Gospel Story Finder

William hopped into the car next to Jeremy and buckled his seat belt.
Is everybody ready for preschool?
Yes!
Yes!
Jeremy’s mom started driving down the road, and William opened his lunch box. He pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took a big bite.
Jeremy looked at William’s sandwich. It looked yummy. Jeremy was hungry.
Mom, I’m hungry. Do you have something for me to eat?
Sorry, Jeremy. We ate before we left. I don’t have anything else.
OK.
Jeremy was sad. He wanted a sandwich too.
William saw that Jeremy was sad. He pulled off a piece of his sandwich and handed it to Jeremy.
Here you go!
Thanks, William. You’re nice.
No problem. That’s what friends are for!

On my knees, I recalled that I had felt that same terror a few months previously. I was studying the Bible on location in Israel for five months as part of the Brigham Young University’s study abroad program. As part of our program, we were expected to climb Mount Sinai. Being from the flat metropolis of Toronto, Canada, I hadn’t had much association with the wilderness, much less mountain climbing. I feared failure, and became more morose as the date of the climb approached.

All too soon the dreaded day descended upon me. Numbed by trepidation and a night of sleepless worry, I arose to meet the challenge.

We started our ascent at 2:00 A.M. so we could reach the summit by sunrise. It was a rugged two-and-a-half hour climb. I don’t think I could have made it without Tenney Sipherd.

“Follow me, Betty,” Tenney said as we departed the youth hostel at the foot of the mountain. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

How she helped! Tenney had a small flashlight, so we could find the trail in the dark. And every time the path got rocky, she would take my hand and lead me through. If I stumbled, she would pull me up. I grew to trust Tenney as we climbed the majestic peak in the dark.

Elated, we reached the top of Mount Sinai a few minutes before sunrise, and I blushed as my fellow students and friends applauded my victory over the rugged mountain. Taking a seat beside them, I watched in awe as the first rays of sunlight flashed over the horizon of the barren Sinai wilderness. Tears filled my eyes as the symbolism of the climb occurred to me.

All of us have mountains in our lives: mountains of trials, mountains of discouragement, mountains of temptations. And sometimes we cannot see where we are going, and sometimes the path is rough, and sometimes we stumble. But we must always remember that there is one who will take us by the hand and keep us on the right path and pick us up when we fall. We just have to follow his light. And that’s the Savior. As we rely on him, we learn to trust him. And trust leads to obedience.

As a youth, I personally experienced great emotional pain and shame that came as the result of the unrighteous actions of another, which for many years affected my self-worth and my sense of worthiness before the Lord. Nevertheless, I bear personal witness that the Lord can strengthen us and bear us up in whatever difficulties we are called upon to experience during our sojourn in this vale of tears.
Like it was for Paul, it was through the Lord’s help that I was eventually strengthened emotionally and spiritually and finally recognized after many years that I have always been a person of worth and worthy of the blessings of the gospel. The Savior helped me to overcome my feelings of unworthiness and to extend sincere forgiveness to the offender. I finally understood that the Savior’s Atonement was a personal gift for me and that my Heavenly Father and His Son love me perfectly. Because of the Savior’s Atonement, mortality works.
While I was eventually blessed to recognize how the Savior rescued me and stood by me through those experiences, I clearly understand that the unfortunate situation of my teenage years was my personal journey and experience, the resolution of which and eventual outcome cannot be projected onto those who have suffered and continue to suffer from the unrighteous behavior of others.

