Gospel Story Finder

I understand Joseph Smith’s need to pray. I had always prayed before I went to bed at night. When I became a teenager I didn’t stop believing, but I stopped taking the time to pray. One day that changed.
I had gone on a campout with some young men, and one of my good friends and I were in a tent together. I jumped into my sleeping bag, and I looked over to see my friend kneeling on his sleeping bag and praying. When he got into his sleeping bag, he said, “Lynn, don’t you pray?”
I answered, “Not as much as I should.” And I made up my mind then that no one would question again whether I prayed.
I also understand Joseph Smith’s wanting to be alone as he prayed. On another occasion a few years later, I was in a similar situation, this time with a young man I didn’t know. I was nervous about praying in front of him, so I waited for him to go to bed so I could kneel and pray without him watching me.
But he wouldn’t go to bed, so I finally knelt and prayed and got into my sleeping bag. When he got into bed a few minutes later, he said, “Lynn, do you always pray like that?”
“Yes, I try to. If I ever hurry and get into bed forgetting to pray, I get out of bed and kneel and pray.”
He said, “I should do that.”
I am so grateful to the Prophet Joseph for his courage and faith to ask and his preparation to believe the things he came to know. I love the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Through the revelations of Joseph Smith, I came to understand my need for the Savior. I knew about Jesus Christ, and I knew He was the Son of God. But the more I’ve come to understand how the Atonement works, the greater my testimony and love of the Savior is. Only His Atonement can allow us to be forgiven of our sins. We can repent, but that does not forgive us; it only qualifies us for His forgiveness.
We need to gain a testimony of who we are, to know we are spirit children of our Father in Heaven. When we know that, we can feel His love for us and His great desire for us to return to live with Him. When we have truly repented and He forgives us, we become clean. We become new creatures, as if the sin had never been committed. And when we understand that, then we really come to know Him.

Let me share a story with you suggesting how soon and how unexpectedly those tomorrows can come and in some cases how little time you may have to make hasty, belated preparation.
On the afternoon of Wednesday, September 30, 1998, just two years ago last week, a Little League football team in Inkom, Idaho, was out on the field for its midweek practice. They had completed their warm-ups and were starting to run a few plays from scrimmage. Dark clouds were gathering, as they sometimes do in the fall, and it began to rain lightly, but that was of no concern to a group of boys who loved playing football.
Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, an absolutely deafening crack of thunder split the air, inseparable from the flash of lightning that illuminated, literally electrified, the entire scene.
At that very moment a young friend of mine, A. J. Edwards, then a deacon in the Portneuf Ward of the McCammon Idaho Stake, was ready for the ball on a handoff that was sure to be a touchdown in this little intersquad bit of horseplay. But the lightning that had illuminated earth and sky struck A. J. Edwards from the crown of his football helmet to the soles of his shoes.
The impact of the strike stunned all the players, knocking a few to the ground, leaving one player temporarily without his sight and virtually all the rest of the players dazed and shaken. Instinctively they started running for the concrete pavilion adjacent to the park. Some of the boys began to cry. Many of them fell to their knees and began to pray. Through it all, A. J. Edwards lay motionless on the field.
Brother David Johnson of the Rapid Creek Ward, McCammon Idaho Stake, rushed to the player’s side. He shouted to coach and fellow ward member Rex Shaffer, “I can’t get a pulse. He’s in cardiac arrest.” These two men, rather miraculously both trained emergency medical technicians, started a life-against-death effort in CPR.
Cradling A. J.’s head as the men worked was the young defensive coach of the team, 18-year-old Bryce Reynolds, a member of the Mountain View Ward, McCammon Idaho Stake. As he watched Brother Johnson and Brother Shaffer urgently applying CPR, he had an impression. I am confident it was a revelation from heaven in every sense of the word. He remembered vividly a priesthood blessing that the bishop had once given his grandfather following an equally tragic and equally life-threatening accident years earlier. Now, as he held this young deacon in his arms, he realized that for the first time in his life he needed to use his newly conferred Melchizedek Priesthood in a similar way. In anticipation of his 19th birthday and forthcoming call to serve a mission, young Bryce Reynolds had been ordained an elder just 39 days earlier.
Whether he audibly spoke the words or only uttered them under his breath, Elder Reynolds said: “A. J. Edwards, in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the power and authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood which I hold, I bless you that you will be OK. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” As Bryce Reynolds closed that brief but fervent blessing offered in the language of an 18-year-old, A. J. Edwards drew his first renewed breath.
The ongoing prayers, miracles, and additional priesthood blessings of that entire experience—including a high-speed ambulance drive to Pocatello and a near-hopeless LifeFlight to the burn center at the University of Utah—all of that the Edwards family can share with us at a later time. It is sufficient to say that a very healthy and very robust A. J. Edwards is in the audience tonight with his father as my special guests. I also recently talked on the telephone with Elder Bryce Reynolds, who has been serving faithfully in the Texas Dallas Mission for the past 17 months. I love these two wonderful young men.

