but maybe she did. With inadequate clothes and with inadequate treatment and training, the poor woman is still living in a rest home. As far as we know her children never see her.
It must be a little bit difficult to visit a mother who gave her life for her children, who spent many, many years rearing and training and saving for them. It must be very difficult for them to show their interest when she is in a position where she needs some comfort from those whom she has loved.

Abigail sat quietly during sacrament meeting. Today she felt sad. She was thinking about how she hadn’t been nice to a girl at school. Abigail felt even worse because she had been baptized a few weeks earlier. She remembered how good she felt on her baptism day.
“I wish I could get baptized again,” Abigail thought. “Then I could feel good again.”
She thought about one of her favorite Primary songs: “I know when I am baptized my wrongs are washed away, and I can be forgiven and improve myself each day.”*
Abigail remembered that by fixing her wrong actions and taking the sacrament, she could be clean again—as clean as she was after her baptism! Abigail planned to apologize to her classmate. She smiled and prepared to take the sacrament.

One week later, in May 1975, Le My Lien stepped off a crowded bus at a military camp near San Diego, California, on the West Coast of the United States. In front of her was a sprawling city of tents set up to shelter 18,000 refugees from Vietnam.
Lien had no money and spoke little English. And she had her three children to care for while awaiting news of her husband in Vietnam.
On their first night at the camp, Lien did her best to make her children comfortable. The camp had provided her with no blankets and only one cot. Her sons, Vu and Huy, crammed onto the cot while the baby slept in a hammock Lien fashioned out of a sheet and rubber bands.
There was nowhere for Lien to lie down, so she slept sitting on the edge of the cot, leaning against a tentpole. The nights were cold, and her health worsened. Soon she was diagnosed with tuberculosis.
She prayed continually that her husband would remain strong, believing that if she could survive her ordeal, then he could survive his. She had heard nothing from him since her flight out of Saigon.
As Lien rocked her crying baby each morning, she cried too. “Please,” she begged the Lord, “let me get through just this day.”
In 1976, President The was imprisoned in Thành Ông N?m. He was desperate for news of his wife and children, but all he knew about his family’s whereabouts came from a telegram from the president of the Hong Kong Mission: “Lien and family fine. With Church.”
Now, more than a year later, The wondered when he would be free again.
Life in the prison camp was degrading. The and his fellow captives were housed in rat-infested barracks. They slept on beds made of steel slabs. Meager and spoiled food, along with the unsanitary conditions in camp, left the men vulnerable to sicknesses like dysentery and beriberi.
Reeducation on the new government’s principles involved backbreaking labor and political indoctrination. Anyone who broke camp rules could expect a brutal beating or solitary confinement.
The had survived so far by lying low and clinging to his faith. For a time, he contemplated escaping from the camp. But he felt the Lord restrain him. “Be patient,” the Spirit whispered. “All will be well in the due time of the Lord.”
Sometime later, The learned that his sister, Ba, would be allowed to visit him in the camp. If he could slip her a letter to his family, she could send it to them.
On the day of Ba’s visit, The waited in line as guards conducted full-body searches of the prisoners ahead of him. He had hidden the message behind the cloth band on the inside of his hat. He had then placed a small notebook and pen into the hat. With any luck, the notebook would distract the guards.
They examined the pen and notebook, then let him pass.
Soon, The saw his sister and pressed the letter into her hands. He wept as Ba gave him some food and money. He trusted that she would get his letter to Lien.
Six months later, Ba returned to the camp with a letter. Inside was a photograph of Lien and the children. He realized that he could wait no longer.
He had to find a way out of the camp and into the arms of his family.
Nguyen Van The and his wife, Le My Lien, with their son in 1973. She and their three children found refuge in the United States, but The was forced to attend a prison camp. Later, he said, “I was able to survive the ‘reeducation’ camp because … I had faith in Jesus Christ.”
As part of its mission to care for families, LDS Social Services had arranged with Church members in the United States to care for about 550 Vietnamese refugees, most of whom were not members of the Church. Lien and her family were sponsored by Philip Flammer, a professor at Brigham Young University, and his wife, Mildred. They helped the family relocate from California to Provo, Utah.
At first, Lien struggled to find work. Philip took her to a thrift store to apply for a janitorial position. But during the interview, the manager tore her high school diploma in half and told her, “This does not apply here.”
She soon found temporary work picking cherries at a nearby orchard. She then found work as a seamstress and added to her income by baking wedding cakes. With help from Philip, she also earned money by typing reports for BYU students.
Amid her family’s hardships, Lien remained faithful to the Lord. She taught her children about the power of prayer, knowing it could carry them through their ordeals.
Then, in late 1977, Lien learned that her husband was in a refugee camp in Malaysia. He had managed to leave Vietnam on an old fishing boat after finally being released from Thành Ông N?m. Now he was ready to reunite with his family. All he needed was a sponsor.
Lien began working even more hours to save enough money to bring The to the United States.
In January 1978, Le My Lien sat nervously in a car headed for the Salt Lake City International Airport. She was on her way to meet her husband for the first time in nearly three years.
After arriving at the airport, Lien joined other friends and Church members who had come to welcome The.
Before long, Lien saw The descending an escalator. He looked pale and had a lost look in his eyes. But at the sight of Lien, he called out to her. Emotion welled in Lien’s chest.
She pulled The into a hug. “Thank God in heaven,” she whispered, “you are home at last!”

