Gospel Story Finder

In the faraway islands of the Pacific, hundreds who were near-blind now see because a missionary said to his physician brother-in-law, “Leave your wealthy clientele and the comforts of your palatial home and come to these special children of God who need your skills and need them now.” The ophthalmologist responded without a backward glance. He has commented quietly that this visit was the best service he ever rendered and the peace which came to his heart the greatest blessing of his life.

Years ago, I was asked to meet with a man who, long before our visit, had had a period of riotous living. As a result of his bad choices, he lost his membership in the Church. He had long since returned to the Church and was faithfully keeping the commandments, but his previous actions haunted him. Meeting with him, I felt his shame and his deep remorse at having set his covenants aside. Following our interview, I placed my hands upon his head to give him a priesthood blessing. Before speaking a word, I felt an overpowering sense of the Savior’s love and forgiveness for him. Following the blessing, we embraced and the man wept openly.

I am amazed at the Savior’s encircling arms of mercy and love for the repentant, no matter how selfish the forsaken sin. I testify that the Savior is able and eager to forgive our sins. Except for the sins of those few who choose perdition after having known a fulness, there is no sin that cannot be forgiven. What a marvelous privilege for each of us to turn away from our sins and to come unto Christ. Divine forgiveness is one of the sweetest fruits of the gospel, removing guilt and pain from our hearts and replacing them with joy and peace of conscience. Jesus declares, “Will ye not now return unto me, and repent of your sins, and be converted, that I may heal you?”

I urge you to do what a missionary companion of mine did. He had run away from home as a teenager, and someone had placed a Book of Mormon in a box he carried with him in his search for more happiness.
Years passed. He moved from place to place across the world. He was alone and unhappy one day, when he saw the box. The box was filled with things he had carried with him. At the bottom of the box, he found the Book of Mormon. He read the promise in it and tested it. He knew it was true. That witness changed his life. He found happiness beyond his fondest dreams.

In late January of 2011, I went into an early labor. I was rushed to the Rexburg hospital where I was then life-flighted to the University of Utah. I was promptly put on several different medications to stop my labor. My son was 28 weeks old, but he had a hernia in his diaphragm. The doctors and nurses wanted him to have as much time as possible to grow inside of me, so he would have a better chance of survival when he was born. However, a few days later, my son decided to be born anyway. After only a few short hours, he passed away. We had a funeral for him on Friday, February 4.

Three weeks later, my husband, Jeff, and I received a call from my husband’s brother Greg. He said that we needed to get to the Twin Falls hospital right away. Jeff’s parents had been in a terrible accident that morning. They were on their way to a grandson’s wrestling tournament, hit a patch of black ice on the freeway, and rolled their truck six times. Greg did not know if they would survive and encouraged us to come quickly. They did end up surviving, but their recovery was slow, painful, and would take many months. My husband ended up dropping out of school and moving to Pocatello for a while to help take care of them during this difficult time.

The rest of 2011 continued on much in the same manner as it had begun. We didn’t know if I would still have a job since I was on a one-year appointment, and Jeff was not quite done with school yet nor on a fixed income. I had to have oral gum surgery, and we were robbed twice, which led to us move out of that particular neighborhood. Then, early one morning, my three-year-old daughter woke up and told her dad that her head hurt. My husband took her to the hospital where she was tested for meningitis. She gave us quite a scare for a few days, then recovered—thank goodness.

Finally, on Monday, December 5, we received another phone call asking us to come to Pocatello. Jeff’s brother and best friend, Greg, was in a coma and doctors were not seeing any brain activity. In a daze and with heavy hearts, we once again set off to a hospital. Greg died shortly thereafter of meningitis. He left a wife, three children under the age of four, and another one on the way.

At this point in the story, there really is no more order to the story. My expectations had met up with the realities of life, and it was ugly. For the last ten years, I have been trying to make sense of 2011 and several events that happened since that time. Some would call this non-matchup of expectation and reality a life crisis, a faith crisis, or cognitive dissonance. I call it an education for the soul. I have had to face my views of the world and decide what I really believe and who I want to become. It has been uncomfortable and extremely unpleasant in many ways, but worthwhile.