1 That’s a great jack-o’-lantern, Wendy! Want me to help you put in the candle?
Thanks, David.
2 David, when you said you wanted to join the Mormons, I gave my permission reluctantly. I thought that you were making a big mistake.
I know.
3 Well, I was wrong. You’ve become an even better son and brother.
Thanks, Dad. I’m just trying to be the kind of person you taught me to be.
4 I think maybe we were afraid you’d become a fanatic and write us all off as sinners.
How could I ever do that? You’re the greatest!
5 Well, it’s pretty easy for people to focus on their differences.
It says right in the Articles of Faith that we should respect all religions. Joseph Smith knew what it was like when people didn’t.
6 So, what do you think?
Outstanding! What do you think?
Likewise!

The final experience I’d like to share is about repentance. After I had finished taking all the missionary lessons, I was still not convinced I needed to change anything in my life. It was Elder Cutler, a young, confident missionary with limited Spanish, who one day said, “Joaquin, let’s read together Alma 42, and we will include your name as we read it.”

I thought it was silly, but I did as Elder Cutler asked and read in verse 1: “And now, my son [Joaquin], I perceive there is somewhat more which doth worry your mind, which ye cannot understand.” Oh! The book was speaking to me.

And we read in verse 2: “Now behold, my son [Joaquin], I will explain this thing unto thee,” and then the Fall of Adam was described.

And then in verse 4: “And thus we see, that there was a time granted unto [Joaquin] to repent.”

We continued reading slowly, verse by verse, until we reached the last three verses. Then I was struck by a powerful force. The book spoke directly to me, and I started to cry as I read, “And now, [Joaquin,] my son, I desire that ye should let these things trouble you no more, and only let your sins trouble you, with that trouble which shall bring you … unto repentance” (verse 29).

I realize now that I had expected to receive revelation without paying the price. Until then I had never truly spoken to God, and the idea of speaking to someone who wasn’t present seemed foolish. I had to humble myself and do what I was being asked to do even if, in my worldly mind, it sounded silly.

That day I opened my heart to the Spirit, desired to repent, and wanted to be baptized! Before that moment, I had thought of repentance as something negative, associated only with sin and wrongdoing, but suddenly I saw it in a different light—as something positive that cleared the path to growth and happiness.

Elder Cutler is here today, and I want to thank him for opening my eyes. Every decision I have made in my life since then has been influenced by that moment when I humbled myself and prayed for forgiveness, and the Atonement of Jesus Christ on my behalf became part of my life.