The New Era has brought such a change in my life! I started receiving the magazine in June 1990. I’ve enjoyed each issue. Some made me cry, some made me laugh, but with each article I felt the Holy Ghost and Heavenly Father’s love.
The stories of the youth who live the gospel inspire me so. I finally realized how far I had let myself slip off the path. I started to pray sincerely, to study the scriptures, and to clean up my act. I had missed the Spirit so much. I broke up with a boy who had different ideas and morals about dating. I’ve stopped drinking and swearing, and I feel good.
Keep the good articles coming. I’m sure there are others like me who need the lift and encouragement they bring. The New Era has helped me start a new life!
Name withheld

We often joked that she was my favorite aunt and I, her favorite niece. She was my mother’s only sister; and I, my mother’s only child. But even if our extended family hadn’t been so limited, Aunt Mary would have won the position.
She was one of those “quality” people—one who never got in a hurry, applying great patience to the most minute details.
It was that quality—and an artful eye—which combined to create the gifts she gently placed under the tree of our family’s Christmas Eve gatherings.
The package was always easy to spot. The paper was tailored and taped with precision. The ribbons were crossed around the box, gathering into a large rose-shaped bow—my aunt’s trademark. And beneath the handmade bow would be my name, accented with multicolored glitter.
Each Christmas I thrilled to my aunt’s creations.
One year it was a long, narrow wall plaque. Near the bottom edge, a small Japanese girl approached a bridge which served as the entrance to a pathway leading through a botanical garden.
As the path led to the top of the frame, it created the impression of walking deeper into the garden.
But the most unusual element of the plaque was not what it portrayed, but what it was made of—pebbles! Every drop of water, every flower petal, every inch was an accumulation of minute, colored pebbles. Each stone was spotted with a drop of glue, then delicately placed so close together that they created a flowing picture.
Another year, the box was especially large. Opening it, I gently lifted out a blue-dyed piece of canvas, the backdrop to a treetop filled with nests, complete with baby birds.
The tree was real bark; the nests, straw. The plump baby birds were small cotton-filled pouches covered with rows of colorful feathers, each bird had an open beak of split corn kernels.
As the years passed, my aunt’s health began to fail. Nevertheless, each year she managed to put a handmade gift under the tree—embroidered pillowcases, monogrammed handkerchiefs—all beneath a rose-shaped bow.
She continued to do this every Christmas until the one preceding her death. In the course of the year, Aunt Mary had become totally bedridden. Because she was unable to work, her savings had been quickly depleted by medical bills. Even if she had been physically capable of producing one of her elaborate creations, her limited funds would not have permitted such an expenditure.
But she wasn’t physically capable. She had become so weak that eating became a painstaking task that often took more than an hour. Assistance was required for bathroom trips. Bathing was done bedside. Her once surgeon-steady hands now shook uncontrollably as her arms laid alongside her emaciated body.
That Christmas there weren’t any glittering boxes with rose-shaped bows. But there was one with my name on it, scribbled by the shaking hand of my aunt.
Aunt Mary apologized repeatedly for the shabbily wrapped box. I continued to assure her it was just fine. But as I opened the lid, I couldn’t help but wonder what Aunt Mary could possibly have made for me this year.
Wrapped in shredded newspaper laid a small ceramic bird.
“I know it’s not much,” began my aunt.
“It’s beautiful,” I interrupted.
“It’s not anything like the other Christmases,” she continued.
“I understand,” I tried to comfort.
“I knew you would,” she said sadly. “I just hate that this Christmas has to be a green stamp one.”
I knew what she meant by her emphasis of this.
“Green stamp one?” I asked, trying to change our thoughts.
“Yep!” Aunt Mary chirped in a voice much like her youthful self. “Right out of the S&H Guidebook to Finer Living!”
“Well, I think it’s lovely,” I concluded, gently hugging her neck.
“Good! I’m glad,” she said jokingly. “I had to lick a lot of stamps for that bird!”
We all laughed. The humor sounded so much like my aunt—the way she was before.
“She did lick a lot of stamps,” my mother said seriously as we were leaving my aunt’s house. “She also stuck every one of them into the books.”
“She did?” I asked astonished. “How? I mean, those little single ones? It must have been …”
“Painstaking?” finished my mother. “As much as any of your other Christmas presents. She even went to the store and picked it up herself. I took her.”
Suddenly I realized how much the small bird represented. I tried to visualize the hours her shaking hands labored to place so many stamps, and the effort to dress and make the difficult journey to purchase the gift.
As I thought, I found myself gaining a new perspective on the gifts brought to the baby Jesus. Rather than seeing the material value of the Wise Men’s offerings, I realized the love they expressed in making the journey themselves, rather than sending messengers.
Instead of viewing the shepherds as paupers in comparison to the kings, I realized the great value in the gifts they brought, giving of the painstaking, daily labor of their lives.
My green stamp Christmas was the one when I learned the most about giving! From three kings, a few shepherds, and my favorite aunt.

