Gospel Story Finder

In a published sermon entitled, “What Think Ye of Christ,” my father-in-law, B. West Belnap, told the following story:
Once I was in a far city, far from home, on Mother’s Day, and I was alone. I went into a church . . . in town, as there was no Latter-day Saint Church nearby. The minister gave a very fine sermon, and in the course of his address he said, ‘Adam fell that men might be, and men are that they might have joy.’[1] My ears pricked up at this. Afterward I went up to him and said, ‘I’m interested in that statement ‘Adam fell that men might be.’ He looked at me and said, ‘Are you a Mormon?’ I said. ‘Yes, I am.’ He said, ‘come with me.’ He took me back to his office and pulled down a Book of Mormon and said, ‘there is a lot of good stuff in here; I just don’t tell them where it comes from.’[2]

Photo illustration by Leslie Nilsson
After taking last place in the 880-yard race for the fourth meet in a row, the enthusiasm I once felt for track was beginning to fade. It wasn’t just losing; it was the fact that I could barely finish my races.
One night while reading the Doctrine and Covenants, I read section 89, the Word of Wisdom. Verse 20 says, “And [ye] shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint.” That was a promise I wanted. I didn’t smoke or drink, but I remembered the coach saying that consuming soda pop and sugary foods could make breathing difficult in longer races. I decided to cut back on them and also thought I’d try eating something besides hamburgers every day for lunch.
With those thoughts in mind, I knelt by my bed in prayer. I remember promising the Lord I would keep the Word of Wisdom and stick to my diet so that He could bless me to do my best.
I had my temptations. My friends were doing fun activities after school while I ran the bleachers around the football field. My brother and sister slept in while I woke up early to jog. A cute guy offered to buy me a soda at lunch, and I had to tell him I preferred milk. And some friends decided to sit and talk rather than do our exercises and weightlifting in gym, forcing me to do my workouts alone. I found inner strength from keeping the commitment I had made to myself and to the Lord.
The day of regionals was a warm day. We were divided into two heats according to our previous times, so I was in the slow heat. This was the first race I had felt good about, win or lose, since I started track this year.
“Runners, take your mark!”
“Get set.”
The starter’s pistol went off. I sprang forward, each step in unison with the rest of the pack. I was holding fourth place, but the rest of the runners were gaining on me. A thought came to mind: “I have kept the Word of Wisdom; I CAN DO THIS!”
I focused on third place and pushed myself harder. New energy exploded in me, and I was gaining on them. The runner in second place was only a few feet ahead, so I reached out with all my mind and body.
The girl in first place was starting down the straightway just as I was turning the last bend. She was 5 feet ahead of me with 20 feet to go. With all the energy I could muster, I reached and stepped—go, go, GO!
I raised my arms and crossed the finish line first. A natural high glowed within me. My time was slower than all the runners in the fast heat, so I didn’t get to participate in the state track meet, but I knew the feeling of running and not being weary and of finishing a race and not feeling faint. I understood then what was meant by “a principle with promise” (D&C 89:3). I knew it was true when the Lord said, “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say” (D&C 82:10).