“Wow,” Danny Stevens said, just loud enough for those around him to hear. “My prayers have been answered.”
It was his first day at institute class. Most of the other LDS men on campus were enrolled in a missionary preparation class. By taking the Book of Mormon class scheduled at the same hour, he ended up as one of only three guys in a class full of girls.
“Maybe your prayers have been answered, but some of us are wondering about ours,” a green-eyed girl sitting in the back joked. She was cute, and he noticed the desk next to her was empty so he sat down and leaned toward her. “Hi, I’m Danny, and I think I’m the answer to your prayers.”
“I’m Alicia,” she said, “and I guess I’ll have to be more careful what I pray for.”
“Very funny.”
“Thank you.”
Danny didn’t know if he’d like having to read the Book of Mormon—he was still trying to decide how serious he was about all this religion stuff. But he definitely liked the idea of meeting girls.
“So what’s this teacher, Brother Spencer, like?” he asked. “Judging from all the sisters here he must be some kind of hunk or something, huh?”
“Well, I think he’s very handsome, and the best teacher I’ve ever had. But I also know that he’s happily married.”
Just then a tall, thin, balding man about 50 years old walked in. He was wearing an oversized suit and carried an old briefcase that looked more like a suitcase. It took him a while to get organized and he talked to himself as he went.
“Remind me to ask what his secret is,” Danny whispered.
“Shhh,” she said, obviously intent on hearing everything Brother Spencer said.
“Brothers and sisters,” he began, “I want you all to hold up your copies of the Book of Mormon. Come on, hold ’em high. Good, everyone has one. As you know, you are required to purchase an inexpensive copy just for this class. Now, I want you to look through them and notice how nice and white and clean they are.”
Danny leafed through his dark blue covered copy and came across one of the illustrations. He still couldn’t figure out how the Nephites developed those huge arms.
“Your grade this semester depends on three things: one, your performance on the Friday quizzes; two, your participation in our class discussions; and three, the degree to which your beautiful, white Book of Mormon has become used. I want you to study it thoroughly—to write in the margins, to underline important verses, to read and re-read and wear it out with your searching. Your Book of Mormon may look like this after you have completed your class with me.” He held up a book that had been used so much it was tattered.
“Now, the student who owned this Book of Mormon received an A for my class last year. I expect you to put the same kind of effort into your study—not to wear out the pages, but to read it, use it, and love it as I do. Oh, and no putting it in the dishwasher the last week of class and expecting that to fool me. I can tell the difference between a book that’s been used and one that’s been abused. Now let’s get to it. First Nephi, chapter one, verse one. ‘I Nephi …’”
After class, Danny turned to Alicia. “This Brother Spencer is a good teacher. I can see how he might be a favorite of yours, but I don’t know where you get the idea he’s handsome. He’s tall and skinny, and looks a lot like a bird, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, maybe you’re right. I might be a bit biased. But I’ve got to talk with him for a second—come with me?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Danny said as he quickly gathered up his books.
Brother Spencer was putting his lesson manual and scriptures back into his briefcase. When he saw her, he broke into a big smile. “Hi, Alicia, how’d I do?”
“Perfect as always,” she said. “Dad, I’d like you to meet my newest friend, Danny. Danny, this is my dad.”
“Dad?” Danny nearly choked.
“We’re going to be study partners for this class, is that okay?”
“Sure,” Danny and Brother Spencer said in unison.
Brother Spencer paused, “I don’t know, Dan; she’s pretty sharp. Do you think you can keep up?”
“She’s sharp all right. She was just helping me understand the finer points of repentance and forgiveness, but I think I can keep up.”
“Then get to it, kids. Make it count.”
The next four months went by in a blur for Danny. Brother Spencer’s class was wonderful. Every class was filled with new information. His excitement was contagious, and the discussions were so engrossing he often forgot to give the promised Friday quizzes, which was fine with the members of the class. Danny learned a lot about the Book of Mormon in Brother Spencer’s class. Then there was Alicia’s class. At first he thought that the idea of studying with her was just a good excuse to spend time with a girl he liked, but she had different ideas. They would take turns reading the chapters aloud, several verses each. Then they would compare, cross-reference, research, and learn all the important points of the chapters they were assigned. He loved the class, and he loved being with Alicia. By the end of the semester, they had read to the end of Alma 30, and Danny was in love.
After Christmas vacation, Danny announced that during the holidays, he had met with his bishop and was preparing the paperwork for a mission call. Alicia threw her arms around him and gave him a big hug. “I’m so happy for you!” she said, then quickly pulled away and grabbed his hand in a formal missionary handshake. “Oops,” she said, “I forgot. Now that you’re going to be a missionary, I’ll have to keep my distance.”
“But I haven’t received my call yet,” he protested.
“I don’t know. We can’t be too careful,” she said with mock seriousness. “Oh, all right,” she smiled and hugged him again.
Winter semester was even better than the fall for Danny. He’d enrolled in a missionary preparation class, and Brother Spencer’s class on the second half of the Book of Mormon was just as good as the previous semester. But this time, when they would study together, instead of holding a highlighter, he and Alicia held hands.
Near the end of the school year, the class was discussing the last few chapters in Moroni. Brother Spencer made the comment that according to Moroni 7, verse 6 [Moro. 7:6], it’s not enough just to do something right; it’s important to do things for the right reason as well.
The comment struck a chord with Danny.
Since he met Alicia, he had read the Book of Mormon, eliminated some bad habits, and decided to serve a mission. But what if I did all those things just because I love Alicia, he thought. He thought about it for several days and finally went to speak with Brother Spencer.
“If I’ve done all these things just because I care for Alicia, what good are they?” he asked.
Brother Spencer thought for a moment and then replied, “Sometimes you have to do the right thing for a while before you begin to feel the right motivation. I know I’m always quoting scriptures to you, but remember Alma 32:27, where it says, ‘if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you?’ and then it goes on about planting the seed and testing it? And think about John 7:17: ‘If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine.’ The fact that you are struggling with this question demonstrates to me that your intent is righteous. Think about what your motivation is right now. Then you can decide if your intent is good and your actions will be accepted of the Lord. Tell me, Dan, do you love Alicia enough to spend two years in the Lord’s service to make yourself worthy of her?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“There is nothing wrong with your interest in Alicia leading you to do what is right. But I think your willingness to serve a mission comes from your testimony and faith.”
By the last day of class, Danny’s and Alicia’s books looked wonderfully worn. Nearly every page was painted in colorful highlighter with neat little notes and comments in ink jammed in the margins. The bindings were broken and tape kept the covers from falling off. Brother Spencer went to each student’s desk for an “inspection” of their copies of the Book of Mormon.
“Well done, Brother Stevens,” said Brother Spencer when Danny showed him his copy. “Do you think you deserve an A?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“I do too. Congratulations, and congratulations on your mission call. Where are you going?”
“The Netherlands. I enter the MTC in three weeks.”
“Wonderful. You’ll be a terrific missionary. I’ll look forward to seeing you in my classes in two years then.”
“Sure, Brother Spencer, I’ll be here. Thanks.”
After class, Alicia was waiting for him just outside the classroom. It was the last day of finals, and Danny had to leave to return to California that afternoon.
As soon as they got back to Danny’s apartment, his ride was waiting outside. Alicia helped him carry his things out to the car. After everything was loaded, Alicia handed him a package, gift wrapped and tied with a bow.
“This is a thank-you gift for being my study partner and making this year so wonderful. Promise me you’ll wait until you’re on the road before you open it,” she said.
“Sure. See you in two years.”
They gently kissed good-bye.
As soon as they were on the road outside of town, Danny opened his gift. Inside was a new copy of the Book of Mormon. On the first page was the inscription: Your grade, Elder Jones, depends on how much it looks used, worn, and marked up when you return. Now get to it. Make it count. I love you, Alicia.
He thought about her and the mission that would start in a few weeks as he turned the first few pages. He retrieved a highlighter from his backpack. “First Nephi, chapter one, verse one,” he said aloud.
“I Nephi …” and began reading again.

