Gospel Story Finder

The Thomas family lived on a farm about ten miles from town. Although Tommy and Mary loved the trees, the stream where they swam in the summer, and all the animals and chickens, they were often teased about their plain clothes and country ways by their city-bred schoolmates.
Tommy, in the fifth grade, wasn’t bothered much by the teasing, but Mary, only a first grader, almost cried whenever her best friend, Cathy, asked her why she always wore plain cotton dresses and sturdy walking shoes.
One day, when Mary came home from school looking very sad and thoughtful, Mama asked, “Why the long face, Kitten?”
“Mama, why don’t I have any frilly dresses or shiny shoes?”
Mama sat down at the wooden kitchen table. “Honey, sit down, and I’ll try to explain it to you.”
Mary slid onto a chair and propped her chin on her hands.
“Your papa and I both grew up on farms, but we went to the city after we were married. When you were just a baby, Papa and I decided that it would be better for all of us to move from the city, so we bought the farm.”
“Why did you and Papa leave the farm in the first place if you liked it?” Mary asked.
“Remember last week when you went to Cathy’s birthday party and you told me how new and fancy Cathy’s house is?”
“Yes, Mama,” Mary answered.
“That’s why Papa and I went to the city. We thought that people in the city had nicer things than we had. But we found out that the ‘nicer things’ weren’t as important to us as the life-style that we could have on a farm. Papa earned a good salary in the city. I got a job there, too, but that meant that I couldn’t be home with you and Tommy. It costs more money to live in the city and buy all the things that people there tend to think are important to have.”
“But what does that have to do with why I can’t have pretty store-bought dresses?”
Mama continued patiently, “On the farm Papa doesn’t make as much money as he did in the city. And I don’t have a regular, paying job. We have plenty to eat, but the money we make has to go for equipment, mortgage payments, seed, and other necessities. Maybe when we’ve finished paying for some of the equipment, we can buy more things, but we just don’t have money for extras now.”
Mary understood better, but how she longed for some of the things her classmates had! Looking up at Mama, she asked wistfully, “Would Heavenly Father be upset if I prayed for a frilly dress?”
“I don’t think so, Kitten. But remember that Heavenly Father only promises to give us what’s best for us. He doesn’t always give us what we simply want.”
“I understand, Mama,” Mary answered with a smile. “May I go out and play now?”
“OK,” Mama said as she hugged Mary before the little girl scampered outside.
Tommy had come in during the conversation and had stood quietly listening.
“Mama, do you really believe that Heavenly Father will make a way for Mary to get a dress?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Tommy,” Mama said slowly. “But I know that she’s still too young to completely understand why she can’t have one.”
“I understand, Mama,” Tommy said as he banged out the door. “I’m going to help Papa till dinnertime.”
Mama lowered her head and prayed, “Heavenly Father, we thought that we were doing the right thing to come here, but children can be cruel to each other. It hurts me to see Mary and Tommy teased and ridiculed. Please help us. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Mama quickly rose from her chair. There was baking to be done. On Saturdays people in town gathered at the community center, where baked goods, handicrafts, and other things were brought to be sold. Mama had learned years ago that she had a talent for baking. And the small amount of money she earned with her baked goods was needed for necessities. Last year’s drought had hit the farm hard.
Papa had often said that she sold her wares too cheaply, but she always replied that she made a fair profit. Papa knew that she gave away a loaf of bread or a cake or a pie when someone looked hungrily at the goods and Mama knew that he couldn’t afford to buy anything. Papa was pleased that Mama did it and that she always masked her charity by saying that the item wasn’t selling well or that it would become stale at home. In that way she made the recipient feel that he was doing her a favor.
That night, as Mama heard the children’s prayers, tears came to her eyes when Mary timidly asked, “Please, Heavenly Father, may I have a frilly dress?” Mama was to hear this plea repeated many times during the next few weeks, for Tommy always included Mary’s request in his own prayers.
Spring planting began, and soon school would be out. Mary was confident that Heavenly Father would provide a fancy dress for her to wear on the last day of school. Mama had racked her brain to find a way to get a dress for Mary, but all the available money had gone for seed and fertilizer. Then, one lovely Sunday afternoon as the family sat in the living room after church, they heard a thump outside the front door.
“What’s that?” Papa asked as he rose from his chair. He opened the screen door. “It’s a big sack of something,” he called to the others. They crowded around him as he untied the cord and opened the sack. “Pecans!” he exclaimed. “Why would anyone leave a huge sack of pecans at our door?”
Mary, who had watched the sack-opening expectantly, wailed, “I didn’t pray for pecans.” She went back into the house.
“What are we supposed to do with them?” Tommy asked. “They’ll go bad before we can eat them all.”
Mama knew what to do with them. If I can only make my idea work, she thought. Aloud, she said, “Please take them into the pantry, Tommy. I’m sure that whoever left them knew that we would find a use for them.” Her eyes gleamed with hope.
The next morning at breakfast, Mama tried to keep her excitement from showing as she said to Papa, “I’ll need the truck for a while this morning, honey. I’ll be back to help with the planting as soon as I can.”
“OK. What’s up?”
“It’s a surprise,” she answered with a happy smile. “If it works out, you’ll all know soon enough. Right now it’s time for school, kids.” Mama gave them a hug and scooted them and Papa out the door. She was impatient to get her plan under way.
Finally she was on her way to town. She went directly to the small bakery on Main Street. Half an hour later she emerged with several boxes, which she loaded into the truck. Back at the farm Mama hurriedly stored the boxes in the pantry, changed clothes, and headed for the fields, humming a tune.
Papa looked up. “You got back quickly,” he commented. “From the look on your face, I’d say that things went your way. Are you going to tell me about it?”
“Not yet,” Mama replied, grinning. “I won’t be able to help you as much on the farm for a couple of weeks, though, and I’ll need the truck for about an hour every day.”
Each morning, as soon as the children left for school and Papa went to the fields, Mama worked in the kitchen. And each afternoon she put things in the boxes she’d obtained, loaded them into the truck, and went to town, always returning with a happy smile.
Finally, one Saturday morning Mama announced, “I must go into town by myself for a little while, but when I come back, I’ll have a surprise for each of you.”
“Well, Mary, Tommy, let’s get our chores done,” Papa said. “Working will make the time pass faster.”
With everyone helping each other, time did indeed pass quickly. They were setting the dinner table when Mama bustled in with several packages. She handed the first one to Papa, who quickly opened it.
“The new LDS editions of the scriptures!” he exclaimed. “I’ve really needed them in teaching my Sunday School class. Thank you, honey.”
Mama held out a second package, saying, “Tommy, here’s your surprise.”
Tommy’s present was a catcher’s mitt. “It’s just what I’ve been wanting. How’d you know, Mama? I tried not to let on.”
“You’ve been a regular Spartan about it, Tommy,” Mama told him. “But mothers have ways of knowing such things.”
Mama handed the last, and biggest, package to Mary, who had been sitting quietly all this time. “Here’s yours, Kitten.”
Mary slowly opened the box, then squealed with delight. In it lay not one, but two beautiful, frilly dresses—one blue, the other a soft, pale green. “Mama, oh, Mama! Heavenly Father does answer prayers!” she exclaimed as she hugged the dresses to her. “Thank you, Heavenly Father! And thank you, Mama!”
“Now, dear,” Papa said, “tell us how you managed all this.”
“Well, I bake a really good pecan pie, and when Heavenly Father provided that big sack of pecans, I made a deal with the bakery. They furnished all the ingredients except the pecans and ran a special the rest of the month on pecan pies. I did the baking for a percentage of each pie sold, and they sold very well! Even after tithing, I was able to buy these gifts.”
“But, Mama,” Tommy interjected, “where is your gift? You got us what we wanted. What did you get for yourself?”
“I got the best gift of all,” Mama replied.
“What’s that?” Mary asked, puzzled. “I don’t see any more packages.”
“My gift is seeing the pleasure on your faces. I got the joy of giving.”
“I didn’t pray for pecans,” Mary said, “but Heavenly Father knew what we needed and gave us much more.”
“He always does, honey. He always does,” Mama said softly.

