Gospel Story Finder

And then Miriam finally agreed to go on a date with me. She was the best-looking girl in the ward (also in the stake; probably in the Church), and she had finally broken up with Alvin Hopper, which was no great loss to her and a tremendous gain to a college freshman like myself with excellent taste in girls. On my fourth try she agreed to go out with me. I shot the works. The LTD, complete with car wash, a $30 dinner in San Francisco, a drive through beautiful scenery on the way up, Bayshore Freeway on the way back, and charming, delightful conversation all the way. The conversation was the only thing free on the whole date.
And she was worth it. She could discuss at least 13 different topics intelligently and got a B- on all the others, which means she was more than just a pretty face. She let me open doors for her and took my arm without my even having to hint. She looked me right in the eye and never let her gaze linger for a moment on the slight complexion problem that had appeared mysteriously on my chin the day before. She was perfect.
On the way home, after we left the freeway, she asked, “You don’t happen to have a throat lozenge or anything like that? I have kind of a sore throat.”
“In the glove compartment,” I said. Mom kept the glove compartment like a medicine chest—aspirin, throat lozenges, cough drops, breath mints, Kleenex, eye drops, bandages, and disinfectant. She figured that if we all had the flu and got into a traffic accident, she could make everybody feel better in minutes. Miriam reached into the glove compartment, found the lozenges, and also found the pad of Automobile Record sheets.
“What’s this?” she asked.
So I told her. All about the lease agreement. How much it cost and everything. I was just about to tell her how terrible it all was when she interrupted me.
“That’s terrible,” she said. “I can’t believe parents doing anything like that! Who do they think they are?”
“Parents,” I said.
“Well, I’m glad my parents are more generous than that. It sounds like your father must be Ebenezer Scrooge and your mother must be Shylock.”
“Shylock was a man.”
“Stingy, anyway. How much do they charge you for lunch and dinner?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m surprised. Do they have a coin box and water meter on the shower? Do they make you pay for clean sheets?”
“Of course not,” I said.
“A car is a necessity of life,” she said. “Parents have a responsibility to provide them for their children.”
Now, you have to understand. I’m not an argumentative person. I’m quite easy to get along with. But she was talking about my parents, judging them just by the fact that they ran a rip-off car leasing business with a captive clientele. I couldn’t let her go unanswered. So I answered.
“Listen, Miriam, a car is different from showers and food and bedding. It’s a lot more expensive. And I eat three meals a day and sleep once a night and take a shower every morning. It’s regular and predictable and it doesn’t go up and down. But the car I use as often as I like, and we kids used to use the cars all the time. It cost the folks hundreds and hundreds of dollars every month. And so it was perfectly fair for them to decide we should help pay.”
“You can’t live in the modern world without a car. They might as well charge you for air.” She sounded upset.
“You can live without a car,” I said. “You can walk, for example. I’ve walked to school a lot the last few months.”
“I can imagine,” she said darkly.
“I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve discovered there are things you can’t see from a car.”
“Like bubble gum on a sidewalk,” she said, sounding rather snide.
“I think it’s a good idea for us to help our parents pay for the cars.”
“And I think anybody who thinks that is crazy.”
“You do?” I asked, and I think by now I also sounded upset.
“I do. If word of this gets around, other people’s parents will try it, too, and pretty soon an entire generation of young people will be trapped at home with their families night after night.”
It shows you how angry I was. I said, “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. And furthermore, I think that it’s perfectly possible for people to have a good time together without having a car at all. I think it would be a wonderful date just to walk over to a girl’s house and take her out walking and talking and maybe looking in store windows or maybe just seeing a little bit of the neighborhood and just getting to know each other without spending any money at all.”
“That sounds hideous.”
“Then,” I said, “I won’t ask you out on such a date.”
I took her home and neither of us said another word except for a perfunctory good-night-and-thanks-for-a-wonderful-evening at the door.
When I got home, after filling the gas tank, I wrote down the mileage on the odometer, figured out my total car costs for the evening, and went inside, got the money from my room, and went into Mom and Dad’s bedroom, where they were reading the Old Testament out loud to each other the way they do every night.
“Did you have a nice time?” asked Mother.
“Wonderful,” I said. “I want to settle up for tonight.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that until the first of the month,” Dad said.
“I want to do it now.” I showed them how much I owed them, counted out the money, and handed it to them. Then I carefully placed a five dollar bill on top of the rest.
“What’s that for?” asked Mother.
“It’s a tip,” I said. “For service above and beyond the call of duty.
“I think you’re wonderful. I’m glad you laid it on the line with us. I’m glad you shared the responsibility of paying for the entire U.S. automobile industry with us kids. It’s the most adult thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.”
Mother got tears in her eyes. Father said, “I think Jerry’s grown up, don’t you, Mother?”
“Yes,” Mother agreed.
“Well, you’re both wrong,” I said. “I’m just completely out of my mind.”
I kissed them both good-night and went straight to bed feeling pretty doggone good. Also pretty doggone poor, since I had about six bucks to last me through the rest of the month. But as my sister Anne pointed out, money isn’t everything. In fact, it’s hardly anything.