Perhaps it is partly this aura of impossibility that draws Kent to eagles, just as it has drawn poets, prophets, and emperors for centuries.
Actually, it all started with snakes. From the day he was born, Kent seemed to delight in all wild creatures, but snakes were his first real love. As a very young boy, he turned his backyard into a reptile menagerie with cages full of crawling snakes, gila monsters, horned toads, lizards, and just about any other tail-twitching belly-crawler he could find. As soon as he learned to read, he went hunting for reptiles in the library too.
But a new love was waiting in the wings, and at 12 years of age, Kent was to have his eyes snatched from the delightful snake-harboring ground to the wide, blue, eagle-bearing sky.
One day on a camping trip Kent’s Scoutmaster pointed at a dead cottonwood tree and said, “Hey, guys, there are two eagles!” The two golden eagles perched on skeletal limbs burned their image into an unexposed surface of Kent’s brain and filled his life’s appointment book all in an instant. He came. He saw. He was conquered.
But finding eagles isn’t all that easy until you learn where to look, and it was two years before Kent was able to make a house call. One rainy afternoon in early May he stepped onto a tiny protruding ledge that overhung more than 150 feet of sheer emptiness. As he peered over the edge, the sun burst through the rain clouds, spotlighting the golden hackles of a female eagle on her nest about ten yards down. Seeing Kent, she soared silently away but left behind two eaglets who sat cheeping at him in a blaze of downy sunshine.
Kent says of that instant: “At that moment I was so inspired by the beauty and majesty of the eagles that I felt more alive myself. The air smelled fresher, and the stream far below sparkled more brightly than before. I had simply opened my eyes and had really seen and felt what was around me.”
From eagles Kent’s love spread to all raptors (birds of prey). The fierce independence and aristocratic bearing of these aerial hunters caught his imagination and sent him out during every spare moment to follow their flight and study their habits.
He went to the library too, hunting these feathered sky-riders among the quiet stacks of books. He learned, both from books and experience (he doesn’t believe a book until he has proved it in nature) about the different raptors—where they nested, where they hunted, how they hunted, what their prey was, how they mated, and even how they flew. Before long he could see a bird silhouetted gnat-small on the horizon and name it by its flight pattern. Every time he saw a bird or visited a nest, he took careful scientific notes of everything he observed. He has several PhD dissertations lying unwritten in his notebooks.
During his junior year in high school, Kent dropped out of football and basketball to allow more time for raptor study. He traveled miles and miles searching out nests and roosting areas. He developed the climbing ability of a mountain goat and the stamina of a mustang. Leaving home Friday night after school or well before dawn Saturday morning, getting home well after dark Saturday night, and spending much of the time in between climbing steep mountains at a brisk trot, he found many raptor nests and gradually became a legitimate expert in the field. Weekdays after school also found him in the hills as often as possible.
One of his most rewarding experiences came one winter after a month-long search when he found the winter roosting grounds of bald eagles from Canada and Alaska. “I stood alone in two feet of snow near the bottom of an isolated canyon in west-central Utah, my eyes searching the sky for signs of life. Suddenly, as if by magic, they came, one by one, in pairs, and in small groups. Bald eagles dropped from the tall pine trees to the south and were gradually caught up in thermal drafts of air. Slowly circling higher and higher, traveling on wings of up to eight feet in length, they drifted west in a steady stream of traffic across the sky.”
That summer he carried back-breaking loads of wood and canvas up a towering mountain in order to build a blind from which to observe these eagles during the coming winter. When the snows were deep on the mountain a few months later, he spent hours watching them up close. “I have often crawled out of a warm bed at 3:00 A.M. and hiked up tall mountains through three feet of snow in the dark. Then I have sat cramped and numbed in a dark blind until mid-afternoon. By that time I have begun to wonder what is wrong with me. Suddenly, only 30 feet away and halfway up a scraggly old pine tree, a beautiful bald eagle has landed, and I wonder no longer.”
Kent interrupted his eagle watching to accept a mission call to the Kentucky Louisville Mission, but on his return he was on the road again checking nests.
Kent, like other students of raptors, is especially interested in the predators’ nesting behavior because this is the cycle that stands between the species and extinction.
There is also the mystery of the eternal interplay between the flight and the nest, freedom and responsibility. “An eagle’s freedom is exciting. They can leave the ground any time they want and ride the wind, and yet, like people, they’re tied down with responsibilities. When an eagle has eggs, she’s on the nest for 45 days, and she may leave it for only an hour a day. Eagles must follow their food supply too. They have certain laws they have to live within, but when they get up there and ride that wind, there’s not much that can touch them.”
In Utah, golden eagles begin their courtship flights in January or February, lay eggs from late February through March, and then incubate them from 42 to 45 days, after which the eaglets stay in the nest for from eight to ten weeks before taking to their wings. Kent warns that anyone interested in eagles should simply stay away from the nests during egg laying and incubation because during that period adult eagles are most prone to abandon the nest. Whenever a human being approaches her nest, the female eagle will invariably leave it until he is gone, and even if she returns, exposure to heat or cold can easily destroy the eggs. After the eaglets have hatched, the nest can be safely visited for very short periods of time, but after the eaglets are about seven weeks old, there is serious danger of frightening them off the nest before they are able to fly.
First flight is as breathtaking an experience for eagles as it is for people, and the proud lords of the skyways start out as bumbling, incompetent aviators. They too often crash and break a wing on the first flight and become easy prey to starvation or some four-legged predator. Kent once saw a ten-week-old eagle make its first flight and remembers: “He hopped off the nest as if he knew what he was doing, but all of a sudden he was speeding down toward the opposite cliff and losing altitude fast. You could see the shock in his eyes. His wings were spread out, his primary and secondary feathers flapping back and forth in the breeze. His head was moving back and forth watching the ground and looking back up at the nest—looking everywhere at once. He looked as if he was wondering what he had gotten himself into, whether he had really blown it, but you could also feel his exhilaration and the thrill of his first flight. He dropped down to the mouth of the canyon and hit an updraft that just pushed him right up out of sight. I found him the next day sitting on a tree unhurt.”
Kent realized from day one that it would be unthinkable to put an eagle in a cage like his childhood pet lizards, so he found another way of capturing the wild, free beauty of these magnificent creatures—photography. He seldom goes anywhere without his camera and his 400, 150, and 50 mm lenses. Over the years he has accumulated a fine collection of raptor slides and has organized them into several slide shows guaranteed to make you sad you were not born an eagle. He presents these shows to many groups and enjoys sharing them with people in rest homes and with handicapped children. It is his way of giving wings to people who are the most earthbound.
“I love eagles,” he says, “but people are the most important part of that love. It wouldn’t mean a thing to me if I went out there and filmed all those great things and didn’t have anybody to share it with.”
In photographing raptors, Kent has developed a skill that few people share. If you don’t believe it, go out sometime and photograph a bird moving in and out of focus at eye-blurring speed across blue sky, white clouds, black mountainsides, and blazing patches of snow, all in a few seconds. You’ll be very lucky even to find the thing in your telephoto lens, much less focus it and get the right exposure.
Kent’s delight in all living things has never faded. He still can’t pass up a lizard without stopping and watching. A porcupine is still a miracle. A turtle is still a masterpiece. A raven or a meadowlark is still breathtaking, and snakes still make him shiver as good as they make most of us shiver bad. There are no commonplace animals for Kent; they all bring him joy just by being. It is significant that on the gun rack in his pickup he has hung only a pair of binoculars.
But in spite of his reverence for all things, those binoculars are filled mostly with raptors right now, and Kent has been repaid for his thousands of hours of work with some heart-thumping experiences—a squadron of bald eagles on a winter day, the soaring rise of a Swainson’s hawk, the screaming dive of a prairie falcon, the puppet-like unreality of baby owls. And speaking of owls, he had the privilege of being knocked backwards off a 30-foot cliff by a frightened great horned owl and of having his face bloodied by the fierce attack of another not-at-all frightened member of the species.
He especially remembers one top-of-the-world moment on a peak high in a remote canyon. The granite walls were so buffeted by a tree-toppling wind that day that he had to lie flat to avoid being blown away like a leaf. A golden eagle came floating down onto the highest point on the peak, sorting out the changing, punishing wind with his wings, and somehow keeping an even keel. He stood there a moment looking regally around at the whole world lying beneath his talons as if inspecting his kingdom. “He only touched down for a few seconds, and then he simply opened his wings and turned them back into the wind. He shot up and out of sight like a rocket without ever flapping a wing.”
No one but Kent can say how many hours of sleep or basketball games or TV shows that experience was worth to him, but he isn’t complaining.
There is another aspect to Kent’s studies beyond the intellectual and aesthetic. Living with these magnificent birds has strengthened his testimony of his Creator. One winter day he took an atheist friend to a canyon where he knew there would be eagles. As they stood in the snow watching some 50 bald eagles soar above them, Kent looked at his open-mouthed friend and said quietly, “That didn’t just happen by accident.”
“Boy, I know it!” his friend said, his voice small with awe.
If anybody wants to know why eagles are worth saving, maybe that’s why.