I made a series of wrong choices my sophomore year of high school. Those choices led to serious consequences and unhappiness, and I decided to use my summer break to begin making changes. When school started again, I ate lunch in a bathroom stall or empty hallway to avoid the bad relationships waiting to welcome me back.
I had never felt so alone.
Then God gave me a gift: He sent me Jen. She never judged me for my mistakes but instead encouraged me to keep moving in the right direction. Knowing she would be at school helped me continue to read my scriptures and nurture my testimony. By the time graduation came, I had proven to myself that I was committed to change.
I wonder sometimes where I would be today if Jen hadn’t reached out to me. Could I have stuck to my principles without her? Luckily, I will never know because she was there with her whole heart, ready and willing to help me.

Armstrong Central Junior High School is one Apple computer richer thanks to Jared Tolman, of the Freeport Ward, Pittsburgh East Stake. The seventh grader won the computer for his school by placing first in the Best Overall category at the annual computer competition held at Indiana University of Pennsylvania.
This was no small feat, since the contest included 6th–12th graders. Jared’s entry, entitled “Calcu-Draw,” allows the user to draw shapes and select colors by giving a few simple directions.
Working with computers is not the only focus in Jared’s life. He also likes serving as a deacon, playing soccer and Nintendo, Scouting, and collecting rocks.

A classic account of judging by appearance was printed in a national magazine many years ago. It is a true account—one which you may have heard but which bears repeating.
A woman by the name of Mary Bartels had a home directly across the street from the entrance to a hospital clinic. Her family lived on the main floor and rented the upstairs rooms to outpatients at the clinic.
One evening a truly awful-looking old man came to the door asking if there was room for him to stay the night. He was stooped and shriveled, and his face was lopsided from swelling—red and raw. He said he’d been hunting for a room since noon but with no success. “I guess it’s my face,” he said. “I know it looks terrible, but my doctor says it could possibly improve after more treatments.” He indicated he’d be happy to sleep in the rocking chair on the porch. As she talked with him, Mary realized this little old man had an oversized heart crowded into that tiny body. Although her rooms were filled, she told him to wait in the chair and she’d find him a place to sleep.
At bedtime Mary’s husband set up a camp cot for the man. When she checked in the morning, the bed linens were neatly folded and he was out on the porch. He refused breakfast, but just before he left for his bus, he asked if he could return the next time he had a treatment. “I won’t put you out a bit,” he promised. “I can sleep fine in a chair.” Mary assured him he was welcome to come again.
In the several years he went for treatments and stayed in Mary’s home, the old man, who was a fisherman by trade, always had gifts of seafood or vegetables from his garden. Other times he sent packages in the mail.
When Mary received these thoughtful gifts, she often thought of a comment her next-door neighbor made after the disfigured, stooped old man had left Mary’s home that first morning. “Did you keep that awful-looking man last night? I turned him away. You can lose customers by putting up such people.”
Mary knew that maybe they had lost customers once or twice, but she thought, “Oh, if only they could have known him, perhaps their illnesses would have been easier to bear.”
After the man passed away, Mary was visiting with a friend who had a greenhouse. As she looked at her friend’s flowers, she noticed a beautiful golden chrysanthemum but was puzzled that it was growing in a dented, old, rusty bucket. Her friend explained, “I ran short of pots, and knowing how beautiful this one would be, I thought it wouldn’t mind starting in this old pail. It’s just for a little while, until I can put it out in the garden.”
Mary smiled as she imagined just such a scene in heaven. “Here’s an especially beautiful one,” God might have said when He came to the soul of the little old man. “He won’t mind starting in this small, misshapen body.” But that was long ago, and in God’s garden how tall this lovely soul must stand!

Dave, 27, had long dreamed of going into advertising. His father was an excellent graphic designer in Los Angeles. Dave would spend hours talking to his father about the business. He would help with pasteups and layouts. He had a natural eye and quickly developed the skills to be a fine designer. When he went to BYU, he tried to find a company willing to hire him, but he had no luck. So he decided to see if he could create his own job.
He contacted a printing shop and found they occasionally needed design work. He visited companies he thought would benefit by his artistic talents. He found school organizations and clubs willing to pay for a flyer or poster. He also found companies needing an artist for advertisements and other business needs. Soon Dave was very busy, and the work he was doing helped his schoolwork, too.
After graduation, Dave went to work for a major advertising agency.