It was a cold, blustery Sunday afternoon. I was away from home serving in the South African army, and the 10 men of our section had gathered in our tent to visit and relax after having just completed some chores. Unfortunately, much of the conversation became crude, as often happens among young men in such circumstances.
I was uncomfortable and thought about leaving. My eyes turned toward the tent door, which was flapping wildly in the wind and failing to hold back the chill of winter. The sight immediately convinced me it would be foolish to leave, so I decided to remain inside and read my scriptures. Although it had not been uncommon for me to read from them in the presence of these men, on this day it would prove to be difficult. The discussion soon took a turn for the worse as my friend, something of a ringleader in the group, began telling some dirty stories.
My immediate impulse was to object out loud. However, I was checked by the thought that others might consider me self-righteous and accuse me of trying to spoil their fun. After a few troubling moments, I decided to do the only thing I thought possible under the circumstances: shut my ears and concentrate on my reading. This approach worked somewhat. Yet I could not shrug off a feeling of uneasiness.
Time has a way of clouding our memories, and within a few weeks I forgot about the experience. Then, two years later, my friend did something that brought the memory of that day back into focus. We were in the presence of a number of soldiers who were drinking beer. In the group was a man I didn’t know. He began teasing me for not joining them in drinking a little alcohol. My friend rose to my defense and added with an earnestness that surprised me, “Chris Golden is the only true Christian in our group.” Others who knew me joined my friend in defending me, which silenced my critic.
Later, as my friend and I walked back toward our foxhole on a gray, half-moonlit night, he suddenly stopped and looked at me with a seriousness I had not been accustomed to during our friendship. He recalled the event of earlier that evening and said, “I meant what I said. In fact, I have never met an individual who has been more true to his faith in God than you, Chris!”
This was unexpected. Even though I had always tried to live the gospel, I felt I had not done more than many Latter-day Saints would have done in similar circumstances, and I had always tried to do it without drawing attention to myself.
Still, he had more to say: “You have let me down only once.” My shock at his matter-of-fact accusation was matched only by the speed with which my mind raced through all of the events we had shared together. I finally remembered that blustery, cold Sunday two years earlier. My friend’s words exposed painful memories of a day I would rather have forgotten.
He continued, “Do you remember that cold Sunday afternoon when we were sitting inside our tent and telling stories, some of which I frankly now feel quite embarrassed about?”
I nodded a little numbly in acknowledgment. Standing opposite him, I hoped that the shadows of the night hid my discomfort.
He said, “While I was talking, I had been silently praying that you would ask me to stop telling those dirty stories—but you did nothing.”
During the long silence that followed his stinging condemnation, a deep sense of disappointment welled up within me. I had let not only him down, but I had failed the Lord—and myself.
Ever since that day, I have tried not to make the same mistake. I was taught an important lesson about the true meaning of the Lord’s command to “let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 5:16). Observing that “no man can serve two masters” (Matt. 6:24), the Savior counseled us, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness” (Matt. 6:33).

Recently I went to the bank to withdraw some money to pay my employees. Before the teller gave me my withdrawal, I asked him to change some 200-sol bills for some 50-sol bills. The teller changed the money for me, but I thought I saw him make a mistake as he counted the bills.

He gave me my 50-sol bills, and I stepped back to wait for my withdrawal. As I waited, I counted the money. I had given the teller 1,200 soles, but he gave me 2,200 soles in return—an extra thousand soles. At that moment I was tempted. I told myself that the bank had plenty of money. But I knew in my heart that the money wasn’t mine; I had to return it.