My second story centers around Great-Uncle Grover, who lived in a house out in the country, far from the city. Uncle Grover was getting very old. We thought our sons should meet him before he died. So, one afternoon, we took a long drive to his humble house. We sat together to visit and introduce him to our sons. Not long into the conversation, our two young boys, maybe five and six years old, wanted to go outside and play.
Uncle Grover, hearing their request, bent over with his face in theirs. His face was so weathered and unfamiliar that the boys were a little scared of him. He said to them, in his gravelly voice, “Be careful—there are a lot of skunks out there.” Hearing this, Lesa and I were more than startled; we were worried that they might get sprayed by a skunk! The boys soon went outside to play as we continued to visit.
Later, when we got in the car to go home, I inquired of the boys, “Did you see a skunk?” One of them replied, “No, we didn’t see any skunks, but we did see a black kitty cat with a white stripe on its back!”

During stressful times, should missionary work go on? The Saints in Sierra Leone have a tradition. They continue to share the gospel no matter what.

"Rather than bemoaning our lot or remaining stagnant, we were encouraged to rally the Saints by calling branch missionaries to replace the full-time missionaries," explained President Bai Seasy of the Kossoh Town District. "We had no time to feel sorry for ourselves; we had the work of salvation to do. We paired returned missionaries with prospective missionaries and organized them into zones."

"Each branch mission leader was authorized to have a phone card for proselyting purposes. They must account for its usage, but it has helped the branch missionaries remain in contact with new investigators and recent converts alike, and staying in touch has made a huge difference," said Brian Robbin-Taylor, another special assistant to the mission president.