The Lord can help you see the danger in taking a rest because you feel you have done enough. He helped me by letting me have a conversation with one of His aged servants. He was feeble, his body weakened by decades of faithful labor and by illness. His doctors no longer allowed him to leave his home. At his request, I reported a trip I had taken in the Lord’s service, across several nations, in dozens of meetings, and in many private interviews, helping individuals and families. I told him of the gratitude people expressed to me for him and his many years of service. He asked me if I had another assignment soon. I told him about another long trip soon to come. He surprised me, and he gave me an inoculation against complacency which I hope will last forever, when he grabbed my arm and said, “Oh, please, take me with you.”

Have you ever had a school teacher who has made a real difference in your life? How about one you thought was especially funny, or smart, or nice? Youth in the Edgewood Ward, Kimball (Mesa, Arizona) East Stake thought long and hard about those questions and then invited 37 of their favorite school teachers to a special teacher appreciation dinner at their church building.
The young men and young women ate dinner with the teachers and then performed a dance number for them. Three of the students also gave short talks about the importance of teachers in their lives.
“The teachers here are remarkable,” said Mia Maid Brittney Riggs during the program. “Teacher starts with T, and so does the following: ‘Thank you, teachers.’”
Certificates of appreciation and a program highlighting the lives and achievements of the teachers were given to each teacher in attendance.
Now there’s a program that deserves an A for effort.

I remember when President Rufus K. Hardy of the First Council of the Seventy passed away. I was walking along the street of one of the cities in New Zealand, and one of our native members came up—a lady.

She said to me, “President Hardy is dead.”

I said, “Is that so? Have you received a wire?”

She said, “No. I know. I received a message, but I haven’t any wire.” She repeated, “He’s dead. I know.”

I always believed them when they told me those things. When I got back to headquarters, I wasn’t there long when I received a cablegram that said that President Hardy had passed away the night before. But she knew that without any cablegram. She had told me about it.

I got out of my car once in the city to do some window shopping and to get a little rest from driving. I walked around and finally went around a corner. There stood a native woman and her daughter.

The mother said to the daughter, “What did I tell you?”

I said, “What’s going on here?”

The daughter said, “Mother said if we’d stand here for fifteen minutes, you’d come around the corner.”

She didn’t have any radio set with her, just one down in her mind or heart where she got the impression.

After President Hardy died, we had a memorial service for him. I’ll never forget the native who was up speaking, saying what a calamity it was to the mission to lose this great New Zealand missionary who could do so much for them as one of the authorities of the Church.

He was talking along that line, and all of a sudden he stopped, and he looked around at me and said, “Wait a minute. There’s nothing to worry about—not a thing to worry about. When President Cowley gets home, he’ll fill the first vacancy in the Council of the Twelve Apostles, and we’ll still have a representative among the authorities of the Church.” Then he went on talking about President Hardy again.

When I arrived home the following September, I filled the first vacancy in the Quorum of the Twelve.

Did that just happen by chance? Oh, I might have thought so if it had been one of you white Gentiles who had prophesied that, but not from the blood of Israel. Oh no, I could not deny it; I could not doubt it.

He came into our lives one cold March morning by meowing at the kitchen door. When Mom opened it, the huge black cat—wet, scrawny, and bedraggled—held his swollen, bloody left front paw in the air.

“Why you poor thing,” Mom said, “where did you come from?” She picked him up and got a towel from the bathroom and dried him off. As she was doing this, we kids came downstairs for breakfast. All activity stopped as everyone took turns petting the cat, who by this time was purring like a muffled motorboat.

“You’re as black as midnight,” Mom said, and so he was dubbed “Midnight.” Mom removed a large sliver of glass from the pad of his swollen paw, bathed it in warm water and Epsom salts, then bandaged it. Meanwhile we kids put some old clothes in a cardboard box to make a bed for Midnight.

Mom placed the box behind the old, wood-burning kitchen stove and told Midnight that he could sleep there till his paw got better. After that, she advised him, he would have to make his home in the barn, where there were grain-eating mice to catch. After consuming a saucer of milk to which Mom had added a few drops of cod-liver oil, he lay in his bed and slept till evening. Mom fed him again, and he went back to sleep.

The next morning he crawled out of the box, gingerly testing his paw on the floor. Mom fed him some more milk and cod-liver oil, then a small piece of meat, which he ate with relish. After he ate, Mom bathed his paw again and put a clean bandage on it. By the next day Midnight was favoring his paw only a little bit, and we took him to the barn.

A week later Midnight was making forages into the woods each day. One morning Mom heard him meowing on the back porch. Upon investigating, she found him there with a dead field mouse at his feet. He looked up at her as if to say, “Here’s a present.” Mom petted him and told him that he was a good cat and a good mouser. When he saw that Mom didn’t want the mouse, he took it in his mouth and headed for the barn.

Two or three times a week after that he brought field mice, ground squirrels, small snakes, butterflies, and young rabbits for Mom to inspect. Each time, he meowed to let Mom know that he was there, then looked up at her to see if she took what he brought.