“They expelled me from school because I’m a Mormon,” said seven-year-old Raúl Aquino Gonzales. That may seem like a big price for one so young to pay. But Raúl doesn’t think so—even though he was happy at the school, had lots of friends there, and loved his teacher.
Raúl was a first grader in a religious school in a small town in Paraguay—and was the only Latter-day Saint in the school. One day, he said, “People started criticizing the Church without knowing anything about it. They were saying things that aren’t so.” Raúl—a likable, outgoing boy—felt he couldn’t just sit there without saying anything. “I tried to defend the Church by telling them they were wrong,” he explained. “I was expelled because I wouldn’t conform.”
Now Raúl, still a first grader, is enrolled in a different school. “I’ve already told the people at the new school that I’m a Mormon,” he said. And with a grin, he added: “But they didn’t expel me!” His best friend in his new class is also a member of the Church.
Each day, all the boys must wear long-sleeved white shirts and ties to school. As Raúl sat on his front porch talking about his experiences, he was still wearing his white shirt and tie. He looked and sounded very much like a missionary—even though he is still too young to be baptized!
“Ever since I met the missionaries,” Raúl said, “I’ve wanted to be like them. I’ve never hidden the fact that I’m a Mormon.”
“He talks about the Church all the time, everywhere he goes,” said his mother, Glaides. “When he visits the neighbors, he talks about the Church. And he is very open with people—he’s not afraid to talk to anybody.
“Once he saw a neighbor drinking alcohol,” she said, “and he politely told the man that he shouldn’t be drinking it.” (Raúl is trying to learn to be tactful and courteous while defending the principles of the gospel.)
In his new school, the students say a prayer each morning. “But they don’t pray the way we do,” Raúl said. “They say a memorized prayer, and sometimes they pray to the Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus.
“Once I asked if I could offer the prayer. I folded my arms, shut my eyes, and bowed my head—and I prayed to Heavenly Father. I thanked Him for the beautiful day and for my new school, where I can study peacefully. I asked Him to bless my teacher and all of my classmates. I prayed especially that one boy who was sick would be able to return soon. Then I closed in the name of Jesus Christ.”
After school each day, Raúl changes out of his white shirt and tie and puts on other clothes. Some days, he helps his mother in her small store. Other days, he stays home to help care for his three-year-old brother, Luis Angel, and his one-year-old sister, Luciana Andrea.
He loves to climb the trees in his yard. He helps his brother and sister pick up nuts that have fallen to the ground; then he cracks open the shells on a rock, and they all enjoy the treat. Later they play with their pet rabbits and feed the pig out in the backyard.
Inside, Raúl helps tidy up the house. On the walls are pictures of his parents wearing white clothes, standing in front of the São Paulo Temple. The pictures were taken just a month and a half earlier, when his parents took the sixteen-hour bus ride to the temple to be sealed. Brother and Sister Aquino hope to be able to take Raúl, Luis Angel, and Luciana Andrea with them to be sealed as a family the next time they go to the temple.
Raúl and his family live in the small Paraguayan town of Piquete Cué. In the nearby town of Limpio, there is a beautiful LDS meetinghouse where a ward meets. But each Sunday, Raúl and his family pass the Limpio Ward meetinghouse on their two-hour bus ride to the town of Villa Hayes. There they attend a tiny branch that meets in a small rented house. Why don’t they go to the ward that is so much closer to their home?
“Because,” said Raúl’s father, Luciano, who works as an industrial engineer, “there are so few members in the Villa Hayes Branch that they really need us there.” Brother Aquino is first counselor in the branch presidency. Sister Aquino has been Relief Society president and now teaches a Primary class.
Raúl attends Primary and loves to learn more about the Book of Mormon. “I don’t know how to read it yet,” he said. “But my mamá and papá read it to me.”
Raúl often bears his testimony in sacrament meeting. He told the branch members recently that he’d had a headache, but when he prayed, it went away.
He also remembers the time his dad was seriously sick. Raúl’s mother thought he was going to die. She rode a bus to where the missionaries lived to ask them to give him a blessing. They weren’t home, so she left them a message. When they arrived several hours later, Raúl’s father was so sick that he could hardly talk. The missionaries gave him a blessing, and within half an hour, he was up and feeling much better.
“I really want my eighth birthday to come so I can be baptized,” Raúl said. “And I want to be a missionary.”
Raúl already is a missionary. “I know that the Book of Mormon and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are true,” he said. “I would tell the children all over the world to love everyone—especially the children in the streets who don’t have a home. They make me cry a lot. Be thankful to Heavenly Father and also to your parents. Love the Church, take the sacrament, and always pray.”
Then Raúl climbed up his favorite tree. From his leafy perch, he waved good-bye.

In the spring of 1844, Parley P. Pratt and most of the other members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles were serving missions in the eastern United States. In June, Elder Pratt felt inspired to return to Nauvoo, Illinois. On the way, he heard that Joseph and Hyrum Smith had been martyred at Carthage, Illinois. “I felt so weighed down with sorrow and the powers of darkness that it was painful for me to converse or speak to any one.”*
Now that great leader was gone. As Parley approached Nauvoo, he was worried. He didn’t know if Brigham Young, the President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, or any of the other members of the Quorum were there. What should he tell the people? Should he tell them to flee from Nauvoo? Or should they stay and complete the temple? Parley prayed to know what to do. “On a sudden the Spirit of God came upon me and filled my heart with joy and gladness indescribable. … The Spirit said unto me: ‘Go and say unto my people in Nauvoo, that they shall continue to pursue their daily duties and take care of themselves. … Exhort them that they continue to build the House of the Lord which I have commanded them to build in Nauvoo.’”
At Nauvoo Elder Pratt found that the people had already resumed work on the temple under the direction of John Taylor and Willard Richards, two other members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles who had been in jail with the Prophet when he was killed. The three men worked together to keep the people united and at peace until the return of President Young and the other members of the Quorum.

