Gospel Story Finder

A Quiet Night In by Jill Murphy Mrs. Large got the four little Larges ready for bed early so that she and Mr. Large could celebrate his birthday with a quiet night in. When he came home from work, all the little Larges asked was that he read them a story. But he fell asleep in the middle of it—and Mrs. Large fell asleep while trying to finish it for them. So the little Larges very quietly put themselves to bed!

Many years ago, when Sister Teh was pregnant with our first child, I started to worry about how I was to pay for the doctor and hospital bill. Even though we were both working money was always tight. Every month after setting aside funds for tithing and other offerings, rent, utilities, transportation, school, and food- there was nothing left for savings. During this time, I was working full-time during the day and went to college at night until 9:30 pm. Then, a job opportunity came up. It was to sell fruits in the market from 10:00 pm until 5:00 am the following morning. I took the job because it fit perfectly with my schedule!

So, for the next two months, I would be at work from 7:30 am to 4:00 pm. Go to school from 6:00-9:30 pm then go to my second job from 10:00 pm to 5:00 am. I will go home and shower and have breakfast and then the cycle began again. After the two months, I still remember earning around P7,300 pesos. When our first child was born, guess how much the hospital bill was? P7,300 pesos.

How can we develop a good attitude of cooperation? One wise stake president counseled priesthood and Relief Society leaders to determine their actions by asking, “What would the Savior do?” rather than “What has been done before?” With this idea in mind, ward leaders examined their “policies” in working together. Several ward “traditions” came under examination—the first, when the ward budget was presented for approval to the men in priesthood meeting, but not to the women in Relief Society.
“Would the Savior do that?” priesthood leaders wondered. They decided that he wouldn’t, and then they consulted the General Handbook of Instructions, which indicates that proposed budgets should be discussed with all ward members in a special meeting. That tradition was changed, and the sisters in the ward are much more supportive of ward activities now that they are included in the planning.

The first time I felt the appeal of family history occurred during the Christmas break of my freshman year at BYU. One evening, as the rest of the family boisterously played a board game in the living room, I found myself seated at the kitchen table with my mom and older sister. The conversation soon turned to relatives, particularly my mother’s dad and his parents.

My great-grandparents, Orla and Roger, died in their 20s, leaving my grandfather and his brother in the care of Roger’s family. After Orla’s death, her father, Robert, died of appendicitis. A short time later, her mother fell, cracked her skull, and suffered several strokes, becoming bedridden. Orla’s oldest sisters, Thelma and Ena, then carried the full burden of supporting the family—a difficult task for two young, unmarried women in the late 1920s.

It was all so fascinating to learn about people I felt connected to but had never met. I was amazed by the trials my family had faced. Hearing it all made my own problems seem so small in comparison.

Evan Stephens was born in Wales in 1854. By the time he was 12 years old, his family had moved to Willard, Utah, where he sang in the town choir. But when Evan learned that President Brigham Young was coming to hear the choir, he had a problem.
Evan looked down at the dusty road and dragged his feet as he walked home from choir practice. Everyone else in the Willard town choir had cheered at the invitation to sing for President Brigham Young. The men clapped each other on the back, while the women whispered excitedly from behind their books and fans. No one noticed the glum look on 12-year-old Evan’s face as he slumped down in his chair. The “Boy Alto,” as he was known, quietly slipped through the church doors and left practice by himself.
The problem wasn’t that Evan didn’t want to sing. He loved music. When his family settled in Willard, a town about 50 miles (80 km) north of Salt Lake City, he had been delighted to learn about the unusually good town choir. As the 10th child in the Stephens family, Evan had found little time between farm chores to learn much about music. In the Willard choir, he could finally learn more about it. He found himself moving in rhythm as he worked and dancing as he herded the cows. He felt music everywhere now.
No, the idea of singing for the prophet didn’t upset Evan. But choir members would need to dress in their best Sunday clothes for the performance, and he did not have any good clothes. His family didn’t have much money. He had never owned a nice coat or a pair of black Sunday shoes. He was ashamed to sing in front of the prophet while looking so shabby.
Evan looked down at his dusty feet. They were covered with dirt from the trail. He would have to scrub them hard before going to church Sunday morning. Otherwise, his feet would look black. Evan’s heart jumped at this thought. He could get black feet—really black feet—by using polish. Everyone would be looking at the faces of the singers, so no one would notice that Evan had black feet instead of black shoes.
On the day the choir was to sing to the prophet, Evan felt sweat on his forehead and the palms of his hands as he looked down at his black feet. He knew he must go—the choir needed him—but he wanted to hide so the prophet would not see him. With tears racing down his cheeks, he ran toward the bowery where the choir was going to sing.
At the bowery, Evan stopped. What if the prophet did see him? What would he think of a poor farm boy with painted black feet and no coat? Evan couldn’t let the prophet see him. Turning around, he bolted like a frightened colt. He ran right into the very man he had hoped not to see.
President Brigham Young grabbed the frightened boy by the shoulders. “Now, now, what’s this?” he asked. “What’s the matter? Why are you running away?”
Tears filled Evan’s eyes as he bowed his head and whispered, “I have no coat for the program and no shoes.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, he continued, “I painted my feet black with polish.”
The grip on Evan’s shoulders relaxed, and he felt the prophet pat him on the head. Looking up, he was surprised to see a kind look on President Young’s face and tears in his eyes, too. “Never mind that,” he told Evan. “Don’t you hesitate a moment. Go right on in.”
Relief wrapped around Evan like a soft, warm blanket. He blinked away the tears and returned the prophet’s smile with one of his own. He hurried to take his place with the choir. Happy to be accepted by the prophet, Evan sang his part perfectly.
President Young gave Evan an encouraging word and courage to do his part. This kindness influenced Evan long after the choir performance. He continued to study music and taught himself new skills.
When Evan grew up, he became director of the Tabernacle Choir. He served in that position from 1889 to 1916. Evan also wrote many sacred hymns and patriotic songs. He remained humble and always remembered the lesson he had learned from the prophet. Evan treated people like he did his music—with love. And like President Young, he listened with his heart.
Evan Stephens later wrote a hymn about courage, including the words, “Courage, for the Lord is on our side” (“Let Us All Press On,” Hymns, no. 243).