While Brother Pinegar served as president of the Provo Missionary Training Center, as you can imagine, we often talked to the missionaries about the feelings of happiness and peace that accompany courageous obedience to true principles. We talked of the influence of the Holy Ghost that comes to those who are obedient. We encouraged the missionaries to make obedience their quest. I enjoyed telling them the story of the little boy who went to the park with his father to fly a kite.
The boy was very young. It was his first experience with kite flying. His father helped him, and after several attempts the kite was in the air. The boy ran and let out more string, and soon the kite was flying high. The little boy was so excited; the kite was beautiful. Eventually there was no more string left to allow the kite to go higher. The boy said to his father, “Daddy, let’s cut the string and let the kite go; I want to see it go higher and higher.”
His father said, “Son, the kite won’t go higher if we cut the string.”
“Yes, it will,” responded the little boy. “The string is holding the kite down; I can feel it.” The father handed a pocketknife to his son. The boy cut the string. In a matter of seconds the kite was out of control. It darted here and there and finally landed in a broken heap. That was difficult for the boy to understand. He felt certain the string was holding the kite down.
The commandments and laws of God are like the kite string. They lead us and guide us upward. Obedience to these laws gives us peace, hope, and direction.

“Hey—I recognize those guys! I think they’re famous,” I mused as I passed by the strange-looking passengers seated in the first-class cabin of the plane that was carrying me home at the end of my vacation. On my way back to the coach section, I tried to figure out who they were.
They didn’t look like the other passengers on the plane. They had long, ratted hair, torn jeans and vests with no shirts, lots of jewelry, and glassy looks in their eyes. I knew they were in a rock group—I’d seen them in a magazine or a video or something. But the group’s name wouldn’t come to me.
I would soon find out. The man who had shepherded them onto the plane took the seat next to mine. “Do you manage them?” I asked, hoping he’d mention the group’s name so I wouldn’t have to admit I didn’t know it.
He did, and it was such a big group I was glad I hadn’t shown my ignorance by not recognizing them. “Yeah, I take care of these guys, and let me tell you—it’s wild. They don’t do much for themselves. While we’re on planes, I let the flight attendants do the work in first class, while I get some rest back here in coach.”
I was glad he did. I’d heard enough General Authority talks to know that plane flights are great opportunities to tell people about the gospel, so I slipped it into our conversation. He was actually quite interested in what I had to say about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
As the plane landed he said, “Look, it’s been really fun talking with you, and I’d like to do something for you. Why don’t you come to our concert tonight? You can bring some of your Mormon friends. It will be nice to have some straight people there. I’ll leave tickets and backstage passes for you at the gate.”
“That would be great!” I told him. To be honest, I didn’t like his group’s hard rock music. But I was fascinated by their glittery world, so different from mine. I felt like I did in high school when I was invited to one of the incredibly popular Kilborns’ famous weekend-long parties, held only when their parents were away. Never mind that I’d declined that invitation. This was the chance of a lifetime! Maybe I could even do a little missionary work, right?
I started making phone calls as soon as I got home. Strange thing. All my friends had plans already, weren’t home, or weren’t interested in hearing that group play. Half an hour before the concert was to begin, I still hadn’t found anyone to go with me.
“Well, I guess I can just go alone,” I decided as I grabbed my keys and started for the car, which had been sitting in the hot sun all day. The door handle singed my fingers when I touched it. I had to cover the handle with the tail of my shirt to open it.
But as I was about to put the key in the ignition, I heard a voice very distinctly say, “Don’t go.” I whipped around to see who was in the backseat. No one. I started once again to put the key in the ignition, and the same voice said, “You know better. Don’t go.”
Aha—the still, small voice! Of course I knew better. But these were free tickets and backstage passes. It would be a life experience! Hey—maybe it would help me understand and help the people who listen to that music.
Even as I was rationalizing the whole thing, I knew the voice was right. How much spiritually inspired missionary work would I be able to do while obscene music was blasting, and most of the people playing and watching were high? Just what valuable things was I expecting to learn in that kind of atmosphere? I wouldn’t be setting a good example by attending that concert, and I’d be opening myself up to a lot of bad input that I didn’t need rolling around in my mind. How could I ever have thought of going?
I slowly got out of my car and went into the house. I spent a quiet evening at home alone, not unlike the one I’d spent several years before, when I passed on the Kilborns’ party.
I had no regrets. The next day as I drove to work, I turned on the radio and heard the tragic news reports of the concert the night before. There had been fights, stabbings, overdoses, hundreds of arrests, car accidents, and traffic backed up till 4:00 A.M. It was said to be the worst concert in the state’s history.
I couldn’t help but think of Mormon’s teachings about discerning good and evil: “Wherefore, take heed, my beloved brethren, that ye do not judge that which is evil to be of God, or that which is good and of God to be of the devil. … For behold, the Spirit of Christ is given to every man, that he may know good from evil” (Moro. 7:14, 16).
There was no doubt in my mind that the Spirit had saved me from misjudging, and from who knows what else. If I hadn’t listened, I could have easily burned more than my fingers.