One day Midnight brought a very young woodchuck. He was holding it in his mouth the way a mother cat carries her kittens. Mom took it from him and saw that it wasn’t harmed in any way. She couldn’t tell exactly how old it was, but she knew that it was still nursing. Always softhearted, she took the baby woodchuck in and made it a bed in a box. When she gave the baby creature a doll’s bottle filled with warm milk mixed with a drop of honey, it took to it like a duck takes to water. So that’s how Woody joined our family.

After that, Midnight stopped presenting his offerings at the kitchen door. But he came each day to see how Woody was getting along. He would look into the box and touch the baby with his paw, then look up at Mom.

Woody grew like a weed and was soon following Mom around as if she were his mother—indeed, she was the only mother that he knew. He became such a nuisance that Mom decided that he was big enough to live in the backyard. He didn’t seem to mind the change at all, and he scampered all over, examining everything in sight. At night he curled up with his small tail over his nose in an old easy chair on the back porch. One day Mom called for us to come and look—Midnight and Woody were playing together like a couple of young kittens. Woody chased Midnight for a while, then Midnight chased Woody. They even wrestled with each other. These playful antics went on for an hour or two every day till they wore themselves out. They shared the same water dish, and they would lie down side by side in the warm sun and sleep.

When Woody was about three months old, he started digging himself a hole under the stone fence that surrounded the yard. He worked on it every day till he got it to his liking. While Woody was busy digging his den, he wouldn’t play with Midnight, no matter what enticements he offered. So Midnight just lay on the grass and watched his playmate and thought his own thoughts. When Woody finished his hole, he went back to playing with his friend each day.

Woody had very good manners when following any of us into the vegetable garden. He wouldn’t touch a thing unless we offered it to him. Then he would sit on his haunches, take the offered vegetable, and eat it with gusto.

As fall came and the days became cooler, Woody seemed to eat all the time. Pop said that he was storing fat for the winter. Woody also pulled up grass, laid it in the sun to dry, then took it into his den. Pop said that Woody would use the grass to make a warm bed for the winter and to store as food.

When the weather broke and we had warm days during the winter, Woody came out of his hole and sunned himself. We took carrots, apples, and chunks of cabbage to him on these days. Other days we went to the edge of his hole and left food, which would be gone the next time we looked.

Spring came early that year. By the middle of March, all the snow was gone and things started greening up. Woody came out on a warm day and walked around the yard, inspecting everything. He and Midnight resumed their playing with each other. One morning in early June we heard a commotion in the backyard and howls of pain and growling. A stray dog had jumped the stone wall and was attacking Woody. Before any of us could come to his aid, a huge black streak cut across the yard—Midnight to the rescue! He leaped onto the dog’s back and sank his teeth into its neck and clawed at his head with his long, sharp claws. The dog let go of Woody in order to rid himself of his own attacker. But the harder he tried to shake Midnight off, the tighter Midnight held on. Finally the dog took off running, with Midnight’s claws still gripping his back. We watched, spellbound, as Midnight rode him like a steeplechaser over the stone wall, down the road, and out of sight around a turn in the road.

When we turned our attention to Woody, he had crawled to the edge of his hole, where he lay whimpering with numerous bites all over his body. As she had with Midnight, Mom washed and dried his wounds and bandaged them. When she finished, he looked like a mummy. Then, knowing some herbal lore, she made some strong catnip tea, cooled it, and forced a half cup of it down Woody’s throat by using an eye-dropper and rubbing his throat till he swallowed it. As soon as Woody went to sleep, Mom laid him in a bed that we kids made from a box and some old clothes.

By this time Midnight was meowing at the door. Mom let him in, and he headed straight for Woody’s bed and looked down at him. Then he looked up at Mom as if to ask, “Will he be all right?” We all petted Midnight and told him how proud we were of him for what he had done. Then Mom did something that I had never seen her do before. She got a big piece of steak and gave it to Midnight. After eating his reward, he lay down beside Woody’s bed. Mom didn’t say anything about him staying in the house that night.

Whenever Woody stirred in his sleep, Midnight scrambled to his feet to look at him. Then he’d gently stroke Woody’s head with his paw. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I would never have believed it. I thought to myself that if two different species of animals can show love and affection like Midnight and Woody did, then why can’t people do the same?

After many days of tender nursing from Mom, Woody was up and about again. And in a month or two, new fur covered his many scars. But he had a limp in his right rear leg, and he was never really the same after the attack. He and Midnight played again in the yard, but Midnight saw that Woody wasn’t his old self, and he took it easy in their play.

As summer was drawing to a close, we noticed that Woody was less playful than he used to be, and he spent a lot of his time sleeping beside his hole. One morning in late fall, we found him lying on the cushion of the easy chair instead of by his den. He was dead.

When Midnight came from the barn for his daily visit, he looked at Woody and sniffed him and then walked to Woody’s den and back again. Then he walked back to the barn to be alone in his grief. Not long after that we discovered that Midnight was missing. Although we searched high and low, we never found any trace of him. Maybe it was too painful for him to stay around after his friend had died. Everyone in our family still cherishes the memory of the two animal friends who brought so much love into our lives.