A few moments later the teller called me to complete my transaction. He counted my withdrawal, and as he handed me the money, he asked, “Anything else?”

“Yes,” I told him. “I gave you 1,200 soles to change into smaller bills, but you gave me 2,200 in return.”

I then handed him the 2,200 soles. With hands shaking, he counted the money twice. He could hardly believe what he saw. He looked at me and tried to speak, but he could only manage to utter twice, “Thank you so much.”

I left the bank happy. That week I was preparing a lesson for the young men in my ward on overcoming temptation. It was wonderful to be able to share with them my experience at the bank.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” some of them joked. “That was a thousand soles you gave back!”

“Happiness has no price,” I responded with a smile.

How grateful I am for this experience, which strengthened both my testimony and the testimonies of the young men regarding the importance of withstanding temptation.

My name is Chrislaine Da Silva Brasil. I’m 12 years old. I live in a town called Itacoatiara in northern Brazil. (Yes, my family and my country share the same name.) Itacoatiara is on the Amazon River, just below the equator. It’s very hot and humid here in the summer, and it rains heavily in the winter.
The Amazon River is very important to people in my town. Some men make a living catching and selling the many different kinds of fish in the river. My mom cooks great fish dinners that we eat with rice, beans, and salads. We have a lot of fresh fruit to eat as well.
The river is also like a highway. People travel on it in boats of all sizes. My family planned to take a special boat ride on the river in December 1993. With other members of the Church, we were going south all the way to the temple in São Paulo. Mom and Dad were going for their own temple work and to be sealed together in marriage for time and eternity. Then, they, my younger sister, Joyce, and I were going to be sealed together as an eternal family.
We started planning for the trip many months ahead. It costs a lot of money to travel to the temple. We saved by not buying many of the things we like, even our favorite soda pop.
As the time came closer to leave, we became very excited.
And then I had to make a big decision!
I was in grade school and would soon graduate. But first I had to take final exams for the year—and when the dates for the exams were announced, they were for the same time that we were to go to the temple.
Mom told my teacher that I would be absent for ten days because our family was going to São Paulo. The teacher said that if I left school then, I would not be able to take the exams and graduate. I wanted to graduate, but I also wanted to go to the temple.
That night before dinner we had a family council. Mom explained what had happened and then said, “Chris, you need to make a decision. Either we stay while you take the exams and graduate, or we all go to the temple.”
I prayed to Heavenly Father to help me make the right choice. Tears ran down my cheeks as I said, “Let’s go to the temple.” At that moment I felt the warmth of the Spirit, and I knew that things would work out.
And they did!
For some reason, the final exams were held earlier than expected, and I was able to take them and graduate before we left on our trip.
We were on a boat for three days, then traveled by bus for another three days. We had meals on the boat and at special bus stops along the way. In São Paulo, we stayed at the Missionary Training Center, where we cooked our own meals. We spent a few days in São Paulo going to the temple and visiting the city, then made the long journey back home.
This wonderful experience helped me understand that Heavenly Father answers prayers when we try to do what is right. I’m grateful that I was able to graduate. But I’m even more grateful that we can be a family together forever.

Photograph courtesy of Cari Florence
When I was just 14 weeks pregnant with our third child, doctors informed us that the baby would miscarry due to complications with his lungs. That news was devastating: I felt heartbroken, terrified, and uncertain of the future. That evening, my husband and I went to the temple with heavy hearts and eyes full of tears. We needed answers, guidance, and strength, and we knew that in the serenity of the temple we could draw close to the Lord. We were astonished at the peace we felt in the celestial room. I knew that even if this baby was not supposed to stay on earth, all would be made right.
Later, on my knees I poured out my soul to Heavenly Father. I told Him I understood that our son wasn’t supposed to linger but that I desired some specific blessings, if possible. I also promised that if my desires weren’t granted, I would not lose faith. I asked that this child might stay with me longer—that he might live, even just a short while, until all our family could hold him. The doctors had said that if by some miracle our baby went full term, he would be born purple, but I prayed that he would be born pink so that our other little boys wouldn’t be afraid to hold their brother. I asked the Lord to let us remember our eternal bond after the baby, whom we decided to name Brycen, was gone.
As the weeks went on, doctors professed shock at baby Brycen’s progression but warned of his certain passing after birth. I felt indescribable heartache, knowing that we would lose him, yet I was also ecstatic that he was still growing. Carrying this son who would not live was a continuous burden; I felt pain whenever others asked about our baby’s gender or due date and I had to pretend that everything was normal. We bought a monitor so we could check his heartbeat daily, always anxious to hear that precious sound. My grief was severe. The Savior’s Atonement gained new meaning for me: I finally understood from experience that Jesus Christ not only suffered for my sins but also felt every sadness, every pain. As my Savior, He truly carried the weight with me so I would never be alone.
At 37 weeks I checked into the hospital, knowing I was officially starting the time clock on Brycen’s life. It was both terrifying and beautiful. The doctors reported that he might live anywhere from 10 minutes to several days. Despite my fears, I felt the Lord’s reassurance. Brycen Cade Florence was born on January 27, 2012. I sobbed the moment he was born—pink, so handsome, so perfect.
Our boys rushed into the room to see and hold their brother; we brought a photographer to capture the moment. Brycen lived only 72 minutes, literally just long enough for each of us to hold and love him. It was the only time we were all together as a family on this earth, but it was everything we had dreamed. The boys couldn’t get enough of their brother, kissing him, singing him songs, and begging to hold him. He even remained long enough to receive a blessing from his father, something my husband had hoped and prayed for.
As a family we have a testimony that “the divine plan of happiness enables family relationships to be perpetuated beyond the grave” and that temple ordinances and covenants allow “families to be united eternally” (“The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” Liahona, Nov. 2010, 129). To us, having an eternal family is everything. The most beautiful part of the gospel is that death will never separate us; we will continue our journeys together.
Through this trial, I have come to know that God is in the details. He cares about us individually. While trials and difficulties will come, God can make them easier to bear. I am now more grateful than ever for my temple sealing to my husband and that our children were born in the covenant. Because of God’s beautiful plan for our families, including the Savior’s infinite sacrifice, we can be together again. I often wonder how I would have withstood this difficult trial without knowing that eternal truth. I am beyond grateful for the testimony I have gained because of Brycen’s short life—God has opened my eyes and heart more fully to His blessings.