Far away from Salt Lake City, and some eighty miles from Shreveport, Louisiana, lives the Jack Methvin family. Mother, dad, and the boys are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Until just recently there was a lovely daughter who, by her presence, graced that home. Her name was Christal. She was but ten years old when death ended her earthly sojourn.
Christal liked to run and play on the spacious ranch where her family lives. She could ride horses skillfully and excelled in 4-H work, winning awards in the local and state fairs. Her future was bright, and life was wonderful. Then there was discovered on her leg an unusual lump. The specialists in New Orleans completed their diagnosis and rendered their verdict: carcinoma. The leg must be removed.
She recovered well from the surgery, lived as buoyantly as ever and never complained. Then the doctors discovered that the cancer had spread to her tiny lungs. The Methvin family did not despair, but rather planned a flight to Salt Lake City. Christal could receive a blessing from one of the General Authorities. The Methvins knew none of the Brethren personally, so opening before Christal a picture of all the General Authorities, a chance selection was made. By sheer coincidence, my name was selected.
Christal never made the flight to Salt Lake City. Her condition deteriorated. The end drew nigh. But her faith did not waver. To her parents, she said, “Isn’t stake conference approaching? Isn’t a General Authority assigned? And why not Brother Monson? If I can’t go to him, the Lord can send him to me.”
Meanwhile in Salt Lake City, with no knowledge of the events transpiring in Shreveport, a most unusual situation developed. For the weekend of the Shreveport Louisiana Stake Conference, I had been assigned to El Paso, Texas. President Ezra Taft Benson called me to his office and explained that one of the other Brethren had done some preparatory work regarding the stake division in El Paso. He asked if I would mind were another to be assigned to El Paso and I assigned elsewhere. Of course there was no problem—anywhere would be fine with me. Then President Benson said, “Brother Monson, I feel impressed to have you visit the Shreveport Louisiana Stake.” The assignment was accepted. The day came. I arrived in Shreveport.
That Saturday afternoon was filled with meetings—one with the stake presidency, one with priesthood leaders, one with the patriarch, then yet another with the general leadership of the stake. Rather apologetically, Stake President Charles F. Cagle asked if my schedule would permit me time to provide a blessing to a ten-year-old girl afflicted with cancer. Her name: Christal Methvin. I responded that, if possible, I would do so, and then inquired if she would be at the conference, or was she in a Shreveport hospital? Knowing the time was tightly scheduled, President Cage almost whispered that Christal was confined to her home—more than eighty miles from Shreveport!
I examined the schedule of meetings for that evening and the next morning—even my return flight. There simply was no available time. An alternative suggestion came to mind. Could we not remember the little one in our public prayers at conference? Surely the Lord would understand. On this basis, we proceeded with the scheduled meetings.
When the word was communicated to the Methvin family, there was understanding but a trace of disappointment as well. Hadn’t the Lord heard their prayers? Hadn’t he provided that Brother Monson would come to Shreveport? Again the family prayed, asking for a final favor—that their precious Christal would realize her desire.
At the very moment the Methvin family knelt in prayer, the clock in the stake center showed the time to be 7:45. The leadership meeting had been inspirational. I was sorting my notes, preparing to step to the pulpit, when I heard a voice speak to my spirit. The message was brief, the words familiar: “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.” (Mark 10:14.) My notes became a blur. My thoughts turned to a tiny girl in need of a blessing. The decision was made. The meeting schedule was altered. After all, people are more important than meetings. I turned to Bishop James Serra and asked that he leave the meeting and advise the Methvins.
The Methvin family had just arisen from their knees when the telephone rang and the message was relayed that early Sunday morning—the Lord’s day—in a spirit of fasting and prayer, we would journey to Christal’s bedside.
I shall ever remember and never forget that early-morning journey to a heaven the Methvin family calls home. I have been in hallowed places—even holy houses—but never have I felt more strongly the presence of the Lord than in the Methvin home. Christal looked so tiny lying peacefully on such a large bed. The room was bright and cheerful. The sunshine from the east window filled the bedroom with light as the Lord filled our hearts with love.
The family surrounded Christal’s bedside. I gazed down at a child who was too ill to rise—almost too weak to speak. Her illness had now rendered her sightless. So strong was the spirit that I fell to my knees, took her frail hand in mine, and said simply, “Christal, I am here.” She parted her lips and whispered, “Brother Monson, I just knew you would come.” I looked around the room. No one was standing. Each was on bended knee. A blessing was given. A faint smile crossed Christal’s face. Her whispered “thank you” provided an appropriate benediction. Quietly, each filed from the room.
Four days later, on Thursday, as Church members in Shreveport joined their faith with the Methvin family and Christal’s name was remembered in a special prayer to a kind and loving Heavenly Father, the pure spirit of Christal Methvin left its disease-ravaged body and entered the paradise of God.