As a young missionary I was assigned as a district president to administer the affairs of the Church and preach the gospel in a group of fifteen small, scattered islands. We traveled almost exclusively by sailboat and learned to rely not only on the winds and the currents of the usually friendly seas, but especially on the love of our Father in heaven, as we sailed week after week and month after month from island to island to island. It was a glorious time, full of the normal challenges of seasickness, becalmings, strange languages, foods, and customs. But mostly it was a time of spiritual closeness to our Father in heaven, whose love and goodness so far overshadowed any temporary pain or problems as to make the latter shrink into obscurity.
On one occasion we received word that a missionary was very ill on a somewhat distant island. The weather was threatening but, feeling responsible, and after prayer, we left to investigate the situation. Extra heavy seas slowed our progress, and it was late afternoon before we arrived. The missionary was indeed very ill. Fervent prayer was followed by administration, during which the impression came very strongly to get him back to the hospital on the main island, and to do it now!
The weather had deteriorated to the point of a small gale. The seas were heavy, the clouds were thick, the wind was fierce, the hour was late, and the sun was sinking rapidly, betokening a long black night ahead. But the impression was strong—“Get back now”—and one learns to obey the all-important promptings of the Spirit.
There was much concern expressed and much talk about the darkness, the storm, and the formidable reef with its extremely narrow opening to the harbor we were attempting to gain. Some found reason to stay behind; but soon eight persons, including an ill missionary, a very experienced captain, and a somewhat concerned district president, boarded the boat and the spiritually prompted voyage to home base began.
No sooner had we made our commitment to the open seas than the intensity of the storm seemed to increase sevenfold. The small gale now became a major storm. As the sun sank below the horizon, bringing with it darkness and gloom, so also did my spirit seem to sink into the darkness of doubt and apprehension. The thick clouds and driving rain increased the blackness of our already dark universe—no stars, no moon, no rest—only turmoil of sea and body and mind and spirit. And as we toiled on through that fearsome night, I found my spirit communing with the spirit of the father of an afflicted child in the New Testament, as he exclaimed, “Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.” (Mark 9:24.) And He did, and He does, and He will. That I know.
As we rolled and tossed closer and closer to the reef, all eyes searched for the light that marked the opening—the only entry to our home. Where was it? The blackness of the night seemed to increase; the fierceness of the raging elements seemed to know no bounds. The rain slashed at our faces and tore at our eyes—eyes vainly searching for that life-giving light.
Then I heard the chilling sound of the waves crashing and chewing against the reef! It was close—too close. Where was that light? Unless we hit the opening exactly, we would be smashed against the reef and ripped and torn by that thousand-toothed monster. It seemed that all the elements were savagely bent on our total destruction. Our eyes strained against the blackness, but we could not see the light.
Some began to whimper, others to moan and cry, and one or two even to scream in hysteria. At the height of this panic, when many were pleading to turn to the left or to the right, when the tumultuous elements all but forced us to abandon life and hope, I looked at the captain—and there I saw the face of calmness, the ageless face of wisdom and experience, as his eyes penetrated the darkness ahead. Quietly his weather-roughened lips parted, and without moving his fixed gaze and just perceptibly shifting the wheel, he breathed those life-giving words, “Ko e Maama e” (“There is the light!”).
I could not see the light, but the captain could see it. And I knew he could see it. Those eyes long experienced in ocean travel were not fooled by the madness of the storm nor were they influenced by the pleadings of those of lesser experience to turn to the left or to the right. And so with one last great swell we were hurtled through the opening and into calmer waters.
The roaring of the reef was now behind us. Its infamous plan of destruction had been foiled. We were in the protected harbor. We were home. Then and only then did we see through the darkness that one small light—exactly where the captain had said it was. Had we waited until we ourselves could see the light we would have been dashed to pieces, shredded on the reef of unbelief. But trusting in those experienced eyes, we lived.
As I think back, I thank the Lord for that wonderful Polynesian captain who saved my life and the life of the sick missionary I was charged with. I am eternally grateful for his experience (much of which, I am sure, was not pleasant). I am grateful for his wisdom, for his eyes, for his not yielding to the fury of the moment, but steadfastly holding the true course to safety.
I felt at the time that he was more than himself—he was more than the sum total of all of his experience. In some marvelous way at that moment of desperate need, he drew upon a power and a strength from generations of faithful, seagoing people that only those who know Polynesians well can begin to understand. My admiration and love for him and all other faithful descendants of father Lehi knows no bounds.