When Amy R. decided to read the Bible all the way through, her first thought was, “Wow, this is going to take so long.”
It was 2006, and Amy had just finished President Gordon B. Hinckley’s (1910–2008) challenge to read the Book of Mormon. Because she felt so good when she accomplished her goal, she decided to read the Bible next.
“When I first opened the Bible, I thought maybe it was too much,” Amy says. “But I also knew that if I never started the Bible, I would never finish the Bible.”
Amy began reading a little bit every night, just as she had done with the Book of Mormon. She did that for the next two years.
Sometimes Amy’s schedule was busier than usual. Sometimes at night she was tired and just wanted to go to sleep. But even when these things happened, she kept going.
There were times when Amy didn’t understand what she was reading. She would pray to Heavenly Father and ask Him to help her understand. Amy says those prayers were always answered. She also says reading the scriptures helped her know how to use words such as Thee and Thy when she prays.
In December 2008, when she was 10 years old, Amy finished the Bible. As a special Christmas gift, she wrote a letter to her dad about her experience. When her dad read the letter, his eyes filled with tears. “I almost felt like crying too because I was so happy,” Amy says. “I knew I had done a good thing.”
Does Amy have a favorite verse from her reading? No, but she says she often thinks about the people in the scriptures.“Knowing stories from the scriptures has helped me with my problems,” Amy says. “When I start feeling bad for myself, I compare my problem to the problems of the people in the scriptures. That helps me to have a better attitude and be more thankful about my situation. The scriptures have changed my life and helped me be happier.”

May I tell you of a special experience. Shortly after I was called to the First Quorum of Seventy I went back to my mission in Canada. The next month, we held a solemn assembly in eastern Canada for all of the priesthood leaders. The First Presidency, the members of the Twelve, and one of the assistants to the Twelve came. It was a glorious experience. I was placed as the chairman because I was the presiding priesthood authority in the area.

At the end of the solemn assembly I drove the First Presidency back to the hotel where they were staying. The Brethren bade me good night and went to their rooms. President Kimball’s secretary was detained at the counter of the hotel so I went over and asked him if I could take the key up to President Kimball so that he might get into his room. He handed me the key. I took the elevator to the ninth floor and went down the hall. There I saw President Tanner and President Kimball. I said, “President, here is your key.”

He thanked me in his loving way and then President Tanner took my arm and said, “Russ, how would you like to come in and have prayer with us?” Can you imagine closing the day with the First Presidency of the Church? I had never had that experience, and I went into President Tanner’s room with President Kimball. It was but a moment before President Romney and the other Brethren came in. I was overwhelmed. Tears welled up in my eyes as we knelt down around that bed.

I was kneeling next to President Tanner and I think he sensed what was happening to me, for he said, “President, we would like you to pray.” And then I heard a prophet pray. I learned a great lesson in that prayer. I felt the Spirit as I had never felt it before—you can understand it—for when a prophet talks to God, it is close friends speaking.

In a very short prayer, he said this, among other things: “And, Heavenly Father, we pray above everything else that the labors of this day have been acceptable unto thee.” That penetrated my heart like nothing else ever has on the principle of prayer. Oh, that every one of us might always be found closing the day pleading with the Lord that the efforts of that day had been acceptable unto him! There is great power in that. There is great strength in understanding that he is our Father, that we are his sons and daughters, that we are on his errand. May our labors always be acceptable.

Photograph by Feng Yu/iStock/Thinkstock
As an elementary school teacher of more than 25 years, I have received a lot of interesting things from my young students. Silly notes, drawn pictures, and imaginative crafts are common gifts. Last year, however, was the first time I had ever received a potato.
“A potato for the teacher,” young Emma said proudly when she came to my desk, “because I didn’t have an apple.” It was a medium-sized potato, scrubbed clean, and beautiful as far as potatoes go. I thanked her and placed it on my desk. I saw Emma’s large blue eyes shine with pride whenever she looked at it throughout the day.
After school, when I was working at my desk, I couldn’t help but regard the potato with a tender smile. Children see things so simply, and with that common potato, Emma taught me something important. I left it on my desk for over a week because it served as a reminder to me.
As a visiting teacher and a sister in my ward, I wanted to serve others, but I was always waiting for an “apple” before I took time to help. If I was busy and couldn’t make an extra casserole or if I wanted to give a special flower but didn’t get to the floral shop, I ignored the still, small voice of the Spirit whispering of someone who needed my service.
“I’ll do something this weekend, when I have time,” I would convince myself. “Nobody needs me today.”
But what if someone really did need me? What if I hadn’t ignored the promptings to visit an elderly neighbor or the young widow who had just lost her husband? Could I have helped or served, even with what I could offer then—a “potato”?
I learned a great lesson from Emma that I am trying hard to put into practice. If I don’t have an apple, I give a potato instead, and I do it now. I don’t wait to make a casserole or my special lemon cream pie; I buy a box of cookies instead. I don’t often get to the florist, but I can drop in for a chat without the flower. A homemade card would be great, but so would a quick phone call. It doesn’t have to be a grand gesture of service every time. A small gesture of love is just as nice.
I have the potato at home now, but I don’t think I’ll ever eat it. It serves as a constant reminder to serve when I’m prompted. I give what I can now instead of waiting until later. A potato for the teacher really was the nicest gift.