President Monson, the entire worldwide membership of this Church joins in that great anthem with this wonderful choir, and we say, “We thank thee, O God, for a prophet.” Thank you for your life, for your example, and for that welcoming message to another general conference of the Church. We love you, we admire you, and we sustain you. Indeed, in this afternoon’s session we will have a more formal opportunity to raise our hands in a sustaining vote, not only for President Monson but also for all the other general officers of the Church as well. Because my name will be included on that list, may I be so bold as to speak for all in thanking you in advance for those uplifted hands. Not one of us could serve without your prayers and without your support. Your loyalty and your love mean more to us than we can ever possibly say.
In that spirit my message today is to say that we sustain you, that we return to you those same heartfelt prayers and that same expression of love. We all know there are special keys, covenants, and responsibilities given to the presiding officers of the Church, but we also know that the Church draws incomparable strength, a truly unique vitality, from the faith and devotion of every member of this Church, whoever you may be. In whatever country you live, however young or inadequate you feel, or however aged or limited you see yourself as being, I testify you are individually loved of God, you are central to the meaning of His work, and you are cherished and prayed for by the presiding officers of His Church. The personal value, the sacred splendor of every one of you is the very reason there is a plan for salvation and exaltation. Contrary to the parlance of the day, this is about you. No, don’t turn and look at your neighbor. I am talking to you!
I have struggled to find an adequate way to tell you how loved of God you are and how grateful we on this stand are for you. I am trying to be voice for the very angels of heaven in thanking you for every good thing you have ever done, for every kind word you have ever said, for every sacrifice you have ever made in extending to someone—to anyone—the beauty and blessings of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I am grateful for Young Women leaders who go to girls camp and, without shampoo, showers, or mascara, turn smoky, campfire testimony meetings into some of the most riveting spiritual experiences those girls—or those leaders—will experience in their lifetime. I am grateful for all the women of the Church who in my life have been as strong as Mount Sinai and as compassionate as the Mount of Beatitudes. We smile sometimes about our sisters’ stories—you know, green Jell-O, quilts, and funeral potatoes. But my family has been the grateful recipient of each of those items at one time or another—and in one case, the quilt and the funeral potatoes on the same day. It was just a small quilt—tiny, really—to make my deceased baby brother’s journey back to his heavenly home as warm and comfortable as our Relief Society sisters wanted him to be. The food provided for our family after the service, voluntarily given without a single word from us, was gratefully received. Smile, if you will, about our traditions, but somehow the too-often unheralded women in this Church are always there when hands hang down and knees are feeble. They seem to grasp instinctively the divinity in Christ’s declaration: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … , ye have done it unto me.”
And no less the brethren of the priesthood. I think, for example, of the leaders of our young men who, depending on the climate and continent, either take bone-rattling 50-mile (80 km) hikes or dig—and actually try to sleep in—ice caves for what have to be the longest nights of human experience. I am grateful for memories of my own high priests group, which a few years ago took turns for weeks sleeping on a small recliner in the bedroom of a dying quorum member so that his aged and equally fragile wife could get some sleep through those final weeks of her sweetheart’s life. I am grateful for the Church’s army of teachers, officers, advisers, and clerks, to say nothing of people who are forever setting up tables and taking down chairs. I am grateful for ordained patriarchs, musicians, family historians, and osteoporotic couples who trundle off to the temple at 5:00 in the morning with little suitcases now almost bigger than they are. I am grateful for selfless parents who—perhaps for a lifetime—care for a challenged child, sometimes with more than one challenge and sometimes with more than one child. I am grateful for children who close ranks later in life to give back to ill or aging parents.
And to the near-perfect elderly sister who almost apologetically whispered recently, “I have never been a leader of anything in the Church. I guess I’ve only been a helper,” I say, “Dear sister, God bless you and all the ‘helpers’ in the kingdom.” Some of us who are leaders hope someday to have the standing before God that you have already attained.
Too often I have failed to express gratitude for the faith and goodness of such people in my life. President James E. Faust stood at this pulpit 13 years ago and said, “As a small boy … , I remember my grandmother … cooking our delicious meals on a hot woodstove. When the wood box next to the stove became empty, Grandmother would silently … go out to refill it from the pile of cedar wood outside, and bring the heavily laden box back into the house. I was so insensitive … [that] I sat there and let my beloved grandmother refill [that] box.” Then, his voice choking with emotion, he said, “I feel ashamed of myself and have regretted my omission for all of my life. I hope someday to ask for her forgiveness.”
If a man as perfect as I felt President Faust was can acknowledge his youthful oversight, I can do no less than make a similar admission and pay a long-overdue tribute of my own today.
When I was called to serve a mission back before the dawn of time, there was no equalization of missionary costs. Each had to bear the full expense of the mission to which he or she was sent. Some missions were very expensive, and as it turned out, mine was one of those.
As we encourage missionaries to do, I had saved money and sold personal belongings to pay my own way as best I could. I thought I had enough money, but I wasn’t sure how it would be in the final months of my mission. With that question on my mind, I nevertheless blissfully left my family for the greatest experience anyone could hope to have. I loved my mission as I am sure no young man has ever loved one before or since.
Then I returned home just as my parents were called to serve a mission of their own. What would I do now? How in the world could I pay for a college education? How could I possibly pay for board and room? And how could I realize the great dream of my heart, to marry the breathtakingly perfect Patricia Terry? I don’t mind admitting that I was discouraged and frightened.
Hesitantly I went to the local bank and asked the manager, a family friend, how much was in my account. He looked surprised and said, “Why, Jeff, it’s all in your account. Didn’t they tell you? Your parents wanted to do what little they could to help you get started when you got home. They didn’t withdraw a cent during your mission. I supposed that you knew.”
Well, I didn’t know. What I do know is that my dad, a self-educated accountant, a “bookkeeper” as they were called in our little town, with very few clients, probably never wore a new suit or a new shirt or a new pair of shoes for two years so his son could have all of those for his mission. Furthermore, what I did not know but then came to know was that my mother, who had never worked out of the home in her married life, took a job at a local department store so that my mission expenses could be met. And not one word of that was ever conveyed to me on my mission. Not a single word was said regarding any of it. How many fathers in this Church have done exactly what my father did? And how many mothers, in these difficult economic times, are still doing what my mother did?
My father has been gone for 34 years, so like President Faust, I will have to wait to fully thank him on the other side. But my sweet mother, who turns 95 next week, is happily watching this broadcast today at her home in St. George, so it’s not too late to thank her. To you, Mom and Dad, and to all the moms and dads and families and faithful people everywhere, I thank you for sacrificing for your children (and for other people’s children!), for wanting so much to give them advantages you never had, for wanting so much to give them the happiest life you could provide.
My thanks to all you wonderful members of the Church—and legions of good people not of our faith—for proving every day of your life that the pure love of Christ “never faileth.” No one of you is insignificant, in part because you make the gospel of Jesus Christ what it is—a living reminder of His grace and mercy, a private but powerful manifestation in small villages and large cities of the good He did and the life He gave bringing peace and salvation to other people. We are honored beyond expression to be counted one with you in such a sacred cause.
As Jesus said to the Nephites, so say I today:
“Because of your faith … , my joy is full.
“And when he had said these words, he wept.”
Brothers and sisters, seeing your example, I pledge anew my determination to be better, to be more faithful—more kind and devoted, more charitable and true as our Father in Heaven is and as so many of you already are. This I pray in the name of our Great Exemplar in all things—even the name of the Lord Jesus Christ—amen.