I joined the Church in England in 1965, but the hostile reaction of my father and other pressures eventually led me to become less active.
Those were painful and unhappy times. On the outside it seemed easy to stay away, and I suppose I started to break the Word of Wisdom to fool myself that I didn’t care. Eventually I convinced myself Heavenly Father no longer loved or cared about me, and I felt completely rejected and alone.
Members still visited me occasionally, but it didn’t help. I both resented and envied them.
Then one evening a pair of senior sister missionaries dropped by. I was determined to give them a hard time so they wouldn’t make a return visit, but something inside me warmed to them. They had come as friends, not to preach to me or make me feel guilty.
They returned again and again to work in my garden and to strip paint from an old chest and help restore it—but above all to be friends to me. I began to be able to feel the Savior’s love through them as they filled my home with their obvious joy in living the gospel. They gained my trust, something that was so difficult for me to give.
All too soon their missions came to an end and they returned home. I later visited them in the United States. Rebellion against the Church was still within my heart, however, so I would not attend any Church meetings during the trip. In fact, I took great delight in drinking coffee in front of my two friends, trying hard to show them I was “untouchable.” I soon found out I was far from untouchable.
On the Saturday before Easter, we visited a memorial park in Glendale, California, and were deeply moved by the paintings and other art having to do with the Savior. It seemed that the Atonement was suddenly becoming real to me. A week later I was in southern Utah on the Sunday of general conference. During a moment alone, I switched on the television to a talk given by President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency. As I listened to that great man, I could not contain the tears of guilt and shame.
That afternoon I climbed to one of the observation points in the national park I was visiting. As I walked, I tried to put my life into perspective. I found that the climb, which was very difficult and strenuous in places, was comparable to the trials in my life. Because I pressed on and reached the end of the climb, I could look down at the beauty of creation and feel exhilaration.
The spirit of rebellion was not completely gone from my heart, but I was starting to feel the hostility melting away. I began to experience feelings of love—new, beautiful, and strange to me. I also began to learn that I could be loved. I knew I needed to change my life, to truly repent.
When I returned home I felt much different inside. I was beginning to feel hope and was learning to pray for guidance and forgiveness. True repentance didn’t take place overnight; it took many months before I felt I had been forgiven. I made a decision to start attending church again, the most difficult part of which was finding the courage to actually walk to the doors and go in.
I become overwhelmed as I think of the meaning of the Savior’s Atonement: “Oh, it is wonderful that he should care for me enough to die for me!” (“I Stand All Amazed,” Hymns, number 193). It is also wonderful that two sister missionaries came into my life when they did and shared with me their love and example. I was filled with joy to have one of them be my escort when I finally attended the temple to receive my endowment.
Following years of wandering, I had come home at last.

Courage is one of Joseph Smith’s special qualities. Without it, he would have shrunk from carrying out his remarkable role. At about age seven, he had a gravely infected leg. Amputation seemed inevitable. He refused alcoholic anesthetics when his leg bones were surgically and painfully treated in a new technique. By the way, that thoughtful little boy asked his mother to leave the room so she wouldn’t have to witness his suffering.
For Joseph’s ailment, the best medical help available in America was surprisingly just a few miles away: Dr. Nathan Smith, founder of Dartmouth’s medical school and the experienced pioneer of this advanced technique (see Le Roy S. Wirthlin, “Joseph Smith’s Boyhood Operation: An 1813 Surgical Success,” Brigham Young University Studies, spring 1981, pp. 131–54; see also “Joseph Smith’s Surgeon,” Ensign, Mar. 1978, pp. 59–60). He led the team who saved Joseph’s leg, including for the grueling march of Zion’s Camp.

A few weeks before leaving on my mission to Ecuador, I was ordained an elder and received all the responsibilities that come with the Melchizedek Priesthood.
Soon afterward, my mom and I were visiting some family members, and my uncle gave me a white missionary handbook, saying that I would soon be needing it. I thought he was referring to my mission—only weeks away. But that night my uncle asked me to assist in giving a blessing to my aunt, who was sick. I was surprised at the invitation but knew I now had the authority to administer to the sick—and even more, to help my aunt who was in need.
I immediately read how to give a blessing in my newly acquired handbook and was able to carry out my first priesthood blessing, feeling truly grateful in this new capacity to serve others.

Recently I received a letter from a fine young man in the missionary training center in Provo, Utah. The story of his commitment, in essence, goes like this:

“Swimming has been one of the most important things in my life, and my family has made incredible sacrifices in order for me to excel. I can remember getting up at 4:00 A.M. every morning, along with my dad, who would take me to my workout. And every afternoon my parents would come and pick me up. It was very expensive going to championship meets in many parts of the country, but somehow, my parents always managed to help me attend.
“Well, I did quite well, and last year I qualified for the Olympic trials. I had been swimming on the University of Arizona swim team, and had some of the fastest times in the country. At the same time, I was trying to decide about a mission.
“I only had one year of eligibility left, and in that year I would be captain of the swim team. Two years of a full-ride scholarship were also available to me if I stayed. If I left to serve, I’d lose them. While I was swimming over ten miles a day in preparation for the Olympic trials, however, I decided to send in my mission papers.
“Soon I found myself in Austin, at the trials. My team was among the most elite to go, and about eight of us had times good enough to make the Olympics. Things didn’t go well for me, though, and I failed to make the team. The goal I’d worked for all my life, the goal my family had come from across the country to see me achieve, was now out of reach. I wanted to jump right back in the pool and start training for the 1992 Olympics.
“Then I remembered I’d sent in my mission papers. How could I leave a loser, though? My coach told me he knew I could break the records I wanted in the next year, and that if I left, I would be throwing away everything I’d worked all my life for.
“The following week was agonizing. I was pulled in many directions. I talked to my leaders and prayed and prayed. Finally, I had the overwhelming feeling that now was the time to go on my mission. You don’t argue with the Spirit.
“I’m on my mission now. I have no regrets about this choice, and I’m happier than ever. Sure, it’s been tough, but when you lose your life in Christ, you find it. I know what it’s like to have potential to do something and not quite make it. It’s a small taste of torment. I don’t want this to happen when I face my God at Judgment Day. It takes commitment.
“We must decide now, I believe. I didn’t ask myself every morning if I wanted to go to practice or to sleep. I decided beforehand, and there was no choice to be made when morning came. We have to be committed. But to be committed 100 percent, we need the help of the Lord. You need to have the discipline and commitment to do the things you’ve promised, long after the emotion under which you made the commitment has died.”

“Do any of you know about a new family down on that block by the river?” Bishop Barton asked. “They are new converts from Brazil, and I think the oldest boy should be old enough for Scouts.” The cold air of the bishop’s office kept me, the Scout leader, awake.
“John,” said the bishop. The slumbering deacons quorum president raised his head, showing red lines where the heater he was using for a pillow had left a mark. “Glad to see you again,” observed the bishop, laughing. “I need you to get with Brother Wood and Brother Tolson and go see who this boy is and invite him to Scout meeting.”
“Okay,” John said. But I feared the assignment would turn into one of those we’ll-get-around-to-it kind of things that somehow never happens.
“Maybe you’ll need an address.” The bishop was already writing it out. “His name is Rurik Janiszewski.”
That is how we came to stand before a dilapidated door at the Janiszewski home one night.
“Guess they aren’t home,” John said after one timid attempt at knocking. Brother Wood, John, and I turned to go, but I saw a small face at the window. It quickly disappeared. The door then opened slowly, and a little girl in pajamas stood there among a pile of newspapers.
“Missionero?” she asked. Brother Wood broke into his mission Portuguese, and they talked for a few minutes. Then the door closed.
“She said something about everybody delivering newspapers,” he said. We looked in the carport and saw stacks of thick papers. Right then a beat-up minivan pulled up, and a smiling man emerged from the car. Inside the house a woman said a few things and a cascade of children hurried about, grabbing papers. I could tell that the subject of the bishop’s query was the big kid who looked at me suspiciously from the dimly lit house.
Brother Wood explained the purpose of our visit and then spoke to me. “They are new to the Church; he’s never heard of Scouts,” he said. Somehow we got the point across.
I’d like to say it was easy for Rurik in the Scout troop, but it wasn’t. His English was pretty good, but his winter camping skills weren’t. He was often late, and he sometimes missed our meetings. Unfortunately, some guys teased him about his lack of preparation and camping gear. Despite this, he kept coming and earned a few merit badges.
One day after a troop meeting, Rurik’s dad approached me, seeming a little nervous.
“Would you like to earn some money?” he asked, catching me off guard. He explained in broken English that he did a newspaper route and that he had a problem that he could only take care of by leaving with his family for two weeks. I said something noncommittal, as it was still a few weeks away.
He called again, however, and after some persistence on his part I reluctantly accepted and quickly enlisted a few Scouts in the effort. We decided to go out a couple of times and learn the route. I was unprepared for what we saw.
As I watched that little family scurrying about, dodging traffic to deliver 300 newspapers all over town in the hardest places while negotiating lots of stairs, I was humbled to realize this was how they made a living.
I called the newspaper supervisor, who in a gruff way explained that the Janiszewskis would lose the route if they didn’t obtain a substitute. That was pretty motivational to our effort. The Scouts battled and struggled, and lots of people came to help. It nearly turned into a ward project, and we were really dragging by the end of two weeks. I realized what a sacrifice it had been for Rurik to come on trips and to meetings held during times when he was delivering papers. That’s when I decided in the future we would wait even if Rurik was late to troop activities.
I knew how my perspective had changed, and the Scouts’ reactions didn’t disappoint when Rurik returned from his trip.
“Rurik, how do you do that whole paper route every night?” asked Jason. “Even when it rains?” questioned Kevin. Rurik nodded, flashing a rare smile, basking in his new popularity with the troop.
“Every day,” he said. “Why do you think I come to campouts? I don’t have to do the papers then.” There was a newfound respect for Rurik and his family. It was obvious we had come to love them when the troop refused Brother Janiszewski’s attempt to pay us.
Rurik and his family moved back to Brazil not long after that. Rurik asked for some pictures of our snow camps and igloos, as he was sure no one in Brazil would believe what he had experienced.
We hope he won’t forget us, for we will never forget how much we learned from a thing as simple as a paper route.