“Today is World Freedom Day, which commemorates the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of communist rule in Central and Eastern Europe. It is a day to remember the bravery of valiant men and women who fought, and continue to fight, for freedom throughout the world.
“One such brave couple was Olga and Jirí Snederfler, who provided leadership and support to members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the former Czechoslovakia despite great personal risk and sacrifice. I was assigned to help the Church gain official recognition in that country, and it simply would not have been possible without the Snederflers’ courage and faith to follow the Savior.
“With their help as Czech citizens, we were able to secure meetings with government officials and petition for recognition so that our members in that country could worship openly, instead of in secret. I will never forget one pivotal meeting when Josef Hromadka, the new deputy prime minister of the Republic of Czechoslovakia, promised us that this recognition would come.
“That same day, we traveled to Mount Karlstein, where Elder John A. Widtsoe had dedicated the country for the preaching of the gospel on July 24, 1929. There, I offered a prayer of gratitude for the Lord’s intervention on behalf of the Saints in Czechoslovakia. As I think about Olga and Jirí Snederfler, I am reminded that much of the bravery in the world goes largely unseen and that the Lord often uses the unlikely to accomplish the impossible.”
President Russell M. Nelson, Facebook, Nov. 9, 2021, facebook.com/russell.m.nelson.

Brian, a Latter-day Saint boy, attended a school run by another church. One day the children were being very noisy as the teacher tried to read from the Bible. She closed the Bible and said, “No wonder there are no prophets on the earth today. You children are so naughty that you wouldn’t listen to them anyway.” Brian had an important choice to make. He could remain silent, or he could tell his teacher what he believed. He gathered his courage, quietly raised his hand, and said, “Teacher, there is a prophet on the earth today. He lives in Salt Lake City.” The teacher was very interested in this information and asked him to tell her more about his church.

Speaking of staying on the straight paths, I will never forget an experience I had with a friend in central Utah a few years ago. He had for his hobby mountain lion hunting. With other associates, dependable horses, guns, and well-trained dogs, he would seek to track the lions down, or tree them for capture. One day when I visited his place of business, he had a full-grown hunting dog tied to one of his sheds. “Isn’t he a beauty!” I commented. He responded with “He’s got to go. I can’t be bothered with him.” “What’s the problem?” I continued.

“Since he was a pup, I have trained him to track lions. He knows what I expect. The last time we were out on a three-day hunt, he took off after a deer, then a coyote, and finally some rabbits, and was gone the best part of a full day. He knows he must stay on the trail of the lion to be one of mine. Our business is mountain lions. Yep, he’s for sale pretty cheap.”

How often are we led from the right track by distractions like drugs that cross our paths? Do we sometimes seek the available “rabbit” when the big game is available up the path?