Following Thanksgiving time some years ago, I received a letter from a widow whom I had known in the stake where I served in the presidency. She had just returned from a dinner sponsored by her bishopric. Her words reflect the peace she felt and the gratitude which filled her heart:

“Dear President Monson,

“I am living in Bountiful now. I miss the people of our old stake, but let me tell you of a wonderful experience I have had. In early November all the widows and older people received an invitation to come to a lovely dinner. We were told not to worry about transportation since this would be provided by the older youth in the ward.

“At the appointed hour, a very nice young man rang the bell and took me and another sister to the stake center. He stopped the car, and two other young men walked with us to the chapel where the young ladies took us to where we removed our wraps—then into the cultural hall, where we sat and visited for a few minutes. Then they took us to the tables, where we were seated on each side by either a young woman or a young man. Then we were served a lovely Thanksgiving dinner and afterward provided a choice program.

“After the program we were given our dessert—either apple or pumpkin pie. Then we left, and on the way out we were given a plastic bag with sliced turkey and two rolls. Then the young men took us home. It was such a nice, lovely evening. Most of us shed a tear or two for the love and respect we were shown.

“President Monson, when you see young people treat others like these young people did, I feel the Church is in good hands.”

A number of years ago, my son Nelson called me on Christmas Eve. The week before, an attorney who did not speak Spanish had asked him to serve as an interpreter. The attorney’s client, an older man who did not speak English, was requesting custody of his grandchildren.
After the hearing, Nelson wished the client merry Christmas. The man replied that Christmas that year would be a sad time. He was struggling financially to support his family. In addition, his 29-year-old daughter had just passed away, leaving behind five little children, the youngest just two years old. Their father was in jail, so the client and his wife would be taking in their grandchildren.
Moved by the man’s situation, both Nelson and the attorney decided not to charge him for their services. Then Nelson asked for the names and ages of the children and for the man’s address.
That night, Nelson couldn’t sleep as he thought about how he could help the family. As he knelt and fervently prayed about them, he felt inspired to write a letter, explaining the family’s situation, sharing the names and ages of the children, and asking for donated gifts. The next day he distributed copies of the letter to the judges, attorneys, and other workers at the courthouse.
The response was so great that he soon filled his car’s trunk and seats with gifts. Those who had no time to purchase gifts donated money for the family.
“Mamá,” Nelson said, “there are a lot of good people in the world. If you could just see how they responded! I requested just one gift for each child, but many more were donated.”
Nelson arrived at the family’s home Christmas Eve. The children were excited and happy as they helped him unload the gifts from his car. Their grandfather and grandmother just shook their heads in disbelief.
When Nelson sat down to rest for a minute before leaving, the two-year-old approached him and climbed onto his lap. Then, touching Nelson’s face affectionately, he asked, “Are you my daddy?”
With that, Nelson wept, thankful to those who had helped brighten the family’s Christmas.
“Mamá,” he said, “there is no greater joy than serving others. I’m thankful to have been an instrument in God’s hands to bless this good family.”
Nelson’s joy was a reflection of the Savior’s teaching that “it is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35).

Hurry! Hurry! Emily walked down the long, gray hallway. Passengers clogged up the narrow corridor. Come on—hurry! I want to see my mom! Emily stood on her tiptoes, trying to see, but all she could see were backs, shoulders, and heads. Finally she came to the doorway. A warm feeling washed over her as she saw the familiar face of her mother.
“Emily!” Mom waved and ran up to gather Emily in a hug. “You’re home! How was it?”
“Good.”
“How did you like the village? How was your flight?”
Emily’s bottom lip began to tremble.
“Uh-oh,” Mom said, sensing Emily was near tears. “You’re probably exhausted from the trip. Well, you’re home now, and Dad’s waiting in the car.”
“Well, hello there, kiddo!” Dad said when he saw Emily. “Welcome home!”
Mom got into the car with Emily while Dad went for her luggage. From the vent on the dashboard warm air blew into the car. It was August, but the Alaskan sun was buried deep among gray clouds. Emily let her tired body sink into the seat; she was asleep before Dad returned.
“I don’t know if it was a good idea to send her up there alone for her first visit to the village. It’s such a long way, and she’s so young.”
Emily recognized her mother’s concerned tone. She wiggled around, trying to get comfortable.
Dad looked in his rearview mirror and caught Emily’s eye. “Good morning!” he said.
Emily swallowed and rubbed her eyes. Mom twisted around to face her. “Well, tell us about the trip. How is Grandmother?”
Emily’s grandmother lived in a small Indian town in central Alaska. She had been to see Emily many times in Fairbanks, but before this trip, Emily had never been to the village, Ausila, because the journey was expensive and long. Her mind flashed back to the Athabaskan village and to the log cabin where her grandmother lived. The village sat on the Koyukuk River.
Emily had been surprised at her grandmother’s lifestyle. Grandmother lived so simply and so far from any large stores! Mom had grown up in Ausila and had warned Emily that it would be very different from Fairbanks.
“Grandmother is fine. She told me to give you both big hugs, and she sent some smoked salmon.”
“Mmmm.” Dad licked his lips dramatically.
“She introduced me to everyone in the village and taught me how to sew beads onto clothing. I made a beaded purse all by myself!”
“Really? Oh Emily, I’m so glad that you learned to sew beads. Beadwork was my favorite thing to do as a girl. I always dreaded smoking the fish, though.”
Emily had heard stories about catching and smoking the fish. “Grandmother said that I have a special knack with a needle. She even gave me an Athabaskan name—Nakon. It means—”
“Good with a threaded needle.” Mom and Emily said together.
Emily had felt comfortable immediately in the tiny village. She liked the tall fir and birch trees that reached their green tops into the sky. She liked the soft gurgle of the river and the reflections and patterns that appeared on its surface in the morning and late afternoons. She liked the smell that lingered in her coat from the fire and reminded her of Grandmother’s nightly stories about Great-grandmother.
“I loved the village, Mom. It was so beautiful, and I just fit in.” In a way, Emily had felt that visiting her grandmother in the village was like returning home, home to the place her mother had talked about in stories of her childhood.
Emily paused. “But now I’m all confused. Our house and neighborhood are so different from the village. Dad is from Fairbanks, and you’re from the village, but where am I from? When am I Emily and when am I Nakon?”
Mom smiled. She remembered having the same question about herself when she left Ausila to go to college in Fairbanks. Her one-room school in the village was very small and different from the large university. She didn’t know where she fit in. Now she said, “You have a rich and wonderful heritage with Grandmother in the village, and with Nana and Grandpa Phillips here in Fairbanks.”
“Grandmother told me some stories about her mother, too.”
Mom nodded. “We can trace our relatives back many generations on both sides. In fact, it would take a stack of papers to trace the history of your earthly ancestry.
“But the history of your spirit is much easier to trace,” Mom went on. “You are a daughter of God. He is the father of your spirit, and part of Him is in you.” She reached over the seat and squeezed Emily’s knee. “You have a goodly heritage through Dad and me, but more importantly, you have a Godly heritage.”
Emily felt the worry that had knotted within her stomach release. I am Emily and Nakon. And I am a child of God.