Eegik Tuchiak felt the chill of the icy Alaskan wind through his parka as the snowmobile sped across the coastal plain. Even scrunching close behind his father in the seat ahead did not cut the cold very much.
Eegik was both happy and worried. This was the first time his father had taken him to count the musk-oxen. Other times he had been too young to be around the skittish animals. Am I old enough now if something happens? he wondered.
“Hold tight!” he heard his father, Ukak, call. “We will near the herd soon.”
The grind of the motor and the whistling wind were the only sounds to be heard along the Nunivak Island snow hills, polished hard by the constant wind. The crusty white surface gave a dusky light to the short winter days.
“There they are!” Father shouted.
Gradually the engine slowed and the snowmobile slid to a stop. “We will keep the motor running, son,” Ukak said, picking up his rifle. “It will freeze if we don’t.”
Eegik hopped off the machine and peered before him. Ahead, a small musk-ox herd was bunched up against a low sea cliff. Already they were forming their defensive line heads out, backsides together in a rough circle. With heads lowered and rows of horns facing the danger, the animals scuffed the ground nervously. Long brown fur swayed in the wind.
“They look like fur rugs,” Eegik remarked.
“Yes,” his father answered, “and the giviut [wool] makes warm sweaters. But,” he added, “they are good fighters, too, when there is no way out. See the horns curling down from the tops of their heads like stiff wigs? We will get closer. The oomingmuk [bearded] ones hide their young behind them.”
Eegik felt a deep pride in his father, who had been schooled by the government. Now he was hired by the Alaska Department of Fish and Game to keep an eye on the growing musk-ox herd, one of the hardiest animals in the world. Today he had to check on the population of the herd and count them.
Slowly and quietly the two left the machine and crawled over the snow, watching the herd skitter at the movement. One bull lowered and shook his head, taking short stamping steps forward and backward. Sensing his restlessness, the other animals jostled together and tightened the ring. Eegik could see one small head push forward, a young one anxious to do battle if necessary.
“They run swiftly,” Ukak whispered. “We must not frighten them.”
The two inched forward, sliding over the ice several yards apart, until they were within city yards of the herd. The lead bull, confused and frightened, danced excitedly in his position.
Suddenly, the bull gave a snort and charged forward with the speed of a much lighter animal. Ukak leaped up his rifle flying and tried to dodge as the animal attacked. But the musk-ox was more sure on his feet and swerved to the side, throwing Eegik’s father to the ice.
Without thinking, Eegik shouted his surprise and fell on his stomach. At the outburst, the frightened musk-oxen broke their ring, skittered excitedly, and clattered off in a wild rush.
His heart pounding, Eegik scrambled to his feet and hurried to his father, who lay sprawled on the ice.
“Father!” he cried, pushing at his parka. “Father, are you all right?”
Ukak opened his eyes and tried to rise. A shudder went through him. “My wrist … ,” he said, painfully. “I think it’s broken. Are the oomingmuk gone?”
Eegik nodded. “Can you walk, Father?” he asked.
“We should make my arm straight,” Ukak said, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“But there are no sticks,” Eegik answered.
His thoughts racing, Eegik looked around, trying to find something straight and hard. But the barren arctic desert covered now by the ice held no useful object.
Then Eegik spotted the gun a few feet away. “The rifle, Father!” he cried. “We can use the rifle.”
“My son,” Ukak said, nodding, “it is a good idea.”
With his mittened hands, Eegik lifted the gun and emptied the chamber of bullets. Gently, he slid the barrel up his father’s sleeve to the elbow and wrapped the injured arm with the leather ties from his parka.
“There!” he finally said, leaning back to look at his handiwork. “That will help until we get home.”
Ukak smiled. “It is feeling better already,” he said.
With Eegik helping, the two made their way to the waiting snowmobile.
“You will have to drive,” Ukak said, holding the rifle butt with his good hand.
“I can,” the boy replied.
Eegik helped his father onto the seat, eased in front, and started off with the machine.
The journey back was slow, Eegik being careful to keep the ride as smooth as possible. Within an hour, they entered Mekoryuk and drove to their home.
At the sound of their approach, Eegik’s mother opened the door. “What’s wrong?” she asked when she saw that Eegik was in the driver’s seat.
“The oomingmuk did not like our visit,” Father answered, cradling his arm as he eased himself from the machine. “I might still be there, but for Eegik. I’m glad I took our son along.”
Eegik lifted his chin. He had wondered if he were old enough to help his father check on the skittish musk-oxen. Now he knew that he was.