"We have ‘phone lessons’ with investigators and new converts," he continued. "That supplements weekly missionary lessons held at church. We have adapted to the needs of members and investigators who otherwise might have no contact, due either to quarantine restrictions or apprehensions about getting the disease."

Today convert baptisms in Sierra Leone are only slightly lower than when full-time missionaries were there, many less-active members have returned to activity, and growth of the Church is steady.

David sat on the front row of the chapel and bounced his leg. He was nervous. He had just left Primary and become a deacon. The older boys were going to show David and the other 11-year-old boys how to pass the sacrament.
David’s autism sometimes made it hard for him to learn new things. Moving out of Primary had been hard for him. And now passing the sacrament seemed so scary. What if he made a mistake and everyone laughed at him?
Jacob, one of the older boys, sat next to David. “We’re happy to have you with us,” Jacob said. He gave David a high five. “You’ll do great.”
David smiled. That made him feel a bit better.
The other young men showed the 11-year-olds what to do. They showed them where to go and which rows to pass to. They practiced walking down the aisles in the chapel. They showed the boys how to hold the sacrament trays.
“Mom, look!” David said when he got home. He held his arm up. “This is how I hold the tray. Carefully, like this. Because I’m representing Jesus, and I want to show my respect.”
The young men practiced with David and the other boys after church on Sundays and during weeknight activities. They walked through where they should go. David practiced holding the tray.
Soon, the day came when he would pass the sacrament for the first time.
“How are you feeling about it?” Dad asked.
“I’m still nervous,” David said.
“Let’s talk through what you’ve done to prepare,” said Dad.
“Well, we’ve read scriptures about the priesthood as a family,” David said. “Holding the priesthood means I represent Jesus. I trimmed my nails so my hands will look nice. And I’ve practiced a lot!”
“I think you sound well prepared,” Dad said.
When he got to church, David sat on the front row with the other deacons. Jacob sat next to him. David thought about how he was going to represent Jesus when he passed the sacrament. What if he still messed up? He glanced at Jacob, and Jacob smiled at him. David smiled back and took a deep breath.
When it was time to pass the sacrament, Jacob helped David pass the tray down the first few rows. David was glad to have someone with him.
David looked at the people as he passed the sacrament. Many of them were sitting with their heads reverently bowed. Some looked thoughtful. David felt peaceful. He was representing Jesus. He was grateful he could help others think about Jesus Christ.
This story took place in the USA.

“Come on, Jodi! It’s only one little game! God isn’t gonna hate you for playing just this once on Sunday.”

“That’s right,” thought Jodi Allen, a 17-year-old from Sandy, Utah, and the star goalkeeper on her championship soccer team. “It’s only one little game”—nowhere near important enough to break a personal promise she’d made to Heavenly Father years before.

But how could she explain that to the teammates who were pressuring her? They’d worked hard all season, winning the Utah state championship and the right to play in the western regionals in San Francisco. A win on Sunday could mean a chance at the finals. The backup goalkeeper had quit, and the roster was frozen. There was no one to take her place, and the same opponents had beaten them 9–1 the year before.

“Oh Jodi—who do you think you are? Some of us are LDS, and we’re playing on Sunday. Do you think you’re better than we are?”

No, there was never a question about playing on Sunday—not even in this tournament. But making her teammates understand was another story.

“Look,” she tried, “if I don’t play on Sunday, sure, I’ll disappoint my team, and I feel bad about that. But if I do play on Sunday, I’ll disappoint so many more. I’ll disappoint myself, because I’d be breaking a promise. I’d disappoint my parents, who know how important that promise is to me. I’d disappoint my cousins, who don’t play on Sunday because of my example, and I’d disappoint my seminary teachers, who have taught me better. But most important of all, I’d disappoint God. I just can’t do that.”

It was a great explanation, but it didn’t do Jodi much good. All Saturday night the team tried to convince her to play. They made fun of her. They called her every name they could think of. Finally, at about midnight, Jodi called home in tears. It wasn’t that she was tempted to give in. It’s just that she felt so alone.

Her parents listened. Her parents understood. Both her mother and father got on the phone and had a prayer with her. After they hung up, they called an old friend in the Bay area and asked her to give Jodi some support.

The next morning Jodi got up and got dressed—in a dress, which she wore as she stood on the sidelines watching her team play. They ended up tying their opponents, 1–1, and afterwards, many of her teammates apologized for being so critical of her.

The team ended up tying for third in the tournament, which was better than they’d ever done before. Jodi thought this would be a good note on which to end her soccer career, even though she was a junior in high school and could play for one more year.

“I’ve achieved just about everything I wanted to with soccer,” Jodi said. She had been ranked as the number one goalie in the state and had been scouted by a number of universities, but when they heard of her policy on Sunday play, they lost interest. “I’d like to try to develop some other talents now—things like music and acting. Plus being on the seminary council will require a lot of time,” Jodi said.