For a time the Saints could not be comforted. The mourning and the depression that descended upon Nauvoo was overwhelming. When Mary Fielding Smith, Hyrum’s wife, after midnight heard the high-pitched voice of Porter Rockwell, riding on a sweaty horse, shouting, “They’ve killed them! They’ve killed Joseph and Hyrum!’ she screamed. And young Joseph wept.

Soon all Nauvoo knew. Some felt bitter and wanted vengeance. Some who held command positions in the Nauvoo Legion went immediately and asked that they be marshaled. But the leaders had been told by the Prophet to stay home.

Many of the brethren absent on missions felt forebodings that day, even at the hour of the martyrdom. Only seven days previously the Prophet had sent letters to all the Twelve asking them to return to Nauvoo immediately. So it was that the returning Parley P. Pratt walking depressed across the plains of Illinois until he could hardly endure it.

Finally he knelt and prayed for comfort; and then it was made known to him that the newspaper headline he has seen in Chicago told the truth, that Joseph and Hyrum had in fact given their lives for the Lord’s cause, and that he was to go back rapidly to Nauvoo and tell the Saints to do nothing until the Twelve had reassembled.

One such opportunity was a moment, a couple of years ago in Ladysmith, in KwaZulu Natal Province, in the Republic of South Africa with Elder Kevin S. Hamilton, then President of the Africa Southeast Area.
After a training session with Elder Hamilton, as a young returning missionary whose family does not share my faith, amidst my anxiety as to how to stay strong, I asked, “President, what should I do to retain my membership in the Church?”
Elder Hamilton looked at me in the eyes, placed his arm around my shoulder and said, “What do you usually tell your new converts?”
I responded, “President, I encourage them to continually come to Church to partake of the sacrament, to pray often, to prepare to go to the temple, to do home visiting (ministering), and to magnify their callings when given one.”
He replied, “Elder, then go home and do those things. Your faith will be strengthened as you continually do them”.

At school, I got bullied and mocked for my beliefs. Because of that and other challenges, I felt like the world was crashing down on me. But my mother encouraged me to rely on the Atonement of Jesus Christ because He understands my pain and can bring me peace and comfort (see Doctrine and Covenants 19:23).

I decided to promise Heavenly Father that I would fast regularly. I asked Him to help me with my weaknesses and struggles, and He has been doing so ever since.

Fasting has brought me closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I know They are always by my side, giving me strength to overcome my challenges and find true happiness. Jesus Christ is healing my wounds and helping me return to my Heavenly Father.
Vera R., 17, Brasília, Brazil