A small Vietnamese woman struggles to lift a frozen turkey out of the supermarket freezer. Her husband examines it and with an ear-splitting grin turns to the two young American girls standing beside him. “Chicken?” he asks. The group bursts into giggles. The two girls try to explain in simplified English that this large fowl is not a super species of chicken but is a turkey.
The girls are from the Riverside Stake in Salt Lake City, Utah. As a stake service project, they are sponsoring a Vietnamese family. One of their tasks has been to introduce the family to an American supermarket. “Our first trip to the grocery store was definitely memorable,” said Laurie Sperry, Center First Ward. “We did a lot of laughing.”
The job of sponsoring a refugee family involved many of the young women. They helped in the search for a suitable place for the family to live, in gathering clothes and bedding, in enrolling the children in school, and in giving the small family a tour of the city. One of their stops was at Temple Square for a showing of “Man’s Search for Happiness” presented in Vietnamese. The girls introduced the children to some unique American celebrations such as Halloween, helping them with costumes and taking them trick-or-treating.
“Even though we couldn’t communicate in words,” said Laurie, “we could feel their gratitude.”
The girls of the Riverside Stake tasted the sweetness of service. And what started as a service project has turned into a caring, helping relationship between friends.

“We are going to sing in church next week,” Sister Hardy, the Primary chorister, announced. There were murmurs of excitement and surprise among the Primary children.
I raised my hand. “Why are we singing next Sunday?” I asked. “It’s not Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. Easter was a long time ago, and it’s not Christmas yet. It’s only November.”
Sister Hardy smiled. “I know it’s not a special occasion, Eliza, but I feel we should do this.” She turned back to the group. “We’ll be singing one of your favorite songs: ‘Latter-day Prophets.’”*
That was one of our favorite songs. Enthusiastically we practiced the song, holding up pictures of each prophet as we sang his name:
Joseph Smith; then Brigham Young;
John Taylor came third, we know,
Then Wilford Woodruff, Lorenzo Snow;
Joseph F. Smith, remember the F,
Heber J. Grant and George Albert Smith;
David O. McKay was followed by
Joseph Fielding Smith,
A mighty man was Harold B. Lee,
And now we’ve named past prophets, you see.
Our prophet today is loved by all;
He’s Spencer W. Kimball.
So many prophets! I counted the pictures. Ten, eleven, twelve in all! I knew that Heber J. Grant called my grandpa on his mission to New Zealand. I knew my mother met David O. McKay when she was a little girl.
I knew that Joseph Fielding Smith called my dad on his mission to Hong Kong, but it was President Kimball that I knew best.
President Kimball had been the prophet my whole life. I loved to hear his gravelly but kind voice when he spoke in conference, and I tried to do what he taught. My family had a big garden because President Kimball told us we should plant one. I was trying to keep a journal and memorize scriptures because that’s what President Kimball had done since he was a little boy. Because President Kimball received the revelation on priesthood, my good friend, Abdul, could be sealed to his family in the temple. I really did love President Kimball. He was my very own prophet, and I was glad my Primary could sing about him in church.
But during that week, something terrible happened. On Wednesday my mom came into my room with tears in her eyes. “I have some sad news, Eliza. President Kimball died last night.”
Suddenly there were tears in my own eyes. I felt lost. My very own prophet gone? Who would lead us now?
Mother knelt by my bed. “Let’s pray and thank Heavenly Father that we were guided by such a wonderful prophet for so long. And let’s ask Him to bless and comfort sweet Sister Kimball.”
We prayed, then we hugged each other and cried a little. It made me feel better.
“I’ll miss him,” Mom said.
“Me too,” I said. Then I remembered something. “Mom, we’re singing ‘Latter-day Prophets’ in church this Sunday. Do you think we’ll still do it? Or do you think Sister Hardy will pick another song for us to sing?”
Mother shook her head. “I think Sister Hardy was inspired to pick this song. It will be a special tribute to President Kimball. I’m sure you’ll sing it very well.”
My mother was right. We did sing it on Sunday, just as it had been written. And even though President Kimball was no longer “our prophet today,” he was still “loved by all.”
As I sang I felt comforted. I knew that Heavenly Father would never leave us without a prophet to guide us and show us the way. Just as eleven prophets had come before President Kimball, many others would follow after him. Each prophet would be called of God, and each prophet would be loved by all—just like my very own prophet, Spencer W. Kimball.