My sister Nancy is on a mission, and she says I, Erin Christensen, should start writing a journal, so here it is.
Today President Schultz spoke in church. He’s our stake president. Mom and Dad got really excited about his talk. It was about the rewards of being member missionaries. More says we’ll talk about it in family home evening tomorrow.
We pray about our missionary work lots of times every day. I know that we need Heavenly Father’s help if we are going to be good missionaries. Barbi and I built a clubhouse in the backyard after school. She said she’d like to come to the activity day on Saturday, but she needs to ask her parents.
I invited Barbi to go to Primary with me today. She couldn’t go because she was going to visit her grandma. Maybe next week. We’re having a Primary activity day on Saturday. I’m going to invite Barbi.
We checked out a video from the ward library and watched it at family home evening. It’s called “Our Heavenly Father’s Plan.” I’m pretty sure that my sister shows it to her new investigators. (Those are people who want to know more about the Church.) I’m learning a lot about being a missionary!
Barbi is going to go with me to the activity day!
More and Dad took Mr. and Mrs. Brown to the ward dinner party tonight. It was just for adults, so Barbi and I stayed home and made posters for our clubhouse.
Activity day was called “Peace Among All Nations Day,” and Barbi got to carry the Italian flag to represent Europe. I think she had fun. I sure did!
More and Dad fasted today, even though it wasn’t fast Sunday. Dad says that if we fast, we’ll be able to get closer to Heavenly Father and He’ll help us in our missionary work. I hope so—Barbi still couldn’t come to Primary.
The Browns came over for family home evening again tonight. Mom gave a great lesson about loving our neighbors. I made the treats—graham crackers with chocolate frosting!
Dad invited the Browns to hear the missionary discussions next week. They said no. I was sure that they’d come—they’d be great Latter-day Saints! Now what do we do?
Dad invited the Browns to look at the slides from our camping trip to Maine last summer and have popcorn with us on Friday. They live next door, and Barbi Brown is my best friend. It would be great if they got baptized!
Tonight was great! More and Dad showed them the slides, and we ate lots of popcorn. I think the Browns had a good time. After they left, we had a family prayer. I felt really good about our missionary work. I think we’re going to have someone ready to listen to the missionaries. Maybe it’ll be the Browns!
I wrote a letter to Nancy today. She’ll be happy about our missionary work. I wonder how she gets people to teach on her mission.
Wow—we’ve decided to work as a family to have someone ready to hear the missionary discussions. The meetings will be right here at our house. Dad says that we don’t even have to know who that person is right now. We just need to pray, have faith, and do everything we can to help as many people as we can to know about the Church. If we do, Heavenly Father will help us.
When I said my prayers this morning, I said a special prayer for our missionary work. I hope I can get one of my friends to join the Church. We need more girls in my Primary class!
Dad and I raked leaves for Mrs. Thompson across the street. She’s old and can’t do it for herself. Dad says that doing things for other people is part of missionary work. I think it made her happy. Her husband died last summer, so she needs help with some things, I guess she’s lonely too.
I felt sad all day because the Browns don’t want to listen to the missionaries. Then this afternoon the most amazing thing happened! I went to Mrs. Thompson’s house to rake leaves again. While I was raking, she came out with some milk and cookies for me, and we sat down on the porch. We started talking about families. She thinks our family is pretty special. I told her that Mom and Dad were married in the Washington Temple and that that means we’ll be together forever. She got tears in her eyes and asked me if there was a way she could learn more about being married forever. I said, “Sure—just come over to our house next Tuesday, and the missionaries will teach you.” And she’s going to come!
We had a busy weekend. Dad talked with Mrs. Thompson Saturday morning, and she said she couldn’t wait till Tuesday. So the missionaries came that night and the next night, and tonight too. And she asked to be baptized! Heavenly Father answered our prayers, even though it wasn’t the way I expected. The Browns are still our friends, and maybe someday they’ll want to learn about the Church and get baptized too. I hope so. Meanwhile, I’ve already written to tell Nancy the good news about Mrs. Thompson. I guess I know a little about how she feels being a missionary. It feels GREAT!

Not long ago a telephone call came to President Monson’s office from the son of an 82-year-old woman who was nearing death. The mother’s final and only request was that she might meet her “favorite General Authority” before she passed away. When such calls come, the secretaries hope they will be able to get to the telephone before President Monson does, because otherwise his entire life would be spent on such visits, for requests of this kind come into his office by the score. One of the secretaries did take this particular call, carefully noting the details and promising to relay the message to President Monson. She also courteously mentioned that President Monson’s time commitments were overwhelming, so the elderly sister would certainly be in President Monson’s prayers even if he were not able to make a personal visit. The faithful son hung up the telephone, very grateful for and fully satisfied with the response he had received.
The message was relayed. The schedule, overflowing as always, precluded a visit. A day went by, and President Monson began to be restless. That night he was more restless still. On the second day, he could not resist. He got into his car and headed for an unfamiliar address to visit a dying woman he had never met.
Wending his way through streets and side roads and neighborhoods totally unfamiliar, President Monson eventually arrived at his destination. Knocking at the door, he introduced himself to that very surprised son and handed him a green planter purchased for the visit. He was then ushered into a modest bedroom where a new-found friend was entering a comatose state, hovering between life and death.
Quietly, President Monson sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand. He talked softly and lovingly to her at great length about a wide variety of gospel principles. Although her eyes were essentially closed and she could make no verbal response, her son—witness to every detail of this great apostolic gesture—testified that he was certain that his mother not only knew who was visiting her but also understood every word he said. A blessing was given, and then President Monson, noting but not mentioning a framed picture of himself on the modest mantlepiece, excused himself from the room.
The sweet sister died nine hours later, having realized the one final wish she had in this life. The next day the local newspaper obituary read, “Alice Petersen Tingey, 82, passed away of natural causes at her home. [She] was a loving person who touched the lives of many people. We would like to thank President Thomas S. Monson for his special blessing and the influence he shared with her and her family.”