So Jodi’s senior year in high school will be a busy one, despite the lack of soccer, the sport she’s dedicated so much to for so long. She says she won’t miss it too much and that the things she’s learned from it will help her in other parts of her life.

“‘To everything there is a season,’ and the soccer season is over,” said Jodi. “I have no regrets. Because of soccer, many missionary doors have been opened. The Lord has blessed me, and others through me. I haven’t gone unrewarded. I’ve been humbled, pushed, and just about everything else, but I learned that I can stand up to it. The Lord knows he can count on me, and I know I can count on myself.”

Jodi couldn’t be happier knowing that she didn’t let one little game spoil all that.

Elder Gérald Caussé (France): In our family we have decided that Christmas is not just about having fun together, but it is also about focusing on Christ and serving others. About 10 years ago we formed a choir of family members. We went to hospitals and retirement homes and sang Christmas songs. At first it was a small group. We had babies in our arms and in strollers. But now these babies have grown up, and they are seasoned choristers. We have a 44-person choir sharing not only traditional French carols but also Church hymns, and we find great success. After singing, the children go and distribute to the sick or elderly little presents we have prepared as a family. We try to have time with each person, talking about the true meaning of Christmas and also listening to him or her. Everyone always has a lot to share.
Our visits are special occasions to remember what we know about being a Christian and bearing the name of Christ. Christmas is a good reminder of how we need to behave during the whole year.

One of my daughters-in-law spent many years feeling that God had placed a pavilion over her. She was a young mother of three who longed for more children. After two miscarriages, her prayers of pleading grew anguished. As more barren years passed, she felt tempted to anger. When her youngest went off to school, the emptiness of her house seemed to mock her focus on motherhood—so did the unplanned and even unwanted pregnancies of acquaintances. She felt as committed and consecrated as Mary, who declared, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord.”6 But although she spoke these words in her heart, she could hear nothing in reply.
Hoping to lift her spirits, her husband invited her to join him on a business trip to California. While he attended meetings, she walked along the beautiful, empty beach. Her heart ready to burst, she prayed aloud. For the first time, she asked not for another child but for a divine errand. “Heavenly Father,” she cried, “I will give you all of my time; please show me how to fill it.” She expressed her willingness to take her family wherever they might be required to go. That prayer produced an unexpected feeling of peace. It did not satisfy her mind’s craving for certainty, but for the first time in years, it calmed her heart.
The prayer removed the pavilion and opened the windows of heaven. Within two weeks she learned that she was expecting a child. The new baby was just one year old when a mission call came to my son and my daughter-in-law. Having promised to go and do anything, anywhere, she put fear aside and took her children overseas. In the mission field she had another child—on a missionary transfer day.

One day I had a spiritual prompting that I should invite my best friend from school to a devotional. I wanted to ignore the prompting, but I finally sent her a text the day before. As we sat together at the devotional, I was nervous. But when the meeting was over, she had a big smile on her face. It was a reminder to me that God knows His children better than I do and that I should always follow promptings to share the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Eliza, Minnesota, USA

I will forever be grateful to these sweet nuns, for their caring and gentle guidance when I was so lost. As I grew up and graduated from my school, I did the best I could on my own, but I always carried a feeling that something was missing. One day, a friend, who later became my husband, sent two missionaries to visit my house. This was the turning point of my life.
The missionaries taught me about the restored gospel and the plan of salvation. They taught me a truth that was complete, and I learned to know my Savior even better than before. I came to understand my purpose on earth.
Because of this knowledge about Jesus Christ and His gospel, I started seeing life from a different angle and came to know that one day my mom and I will be united again forever. Nothing could compare to the joy I felt after learning this great truth.

I was discussing options for my Eagle project when I heard about the tsunami that had caused widespread devastation on the island of Samoa. I also learned that a sister in our ward, Savili Martin, would be traveling to Samoa with her family to visit relatives during the Christmas holidays. While I realized that the main concern of the people of Samoa was to rebuild and make the best of what they had, I also knew that all children love to receive gifts, and I felt inspired to organize a service project to provide Christmas presents to the children whose lives had been affected by the disaster. Although the gifts wouldn’t be extravagant, I felt that this project would be a blessing to the children and would help ease the burdens of their parents.
I worked with the Scouts in my ward to start a Christmas stocking gift drive. So many people were eager to help with this project. The Scouts and Young Women in my ward helped pass out flyers and collect donated gifts. We received donated material to make the stockings. My family and another family in the ward made the stockings, and the girls at the Primary activity days in our ward stuffed them. We gave all the gifts too big to put into stockings to the school district’s Project Help for Christmas.
We completed the project in time for the James and Savili Martin family to take the boxes of stockings with them to Samoa, where they gave the stockings to the Primary children.
When Sister Martin and her family returned to Arizona, she brought back a video of the children receiving their Christmas presents. I felt so warm inside when I saw how grateful every child was for his or her gift. One young boy in particular was wrapping his little arms around his Christmas stocking, making sure everybody knew it was his. Their appreciation and excitement more than compensated for all the hard work put into this project. The Spirit was strong after we watched the video, and I felt that the Lord blessed us in our efforts to help and serve His children.