When I was young, I would have to hurry home from school on Tuesday afternoons in order to get to Primary on time. It was held during the week then. I remember one particular teacher, Sister Rawlings. She helped our class learn the last five articles of faith so that we could recite them all. She also instilled in me a love for Scouting. On my twelfth birthday, I spent the afternoon passing off the Tenderfoot requirements so that I could be a Scout. Sister Rawlings had prepared me well, and I passed. She gave me a Boy Scout pocketknife that I treasured for years.

Suddenly Jody’s muscles tightened. From out of the sky darted Sir Lancelot, his satiny black plumage glinting in the sun like a feathery jewel.
Sir Lancelot was the name Jody had given the big raven the first time he had seen it, nearly six months before. Any bird that could appear so regal had to have an important name, he’d decided.
He stood and hurried to the rock where he’d laid the brass button, picked it up, and sat on the rock with it in his open hand. This time the bird would have to come to him for his prize.
Jody had come up to Raven’s Roost nearly every week since he had moved with his family to Tucker Springs, and he’d gotten to know Sir Lancelot quite well, at least from a distance. “If you want this button to add to your collection of shiny things, you’ll have to take it from my hand!” he told the bird.
The huge bird alighted on a limb of the scrub oak. He cocked his glossy black head and eyed the lustrous object. “Come on,” Jody encouraged.
The raven cawed noisily, his high, harsh cry echoing off the red rocks. At length, he hopped to the ground, advanced a step or two, and came to a stop.
“That’s the best you can do?” Jody questioned. “All right, but next time it’s all the way or nothing, understand?” He tossed the button a few feet in front of him. The raven, cawing at Jody and eyeing the treasure, stretched forward and plucked the button up in his long bill. Then he flew back to the limb.
He regarded the boy a moment, as if saying thanks. Then, just as Sir Lancelot was about to fly off with the precious gift, Jody heard a whizzing sound, followed by a soft thud. The raven toppled lifeless to the ground, the brass button rolling from his slack bill and disappearing into a crevice in the rocks.
For an instant Jody just stared, disbelieving. “Sir Lancelot!” he choked out. Then his attention turned to the direction of the sound.
Hollis Fletcher stepped out of the brushwood about a hundred yards away, a rock flipper in his hands. “I told you I’d get even, Farnsworth,” he sneered. “You should have dropped out of that spelling contest, like I told you. Outside of the Fourth of July and the county fair, it’s the biggest thing that happens around here. And I would have won.
“I’ve lived in Tucker Springs all my life,” Hollis went on. “Every time I earned a hundred on spelling at school, I rewarded myself with getting a new marble for my collection. I probably have the best marble collection in the whole state, but there aren’t any trophies for that, like there is for the spelling contest. I worked hard to win it—it wasn’t right for some nobody from nowhere to come into town and take the trophy that should have been mine. Especially some kid two years younger than I am.”
“I won fair and square,” Jody retorted through his tears, dropping to his knees beside the dead bird and touching its blood-spattered plumage. “Besides, you won the trophy in last year’s contest.”
“I could have had two, Farnsworth!” Hollis growled. “Around here, two is better than one, especially at my house. With one, it can be just luck. Nobody questions or forgets a two-time winner—especially my father! He would have given me a horse, Farnsworth, just like he did my brother for his two-year win at the county fair for his Jersey cows!”
Hollis turned and started down the path, then paused and burned a look over his shoulder at Jody. “Maybe now you’ll know how it feels to lose something.”
Jody scooped up a rock, jumped to his feet, and hurled it at Hollis’s retreating shape. “I hate you!” he screamed, his face twisting with grief and rage. “I hate you!”
Hollis turned back toward the screaming youth and smiled. “That’s good, Farnsworth. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
At home, Jody poured out the story to his father. “He killed Sir Lancelot to get back at me!” he sobbed. “Sir Lancelot was just a good old bird who didn’t do anything except make music.” Jody wiped at the tears that burned his eyes. “It wasn’t the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard, but it was music to me. I hate Hollis for what he did.”
His father sighed. “It was wrong what he did, Son, no doubt about it. But you can’t go around with all that hate in your heart. For one thing, it isn’t healthy; for another, it’s—”
Jody pulled away from his father. “I hate Hollis Fletcher, Dad. I wish he’d move away!”
In the weeks that followed, the resentment and bitterness in Jody Farnsworth’s heart grew.
“You can’t tell me that you’re happy, Jody,” his father commented one day as they walked down the dirt road toward Hennesey Lake, their fishing poles over their shoulders.
Jody didn’t look at his father. “Is it wrong for a kid not to be happy all the time?” he blurted, kicking at a pebble in the road. “Even Jesus got mad at the moneychangers in the temple. And when Lazarus died, He wept. Is it wrong to be like Him?”
“No,” his father returned, “but this is the first time we’ve gone fishing that you haven’t been happy.” After a long silence, his father continued. “You know, Jody, if harboring all that spite for Hollis was right and proper, you’d be feeling pretty good inside. But I’ve never seen you look so poorly.”
Jody’s eyes fired up like smoldering coals rekindled. “I’m just supposed to forget about what he did, is that it?”
“It would be hard to forget what happened,” his father admitted. “But you can forgive him for what he did.”
Jody’s eyes widened. “What? Forgive Hollis Fletcher for shooting Sir Lancelot? How am I supposed to do that?”
His father stopped and eyed the boy. “You have to want to. That makes it a whole lot easier.”
“Well, I don’t want to.”
Jody’s father set his fishing pole aside and squatted down to the boy’s level. “There are a lot of things in this life we don’t like doing that need doing. Your mother dreads wash day, especially in the middle of July. It’s a hot, exhausting, all-day job. But what do you think would happen if our clothes didn’t get cleaned on a regular basis? We’d go around looking and smelling like Amos Twigg’s cow barn. And last fall I dreaded having to shoot Jack. That old horse was in constant great pain, and nothing more could be done except put him out of his misery. It was the hardest thing I had to do in my life. But it needed doing. And that brings me to you, Jody.”
“Me?”
“For the past month you’ve been carrying around such poisonous thoughts that I worry about your soul.”
“I just can’t forgive him, Dad,” Jody said angrily.
Later that morning, as they sat fishing, Jody accidently snagged his finger on his hook while baiting his line. “Shall we leave that hook in your finger?” Jody’s father questioned.
“Of course not!” Jody winced, at the smart.
“Why not?”
“I want to get the hurt out so it will heal, of course.”
“It might be a good idea to let that other, bigger, hurt out, too, Jody.” His father helped dislodge the small hook from the boy’s finger, then dug in his fishing box for some ointment and applied it to Jody’s finger. “The best medicine for resentment is forgiveness. It lets out the poison so that the wound can heal.
“You know,” he added, “I was thinking about what you said earlier today about being like the Savior. There’s a lot to that. He loved everybody, didn’t He? Even His enemies. Don’t you suppose He was the best example of forgiveness, too, Jody?”
Jody’s eyes fell, then lifted. “You mean, while He hung suffering on the cross He forgave the soldiers who crucified Him?”
“Yes. And in Gethsemane He suffered for all our sins.”
Jody was silent a long spell. Then he stood up. “Can we go home now, Dad? There’s something I need to do. Something I want to do.”
Jody was halfway up the little rutted lane that led to the Fletcher farmhouse, when Hollis spotted him. Jody’s heart was pounding. He never imagined that something he wanted to do could be so hard.
Hollis met Jody a short distance from the house, his countenance as dark as a storm over the tablelands. “You came to tell my father what I did, didn’t you, Farnsworth?”
“No,” Jody answered. “I just came to tell you that I forgive you for what you did. I’m not saying it was right; I’m just saying that I don’t hate you.”
“What?”
“Staying mad isn’t going to change anything,” Jody said. “It just makes things worse.”
After an awkward silence, Hollis wondered aloud, “Why are you doing this?”
“It was just something that needed doing. Well,” Jody concluded after another uncomfortable silence, “I still have a few chores to finish up at home, so I guess I’d better be going. See you later.”
A few days later he returned to the mesa and searched the skies for another raven. “I know there are more of you up there somewhere,” he said out loud. “I don’t have any shiny stuff to give you—I’m all out—but—”
“I do,” a voice behind Jody said. Hollis stepped out of the brushwood. He pulled out a leather pouch he’d brought with him and displayed its contents to Jody. “Now we have a lot of shiny things to give those ravens!”
Jody stared at the multitude of shiny aggies, taws, glassies, cat’s eyes, and other bright-colored marbles. “Why are you doing this, Hollis?”
The older boy’s smile grew as big as Jody’s wonder. “It was just something that needed doing.”
Hollis set a bright yellow glassie on a rock, then sat next to Jody beneath the scrub oak, where the two boys waited and watched.