It was ten-year-old Joshua’s turn to teach the family home evening lesson. It was on faith. When he finished, he told his family, “If you have faith, you can do anything.”
His mom replied, “Well, almost anything.”
“No sir, Mom,” Joshua said. “You can do anything.”
Little did the Dennis family know that within days their faith would be tested. On Friday, September 22, 1989, Joshua’s dad, the Varsity Scout coach in their ward, let him go with him and other leaders and members of a Boy Scout troop from Kearns, Utah, to explore the Hidden Treasure Mine. After looking around for some time, Joshua and some of the Scouts decided to turn back. On the way out of the tunnel, they met Joshua’s dad and some other Scouts heading out of the mine. Then Joshua decided to follow some older Scouts back into the mine tunnel, and he gave his flashlight to his dad, who was leaving the tunnel with a visually handicapped boy.
The older Scouts did not know that Joshua was behind them. They began to run. Joshua couldn’t keep up with them and was soon left behind in total darkness. He couldn’t even see his hand in front of his face.
He turned around and tried to feel his way back to the entrance, but he made a wrong turn and slid down a slope. He climbed back up but went too far and ended up in an ore stope—a cavity where ore has been mined out—six feet wide and twenty-five feet deep. The stope was almost impossible to see from the main tunnel below because of rocks.
“I tried to find my way out for a long time,” Joshua recalled. He yelled, but the stope muffled his cries, and no one heard him. By this time, he was tired and cold and his feet were wet. “I knew that I was lost, and I realized that I had better just sit down and wait,” he said.
Joshua slept a lot. Sometimes he would stand up and stretch or just sit and think—hamburgers and pizza were on his mind quite a bit. For five days Joshua had no food or water and only his coat to keep him warm in the 50° F (10° C) temperature.
But he wasn’t afraid. “I prayed a lot that Heavenly Father would help me,” he said, and his prayers were answered with a feeling of comfort and a knowledge that he would be found. “I felt that I was being watched over by Heavenly Father.”
While Joshua was praying, friends and family were also fasting and praying that he would be found in safety. His parents waited anxiously at a local motel for reports on the search for their son.
Many volunteers from his Kearns 30th Ward and the Kearns Utah Stake helped search the surrounding foothills, which are full of abandoned mines and air shafts. At least seven times some of them passed within 150 feet (46 m) of Joshua.
The longer the search continued, the more certain many people became that Joshua was not in the mine but had wandered away from it. Search dogs, helicopters, and people on horseback and on foot combed the cliff-lined hills of nearby Dry Canyon. There was no trace of the blond boy.
Inside the mine, Joshua waited calmly for someone to find him. To help pass the time, he sang “I Am a Child of God,” “Everybody Has to Have a Hero,” and a song about America that he had learned in school.
As each day passed, the chance of finding Joshua alive grew smaller, but members of the rescue team were determined to not give up. “You would have to drag some of those men off the mountain,” said Ray Guymon, one of eleven Church members on the fifteen-man Utah Power & Light Company rescue team.
“We all had a feeling that we were overlooking something. We just couldn’t give up hope,” said Gary Christensen, another Church member of the same rescue team.
When the search party came out of the mine after another unsuccessful rescue attempt on the afternoon of the fifth day, another Church member, John Skinner, persuaded the men in charge to let him go in with the other searchers for a final attempt. “I just had a feeling that he was still in the mine and that he was still alive,” he explained.
John Skinner had explored the Hidden Treasure Mine 120 times and was very familiar with the dozens of passages that wind through the eight levels. He could picture in his mind at least three places where Joshua might be. One of those places was the ore stope.
As the searchers made another sweep through the mine, he, Ray Guymon, and Gary Christensen—these three men were to become the heroes Joshua had been singing about—separated from the group, and John Skinner led them to the sections of the mine where he thought the boy might be. When they finally came to the ore cavity, they heard a faint cry for help but were not sure what it was. They remained still until they heard it again. The excitement grew as they and Joshua yelled back and forth, trying to find each other in the darkness.
“My heart just started pumping and pounding,” recalled Gary Christensen, the first to reach Joshua. “I wrapped my arms around him, and he wrapped his arms around me.”
“I felt like we were led there by the Lord,” Ray Guymon said.
All three men said that it was very difficult to describe the feelings that they had when they found Joshua, whom they had never seen before.
“I felt like he was my own,” Gary Christensen said. “I was just really happy inside.”
“It was an overwhelming feeling when we found him,” John Skinner said.
As Joshua was brought out of the mine, there were tears of joy and relief on the faces of many. Joshua, although excited, remained calm—he had not doubted that he would be found.
Because there was no light inside the mine, Joshua had lost track of time. He was surprised when he found out that he had been lost for so long. Dehydrated from going so long without water, and suffering mild frostbite on his feet, he was flown to Primary Children’s Medical Center, where he rested and doctors examined him.
At first the doctors thought that they would have to amputate his little toes. But all he lost was some skin from his feet. He had to be in a wheelchair for about a week. Physical therapy strengthened his leg and foot muscles, and before long he was walking, running, and even riding his skateboard again.
Joshua received more than a thousand letters, many from other school children who wanted to know more about him and his experience. While he was lost, the students at Fox Hills Elementary School, where he was a fifth-grader, tied yellow ribbons on the fences all around their school to show that they were thinking about him and hoping that he would be back soon. It really made Joshua feel good to know that so many people cared about him. He tells everyone, “Heavenly Father does answer your prayers. Have faith, and don’t give up.”