Many years ago my father told us about going for a walk through the woods with an old friend, Judge Bringhurst. The judge sang so loudly along the way that he frightened all the wildlife. But my father said he enjoyed the judge’s singing so much that he didn’t mind not seeing any animals or birds. So when we laugh, smile, sing, whistle, or exercise, we seem to feel better. We either forget our concerns or they are put in better perspective. As we reach out to others, our happiness hormones are stimulated and we find our true selves.

During a leadership meeting on Saturday, after providing some training, we opened the meeting up for questions and answers. A sister on a pew towards the back raised her hand, identified herself as the district Relief Society president, and asked the following question; “Can we have a second or third or even fourth calling in the Church?” My immediate assumption was that she was concerned about sisters becoming overburdened by the demands of Church service, especially in a district where the total membership is not large. So, I proceeded to explain that in the Church we try to follow a policy of no more than one calling per member. To my surprise, she looked somewhat crestfallen and disappointed by this response. In the tender discussion that followed, I came to understand the purity and honest intent of her question. Although she is serving as a Relief Society president, she yearns to do more, and far from complaining, was actually hoping she could have more callings and assignments. I was profoundly humbled by her righteous desires to serve and was taught a beautiful lesson by her remarkable example of deep conversion. With renewed spiritual understanding, we then talked about how even with one calling we can find great joy in ministering and seeking opportunities to serve as the Saviour would, well beyond our prescribed meetings and specific assignments. In recalling this humbling experience, I am reminded of the Saviour’s statement as he visited with the Nephites that “so great faith have I never seen”2.

One day on the bus on the way home from school, I was telling my friend James how much I enjoy going to church. When I mentioned prayer, James asked me, “What is prayer?”
“It’s a way of talking to God,” I said. He asked me how to pray, and I told him, “First you bow your head, fold your arms, and close your eyes. Then you start with ‘Dear Heavenly Father,’ thank Him for your blessings, tell Him about your day, ask for anything you need, and then end in the name of Jesus Christ.”
James said his own prayer while we were on the bus. I felt happy inside that I had taught my friend how to pray.

When David had enough cartoons for a portfolio, he began sending them to cartoon publishing syndicates, hoping to sell them to other newspapers. He got some good feedback, but no takers. That’s when David and his wife, Sage, decided to try syndicating his cartoons on their own. They had brochures printed up with some sample cartoons and mailed them out to hundreds of regional and college newspapers. So far, his cartoons are running in 17 newspapers. Not enough to make a living, but a start.

1 Joseph Smith’s younger brother Samuel was the third person baptized into the restored Church. Two months after the Church was organized in 1830, he was set apart by the Prophet Joseph as the Church’s first formal missionary.
2 Samuel was anxious to share the gospel and to tell people about the Book of Mormon. But when he tried to sell copies of it to them, only a few wanted to buy it.
3 Many people were unkind to Samuel while he was on his mission. Often he went hungry and had to sleep outside.
4 Samuel did sell a Book of Mormon to Phineas Young. After Phineas read the Book of Mormon, he gave it to his brother Brigham to read.
5 Brigham Young read the Book of Mormon and believed that it was true. After studying the gospel of Jesus Christ, Brigham and Phineas told their friends about the Book of Mormon. Several of their friends read the book and joined the Church along with Brigham and Phineas.
6 Later Brigham Young became a prophet and a great leader. He helped the Saints to move across the prairies and mountains and to colonize the West.
7 Samuel Smith returned home from his first mission discouraged and disappointed. He didn’t know that because of his missionary efforts, Brigham Young and many other valiant people would come into the Church.

Many years ago, I traveled on a small plane with a newly certified pilot at the controls. At the end of our flight, we were cleared to land. But as we neared the ground, I heard an alarm in the cockpit warn the pilot to “pull up.” The pilot looked to the more experienced copilot, who pointed in a downward direction, away from the runway, and said, “Now!”

Our plane rapidly moved to the left and down, then climbed back to an appropriate altitude, reentered the landing pattern, and arrived safely at our destination. We later learned that another aircraft had been cleared for takeoff. Had we followed the instructions of the alarm, we would have veered into, rather than away from, the oncoming plane. This experience taught me two important lessons: First, at critical moments in our lives, we will hear multiple voices competing for our attention. And second, it is vital that we listen to the right ones.