This story happened in the USA.
Knock, knock.
Maddie ran to the front door and opened it. She smiled when she saw Brother Clayton. He was their family’s ministering brother.
“Hi, Maddie, I’m here to see your mom and dad,” Brother Clayton said.
Mom joined Maddie by the door. “Thanks for coming. Please come in.”
Brother Clayton followed Mom and Maddie into the living room.
Dad set a chair in the middle of the room. “Brother Clayton is here to give your mom and me a priesthood blessing,” he told Maddie.
“Why?” Maddie asked. She knew that people asked for priesthood blessings if they were sick or starting school. But why did Mom and Dad need a blessing?
“You know how our family has been going through a hard time? Dad and I want Heavenly Father’s help and guidance,” Mom said.
Maddie knew that Mom was often stressed. And Dad was worried about money. It had been very hard on the whole family.
“Priesthood blessings aren’t only for when you are sick,” Dad said. “They can also be for when you need comfort or strength.”
“Can I stay and listen?” Maddie asked.
Mom smiled. “Sure. Can you sit quietly? We want to be reverent so we can feel the Holy Ghost.”
Maddie nodded and sat on the couch. Then she folded her arms and closed her eyes. She listened to Brother Clayton give Dad and Mom each a blessing. She felt warm and hopeful as Brother Clayton said loving words from Heavenly Father.
When they were done, Maddie stood up. “Can I have a blessing too?”
“Of course,” Dad said.
Maddie sat in the chair, and Brother Clayton placed his hands on her head. She felt good inside. But she wondered what words Heavenly Father had for her. She knew the problems her family had were big—too big for her to fix.
“Maddie, your Heavenly Father wants you to know that you have the gift of joy,” Brother Clayton said. “He loves you and wants you to be happy. And He wants you to share your happiness with others.”
Maddie listened carefully. She felt peaceful. She might not be able to make the big problems her family was facing go away. But she could help her family be happy.
When Brother Clayton finished, Maddie jumped up from the chair and gave Mom and Dad a big hug. Then she shook Brother Clayton’s hand. “Thank you,” she said.
Later that night, Maddie sat on her bed. She thought about her priesthood blessing. How could she help her family feel happy? She looked around her room at her picture books, stuffed animals, and art supplies.
Then she had an idea. She grabbed some paper, scissors, and crayons. She began to cut the paper into small squares.
Maddie picked up a red crayon. “You can do this!” she wrote on the first paper. On the next she wrote, “You are loved!” Maddie thought of more happy things to write. She kept going until all the papers were filled with happy words.
When she was done, she put the notes around the house—one by the front door, one by the soap next to the sink, and one by the laundry room.
Over the next few days, she smiled when she saw her family reading the notes.
“Thank you for the notes,” Mom said with a big smile. “They make me happy. And you make me happy too!”
Maddie gave her mom a hug. Heavenly Father was helping her use her gift to help her family.
Cut out this note and leave it for your family to find!
You are loved!
Illustrations by Annie Poon