One wintry day when I was eleven, Dad took me into the foothills between Blackfoot and Idaho Falls, Idaho, to buy a riding horse. We chose a coal-black yearling that fought and reared and was really wild. I was told that when he was roped by the cowboys, it was the first time he had ever been touched by human hands. We named him Champ.
I learned that Champ had royal blood in his veins. His grandfather was Man o’ War, the most famous thoroughbred racehorse of all time. Dad and I trained him patiently, and Champ and I became the best of friends and partners. He was swift and strong, and no local horse ever came close to winning a race with him. As I saw the qualities he had inherited from his famous grandfather, it really made me think about my own potential as a child of God.
In 1948 we moved from Idaho to Moses Lake, Washington. There was nothing beyond our farm for several miles in some directions. Range cattle ruled over the territory they had grazed on for generations. Now we were putting up fences around part of their range and growing lush and tempting alfalfa, potatoes, and corn. Our fences were good, but not always good enough to keep out the white-faced red Herefords.
Champ and I had the job of chasing away the cattle that invaded our fields. Together we learned some tricks of the cowboy’s trade, such as singling out one animal and chasing it from the herd. We developed an extraordinary oneness. Sometimes I would ride without saddle or bridle. But even without harnessing, we were in complete control. Just a touch on his neck would turn him. A shift in my posture would slow him down or speed him up. He was totally obedient, completely responsive.
One Sunday after sacrament meeting, I went out to feed Champ and found him gone. Searching for a black horse at night was not easy, and morning brought no comfort. There was no hungry, thirsty Champ at the corral gate. We searched all over the farm and far beyond with no success.
Heartsick, I asked my cousin Kay Lybbert to lend me a horse and go with me into the wastelands beyond our farm in search of Champ. I had caught glimpses of wild horses in this country, scattered bands of mares and colts led by dominant stallions.
We rode for hours into rocky and treacherous lands. We were tired, hungry, and discouraged and were talking of turning back when we saw a shape on the horizon. We pushed on and finally saw a herd of about fifteen wild horses. They were startled. Their nostrils were wide, pumping cool air into deep lungs. Heads high, tails flying, muscles tensed, they burst away in wild flight. To our amazement and joy, the magnificent Champ was before them all, leading the herd, as wild as the first day I saw him.
I have often thought about that vivid picture. Champ was rightfully mine. We had been the best of companions. He had been disciplined and responsive. But now he was undisciplined, out of control, and determined to stay that way. Though he was the group’s leader, he was really under the control of the wild horses he had chosen to run with.
We were off on a race across wild and rugged lands where a tired horse burdened with a rider could stumble and fall. At stake was Champ’s future.
I doubted our ability to stick with the wild horses, because we had been traveling half a day and they were fresh. But somehow we turned them eastward and stayed close. In time we slid over a steep hill down into Mae Valley within sight of our own fences. The herd soon thundered past our place, the steam from their bodies rising above them in a cloud. With the help of neighbors, we were finally able to channel Champ into our corral, safely behind secure barriers.
Dad was the first to get to Champ. He called him by name and approached gently, moving without disturbing gestures or sounds, easing up to him and putting his arms around the horse’s quivering neck. We were all relieved that this prized animal was back where he belonged once again and where he was loved, protected, and cared for.