Lisa soaked in the coolness of the dewy morning air as she walked down the winding lane. She knew she should be exhausted. Yesterday she and her mother had left their home in Utah. They had flown to Chicago, then on to Manchester, England. The trip had taken 16 hours. Aunt Enid met them in Manchester and drove them the three hours to the old farm house at Bwlchycibau, Wales.
As they had neared the small village, her aunt had slowed the car down and said, “That’s the churchyard where your grandparents are buried, Lisa,” pointing to the left. Looking out the window, Lisa saw a church spire above a grey stone wall. As they rounded the corner she noticed a small wooden gate.
She hadn’t had time to think any more. There had been cases to unload, cousins to meet, a farm house to explore, and finally the bliss of lying in bed for much overdue sleep.
It wasn’t quite dawn when she awoke. She knew that she should still be asleep, but her body was on Utah time and no amount of mental persuasion could entice sleep back once it had fled. She heard voices and peeked out of the small dormer window to see her uncle and oldest cousin Wynn heading off towards a building that she assumed was where the cows were milked.
She lay back on her pillow. A picture of the churchyard flashed into her mind. All at once, she knew that more than anything, she wanted to be alone for her first visit to Bwlchycibau churchyard.
Lisa stopped at the small wooden gate in the wall that she had noticed the night before. She realized as she reached for the latch that she was nervous. She had held back her feelings for many years, and now in a strange churchyard, half a world away from home, she was going to confront them.
She walked slowly down the well-worn path. On either side of her were gravestones, some lichen covered, others leaning slightly. Some stones were well cared for with small flower arrangements at their bases; others were totally neglected. She could imagine other girls, perhaps her own ancestors, walking down this same footpath.
She began meandering between the stones, looking for a familiar name: Williams, Roberts, Davies, Jones. It took awhile, but suddenly she read: “Mabel Jones, beloved wife of Arthur Jones 1917–1994.” Beside the purple slate stone was another: “Arthur Jones, beloved husband of Mabel Jones 1911–1968.” There was a copper bowl of yellow roses at the base of each grave. Her Aunt Enid had been here.
Lisa turned, sat down on an old tree stump nearby, then faced her grandmother’s grave. She said aloud, “Oh, Granny, I wish I had known you. Why did it have to be this way?”
She looked down and whispered, “I wish you had known that I am a good person and that Mum is happy. I don’t understand why you were so bitter. How could you hate me without even knowing me?”
Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop talking. “When you have a testimony of the gospel like Mum does, you just can’t deny it. Her decision to join the Church was not made carelessly. She fasted and prayed about it many times because she knew it would be hard on you so soon after losing Grandpa. Even though she went away, Mum never stopped loving you or feeling bad for hurting you, Granny.”
Lisa paused. Her eyes filled with tears. “Why couldn’t you have just once acknowledged me? I know that Mum wrote and told you when I was born. We never heard anything. Weren’t you even curious about me? It was hard hearing all my friends talk about their grandmas. You were just an empty ache inside. I didn’t even know you, but I missed you so much.”
Lisa looked at the new gravestone and asked, “Did you get my letter last year? I wrote and told you that I was going to come and see you. I came, Granny. I came, but you didn’t wait.”
With that, Lisa’s whispered words ceased, and she let the tears run down her cheeks without wiping them away. She didn’t hear the quiet approach of a short, aging man in black until his dark robes brushed against her leg. She gasped, startled.
“Can I help you, child?” His soft Welsh accent was like music. Lisa stood, feeling a little foolish.
“You were sitting here for so long that I became anxious about you,” the man said. “Early morning in the churchyard can be quite chilly you know.”
Lisa managed a watery smile. “Oh, I’m fine. Really I am. But thank you for your concern. Are you the rector here?”
The clergyman peered at her perceptively, noting her deep blue eyes, still filled with tears. “That’s right, dear. I’m Reverend Lloyd. Been here at Bwlchycibau for well on 35 years now. Yes, indeed, I’ve seen a lot of people come and go in my time.
“You take this lady here now,” he continued in a comfortable tone, and gestured towards Lisa’s grandmother’s grave. “She was a very special lady. She lived her life quietly giving service to others. Yes, indeed, Mabel Jones is sorely missed by us all.” He sighed, a little sadly.
“What did she do?” Lisa asked, trying to hide her feverish desire to know more.
“Well,” said Reverend Lloyd, “it may be easier for me just to show you. Come with me.” He turned and led the way slowly to the church.
The cool, dark interior of the church was a shock after the bright light of morning outside. Lisa gazed around with interest. The wooden pews were polished to a shine. The stone floor and walls were cold, and every footfall echoed. At the front of the aisle was the altar, draped in a white lace cloth. All around the chapel were tall narrow stained-glass windows. Beams of multicolored light danced on the floor as the sunlight hit the beautiful glass.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” exclaimed Lisa, instinctively lowering her voice to a whisper.