I am sitting across the table from Brother Fuller, a counselor in the bishopric. He phoned two days ago and had that tone in his voice that almost shouted “We have a calling for you!”
I’ve been off my mission for six weeks, and a calling sounds super. No doubt providing a little Christian service would be good for me.
“I’d like to talk with you about a calling, Nathan,” Brother Fuller says after a few minutes of pleasant conversation. “We need a teacher for the CTR six-year-old class. There are 13 children in the class, and Sister Swenson, the teacher, feels that is a little too many for one teacher alone to handle.”
Six-year-old CTRs? Me? Oh no. I do not want this calling. I’d rather serve somewhere else … priesthood chorister, cannery coordinator, the homemaking committee.
“Well, Nathan, what do you think?” Brother Fuller gently nudges me back into reality.
What can I say? For two years one of the things I’ve been teaching people about is the blessings of service.
“It will be fine, Brother Fuller. I’ll do it,” I say.
“Great. We will sustain you on Sunday. Nathan, I want you to know we feel very good about this calling.”
I wish I could say the same thing.
Sister Morrow, a counselor in the Primary, is wrapping up my orientation. “We’re so glad you’ll be teaching. We love having priesthood holders in the Primary. The children will really look up to you,” she says.
She hands me the class roll. Four boys and three girls.
“You only have one child who is not active, Parker Scott.”
“So what about him?” I ask.
Sister Morrow sighs. “A nice little guy. It’s just that his parents don’t come, so Parker doesn’t either. They’re new in the ward; they’ve only been here about four months. We don’t know much about them.”
“Too bad.”
Okay, so maybe I didn’t exactly put a ton of effort into preparing for my first class. I mean, it is about Abinadi, and I’ve only heard the story about a thousand times. So I kind of whip through the lesson manual and figure I can wing it a little.
I stand in front of my class. Wow. They’re so small. Three boys—Robert, Adam, and Zachary—in nice Sunday shirts, two of them wearing bow ties. And three girls—Amelia, Kelsey, and Morgan, all in cute little dresses, shiny shoes, ribbons, and bows in their hair.
“All right, we’re talking about Abinadi,” I say, after a round of introductions. “Abinadi was a prophet in the Book of Mormon. Everyone okay with that?”
I get six puzzled looks, but I decide to push on.
“Well, Abinadi was courageous and when the pressure was on, when he was in wicked King Noah’s court, and when King Noah told him to deny his testimony or be put to death …” The six little kids are squirming. I reach over and grab a picture, one that shows Abinadi testifying in front of King Noah and his priests. “Uh, see … here is what it looked like, according to one artist’s perception.”
One artist’s perception? The wiggles hit my class of six again. Back up, Nathan. You expect them to understand perception? I am beginning to feel a little too warm. Maybe I should have read the lesson a bit more. I nervously glance at the manual and pick up a phrase. “Uh, because of his righteousness, Abinadi was put to death by King Noah.”
I let out a breath of air. Robert raises his hand. “If Abinadi was good, why did he have to die? Wouldn’t Heavenly Father help him to get away?”
“Uh, good question, Robert. It has to do with, well, agency. You all understand what I mean by agency?”
Morgan and Amelia shake their heads. Zachary frowns and looks puzzled.
“Uh, let me start over,” I stammer.
“I wish Sister Swenson was here,” Adam murmurs.
My lesson the following week goes better. The CTRs seem to pay attention for part of it, and nobody begs for the return of Sister Swenson. It helps to read the manual, I realize, and begin preparing early in the week. The third week our lesson is about Ammon and King Lamoni. At the first mention of swords and the first hint of an impending battle, all six of the CTRs, shall I say, immediately focus.
“So Ammon was guarding the flocks when the bad guys come,” I say. “They thought there was only one of him and lots of us. We can take him. First they tried to use their slings and rocks on Ammon, but they couldn’t hit him because the Lord was protecting him.”
Six sets of blue and brown eyes are staring at me. “Next, they tried to use their clubs on him. But Ammon was strong, and he had faith and confidence. When the bad guys got close to him, he cut off their arms with his sword,” I say firmly.
“So he killed some of the bad guys and cut off the arms of others?” Robert asks.
“Yep. That’s the way it happened. Remember, the robbers would have killed Ammon if he didn’t fight them.”
“And then Ammon’s guys took the arms for the king to see?” Robert asks again.
“Yes, Robert.”
There is a long pause as Robert digests this piece of information. Then he lets out his breath slowly.
“Cool!” he says.
Okay, everything is going great with the CTR-6 class. I enjoy teaching. I think about the kids all during the week. I know they like me. They are learning. So am I.
Why then do I not feel quite super about my calling? Something is missing.
After sacrament meeting, on my way to class, Sister Nakamura, the Primary secretary, hands me my roll. “There you go, Nathan. I noticed one of your class members has a birthday this week. Parker Scott.”
“I don’t know Parker Scott,” I say.
“Maybe you should,” she replies cheerfully.
“When is his birthday?”
“Tuesday.”
Guess I know what I’ll be doing Tuesday after work.
Forty-eight hours later, on a warm, starry night, I pull my car to the side of Holly Knoll Drive and squint at the address. Yes, I’m at the right place.
Okay, Nathan, I think, you’ve done this a million times on your mission. Just go to the door, knock, and let the Spirit guide. My heart is pounding as I reach for the door.
A shaft of light pierces the dark evening air and a man—Parker’s father, I assume—stands in front of me, hands on hips.
“Yes?”
“Is this the Scott family?”
“It is. Can I help you with something?”
“Well, I’m Parker’s Primary teacher in church and I came to wish him a happy birthday.”
The man frowns. At the mention of his name, Parker peers around his father at me. “Primary? Church? You sure you’ve got the right place?”
The tone in his voice kind of cools off the summer night.
“Yes, I’m sure. See, I teach the children Parker’s age.”
“Teach them what?”
I began, haltingly. “I teach them about a lot of things. I teach them … to try to choose the right. I teach them about their Father in Heaven. I teach them that the Savior loves them.”
My voice trails off. The man looks at me impassively. From inside the house, I notice someone moving. A woman steps forward to the door.
“Did I hear you are Parker’s Primary teacher?” she asks.
“Yes. My name is Nathan Davis. I’m the CTR-6 teacher.”
“He was telling me what he teaches the kids about,” the man says.
The woman bows her head. “Yes, I know, dear. I know what he wants to teach Parker. It’s okay.” She looks up at me. “I’m Parker’s mother, Karen Scott. I used to teach in the Primary—many years ago, though.”
My confidence picks up. “I’d really like to have Parker come. We have a great class. He’ll make new friends.”
“Yes, I’m sure he would,” says Sister Scott quietly.
“I could pick him up for Primary, if you’d like me to.”
Sister Scott seems lost in her thoughts for a moment. “Thank you, Nathan, but that won’t be necessary.”
My heart sinks. I thought we were getting somewhere.
She looks at me. “When does our ward meet?”
“Our meetings start at 11:30.”
A small smile crosses her face. “It has been too long. Parker, come here, please. There’s someone I’d like you to meet, honey.”
Suddenly, things feel very good.
Sharing time is ours in two weeks. I want it to be awesome.
I look at my six CTRs. “Okay, what shall it be for sharing time?”
Robert almost jets out of his chair, bursting with energy. “I know! I know!” he squeals.
“So, Robert, it looks like you have a great idea. Lay it on us, pal.”
“We need to do Ammon and the bad guys.”
A chorus of nodding heads accompanied by hisses of “Yes!” follows. So Ammon it is, presented by Brother Davis’s CTR-6 class. Of course, there is one big question left. Who is the star? Who plays Ammon?
I ask the question, half expecting a bit of a discussion and disagreement about who should get the starring role. Then I witness a moment of greatness, coming from a brown-haired little boy decked out in a white shirt and red bow tie. Zachary looks at me and says, “I think Parker should be Ammon because he’s new.”
“Do you want to, Parker?” I ask. He nods. “Everyone okay with that?” I ask the rest of the class. They are, and central casting’s job is finished. “Okay, we’ll practice in class next week; then we’ll do it for real the following week.”
It’s Thursday evening, and I’m back at the Scott home. This time I have a Book of Mormon under my arm. I feel like a missionary again. The Scotts know I’m coming. I called a couple of days ago and told them that Parker had a part in a presentation and that I needed their help to pull it off.
Mr. Scott opens the door. He neither smiles nor frowns but invites me in. He sits on the couch, and Sister Scott walks in and joins him.
“As I mentioned, Parker has a part in this skit. He’s playing a man named Ammon, and I think it would be great if you could read the story of Ammon in this book. I marked where it is.” I stretch out my hand and give the Book of Mormon to Mr. Scott. “And if you could help Parker memorize his lines I would appreciate it.”
“Yes, we can do that,” Sister Scott says enthusiastically. “This is great. Parker has really enjoyed your class the last two weeks.”
“It’s great to have him there,” I say. We make small talk for a few more minutes; then I stand up to leave. This time Mr. Scott shakes my hand and says something about it’s nice that I’m taking an interest in his son.
As I walk to my car, I hear Sister Scott calling me.
“You’ve just accomplished something I had dreamed about for many years, but had almost given up hope on,” she tells me. I think her eyes are moist.
“What’s that?” I ask, surprised.
“My husband has a Book of Mormon in his hands for the first time.”
I think I’m as nervous as any Broadway director on opening night. The Primary room is full with children and parents. Sister Scott and her husband are near the back, awaiting our presentation.
After a brief introduction, my class production of “Ammon Guards the Flocks and Cuts off a Bunch of Arms” begins. Parker, dressed in a bathrobe and a sweat band around his head and carrying a cardboard sword, marches toward Kelsey and Adam, who are guarding the flocks.
“I am Ammon,” Parker says in a deep voice. “I fear no one because the Lord is my strength. We will protect the king’s flocks.”
Right on cue, three “bad” guys—Morgan, Zachary, and Adam—appear through the door to the Primary room.
“Oh, look Ammon! There are robbers who will steal the king’s sheep! They will slay us!” cries Robert, looking at the three stuffed sheep brought in as props by members of the class.
“And the king will be mad if we let the bad guys take his flocks!” worries Kelsey. “We must run!”
“Fear not!” says Parker. “Stay, and be of good cheer!”
But Kelsey and Robert run out the door. Parker turns and faces the audience. “They have little faith. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” he says, which I know doesn’t exactly come from the scriptures but gets across the general idea. Morgan, complete with a homemade fake moustache, announces, “Let’s attack! There is but one of him and many of us!” They load up their cardboard slingshots and pretend to fire away at Parker. “We cannot hit him!” says Zachary. “We must fight him with our clubs.”
The great cardboard battle ensues. Accompanied by anguished cries of “Ouch! That hurts!” the arms disappear inside the loose-fitting bathrobes and the vanquished thieves, minus arms, slink away.
About this time, Kelsey and Robert come back into the room, dragging a canvas bag. “We picked up their arms to prove to the king your mightiness,” Kelsey says. “Let us go to the king now.”
The three of them march to the other side of the room where King Lamoni, as played by Amelia, is pleased by the story and the bag of arms. Robert pulls out one of the arms, courtesy of an old doll, to show the suitably impressed king.
“Now tell me of your Great Spirit,” says Amelia, her fake beard quivering. At this point, Parker turns to the congregation and says, “As you know, the rest is history.”
Whew. Sharing time is over. And, in my humble opinion, it was awesome.
I’m back in the room with Brother Fuller. Ricks College has accepted my application, and I’ll be sitting in a classroom in less than a week. Trouble is, I can’t be a CTR teacher when I’m 600 miles away. This time Brother Fuller will release me from my calling. I already said good-bye to my class, which was only about the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
“You’ve done well in the class. We thank you for your efforts,” he says. “You’ve changed lives for the better, which is a teacher’s primary purpose.”
“Thanks, Brother Fuller. That class means a lot to me.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, but I would like to inform you of who will be taking your place. The new teacher is Sister Scott.”
Parker Scott’s mom is the new CTR-6 teacher? It all feels so right.
Two months later I pick up my mail and notice a letter with the scrawled return address of “Parker Scott” in the upper left corner of the envelope. I drop my economics and geology books right there at the curb and quickly open the letter.
“Dear Brother Davis, How are you? I am fine. My mom is our Primary teacher. The missionaries come by and talk to my dad. If he gets baptized, can you be there? Ammon is still my favorite story in the Book of Mormon. We miss you. Love, Parker Scott.”
And for so many good reasons, right there on the edge of the street, I raise my hand high into the air, shout “Yes!” and begin to laugh and cry at the same time.