Mother poked her head around my opened bedroom door. “Well, your visitors are here. Are you ready?”
I nodded. “I’ll be right there.”
I quickly returned the journal to its drawer and turned to pick up the book I’d been reading a lot lately off of my bed. My mind raced back a few months to my eventful 16th birthday.
Under the tissue paper in that white box had been yet another book. This one had a midnight blue cover and one of the most peculiar titles I’d ever read. Brett had scrawled a message on the inside cover in his now strangely familiar handwriting:
This book was given to me by two amazing guys one day at the hospital during a particularly bad stay. It brought me a lot of comfort during my darkest hours, and now I’m not so scared to die anymore. If this book brought comfort to me to face death, then surely it should give you strength to face life.
According to what these two guys teach and what is found in this book, I will see you and all my family again someday. So, although our time together on earth was short, we’ll always have forever.
My heart was pounding after reading those words for about the millionth time. It had taken a lot of pleading and persuasion, but I’d finally convinced my parents to let me invite two special “visitors” to our house so that I could learn more about this book. My hands were shaking as I closed the cover, took a deep breath, and walked, clutching the book in my hands, down the hall to the living room.
The two young men in suits and ties stood up when I walked into the room. With huge smiles, they introduced themselves and shook my hand. My heart was still pounding as I nervously smiled back.
We all sat down, and then one of the young men asked if he could offer a prayer. I nodded, and as I did, my eyes found the laughing, smiling face in a picture standing where it always had been, on the top shelf of the bookcase in our living room. Only this time, I could swear the smile was bigger and happier than ever before.

Thankfully, when we are weak or incapable, the Lord can strengthen our faith. He can increase our capacity beyond our own. I have experienced that. More than 20 years ago, I was unexpectedly called as an Area Seventy, and I felt very inadequate. Following my training assignments, I was to preside at my first stake conference. The stake president and I meticulously planned every detail. Shortly before the conference, President Boyd K. Packer, then–Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, called to see if he could accompany me. I was surprised and, of course, agreed. I asked how he would like to proceed since he would preside. He suggested that we undo the plans and prepare to follow the Spirit. Thankfully, I still had 10 days to study, pray, and prepare.
With an open agenda, we were on the stand 20 minutes before the leadership meeting began. I leaned over to the stake president and whispered, “This is a wonderful stake.”
President Packer elbowed me gently and said, “No talking.”
I stopped talking, and his general conference talk “Reverence Invites Revelation” came to mind. I observed that President Packer was writing down scripture references. The Spirit confirmed to me that he was receiving impressions for the meeting. My learning experience had just begun.
President Packer spoke for the first 15 minutes and emphasized the importance of conducting all meetings as guided by the Holy Spirit. He then said, “We will now hear from Elder Cook.”
On my way to the pulpit, I asked how long he would like me to take and if there was a topic he would like me to address. He said, “Take 15 minutes and carry on as you feel inspired.” I took about 14 minutes and shared everything I had on my mind.
President Packer stood again and spoke for another 15 minutes. He shared this scripture:
“Speak the thoughts that I shall put into your hearts, and you shall not be confounded before men;
“For it shall be given you … in the very moment, what ye shall say.”
Then he said, “We will now hear from Elder Cook.”
I was shocked. I had never considered the possibility that I would be asked to speak twice in one meeting. I didn’t have anything in mind to say. Praying fervently and relying on the Lord for help, somehow, I was blessed with a thought, a scripture, and I was able to speak for another 15 minutes. I sat down totally exhausted.
President Packer spoke again for 15 minutes about following the Spirit and shared Paul’s teachings that we should not speak “words which man’s wisdom teacheth, but which the Holy Ghost teacheth.” As you can imagine, I was overwhelmed when he was impressed to say for the third time, “We will now hear from Elder Cook.”
I was empty. I had nothing. I knew it was time to exercise more faith. Slowly, I made my way to the pulpit, pleading to God for help. As I stepped up to the microphone, the Lord miraculously blessed me to somehow give another 15-minute message.
The meeting finally ended, but I quickly realized that the adult session would start in one hour. Oh, no! Like Zoram, I sincerely wanted to run, but just as Nephi caught him, I knew President Packer would catch me. The adult meeting followed the very same pattern. I spoke three more times. The next day during the general session, I spoke once.
After the conference, President Packer said with affection, “Let’s do it again sometime.” I love President Boyd K. Packer and appreciate all that I learned.
Do you know what I am grateful for? That I didn’t give up—or resist. If I had given in to my desperate desire to escape from those meetings, I would have missed an opportunity to increase my faith and receive a rich outpouring of love and support from my Heavenly Father. I learned of His mercy, the miraculous enabling power of Jesus Christ and His Atonement, and the powerful influence of the Holy Ghost. In spite of my weakness, I learned that I can serve; I can contribute when the Lord is by my side if I just keep going—with faith.

You are a temple-attending student body. Sister Meredith and I commend you for that. Half of the workers in the Rexburg temple are students. That is remarkable.

We understand that the baptistry is often full of our students, some who come together as roommates and friends, and others who have personal regular appointments there.

Sister Meredith and I went to the temple this past Saturday and saw many, many students. As we were exiting through the front door, we saw a group of five sisters who appeared to recognize us. We thought they must be students because no one else recognizes us. I was opening the door, so Sister Meredith was behind me. I shook the hands of the first four. But when I got to the fifth sister, she whispered to me, “I’m not with them, but I’ll shake your hand anyway.” She clearly was not a student and had no idea who we were. Sister Meredith didn’t hear my exchange with her and enveloped this sister with a big hug just like she did the first four. This poor sister looked really confused but happy to be welcomed so warmly to the temple.