I arrived home from babysitting expecting to leave again within a few minutes. Some of my friends from school were in a band, and their concert was that night. Walking through the door, I saw my family seated on the couch, watching a movie and sharing a bowl of popcorn. Looking back, I realize it was a beautiful scene, but in that moment the only thought my mind recognized was of the concert that had already begun.
Anxious to leave, I reminded my parents, the only car-key bearing members of our family, of the time. They were not, however, to be moved. Dad said it was too late at night. Mom told me she still had to hem my brother’s pants before church the next day. They smiled and invited me to join the movie. I stared in disbelief.
I went to my room. I wanted to stand there and scream. I wanted to cry, write negative things in my journal, and listen to loud music. But then I realized that maybe not being able to go to the concert wasn’t that big of a deal. Maybe being downstairs with my family and their popcorn was where I needed to be.
A scripture came to my mind, the scripture mastery verse from Joshua that talks about choosing whom we will serve (see Joshua 24:15). In that moment I realized the Lord has given us agency for a reason—that it’s not just about making good choices. Sometimes decisions are made for us, and when that happens, the choice we have is how we will handle them.
I knew how I would handle mine. I knew whom I would serve.
I turned off my music and ran downstairs, lacing my hand through my mom’s welcoming one.

“You’re never going to finish that thing in time,” Mark said to his eleven-year-old sister, Annie, as he passed behind her chair. In his hands he gently held a honey-colored wooden box, smooth and gleaming in the spring sunlight.
Annie stared glumly at the tangled mint-green yarn in her lap. “You got help from Dad with yours,” Annie defended herself. “No one will help me with this hat.”
“That’s because none of us knows how to crochet,” said Bonnie, Annie’s fourteen-year-old sister. “The only one who could help you is Mom.”
Annie jumped up, grabbing the yarn in both hands. “Just you wait,” she hollered back as she raced up the stairs. “Mom’s going to love it!”
But Annie didn’t really believe it. Bonnie’s painting was propped up to dry against a wall in their bedroom. It was a watercolor of the park, all grass and trees and flowers and blue sky. Mother would love it! She would also love the old box that Mark had sanded and refinished. It would be perfect for her scarves. But this hat—if it was a hat—no one, not even Mom, could even pretend to love.
The stitches weren’t really stitches at all, just tight, stubborn knots. Annie had to find a way to fix it. After all, it had been her idea to make gifts to welcome Mom home from the hospital. And now it appeared as if even her ten-year-old brother could do better than she could.
She glanced at the clock and saw that it was already 4:30. Bonnie soon had to leave for ballet class, and Mark was knee-deep in homework. It was up to her to start dinner again if Dad was to have any time at the hospital with Mom. She’d been there for two long weeks! Even the tangle of mistakes in Annie’s hands couldn’t make her feel sad when she remembered that Mom would be home tomorrow.
After the dinner dishes and her own homework were done, Annie got right back to work. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, her long brown hair brushing her cheeks, when Dad softly knocked. “How’s it going, Annie?”
“Oh, Dad,” Annie admitted reluctantly, lifting her aching neck, “I just go around and around, and the stitches just get smaller and tighter.”
“How about giving it up for a while, honey,” said Dad gently. “We have a big day tomorrow. You look dead tired.”
“I have to finish it before Mom comes home,” Annie said with determination, “even if it takes all night.”
“Annie, I want you in bed by nine thirty at the latest,” he said firmly. “Mom will understand, I promise.”
The next morning Annie watched from the door as Dad walked Mom up the brick path. She leaned heavily on Dad’s arm, looking thin and white. But she was smiling up at Dad and laughing as she always did.
In an instant Annie was in her mother’s arms.
“Gently now, Annie,” laughed Dad as Annie hugged Mom hard.
“It’s all right, John,” Mom said, holding Annie close.
Soon Mark and Bonnie were there, too, and Mom was hugging them and saying how much she had missed them all.
“We have surprises for you,” Mark told her. “Come and see.”
Dad’s bouquet of pink carnations was next to the two wrapped gifts on the living room table.
“Now, what’s all this?” Mom asked, smiling and settling herself on the sofa.
Mom really liked her presents. Annie felt awful that there was nothing there from her. How could she explain about the hat? She couldn’t. Edging out of the living room, she escaped into the kitchen, where she finished making the tuna salad for lunch, stubbornly blinking back her tears. She couldn’t let Mom see them. That would make things worse.
She was putting a pan of soup on the stove, when she felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “Look at this nice lunch you’ve made, Annie,” Mom said quietly.
Annie turned to face her mother, and this time she couldn’t blink away the tears. “But I have no present for you, Mom,” she said. “I wanted it to be so perfect—a lacey crocheted hat to look pretty with your hair—but …”
“Shhh,” whispered Mom, putting her arms around Annie. “Don’t you think Dad’s told me about all that you’ve done here while I was in the hospital? With Bonnie’s ballet recital coming up and Mark so behind in his schoolwork, a lot has been on your shoulders. Dad doesn’t know what he would have done without you.”
“But Mark and Bonnie made such nice things for you, and mine turned out just horrible.”
“Do you want to know what I think? I think that you gave me the most perfect gift you could have given.”
“You do?”
“You gave of yourself for two whole weeks without any thought of a reward, and I bet that after lunch and a nap for me, we can figure out that hat and finish it together in no time.”