At the October 1856 general conference, President Brigham Young (1801–77) announced that handcart pioneers were still crossing the plains and that everyone was to help gather supplies for them immediately. Lucy Meserve Smith wrote that women “stripped off their petticoats [large underskirts], stockings, and every thing they could spare, right there in the Tabernacle, and piled [them] into the wagons.”

As the rescued pioneers began to arrive in Salt Lake City, Lucy wrote, “I never took more … pleasure in any labor I ever performed in my life, such a unanimity of feeling prevailed. I only had to go into a store and make my wants known; if it was cloth, it was measured off without charge.”4

Yet, thanks to divine providence, an ember of hope for Koreans began to grow in New York, USA. Syngman Rhee, president of Korea, sent Kim Ho Jik, director of the Suwon Agricultural Experimentation Station, to the United States to learn how to improve nutrition in the Korean diet. Ho Jik chose Cornell University, which had an excellent graduate study program in nutrition. In 1949 he started to pursue a doctoral degree—as well as attend various church meetings around Ithaca, New York, to find the “true church.”1
Ho Jik made friends with a man named Oliver Wayman. Unlike Ho Jik’s other acquaintances, Oliver did not drink or smoke and never swore. He also never worked on Sundays. One day Ho Jik asked Oliver, “What makes you live that way?” In answer to that question, Oliver gave him a book titled The Articles of Faith by Elder James E. Talmage (1862–1933) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Ho Jik read The Articles of Faith within a week and then read the Book of Mormon. He believed both books and told Oliver the Book of Mormon was “more complete and easier to understand than the Bible.”2 Ho Jik accepted the gospel message like dry ground receiving long-awaited rains. His faith grew day by day. He started to receive the missionary lessons and decided to be baptized.
On July 29, 1951, 46-year-old Kim Ho Jik was baptized in the Susquehanna River—he wanted to be baptized near where the Prophet Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery were baptized over 100 years before. When he was coming out of the water, he heard a clear voice saying, “Feed my sheep.” That impression led him to devote the rest of his life to helping the gospel take root in Korea.