A second incident happened when I was twenty-nine. My companions and I had climbed Longs Peak in Colorado on a bright September day. Longs Peak is 14,256 feet high. At that altitude one can climb three or four steps before his legs go numb and he has to wait three or four minutes to get his strength back to take three or four more steps.
It was late afternoon when we reached the top. From there I saw a ridge that seemed to begin a thousand feet below and would cut my descent time in half. Unheeding of the warnings of my companions, I started down the north side of the mountain. I had gone down about 500 feet when I suddenly found myself on a field of clear ice that had resulted from a storm the previous night.
I skirted to the left and came to a cliff with a sheer drop of several thousand feet. My only way out of the predicament was back to the top. I shall not tell the dangers of that climb back, but what had taken me two hours on a fairly easy trail earlier in the day I then did in thirty minutes without stopping for breath and without having my legs go numb. Where did the strength come from? Adrenalin? Some may think so, but this was an entirely different strength, one that did not come from me.
That afternoon I learned another lesson. As I climbed, I could hear the whistle of one of my fellows. As I reached the top, there stood Golden Kilburn. The other climbers had gone down the trail, but he had—at some risk to himself—waited for me, feeling that he could not leave until I was accounted for.
Together we descended, reaching the safe portions of the trail at dusk. Had we been delayed much longer, we both would have been caught at night at the 13,500–14,000-feet level without coats. I have wondered many times which would have been the least pleasant, freezing or falling 3,000 feet down over the cliff. I have also wondered about the force that reached out, unknown to me, and made me equal to the altitude for thirty brief minutes.

When I was a student at the University of Vienna in Austria, two missionaries came to my door, saying, “We have a message for you from God.” I invited them in, wondering why I did so because I didn’t have any interest in religion. Deeply affected by the Hungarian Revolution of 1956—which sent thousands of refugees streaming into Austria—I had been seeking to know the meaning of life. But I didn’t expect to find the answer in any church.
The message of these missionaries was the message of the Restoration. I think I loved the Prophet Joseph Smith from the first moment I heard about him. I was especially touched by the circumstances of his Martyrdom. Later, as I spent time reading the Book of Mormon and praying, I received through the power of the Holy Ghost a joyful, peaceful assurance that Jesus is the Christ, that Joseph Smith was the Prophet of the Restoration, and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the Lord’s restored Church on the earth, led by living prophets who prepare the world for His Second Coming.

Some years ago I was called, with my wife, Jacqui, to preside over the Washington Spokane Mission. We arrived in the mission field with a mix of fear and excitement at the responsibility of working with so many remarkable young missionaries. They came from many different backgrounds and quickly became like our own sons and daughters.
Although most were doing wonderfully well, a few were struggling with the high expectations of their calling. I remember one missionary telling me, “President, I just don’t like people.” Several told me they lacked the desire to follow the rather strict missionary rules. I worried and wondered what we could do to change the hearts of those few missionaries who had not yet learned the joy of being obedient.
One day while driving through the beautiful rolling wheat fields on the Washington-Idaho border, I was listening to a recording of the New Testament. As I listened to the familiar account of the rich young man coming to the Savior to ask what he might do to have eternal life, I received an unexpected but profound personal revelation that is now a sacred memory.
After hearing Jesus recite the commandments and the young man reply that he had observed all these since his youth, I listened for the Savior’s gentle correction: “One thing thou lackest: … sell whatsoever thou hast, and … come, … follow me.”1 But to my astonishment, I instead heard six words before that part of the verse that I seemed never to have heard or read before. It was as if they had been added to the scriptures. I marveled at the inspired understanding which then unfolded.
What were these six words that had such a profound effect? Listen to see if you can recognize these seemingly ordinary words, not found in the other Gospel accounts but found only in the Gospel of Mark:
“There came one running … and asked him, Good Master, what shall I do that I may inherit eternal life?
“And Jesus said unto him, …
“Thou knowest the commandments, Do not commit adultery, Do not kill, Do not steal, Do not bear false witness, Defraud not, Honour thy father and mother.
“And he answered … , Master, all these have I observed from my youth.
“Then Jesus beholding him loved him, and said unto him, One thing thou lackest: go thy way, sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come, take up the cross, and follow me.”2
“Then Jesus beholding him loved him.”
As I heard these words, a vivid image filled my mind of our Lord pausing and beholding this young man. Beholding—as in looking deeply and penetratingly into his soul, recognizing his goodness and also his potential, as well as discerning his greatest need.
Then the simple words—Jesus loved him. He felt an overwhelming love and compassion for this good young man, and because of this love and with this love, Jesus asked even more of him. I pictured what it must have felt like for this young man to be enveloped by such love even while being asked to do something so supremely hard as selling all he owned and giving it to the poor.
In that moment, I knew it was not just the hearts of some of our missionaries that needed changing. It was my heart as well. The question no longer was “How does a frustrated mission president get a struggling missionary to behave better?” Instead, the question was “How can I be filled with Christlike love so a missionary can feel the love of God through me and desire to change?” How can I behold him or her in the same way the Lord beheld the rich young man, seeing them for who they really are and who they can become, rather than just for what they are doing or not doing? How can I be more like the Savior?
“Then Jesus beholding him loved him.”
From that time forward, as I sat knee to knee with a young missionary struggling with some aspect of obedience, within my heart I now saw a faithful young man or young woman who had acted on the desire to come on a mission. Then I was able to say with all the feeling like that of a tender parent:3 “Elder or Sister, if I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care what happens on your mission. But I do love you, and because I love you, I care about who you become. So I invite you to change those things that are hard for you and become who the Lord wants you to be.”
Each time I went to interview missionaries, I first prayed for the gift of charity and that I could see each elder and sister as the Lord sees him or her.
Before zone conferences, as Sister Palmer and I greeted each missionary one by one, I would pause and look deeply into their eyes, beholding them—an interview without words—and then without fail, I was filled with great love for these precious sons and daughters of God.