Jim Jewell, who worked on the scriptures translation team at Church headquarters, tells a story of how close to home the scriptures can come when translated into the language of the heart:
“In translating the Book of Mormon into Sesotho, the language spoken in the African nation of Lesotho, we needed to find someone to help us evaluate the work of the translation team. The project supervisor, Larry Foley, identified a member of the Church from Lesotho who was a graduate student at Utah State University. In Lesotho, education is conducted in English, so this lady and her children had studied in English from the first grade on, but they still conversed at home in Sesotho.
“She agreed to work on the translation. Her evaluation of the chapters we sent to her was indeed helpful. We routinely submitted specific questions regarding vocabulary and language structure to which she provided helpful commentary. However, we noted that she had highlighted in yellow many verses unrelated to our questions. When we asked her about the highlighted verses, she said: ‘Oh, those are verses that touched my heart deeply which I had never fully understood in English. I highlighted them so that I could share them with my children.’”

Although most people might consider winning the A. A. U. meet her most incredible feat, for Babe, it was simply her key to the door of the Olympics. She must have been disappointed at being allowed to compete in only three Olympic Games events. And she must have been even more disappointed to win only two gold medals—in the javelin throw and the eighty-meter hurdles, setting world records in both events.
In the third event, the high jump, her last jump was disqualified. The judges said that it was illegal because her head had preceded her feet over the bar. That’s not against the rules anymore, and Babe believed that a photograph taken at the Olympic Games proved that her feet had actually gone over the bar first. But in those days the officials had only their own eyes to judge with, so Babe had to settle for the silver medal.

Illustration by Apryl Stott
Last summer I worked for my neighbor. She has a big alpaca farm right next to her walnut orchard. Alpacas look kind of like llamas, only smaller.
My job was to clean out their stalls every day. I liked the work, even if it wasn’t easy.
One hot summer afternoon I showed up and my neighbor was gone. That wasn’t a problem, though. She already told me I could clean the stalls any time I chose, even if she was away.
While I was cleaning, one of the alpacas knocked over a gate. In a few seconds all 14 alpacas escaped into the yard and orchard! I couldn’t believe it! I felt sick to my stomach. How would I ever get them back by myself?
I started scrambling as fast as I could, rounding them up one or two at a time. Fifteen minutes later my heart was pounding from all the running, but the last one finally went back into the stall. Whew!
Then I turned and saw a pregnant alpaca lying down by a fruit tree 30 feet away. Ugh. Still one more to go. I tried scaring her back into the stall, but she wouldn’t budge. Then I tried pulling her with a harness and a rope that I found in the garage. No good. She lay there like a giant pile of bricks. I blew out my breath in frustration. What else could I try?
Then I remembered there’s always a way to ask for help, no matter where I am. I knelt down to pray. As soon as I finished praying, I opened my eyes and could hardly believe what I saw. The alpaca was walking back toward the stall, all on her own. I opened the gate, and she walked right in.
I smiled as I rode my bike home. I knew Heavenly Father had answered my prayer.

My father worked long and hard practically every day of his life. I’m certain that on the Sabbath he would have enjoyed just being at home. Rather, he visited elderly family members and brought cheer into their lives.
One was his uncle, who was crippled by arthritis so severe that he could not walk or care for himself. On a Sunday afternoon Dad would say to me, “Come along, Tommy; let’s take Uncle Elias for a short drive.”
Boarding the old 1928 Oldsmobile, we would proceed to Eighth West, where, at the home of Uncle Elias, I would wait in the car while Dad went inside. Soon he would emerge from the house, carrying his crippled uncle in his arms like a china doll. I then would open the door and watch how tenderly and with what affection my father would place Uncle Elias in the front seat so that he would have a fine view, while I occupied the rear seat.
The drive was brief and the conversation limited, but oh, what a legacy of love! Father never read to me from the Bible about the good Samaritan. Rather, he took me with him and Uncle Elias in that old 1928 Oldsmobile along the road to Jericho.