I watched Cynthia prance across the playground, followed by three girls who wanted to be popular, like her. Cynthia’s earrings were long and silvery. She wore pink lipstick and bracelets that sounded like chimes.
I had to admit, I was jealous. Cynthia was pretty—and pretty snobby. My friends and I sat on the grass at recess, pointing out every snobby thing she did.
One day, Cynthia wasn’t at school. When I got home, Mom asked, “Do you know Cynthia Harper?”
“Yes. Why?” I asked.
“She had an accident yesterday.”
“Really? What happened?”
“Both of Cynthia’s parents were at work. She forgot her house key, so she tried to open a basement window. She slipped and pushed her arm through the glass.”
I gasped. “Will she be OK?”
“I think so,” Mom said. “She had to have surgery. Mrs. Keller was the one who found her.”
I shuddered thinking about the accident. Then I realized something. “Did you say Mrs. Keller found her?” The Kellers lived on our street.
Mom nodded. “Cynthia’s family lives in the green house.”
I knew Cynthia lived nearby, but I didn’t know she was my neighbor!
The next day, I told my friends about what happened to Cynthia.
“Serves her right,” Caroline said.
I thought about how unhappy Cynthia must be. “No, it doesn’t,” I said. “My mom said she’ll have to wear a cast all summer. She’s lucky she can even move her fingers.”
“Sorry,” Caroline mumbled.
After school that day, I went to my room. My eyes fell on a pair of tiny earrings I had gotten for my birthday that I hadn’t worn yet. An idea came to me. Maybe I could give them to Cynthia.
“What are you thinking?” I asked myself. “She doesn’t know you, and she’d never wear earrings like that.”
But before I knew what I was doing, I was carrying a get-well card and the earrings up the street to the green house.
Cynthia’s mom answered the door. “Is Cynthia here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“She’s right here.” Her mom smiled, and I looked inside to see Cynthia sitting on the couch.
“I’m Kim,” I said. “I live up the street.”
Cynthia smiled. “Hi.”
“I heard about what happened, and I hope you feel better soon.” I gave her the card and earrings and held my breath, waiting for her reaction.
Her eyes lit up. “Thank you! You are so nice!” she exclaimed.
“Um, are you … feeling better?” I stammered.
Cynthia nodded. “It hurts a little. But I’m OK.” She held out her arm so I could see her pink cast.
“Well, see you later,” I said as I hurried out the door.
I skipped all the way home. I knew I had been brave and that I had done the right thing. But most of all, I knew I had been wrong about Cynthia. She wasn’t snobby—my friends and I had been the snobs.
Cynthia and I didn’t become best friends, but every time we saw each other in the hall or at recess we smiled and said hi. A few weeks later, school ended and I moved away. Knowing I had been wrong about Cynthia helped me not to judge others at my new school. Making friends was easier when I remembered that being nice could start with me.

Bishop Keo
David Keo was the bishop of my late teen-aged years. He was quite formidable. He came to our house one Saturday morning to see me. Mom let him in and he knocked on my bedroom door. He said, “Boy, this is Bishop.” I opened the door and he motioned for me to come and sit at the dining room table. When I sat down, he said, “You are going on a mission. This Sunday you will start your paperwork. I will sustain you as the 2nd Counselor in the Young Men’s Presidency and an Assistant Scout Master to Larry Nihipali. You will also be the Deacon’s Quorum advisor. Any questions?”
I said, “No.” And so, it was. And so, I served, in the Ward, and in The Santa Rosa California Mission; the best mission in the world.
Would I have served a mission if Bishop Keo hadn’t come to the house? At that stage in my educational life, maybe, maybe not.
Did I understand what I was getting into by accepting those callings? At that stage in my educational life, No, but I learned quickly that I had to be an example to those 12-year-olds and oddly enough, it kept me in line upon line, upon line, upon line, until I learned.

I went to a conference in President Rex Reeve’s stake. He took me through the building and showed me 2,000 chairs prepared for the people. I asked him how he knew there would be 2,000 people present, and he answered, “We sent the home teachers out to invite everyone to come, and they have given us their report. They have informed us that 2,000 people will be here tomorrow.” Evidently the word got out that I would be one of the speakers because seventy-five of those 2,000 didn’t show up. But they had an attendance of 49 percent and it has since grown much higher.

After four years of trying to have another baby, Anna (names have been changed) and her husband were grateful for the birth of a daughter. But Anna found that adapting to the needs of a newborn, in addition to caring for her sons, was overwhelming. She found herself sinking into depression in spite of her best attempts to manage everything and maintain a sense of normalcy. Anna was struggling with postpartum depression.
Other Helpful Outlets. Other activities might also be helpful in managing and overcoming postpartum depression:
Listening to uplifting music.
Reading the scriptures and other inspiring books. Anna reported that she especially enjoyed reading 2 Nephi 4, which documents Nephi’s feelings of discouragement and doubt, then his growing recognition of the love of the Lord for him: “My God hath been my support; he hath led me through mine afflictions” (2 Nephi 4:20).
Keeping a journal. Rachel said, “As I wrote in my journal, I was able to articulate my feelings of deep despair. It helped me to become more aware of what seemed to trigger feelings of depression. It also helped me begin to count my blessings.”
Praying for help and comfort. Anna said, “Being depressed made it harder for me to feel the comfort of the Holy Spirit I so desperately needed. I tried to challenge the negative voices that left me feeling weaker and doubting my capacity to overcome my negative emotions.” Johanna asked herself and the Lord this question as she engaged in personal prayer and contemplation, “Heavenly Father, what am I supposed to learn from this?”
Recognizing that we can learn from our trials can strengthen our faith, even as we are in the midst of them. God does not leave us alone in our struggle to find hope. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles counseled: “To any who may be struggling to see that light and find that hope, I say: Hold on. Keep trying. God loves you.”5 And He does. Sister Patricia Holland, Elder Holland’s wife, once invited us to return to “the wholeness of our soul, that unity in our very being that balances the demanding and inevitable diversity of life.”6
Anna explained the process she went through: “As I struggled to overcome postpartum depression, I sought to get beyond the darkness and into the light, the light of the Son of God. I wept as I read Isaiah 53:3–4, understanding fully for the first time that the Savior was ‘a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. … Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.’ I held on to the promise that the Savior was my personal Savior, that He had been sent to ‘give unto [us] beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness’ (Isaiah 61:3). As I looked toward the Savior, I realized more fully that He knew my pain, that He could sensitively succor me as I reached out to Him.”