“I hate Santa Claus,” I exclaimed, glaring at a painting of the jolly old elf on a window at the mall.
Mom looked at me with raised eyebrows. “You certainly have the Christmas spirit,” she said.
I hurried with her to the car, trying to find the words to explain how I felt. “It’s just that I’m sick of Santa, the tinsel, and all the rest of the Christmas frenzy,” I said, as I put my shopping bags in the trunk. “I mean, aren’t we supposed to be celebrating the birth of the Savior?”
“I agree. Christmas is getting too commercialized,” Mom said.
We drove past the town hall and saw a poster requesting people to bring in their Christmas donations for the needy. “And that’s another thing,” I blurted. “I hate the way people feel a tug of guilt on their heartstrings at Christmastime and donate all their old stuff to charity. Why can’t people be generous all year long? As if they’re fooling anyone.”
Mom smiled. “Christmas is a good time to start.”
But I didn’t care what she had to say. Before long I was mad at everyone, and by the time we pulled into our driveway I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to act any different just because it was Christmas. I wasn’t going to be hypocritical like the rest of the world. And as for the Savior’s birth, I’d just celebrate that in April.
After dinner we cleared the table and sat down to do homework. “Hey, help me with this algebra problem,” my brother Tom said.
“I’ve got homework to do,” I snapped.
“Come on, it’s Christmas,” he pleaded. Boy, was that the wrong thing to say! I told him I didn’t care if it was Christmas. “Ask someone who has time,” I said.
“How about someone who needs blessings because she’s acting weird,” said Tom.
“All right,” Mom’s stern voice cut in. “That’s enough. I’ll help you, Tom. Your sister’s carrying a grudge against Christmas this year.”
It was hard to concentrate on my homework because the ugliness inside me was growing. I couldn’t understand why I was feeling worse instead of better. After all, I wasn’t being a Christmas hypocrite, pretending to be jolly when people the world over were starving and suffering.
Just then the doorbell rang. Mom looked at me, then quietly walked to the door. Her surprised gasp brought the rest of the family to her side, including me.
There stood our home teachers dressed as shepherds. They waited until everyone had gathered around. “We’re on our way to Bethlehem,” one of the shepherds said, “and we thought we’d stop by and tell you what has happened. You see, we were watching over our flocks when suddenly an angel appeared to us. At first we were terribly afraid, but the angel said, ‘Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord’” (Luke 2:10–11).
There was something about the simplicity and sincerity of their message that touched me deeply. My lip started quivering, and I quickly bit it to keep it under control. I didn’t hear any more. I was too busy remembering how awful I’d been, all because I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. I had been griping about how horrible everyone is, when I wasn’t willing to change myself for the better. At least the people I complained about were generous and kind part of the year. I certainly hadn’t been.
“We’re going to see this miracle which has come to pass,” the other shepherd said. With that, they disappeared into the night, leaving us in silence, meditating on their wonderful message.
Then it hit me. They were going to share this marvelous event with others, to help them feel the true spirit of Christmas.
I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat. “I’ve got some Christmas messages of my own to deliver,” I said. Turning to Mom, I gave her the biggest hug I could manage. “I’m sorry for all I put you through.”
Mom smiled. “I guess that’s part of being a mother.”
I looked at Tom, who was grinning triumphantly.
“Probably the hardest thing I have to do is apologize to you, Tom,” I began. “But if I didn’t, you wouldn’t believe me when I tell you that my heart has changed tonight.” He shrugged his shoulders and brushed past me. I noticed the reddening of his ears, a sure sign he was embarrassed.
I followed him to the kitchen table and sat down. “Tom,” I asked, “can I help you with your algebra?”
“Sure,” he said, handing me the book. “And you can start by telling me how to do number seven.”
I looked at the problem and smiled. Maybe Christmas wasn’t such a bad time to start being generous after all.