Our youngest son was called to serve as a missionary in the France Paris Mission. In preparation to serve, we went with him to purchase the usual shirts, suits, ties, and socks, and an overcoat. Unfortunately, the overcoat he wanted was not immediately in stock in the size he needed. However, the store clerk indicated that the coat would become available in a few weeks and would be delivered to the missionary training center in Provo prior to our son’s departure for France. We paid for the coat and thought nothing more of it.
Our son entered the missionary training center in June, and the overcoat was delivered just days before his scheduled departure in August. He did not try on the coat but hurriedly packed it in his luggage with his clothing and other items.
As winter approached in Paris, where our son was serving, he wrote to us that he had pulled out the overcoat and tried it on but found that it was far too small. We therefore had to deposit extra funds in his bank account so that he could buy another coat in Paris, which he did. With some irritation, I wrote to him and told him to give the first coat away, inasmuch as he couldn’t use it.
We later received this email from him: “It is very, very cold here. … The wind seems to go right through us, although my new coat is great and quite heavy. … I gave my old one to [another missionary in our apartment] who said that he had been praying for a way to get a better coat. He is a convert of several years and he has only his mom … and the missionary who baptized him who are supporting him on his mission and so the coat was an answer to a prayer, so I felt very happy about that.”6
Heavenly Father knew that this missionary, who was serving in France some 6,200 miles (10,000 km) away from home, would urgently need a new overcoat for a cold winter in Paris but that this missionary would not have the means to buy one. Heavenly Father also knew that our son would receive from the clothing store in Provo, Utah, an overcoat that would be far too small. He knew that these two missionaries would be serving together in Paris and that the coat would be an answer to the humble and earnest prayer of a missionary who had an immediate need.

Many things changed for me the year I turned 17. I was advancing to a new school and moving on to my third year of seminary. Not only that, but I also had a new seminary teacher: my mom.
Did I mention I was the only student in her class? Since the school I was going to attend was an hour’s train ride from where I lived, my mother decided to teach me early-morning seminary at home so I would be able to reach school on time. I was fortunate to have her teach me every day, but it was also a little nerve-racking. I had to give her my fullest attention, which was especially a struggle at 5:30 in the morning.
When we were studying the Book of Mormon, we came to Moroni, a prophet I really admire. However, I’ve always wondered: Why was Moroni alone? Why didn’t Heavenly Father send someone to accompany him? Why didn’t he complain when the Lord left him all alone to finish the Book of Mormon?
My mother explained that because of his righteousness and faith in Heavenly Father, Moroni knew that he was not alone. He had Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ to help him complete the Book of Mormon. I realized then that Moroni didn’t need anyone to be physically there because he knew that someone was spiritually there, watching over him. He knew that Heavenly Father would never leave his side.
That had a huge impact on me. I now know that whenever I think I’m alone, I’m not spiritually alone since I have the companionship of the Holy Ghost, who helps me feel closer to my Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I know that as long as I have faith and trust in the Lord, I will never walk alone.
This particular lesson made an impact on my faith and my testimony of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Although I was worried about having seminary at home, I’m now grateful because it has given me special learning experiences with my mom.