Spending time in the house of the Lord is one way to keep our covenants always on our minds.

I had the same problem of trying to get away from friends who smoked and used foul language. I soon realized that if I didn’t stop hanging around them, they might influence me to be like them. I got into youth groups, did service projects, and talked to other people. By doing this, people realized how friendly I was and wanted to become friends with me. My old friends seemed mad at me and called me a traitor. I told them what my beliefs were and why I didn’t want to be with them. Surprisingly, they understood and respected me for it. I think you need to understand who you are, and if you stay around these people who do things you don’t like, the only one you’re offending is yourself.
Sarah Sansom, 15Hilbert, Wisconsin

In another ward, the Relief Society sisters organized to help an ill woman while her husband was out of the home. She was a native of Thailand whose English language skills were limited. She had a disease that attacked every organ of her body. The sisters learned to operate the respirator. They bathed her, combed her hair, brushed her teeth, cleaned her house, and prepared meals as well. I heard this woman cry words of gratitude for the love and patience of those who served her.

Like Jared Carter and Stephen Burnett (see Doctrine and Covenants 79 and 80), modern missionaries also need a witness that they are called of the Lord.
Thousands of missionaries had their mission calls changed because of the coronavirus. For example, Curtis and Ramona Miller were reassigned to a different mission because of the virus. They testified: “We have a strong testimony that it does not matter where we serve but that we are willing to serve. As we allow the Savior’s hand to guide our life, He qualifies us for this work.”
Jared Carter (1801–49)
Baptized by Hyrum Smith in 1831 in Colesville, New York.
Preached in Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, and Vermont in 1831 and 1832.
Went to Hiram, Ohio, to ask Joseph Smith what the will of the Lord was for him.
Joseph Smith received a revelation directing him to preach again in the eastern United States (see Doctrine and Covenants 79).
Stephen Burnett (1813–85)
Baptized by John Murdock in 1830 in Warrensville, Ohio.
Ordained a high priest at age 17.
Appointed to preach with Eden Smith (see Doctrine and Covenants 80:2), but Eden became ill.
Began his mission instead with Eden’s father, John Smith.
Curtis and Ramona Miller
Looking at options on the Church’s senior missionary website, the Millers selected eight possible locations—most of which were in Polynesia and Europe.
Their call came to serve in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
They would need to learn French.
After three and a half months in Africa, the Millers were reassigned to serve in Georgia, USA, because of COVID-19.

A young woman I know felt saddened and frustrated because a friend had made unkind, untrue remarks about her. It distressed her that those who heard the false accusations would believe them. She wanted others to know the truth, and she wanted her friend to realize how much hurt her words had caused. The young woman thought of ways to confront her friend in an effort to have the truth known. The situation weighed heavily upon her until finally she thought, “What would Jesus do?” She decided that Jesus would show love toward her friend. And that is just what this young woman did.

Once she let the teachings of Jesus influence her decision and guide her actions, that which bothered her seemed not to matter. She didn’t have to worry about it anymore. She said that she felt a big burden was lifted from her. What had been hard to endure became easier to resolve when a Christian attitude of forgiveness was taken.

Teachers in the Church so instruct the old and the young. Sometimes the results are humorous. One leader shared this story with me:
As a little boy came home from Primary one day, his mother asked him what he had learned, and he said, “My teacher told me that I used to be dust and I would be dust again once more. Is that true, Mommy?”
“Yes,” the mother replied. “A scripture tells us so: ‘For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return’ (Gen. 3:19).”
The little boy was amazed at this! The next morning, he was scurrying around getting ready for school, looking for his shoes. He crawled under the bed. Lo and behold, there he saw balls of dust. He ran to his mother in wonder, saying, “Oh, Mommy, somebody’s under my bed, and they’re either coming or going.”

Our son, Spencer, has tried to learn to fast since his baptism nearly two years ago. We have not made him feel he must fast at this young age. He may not fast as long as we do on some Sundays. In fast and testimony meeting some time ago, he whispered to me, “I think I’ll go up and bear my testimony.” I smiled and nodded my approval. His sincere testimony touched me. He was feeling something. So did I.