PING!
At the faint, bell-like sound, Wanda’s eyes opened in the dark. She had been half-awake already, too excited to really sleep. But it’s too early to get up, she realized with disappointment. The family rule was that nobody was to get up before daylight and no gifts were to be opened before breakfast.
What a different kind of Christmas this will be, she thought sadly, listening to the steady patter of the California rain. For the first time since she could remember, there would be no snow and no sled to share with her three brothers. Maybe we’ll get a wagon this year, Wanda hoped.
Ping! Wanda sat up and clutched the iron armrest of the old-fashioned daybed. A drop of water fell on the back of her hand. Quickly she snatched her hand from the armrest and rubbed it dry on her flannel nightgown.
Ping! Suddenly she knew what caused the sound—drops of water falling on the metal.
It would be just like this old place to have a leaky roof and spoil our Christmas! she thought with disgust. Daddy had rented the house before he had sent for Mama and the children. It stood on a sandy plain near a shallow river that was hardly more than a trickle. “I know it’s kind of run-down and old,” Daddy had said apologetically, “but it’s all we can afford till I’ve been on this new job a while longer.”
There were two small bedrooms—one for Mama and Daddy and one for the three boys. Wanda slept on the daybed in the living room. She slipped out of bed now, shivering as she picked her way over the cold, bare floor to the window. She strained to see past the rivulets chasing each other down the windowpane and willed daylight to appear through the dark clouds.
Plink! A new sound joined the familiar ping! Another leak, Wanda realized. When she returned from the kitchen, where she’d gotten a couple of bowls to catch the dripping water, she bumped her shin on the table.
Do I dare turn on the light? she wondered, her shin still smarting. She hesitated for just a moment, then groped for the dangling light chain.
Click! The one bare bulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling shone dimly on the little Christmas tree with its homemade decorations. It wasn’t actually a tree, but a rubber plant Mama had gotten to brighten the room. “We’ve always had a Christmas tree,” Mama had declared, “and we’re not doing without one this year just because we don’t have much money.” Then, with a wink at Wanda, Mama had said, as she often did, “Money can’t buy everything.”
This year Wanda felt that she was beginning to understand what Mama meant. She remembered the fun that they had had making the tree decorations. While Wanda and the boys had worked with paper, scissors, crayons, scraps of cloth, fruit jar lids, and homemade flour paste, Daddy had transferred the rubber plant to a large tub of dirt and set it in a corner of the room.
A board creaked, interrupting Wanda’s thoughts. She stopped abruptly, listening for sounds of awakening from her parents’ bedroom. In the silence she became aware of a rhythmic orchestra of sound: ping! plop! plink! splat! Drops of water were falling in several places. Glancing up, Wanda was alarmed to see that the ceiling sagged noticeably just above the table where Daddy had stacked the presents when they hadn’t fit under their little tree. Most of the gifts had come in the mail from Grandma and Uncle Walt the day before. “Just in time,” Daddy had remarked, “to save us from a very skimpy Christmas.”
As Wanda watched, horrified, the bulge seemed to dip lower. The ceiling’s full of water! she realized. It could burst any minute and ruin all the presents! Uncertain about waking her parents, she prayed silently, then decided to wake her older brother, Blaine. He would know what to do.
She slipped into the boys’ bedroom and tugged on Blaine’s pajama sleeve. “Wake up, Blaine!” she urged in a hoarse whisper. She shook his shoulder. He moaned in his sleep and turned away from her. But when she said in a low, tense voice, “Merry Christmas, Blaine!” his eyelids fluttered open.
“Wake up. We have to do something. The rain’s going to ruin all our presents from Uncle Walt and Grandma!”
“What?” Blaine mumbled sleepily. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor.
“Shh! Don’t wake the other boys. And watch where you step. There are puddles everywhere.”
Blaine’s eyes widened when he saw the bulge in the ceiling. He was fully awake now and ready to take charge.
“First thing to do is to move this table. You grab one end, and I’ll take the other. Careful you don’t knock off any presents.”
“I can’t lift it!” Wanda wailed. “It’s too heavy.”
“OK, you drag your end, and I’ll lift mine. But we have to move fast.”
The table legs rasped against the floor as Wanda tugged. “Oh,” she gasped, almost in tears, “if that ceiling breaks, the whole house will be flooded!”
Suddenly Daddy appeared in the doorway. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Look, Daddy!” Wanda pointed to the sagging ceiling.
“Oh no!” exclaimed her father. “Blaine, bring that big bucket from the back porch. Wanda, get your mother’s canning kettle from the kitchen. I’ll go get my screwdriver.”
Wanda nested several smaller pots and pans inside the big canner, then hurried back to the living room.
Daddy held the bucket under the bulge and poked a hole in the ceiling directly above the bucket. A small stream of water shot into the bucket.
“That will relieve the pressure on the ceiling,” Daddy explained. He directed Blaine to watch the bucket and empty it outside before it got too full to carry. Wanda was to replace the bucket immediately with the empty canner.
“Larry and Andrew can tend the other pans,” said Mama, “and I’ll mop up the water from the floor.”
Wanda hadn’t noticed that her mother and the two younger boys had joined them. Already the smaller pans were positioned around the floor, catching drops.
Soon everyone was dressed and eating hot cereal between quick trips into the living room to check the pans.
Wanda helped Blaine carry the first bucketful to the back porch.
“We could have used a wagon for this job,” she grumbled.
“We should have asked for a boat instead,” Blaine joked as he emptied the bucket.
Then Wanda saw that the boardwalk leading to the woodshed was surrounded by puddles. Wanda’s sense of humor dispelled her gloom. “We don’t need a boat,” she said with a giggle. “Our house is the boat. It’s just like being on Noah’s ark, but without the animals.”
The presents were unwrapped amid general merriment as the family tried to avoid the wet spots in the room. Finally they took the presents into a bedroom to keep them dry.
The children played with their toys for a while, then Mother read the Bible story of the first Christmas—with frequent interruptions as someone raced into the living room to replace a full pan with an empty one.
As Wanda helped Blaine empty the canner for the third time into the “lake” outside, she realized that she had never thought too much about Jesus at Christmas. Other years her mind had been on Santa Claus and what he might bring her. Now, thinking of her family in this rundown house—in a city far from their old home—Wanda felt a kinship with the little family who had spent that first Christmas in a stable far from their home.
We didn’t really need the presents, she thought, to have a good time together.

The donkeys and carts were becoming more numerous along the roadside now as the bus approached their ancient family village. Yung Fai looked across the aisle at Wai Fung sitting in her mother’s lap next to the window. In her excitement, she was squeezing the window railing with her bony fingers.
Yung Fai pondered to himself, I’ve never been inside her church again since that night of the typhoon. But it’s not because she hasn’t tried. She’s even taught me some of her songs. Why does she think more of me than I think of myself?
When Lily knocked at the low brick building Yung Fai vaguely remembered as his home, a gray-haired man opened the door. His mouth opened in a toothless grin. He greeted each family member in the usual reserved Chinese manner, taking their hands warmly in his. But, when Wai Fung was placed in his arms, he held her tight and tears came to his eyes.
“Do you remember the songs you used to sing for me?” he asked.
“Oh yes, Papa,” exclaimed Wai Fung.
After she had sung many of his favorite Chinese melodies, her father was silent. Yung Fai watched him fumble under the bed and pull out a big book. “I’ve been reading the Bible. You wrote and told me you had joined a Christian church, so I decided to find out what was in their book. Are there Christian songs you can sing?”
Wai Fung smiled exuberantly. Then Yung Fai saw her motioning to him with her eyes. “Papa,” she said, “I also taught Yung Fai to sing with me. Maybe we could both sing for you.”
At first, Yung Fai looked down shyly. Then the words of the song came more strongly to his lips, “O my Father, thou that dwellest …”
When the last note had faded, their father was nodding serenely. Yung Fai felt himself nodding too. The words the old man now spoke seemed to be coming from his own mouth. “Your words are good. They are true.”
Suddenly, Yung Fai felt as if he and his father were someplace else. Dressed in white, they were standing in a pool of water.
Yung Fai’s mind returned to the little room where his gray-haired father sat on a stool before him and Wai Fung sat close beside him. He groped for his sister’s hand, wanting to open her eyes to his experience. But, when he gazed down at her dark, tranquil eyes, he sensed she had seen his vision long ago and was now only sharing it with him.