Youth Voices: Why We Need to Stop It!
The New Era asked some youth how they felt when they heard President Uchtdorf’s talk and why they think it’s important to “stop it!” Here is what one young woman says:
“I love [President Uchtdorf’s] talk! It inspired me to stop gossiping and judging people. It truly had an impact on my life. This talk convinced me to talk to my group of friends about how we should stop with all the hate towards others. They took my words and put them into action. We have often found ourselves having a better day just because we were nice to someone. It was an amazing life lesson.”
Taylor L., 14, Utah

The summer wind rustled the long grass as it gusted across the vast, rolling plains of northern Montana, whistling by the gray, unpainted, weather-worn boards of the small house. The house sat almost alone out there in that great expanse of land with the mighty Missouri River gliding by in the middle of its journey to its rendezvous with the Mississippi. Occasionally one of the loose boards on the house would rattle a bit as a particularly strong gust would hit it, and the flapping could be heard inside.
It was Sunday, but except for a few rather puny creations of man, the great, sweeping plains and grass looked much as they had for many hundreds of Sundays, and other days of the week as well. There was a certain feeling of changelessness to this immense land.
Inside the lone, sparsely furnished house, propped up on the old chipped and rusted hospital bed to which he was confined, was old Pointing Iron, once a great warrior of the proud and magnificent Sioux nation. Now he was confined by age and frailty to this small, one-room wooden shack.
His eyes wandered around the walls of the room, not noticing the pasteboard that served not only as a covering for the walls but as the wallpaper as well. It was the same in most of the Indian homes on the reservation. Instead, he would let his gaze roam around the walls, stopping to gaze upon some old, faded picture or memento out of his past, and memories of long ago events would flood back into his alert mind. Pointing Iron didn’t know how old he was, nor did anyone else who knew him, but his memory went back to many of the happy times of his people. He had seen many snows in his lifetime.
Brother Pointing Iron hadn’t forgotten what day it was, and he looked forward with anticipation to the time when the sun would approach midday. As midday drew near, he reached out his once powerful arms and attempted to straighten the blanket and the worn quilt that covered his weakened body. Then his gnarled hands went up to the two straight braids of beautiful gray hair that hung well below his shoulders. It was important that they fall neatly in place and that his head be held proud and erect, however hard it might be to hold it there.
He waited now for what he knew was to come. Shortly there was a sharp knocking, and as the door creaked open, two young men in dark suits entered, glad to be sheltered from the wind.
Brother Pointing Iron anxiously reached out his hand and warmly shook the hands of the two missionaries who had come on a special errand to his humble home. Not many words were exchanged, as Pointing Iron could speak very little English and the elders knew almost nothing of the Sioux tongue, but there was a communion of the spirit that all of them felt.
The elders did, however, have a hymn book in the Sioux language, so while one of them selected some music, the other moved an old, rough, wooden chair, held together mostly by wire, into the center of the room. He then very carefully unfolded two clean, freshly pressed handkerchiefs and laid them on the seat of the chair. A small, clean plate was produced and placed on the handkerchiefs. On the plate he put a small morsel of bread and beside it a small glass of clear well water. Now all was in readiness for the meeting to begin.
The elder had opened the hymn book to page 25, and the three of them sang, as best they could, “Sweet Hour of Prayer,” after which one of the missionaries offered the invocation. Then the senior companion knelt and repeated the blessing on the bread. As the plate was handed to Brother Pointing Iron, his trembling hand reached out and picked up the small piece of bread, which represented to him the sacrificed body of his beloved Savior, and the tears flowed slowly down his wrinkled, weather-beaten cheeks.
After the water had been blessed and given to Pointing Iron, the elders once again opened the hymn book, and they all joined in singing, “Israel, Israel, God Is Calling.” Then the junior companion offered the benediction. The chair was cleared off and put back in its place by the wall, and the meeting was over. Once again Pointing Iron’s covenants had been renewed. The elders lingered, reluctant to leave that special spirit they felt so strongly in that old wooden shack on the Montana plains.
Finally they shook the hand of their loved brother and said their good-byes. They stepped once again out into the brisk prairie wind, but somehow the wind didn’t seem to be so much of a bother to them anymore.
This was a cherished weekly Sabbath day assignment and they gladly carried it out until the brave old warrior, Pointing Iron, left this mortal life and was placed to rest in the great old Indian cemetery at Chicken Hill.

We had a similar experience in our family. Last spring some of our children and fourteen of our grandchildren had a family outing in the mountains. One of our activities was a meeting to share experiences and testimonies. We gathered at the appointed time, but the little people were only gathered in body. The large spirits in those little bodies were clamoring for more of the exciting outdoor activities they had been enjoying. The cabin where we met was too small to contain them, and it seemed as if a dozen restless children and their outcries were ricocheting off the walls in every direction. Grandparents will appreciate the apprehension I felt at trying to sponsor something serious in that setting.

Suddenly the instinctive wisdom of young mothers rescued our efforts. Two mothers began to sing a song familiar to the children. Others joined in, and within a few minutes the mood had changed and all spirits were subdued and receptive to spiritual things. I offered a silent prayer of thanks for hymns and for mothers who know how to use them!