Right after I was married, I was called as home teacher to four families. The father of one was active but not spiritually converted. The young husband in another wasn’t a member of the Church and wouldn’t attend with his new bride, who was a member. The third couple was inactive—even though the husband was formerly in a stake presidency and the wife had been a stake Primary president. The fourth family, the Smiths, was happily very active in the Church: the father was on the stake high council, and the mother was the ward Relief Society president.
The third couple, we learned, had become inactive because they had not felt a part of the ward. We convinced them that we were their friends and were interested in them. Then we helped the wife see that the Church needed her special talents of teaching children. She began attending Sunday School and later accepted a calling as a Sunday School teacher. When my wife was asked to bake cookies for the ward Christmas party, we asked this couple if they would make the cookies, and then we invited them to come to the party as our guests. When they moved to a new ward later, they didn’t become inactive again but remained active.

I almost talked myself out of going that evening. I knew that a night of remembrance might help me cope with the loss of my mother, but I also knew that the evening would bring tears as I continued to grieve and mourn her passing.
As the hour for the night of remembrance drew near, I found myself getting ready to go despite my earlier hesitations. I had decided that being there would be good for me.
The night of remembrance, which honored several people who had recently passed away, was held by the funeral home that handled my mother’s burial arrangements. Other than the funeral home director and his family, I knew none of the people in the room. During the evening, each deceased person’s name was read, and a family representative lit a small candle in memory of that person.
After the service, I stood up to make my way to the refreshments. Those who had sat behind me had all left except for a frail lady attached to a breathing apparatus sitting beside her walker. I felt her sadness and pain. I also felt that I needed to give her a hug.
I did not know how she would feel about a stranger giving her a hug, but I followed this simple prompting. I came up to her with my arms outstretched. She reached both her arms toward me and pulled me down to her. She kissed my cheek and said, “Thank you for knowing I needed a hug. You are an angel.” We then visited for a few moments.
This experience cemented in my mind and soul the reason I needed to be there. Would someone else have given this woman a hug that evening if I had not gone? I will never know, but I do know that I was prompted to hug her, and because I did so, we were both richly blessed.

It had all begun under the stars and the moon one night in Wyoming in a mad flight of spinning wheels and flying shadows known forever after as the “midnight ride of the Orem 15th.” The quorum was on a camping trip and a few priests brought along their motorcycles. One night about bedtime their adviser, Dave Anderson, jumped into the saddle, called his cohorts to horse, and they flew away over mountains and moonlit meadows like so many Paul Reveres. The night seemed to be alive. More animals than they had ever seen stood watching them pass as if hypnotized by the string of moving lights.
They got back to camp about 2:00 A.M., feeling that they were much more than just a few people assigned to the same quorum. They were friends.
Fired by the enthusiasm of the midnight riders, the whole quorum joined in, and in the weeks that followed they framed a lot of territory between handlebars.

As I described in my childhood experience, the Holy Ghost can help you by warning you in advance of physical and spiritual dangers. I learned again of the important warning role of the Holy Ghost while I served in the Area Presidency in Japan.
During this time, I worked closely with President Reid Tateoka of the Japan Sendai Mission. As part of his usual mission routine, President Tateoka planned a meeting for missionary leaders in the southern portion of his mission. A few days prior to the meeting, President Tateoka had an impression, a feeling in his heart, to invite all missionaries of that zone to the leadership meeting, instead of the prescribed small number of elder and sister leaders.
When he announced his intention, he was reminded that this meeting was not designed for all missionaries but only for mission leaders. However, setting convention aside in order to follow the prompting he had received, he invited all missionaries serving in several coastal cities, including the city of Fukushima, to the meeting. On the appointed day, March 11, 2011, the missionaries gathered together for the expanded mission meeting in the inland city of Koriyama.
During this meeting a 9.0-magnitude earthquake and tsunami struck the region of Japan where the Japan Sendai Mission is located. Tragically, many coastal cities—including those from which the missionaries had been gathered—were devastated and suffered great loss of life. And the city of Fukushima suffered a subsequent nuclear event.
Although the meetinghouse where the missionaries were meeting that day was damaged by the earthquake, through following the promptings of the Holy Ghost, President and Sister Tateoka and all missionaries were safely assembled. They were out of harm’s way and miles from the devastation of the tsunami and the nuclear fallout.

Elder Perkins also shared a tender and beautiful example of this strengthening power when he was in severe pain in his battle with cancer: “I sat with my wife, intending to offer a routine blessing on our lunch. Instead, all I could do was simply weep, ‘Heavenly Father, please help me. I am so sick.’ For the next 20 to 30 seconds, I was encircled in His love. I was given no reason for my illness, no indication of the ultimate outcome, and no relief from the pain. I just felt of His pure love, and that was and is enough.”8