Jared Azzarini, age 10, was devastated as he watched his coach and teammates board their flight to Goiânia for the Brazilian National Gymnastics Championship without him. He had prayed as hard as he could that the airport officials would let him on the plane so he could compete with his team. But they said he could not travel without his original birth certificate. All he had brought was a copy. The original was at home.
So while his team prepared to defend the national title that he had helped win in their age group the year before, he went home with his mother. He thought about his coach’s last words to him: “If you don’t make it to the competition, the whole team will lose. We need you.”
The next available flight was the following morning. It would get him to the competition, but just in time—without a chance to warm up or get used to the equipment.
“Mom,” he said when they arrived at home, “you taught me that when we pray earnestly, the Lord will answer our prayers. I have prayed with all my heart, and nothing happened. If I go on the flight tomorrow, I will have no chance.”
Jared’s mom reassured him that “with God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26). She called the airport. Within half an hour, the airline called and asked if Jared could get to the airport immediately. A seat had opened up on a flight that would leave right away.
“Heavenly Father really does answer our prayers!” Jared thought as he hurried to his room to thank Heavenly Father.
Jared, a member of the Intercap Ward, Porto Alegre Brazil Partenon Stake, made it to the competition in time to earn a third-place individual finish and help his team win their age division’s national championship again.

To Augusto A. Lim, the message being presented by two young missionaries from the United States seemed to confirm principles he already knew were true. A young lawyer and a Christian, Augusto noted that doctrines such as continuing revelation were “things that even when I was in high school and college, I believed in.”1
After several months, Augusto agreed to attend Sunday services and took the challenge to read and pray about the Book of Mormon. “I began to read the Book of Mormon seriously in the same spirit that Moroni advised us [to have]. When I did that with the desire to know if it’s true—after a few lines—I was gaining a testimony,” he recalled.2
In October of 1964, Augusto Lim was baptized and became a pioneer of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the Philippines, with his wife and family joining shortly. Today, after decades of faithful service in the Church—which included a call in 1992 to serve as a General Authority, the first Filipino to serve in that position—Brother Lim reflects the faith and dedication of hundreds of thousands of Latter-day Saints living in the “Pearl of the Orient.”
The work progressed to the point where the Philippines Mission was organized by 1967. By the end of that year, there were 3,193 members in the mission, 631 of whom had been converted that year. By 1973 the Church in the Philippines had expanded to almost 13,000 members. On May 20, 1973, the Manila Philippines Stake was created, with Augusto A. Lim as president. In 1974 the mission was divided, creating the Philippines Manila Mission and the Philippines Cebu City Mission.

Opportunities for Christian acts of service do not always come at convenient times. Approximately two or three years ago I was in southern California. I had reorganized a stake. Just as I was getting ready to go out to the airport where I could relax and just let down, a woman approached me. She was in her mature years and she said, “Elder Featherstone, are you going back to Salt Lake today?” I said, “Yes.” She continued, “Are you going on that four o’clock flight?” I responded that I was. Then she said, “Would you mind doing a favor for me?” I quickly thought about the schedule I had just been through, and the flesh was begging for a little break. I assumed she wanted me to hand carry something to her relatives. I never check baggage unless I absolutely have to. I wondered if I would have to check what it was I assumed she wanted me to bring back. I thought about waiting at the baggage claim for the item; then I wondered where it would need to be delivered. Only a moment’s pondering and as always, the spirit thrust aside all empty excuses and responded as a service-oriented leader should.
I said, “I will be glad to help in whatever way possible.” Then the woman said, “My grandson Phillip has been down here with me for a couple of weeks. How would you like to baby-sit him home to Salt Lake? He is two-and-a-half years old. His mother will be waiting for him at the airport.” We arranged to meet at the Los Angeles Airport, where the grandmother introduced me to Phillip. Before we boarded the plane she said, “Here is an envelope. Will you wait until you are on the plane to open it?” I found out why she made that request later.
Phillip and I boarded the plane. We sat on the row behind the bulkhead.
I reached into my pocket and opened the letter from the grandmother. It went something like this:
“Dear Elder Featherstone, Thank you for taking Phillip back to Salt Lake and baby-sitting him for us. We appreciate it. His mother will be there at the airport to meet you; but if she is not there, then here is what you do.”
Then she had written, “The reason I did not dare have you open the letter before you were on board the plane is that I did not have enough courage to ask you to do another favor for us. Phillip’s brother Ricky is in the University of Utah Hospital. He has had constant seizures, many a day. The doctors do not know what else to do. They have done all they know, and he still has the problem. Do you think you could possibly find time to go by the hospital and give him a blessing?”
When we arrived in Salt Lake, there was no one to meet us at the gate. We walked the length of the terminal. Still no one recognized Phillip. We went down the escalator, past the baggage claim, and out to the curb. I have done some unusual things in our marriage, but I wondered what my wife would say when I came home from a stake conference with a two-and-a-half-year-old boy.
I looked around and stood with Phillip for a moment, and then the mother pulled up along the curb. She had been delayed coming to the airport. The sweet mother was very kind, and she loaded a happy Phillip and all his gear into the car.
A short while later I was standing in one of the pediatric wards at the University of Utah Hospital. There were about six children in cribs. An attendant was mopping the floor, and then he left the room. I was all alone in the hospital room with these six beautiful children.
I found out which was Ricky’s bed and went over to him. I said, “My name is Vaughn Featherstone. Do you know who I just left?” He said, “No,” and I said, “I came back from Los Angeles today, and I brought your brother Phillip home. I told him I was coming here to see you.” Ricky was only four, but tears came to his eyes. He missed his little brother.
Then I said to him, “Ricky, I am a friend of President Spencer W. Kimball, and he loves you. President Kimball is a prophet. Your grandmother asked me if I would give you a blessing. Do you know what it means when someone lays his hands on your head and gives you a blessing?” He said, “Yes.” And then I said, “Ricky, do you believe in Jesus?” He said, “Yes.” “Do you know that Jesus loves you? Do you know that Jesus can heal you?” He answered, “Yes.” Then I asked, “Would you like me to give you a blessing so you can be healed?” “Yes,” he said.
I laid my hands upon his head and gave Ricky a blessing. An interesting thing happened in the little pediatric ward. The other children stopped playing or crying and seemed to listen.
When I finished the blessing I reached in my pocket and pulled out a beautifully polished rock with my name on it that someone had given me. I gave it to Ricky, so that when his mother came she would know that I had been there.
Two years later I was in the Kingsport Tennessee Stake and a sweet young mother came up to me after conference. She told me it was her mother that had asked me to baby-sit Phillip and bless Ricky and then she said, “Have you ever had any feedback on your blessing?” I told her I had not. Then she shared with me the great miracle, “Ricky has not had another seizure since you gave him the blessing.”
It was not opportune to take Phillip home, nor was it convenient to drop by the University of Utah Medical Center; but it was what Jesus would have done. Our service must always lead us to ask, “What would Jesus do?”