While helping Gard plant some seeds in the spring, Nathan curiously asked Gard why he didn’t attend church. Gard replied that he hadn’t been to church for many years, partly because he didn’t feel that he was needed there.
The next morning in scripture study, Nathan’s family read John 21 in the New Testament. In verses 16 and 17 Jesus instructs His disciples, “Feed my sheep.”
That caught Nathan’s attention, and Dad explained. “Jesus was often referred to as the Good Shepherd. His followers were people who believed in Him, and were sometimes called His sheep. Before He left them, He made sure that each one of His sheep, or followers, was loved and cared for.”
Dad continued as Nathan listened with interest. “Jesus knows and loves each one of us. As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we must also help watch over His sheep by loving and caring for one another.”
Nathan thought for a few moments. Then he said, “Gard is one of Jesus’s sheep, and He would probably like us to help Gard come to church. Is that what Jesus meant about feeding His sheep?”
Dad nodded. “I think that is exactly what Jesus would like us to do.”
“But where do we start?” Nathan asked.
Dad explained that the first step was as simple as just being a friend. “I think that we have already become good friends with Gard,” he said. “Now let’s include him in our prayers and ask Heavenly Father to help us know what we can do next.”
A few months later, Dad was called to serve as the high priest group leader in the ward. In his prayers, he asked Heavenly Father who should serve with him. He felt impressed that he should ask Gard to serve as his secretary.
Nathan’s family was thrilled when they learned that Gard had accepted the call and would be riding to church with them on Sunday.
As Gard continued to attend church, Nathan decided that the feeling he had inside was even more exciting than delivering a surprise Christmas tree!

How blessed we are to be led by a living prophet! Growing up during the Great Depression, President Thomas S. Monson learned how to serve others. Often his mother asked him to deliver food to needy neighbors, and she would give homeless men odd jobs in exchange for home-cooked meals. Later as a young bishop, he was taught by President J. Reuben Clark, “Be kind to the widow and look after the poor” (see Thomas S. Monson, in Conference Report, Apr. 1986, 79; or Ensign, May 1986, 62). President Monson looked after 84 widows and cared for them until they passed away. Through the years, his service to members and neighbors throughout the world has become the hallmark of his ministry. We are grateful to have his example. Thank you, President Monson.

It occurred when this most treasured, little son was nearly three years old. One day, suddenly and without warning, he stopped breathing and fell to the floor, apparently lifeless. My husband was not home, and I called my ten-year-old daughter, Nancy, to get help as I carried him to the bedroom. As I worked to revive him, I literally, cried out unto the Lord. I begged him to spare our only son. I promised that I would dedicate myself to training him up to be an instrument in the hands of God if he would be spared. The police arrived with their emergency equipment. I continued in fervent, vocal prayer to the Lord, petitioning him to restore our little boy. The doctor arrived. Just as a stimulant was to be injected directly into his heart as a final emergency measure, he cried. My prayers had been answered, but I was to receive further testimony of this in a most unexpected way.
The next morning, our son climbed on his daddy’s knee. “I was sitting on the lap of Jesus,” he said. Then he went on, “He looked into my eyes. I was so happy. I wanted to stay there with him, but he told me I had to go back home to you.” Even now, twenty-four years later, our son remembers vividly the reciprocal love he experienced during his brief “step out of time.” He is vigorous and well, living with his lovely wife and a little son of his own as he continues to serve the Lord.