“I’m glad you think so, child,” Reverend Lloyd smiled briefly. Then he led Lisa to a pew halfway down the aisle.
“This is the Jones’s pew,” he said. “Mabel’s daughter Enid and her family still use this bench. A few years ago Mabel decided that her knees were getting too old to kneel on the stone floor, so she made herself a small cushion to kneel on.” He handed Lisa a rectangular pillow that was tucked under the pew. “It’s needlepoint, I believe.”
Lisa touched the delicate work. “It’s lovely,” she said quietly. She felt overwhelmed to be holding something her grandmother had made.
“Yes, that’s exactly what everyone in the congregation thought too. So during the next few winters, Mabel made one or two for every family at church. Each one is a little different, but all most beautiful.” Reverend Lloyd bent down and lifted another pillow from beneath the next bench and handed it to Lisa.
Lisa looked at the two works of art in her hands and wondered that aging hands could create such masterpieces. Reluctantly, she handed them back to the rector. He then guided Lisa towards a small door at the back of the chapel.
“When Reverend Price, my predecessor, first came here as a young rector, there was no village school for the children. A few of the wealthier families sent their children into Oswestry on the train to attend school, but most of the children went without formal instruction. Mabel married Arthur Jones about that time. She moved into Bwlch Farm and was soon involved in the community. It concerned her no end that all the young children here were illiterate. She approached Reverend Price to see if they could do something about it. This was what they came up with.”
Reverend Lloyd opened the thick wooden door into a small room containing one large wooden desk, a large old oak chair, and half a dozen small chairs and tables. On the wall were faded maps, pictures of wild animals, and the alphabet.
“For ten years this was the Bwlchycibau schoolroom. Mabel would come and teach the children of the village three mornings a week. She received no pay for it. She just did it because she saw a need. There are many farmers around here now who wouldn’t be reading if it weren’t for Mabel Jones.
“When the county finally built a school in the village and sent us a certified teacher, Mabel still stopped by once a week to read to the children. I think it was the highlight of the week for them all.”
Lisa let her eyes wander around the room as the rector spoke. She tried to imagine her grandmother reading to the young farm children. Suddenly, she realized that Reverend Lloyd had moved onto another subject.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he was saying.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Lisa asked apologetically.
“Well, it’s like I was saying,” said the rector, “Mabel Jones did so much Christian service that nobody ever thought she’d done anything she really regretted. But there was something. I only found out about it a few days before her death.”
Reverend Lloyd took Lisa by the arm and led her out of the schoolroom, closing the door behind him. They walked outside, and he motioned for her to sit beside him on the bench beneath the church porch.
“Mabel became ill a few days before her death. I went to see her. She was very weak but wanted to talk to me. She told me about her daughter, not Enid who lives at the farm now, but Mary, an older daughter who went away to America as a young girl. She married an American out there, and they had a daughter.”
The rector didn’t pause in his story as Lisa looked up in surprise and recognition. “Mabel had never seen that granddaughter. I believe when Mary left, there were some bad feelings. Anyway, over the years, Mabel had come to regret the things she’d said to Mary and wanted more than anything to see her again and meet Mary’s husband and daughter. But she didn’t know how to approach her. Then last year, she received a letter from her granddaughter saying that she and her mother were going to come and see Mabel the next year. Mabel was so pleased. She wanted to apologize face to face. She talked of all the things that she wanted to show her granddaughter. Most of all, she wanted that young lady to know that she loved her.
“I think Mabel knew she was going to leave us when I sat with her that day. She drew me close and made me look into those deep blue eyes of hers. Then she said, ‘Reverend, you promise me that if I’m not here when that young girl comes, you’ll find her and tell her what a fool her Gran was not to tell her that she loved her long ago. You tell her that I kept her baby picture that Mary sent right next to my bed where I could see it every morning and every evening. You tell her to grow up to be as fine a woman as her mother is. But most of all, you ask her to forgive me.’”
Her grandmother loved her! In some ways, it made her death harder to bear, but where there had once been emptiness and heartache, Lisa felt a warm glow of gratitude as she began to cry.
Reverend Lloyd covered Lisa’s hand in his. “Now, now child. It’s all right.”
“But, rector,” Lisa said, practically whispering. “I’m Mabel Jones’s granddaughter.”
The rector looked into her face. “You don’t have to tell me that, dear. Mabel Jones’s blue eyes are looking right back at me.” Then with a smile tugging at his lips, he added, “And you don’t talk like a Bwlchycibau native either.”
Lisa smiled at the kindly old man and said, “Thank you,” as they both stood and walked down the path through the churchyard.