When I tell you that I played football in high school, it is not a boast. It is more of a confession.
You see, football came to our country town later than to most. The school board had no money for equipment or for a coach. Instead, we all played basketball. The only equipment we needed for basketball was a pair of shoes.
Finally, our principal saved enough to buy 12 inexpensive football outfits, not including shoes. The cleated shoes were too expensive, so we used our basketball shoes instead. Our coach was recruited from the faculty. He was selected because he had once watched a football game.
We learned a few simple plays. We learned how to tackle—or so we thought. Then we set off for our first game with Twin Falls, the previous year’s Idaho state champions.
We dressed and went out to the field to warm up. The other team’s school band started to play. They had more students in the band than we had in our entire high school! Then through the gates came their team. Our team of 12—a full team of 11 plus one all-around substitute—watched in amazement as they kept coming through the gates, all 39 of them in full uniform.
The game was most interesting. To say it was a learning experience is rather mild. After two plays we didn’t have any desire to have the ball, so we would kick it away, and soon they would score. Our main problem was how to get rid of the ball. It was less punishing for us when we weren’t being tackled!
In the final minutes of the game, the other team became a little reckless. A wild pass fell into the arms of Clifford Lee, who was playing halfback with me. He was startled. He didn’t know what to do until he saw the entire opposing team thundering toward him. Then he knew what to do! He was not interested in six points. He ran for his life!
He was fast. He made a touchdown, and we finally got six points on the board. We really didn’t deserve the six points, but with our torn shirts and socks and bloody shins, we took them anyway. The final score: 106 to 6!
That game was definitely a learning experience. It taught me that a team (or an individual) must be prepared. Success in all things depends on preparation.

My siblings and I grew up believing in God, but our family wasn’t religious. We did our own thing and didn’t bother to learn about our purpose on earth. When a few relatives died, I wondered if I would ever see them again. I remembered my grandfather warning us not to sleep too much because when we die, we sleep forever, and it got me curious. Was death just a dark place of eternal sleep? As my soul searched for the answer to what happens after death, a neighbour—a former bishop for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—sent missionaries to us. They taught my sister, Fiasili, and me the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and introduced us to the plan of salvation, which finally answered all my questions about death. Fiasili and I were soon baptised. She was 13 years old and I was 12.

Nick and Jake love their family home evenings, spent with their brother and sisters, Matt (17), Becky (12), and Annie (2). They take their turns preparing lessons and organizing activities. One special evening was spent up in the mountains on the edge of the city. After a lesson by Dad, they all went for a hike and came upon some fresh bear tracks! Maybe the West isn’t so tame now, after all! Nicholas and Jacob enjoy being a part of it and love being members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

A few years ago, while teaching a missionary prep class at BYU, I asked students to practice extending commitments every week of the course. I explained that I did not expect them to invite someone to be baptized, just help someone else do what that person really wanted to do but had not yet been able to do without some outside help. One student explained to me how she had called a non-LDS friend in her home state just to see how she was doing. Her friend told her that she had developed a drinking problem and that she was thinking of dropping out of school and returning home. She said that she had become so discouraged, she was thinking of taking her own life.

My student asked her if she wanted some help. Becoming emotional, her friend consented. My student then said to her friend:
In our Church we have the Book of Mormon. One verse we've been studying talks about some missionaries who got so discouraged they wanted to give up and go back home, but then they prayed and fasted and the Lord comforted them and said, "bear with patience thine afflictions, and I will give unto you success" (Alma 26:27). I know that the Lord will help you. I know that he can help you overcome your drinking problem. I know He can help you succeed. Will you pray that He can do that?
Her friend agreed to pray. Later my student then said to me:
I can't actually believe I did that. I didn't know if she would be offended or if my invitation to pray would help her, but I felt that it would, so I did it. A week later my friend called me back and said, "I just want you to know that you saved my life. I'm getting some help with my drinking problem, and I've decided to stay in school. I'm not so discouraged anymore. You really saved my life."

This student was building up the soul of her friend.

When the Montreal Quebec Temple was rededicated after major renovations in 2015, open houses were organized by our local leaders. It was the ideal time to invite friends to come and see the temple.
I immediately thought of two good college friends who had already asked me about the Church and my beliefs. In the past, both of them had agreed to attend sacrament meeting at Christmastime. I had also invited them to my wedding two years earlier. That had been an opportunity to explain to them why they could come to the reception but not to the sealing ceremony in the temple.1
Still, even though I had talked with them about the Church before, I hesitated to invite them. I feared being in an uncomfortable situation if they refused. Finally, I got the courage and asked them over the phone: “Would you like to see the place where I was married? The temple is open to the public for guided tours. If that’s of interest to you, we could go together.”
The answer in both cases was a swift “Yes! I would like that.”
One of my friends came with her two children, and the other came with her spouse. It was an unforgettable experience for me. I felt immense joy in being able to share my love for the temple with them.