This summer four teenage nieces and I shared a tense Sunday evening when we set out walking from a downtown hotel in a city we were visiting to a nearby chapel where I was to speak. I had made that walk many times, but that evening we suddenly found ourselves engulfed by an enormous mob of drunken parade-goers. It was no place for four teenage girls, or their aunt, I might add. But with the streets closed to traffic, we had no choice but to keep walking. Over the din, I shouted to the girls, “Stay right with me.” As we maneuvered through the crush of humanity, the only thing on my mind was my nieces’ safety.
Thankfully, we finally made it to the chapel. But for one unnerving hour, I better understood how mothers who forgo their own safety to protect a child must feel. My siblings had entrusted me with their daughters, whom I love, and I would have done anything to lead them to safety. Likewise, our Father has entrusted us as women with His children, and He has asked us to love them and help lead them safely past the dangers of mortality back home.

“Last summer I complained to a non–Latter-day Saint friend that I was exhausted, having no fun, living like an automaton. Nonsympathetically, she countered, ‘What do you think this is? A dress rehearsal? This is your life, Carol. Fix it.’ I expected a pat and a kind word. Instead, I got a splash of reality square in the face. She was, of course, quite right. I wasn’t giving my life value, so I didn’t feel it had value. I went home, reread the parables of the sower and of the talents, and regrouped” (A Singular Life, ed. Carol L. Clark and Blythe Darlyn Thatcher [1987], 35–36).

Our Young Women leaders decided that an overnight trip was just the thing to get us ready for camp. They chose the banks of the San Pedro River in southern Arizona, USA, to set up our practice camp.
After rolling out the sleeping bags, the other girls and I wanted to explore and get into the water. The leaders thought some discussions on safety and first aid should come first. So we all sat in a shady spot near the river for the lesson.
Paying attention wasn’t easy when we could see the river shining in the sun. The breeze was playing in the cottonwood trees as Sister Brown* talked. We had all heard the lesson before, and I just couldn’t understand why we needed it now. We knew all about putting pressure on a wound to stop the bleeding, but there she was telling us again.
Before they let us go, the leaders repeatedly told us not to go in the river without shoes. “You never know what’s in there, and you’ve got to protect your feet.”
As I got to the edge of the river, some of the other girls were already splashing in the water. The water was brown with mud. It was less than a foot deep all the way across, and I couldn’t believe that it was dangerous.
I decided to take off my shoes. I had brought only one pair, and I didn’t see the sense in getting them wet and having soggy shoes all day. My two best friends, Martha and Elizabeth, both reminded me of what the leaders had said. I took my shoes off anyway and explained my reasons. Martha took hers off too. Elizabeth was more hesitant. I waded out into the water and with a sarcastic tone said, “Keep them on if you want to.”
She sat down, took off her shoes, and ran into the water. After about five steps she stopped, turned pale, and calmly said, “Oh, no.” When she pulled her foot out of the water, I could see blood streaming out of a cut. She had stepped on a broken bottle.
The sight of blood made my brain go numb. Even though I had just been listening to a lesson on first aid, I had no idea what to do. I decided to run for help. Two others helped her out of the water.
I found Sister Brown and told her what had happened. She thought I was kidding. But when she saw Elizabeth sitting in the trail with blood gushing from her foot, she ran toward her shouting, “Put pressure on that cut!”
The lesson of 10 minutes before began to sink in. The girls, who had been standing around Elizabeth and watching her bleed, elevated her foot and put pressure on the wound.
Elizabeth was taken to the hospital, where she was told that she had almost cut her foot in half. It required numerous stitches and would take a long time to heal. The next time I saw her she was using crutches.
I never thought I could or would ever convince my best friend to do something that would hurt her that badly. I had never seen myself as a bad influence before.
Now I’m trying to be a better example to my friends, and I’m more willing to listen to my leaders. They know what they’re talking about.