Memories of a very special Christmas gift presented to me ten years ago are still among the most inspiring and meaningful of my life.
I had the good fortune to be a volunteer teacher at a home for mentally retarded children, where my duties included helping the children with their normal daily routines, teaching music, reading to the children, and creating various forms of recreation. As I grew to know and love these special children, I realized that a very important part of their lives was being neglected, and that was when I began to teach the gospel to the most receptive and eager group of students I have ever known.
My eight students, who ranged in age from eight to sixteen, were so excited to learn about Jesus Christ that it was very difficult for me to control their enthusiasm. A whole new world was opening up to them, and despite their various capacities to learn, they did learn and respond, each in his own way. There was one exception, however, and his name was Freddy.
Freddy was fourteen years old, mildly retarded and severely emotionally disturbed. He had been abandoned when he was very young, as had many of the children at the home, and outside the people who lived or worked at the home, no one really cared about Freddy. This was the reason I allowed Freddy to become a member of the class, even though he was the center of every disruption imaginable. At times I felt like sending him out of the class, but I knew that rejection was not the answer to Freddy’s problems, so the class endured the situation.
It disturbed me that I was not able to get through to my little troublemaker. While the rest of my class had a concept of Jesus Christ, Heavenly Father, and what they represented, Freddy seemed oblivious to the whole thing. Each week it was my practice to present each child with a Bible verse that he could understand. While most of the children could not read, each one received a copy of the scripture to place among his personal belongings, so he could look at it or read it every day. Many times I would have the children draw pictures to represent the verse I had given them, and if they were not able to draw, I created something visual to correspond to the verse. Most of the children hung their verses and pictures above their beds so they could be reminded of it as they offered their evening prayer, which was a requirement in my class. Each time I gave Freddy his verse, he would tear it up in front of me. All in all it was very frustrating for me because I knew that Freddy was not as severely retarded as many of his classmates but he couldn’t or wouldn’t learn.
Seeking a solution to Freddy’s disruptions, I tried many forms of creative discipline, but nothing seemed to affect him. At times I had the urge to just shake him, but that would have accomplished nothing. Freddy was surely putting me to the test, and I was failing. I was running out of answers, I had already run out of patience, and I was beginning to seriously consider removing Freddy from the class.
As Christmas was approaching, I explained to my children the true meaning of Christmas. They were curious and very receptive. All except Freddy. Several days before Christmas, the entire home held a party for everyone: staff, volunteers, students, parents, and anyone else who wanted to come.
As the party progressed, I noticed Freddy was not to be seen. I searched for him and found him in his room, laboring over a very crumpled, worn-looking package that he was obviously wrapping by himself. I left him to his task and returned to the party. Shortly after, Freddy approached me and threw the package in my lap and ran away. When I opened the package, I found the most beautiful gift I have ever received. It was a ragged piece of coarse fabric, hand sewn at the top, with a piece of cork glued in the middle. It was a wall hanging, and the cork in the middle was to be used to tack the weekly Bible verse to. I was told that Freddy worked three months on the gift and the design was his own idea. It was indeed a labor of love, sacrifice, and above all patience, because I knew the frustrations Freddy must have suffered while making it. I also knew that in his own way Freddy understood what I had been trying to teach him, and in some ways, he understood even better than I.
Freddy now lives with our Heavenly Father, and with few exceptions, I am sure that he has been forgotten on earth. The gift he gave me still hangs in my home as it always will. It is a little older and much more tattered, but as I look at it I see Freddy and remember the sacrifice he made to teach me the virtue of patience. When I feel frustrated or want to give up, Freddy is there, gently nudging me to go on.
Freddy’s Christmas gift has changed my life, and the lesson it taught is deep within my heart. I am so very grateful to have had that very precious child as my teacher.

Our mortal experiences offer us the opportunity to choose holiness. Most often it is the sacrifices we make to keep our covenants that sanctify us and make us holy.
I saw holiness in the countenance of Evangeline, a 13-year-old girl in Ghana. One of the ways she keeps her covenants is by magnifying her calling as the Beehive class president. She humbly explained that she goes to the homes of her friends, the less-active young women, to ask their parents to allow them to come to church. The parents tell her that it is difficult because on Sunday the children must do household chores. So Evangeline goes and helps with the chores, and by her efforts her friends are often permitted to come to church.
Sister Carol F. McConkie, First Counselor in the Young Women General Presidency

My family joined the Church when I was seven years old, and it was because of my reading and valuing the Liahona that I met my husband.
When I receive the monthly issue of the magazine, I take it with me everywhere so I can read it. One day I was calmly reading it on the bus to work when a young man stopped at my side and asked, “Are you a member of the Church?” I didn’t quite trust him, so I answered yes, then asked him what stake he belonged to. (I assumed if he wasn’t a member he wouldn’t know what a stake was.) He told me the name of his stake, and we talked until we got off the bus.
Some time after this, a regional choir was organized to prepare for the visit of the prophet. That was when this young man and I started to see each other more frequently. Later we were married and went to the Guatemala City temple to be sealed. We’ve been married for almost three years. The gospel has given me the opportunity to have a very special husband, who is faithful in the Church. I am very happy to have the gospel in my life.Rebeca Sierra de Zelaya, Fraternidad Ward, Tegucigalpa Honduras Stake

Youth in the Walla Walla Washington Stake participated in a service-project youth conference last summer, but most youth will agree that it’s hard to say who had more fun—those who gave service or those who received it. They visited a camp for disabled children at a nearby mountain retreat and helped with a day of sports, craft activities, and a dance.
The highlight of the evening was a “prom,” complete with modest formal dresses for the girls and boutonnieres for the boys. Because some of the campers have hearing impairments, the music was played full-blast—something that both the hearing and nonhearing participants seemed to enjoy.
At the conclusion of the day, when the campers were off to their cabins, the LDS youth prepared to leave by holding a testimony meeting. They agreed that going to the camp wasn’t just a service experience; it was a fun experience—one they want to repeat very soon.