The last few days had seemed almost like fall, the days when you want to grab a sweater. Today was no exception. The sun was bright yellow, and the refreshing cool breezes seemed out of place for August. But then again, I had felt out of place myself these past few days, as if a certain coolness had entered into my own life.
As I entered the small, dark bedroom my senses were filled with a medicinal odor. Adjusting to the dim light, I noticed the delicate lace curtains at the two long windows. I had always loved the feel of that crisp lace, but years had changed its crisp loveliness into a limp, but still elegant, fabric. On the opposite wall in an old oak bed rested the small form of my grandmother.
I walked hesitantly to her side and sat quietly on the bed. Her eyes opened, and a weary smile formed on her wrinkled face. As I lifted her small hand, I looked into her eyes. The eyes had once been crystal clear blue, but age and years of hard work had dulled their beauty. Those crystal blue eyes had caught the young Air Corps man’s fancy many years before. They were the eyes my grandfather had looked to for comfort and peace, the eyes he had seen the world out of the last few years of his life. Her eyes had beheld many seasons, many times of peace and comfort, and many of pain and tragedy.
Her cool hand clung to mine, and I gripped it tighter. Her hands were small yet strong. I looked at the contrast of our hands and felt her strength. Her hands were wrinkled, rough, and dark from the sun and age; mine were smooth, soft, and white. At first the sight displeased me. How could she have let her hands get so rough? My mind ran back to all the things she had done. With those small, seemingly frail hands she had lifted bales of hay, planted gardens, canned countless bottles of fruit, held children, braided hair, rubbed baby lambs to dryness, and quilted. Yet these same hands had also enjoyed the velvety touch of a rose petal, the smooth rich feeling of fine soil, and later felt the sharp pains of arthritis.
The sun hit on the old windowpanes and found its way into the room. It was a warm ray of sun, yet blinding to the eyes. As I moved to pull the blind, she clutched my hand tighter and then wearily pointed to the small robin in the flower box outside. She had always loved the simple things in life: the flight of a bird, the rain clouds of early summer, the sweet taste of freshly picked raspberries. Her life had been simple and unpretentious. She had no fine clothes or jewelry. But that didn’t matter to her. She had what she needed and cared about.
I suddenly became aware with a fear I had never known, that my grandmother was dying. I suppose I had thought about it, but the reality of it had not touched me before. Suddenly I realized I might never look into those eyes again, never again feel the touch of her hands. I had loved her for years, but only today did I really see my grandmother as she was—a beautiful, caring woman.
She noticed the tears in my eyes and patted my hand, forming the word no on her parched lips. She didn’t want me to feel sorry for her. I realized then that she was relieved. She had lived her life, and it had been a good one. But now it was coming to an end, and she would soon see Grandpa again. I kissed her gently on the cheek and walked away, glancing at the old lace curtains once again. They, like Grandma, had in their aging acquired a beauty all their own.

In 1982, my wife and I had talked about how blessed we had been as a family. We knew several others who had gone through adversity, and wondered when our day would come. It came at 6:00pm on December 28th, 3 days after Christmas. It was a life-changing wake-up call. Our oldest son, Brian, who was a deacon at the time, was playing on the snow machine we had purchased for Christmas. He had gone on his last ride, taking his cousin along. It was getting dark. He was killed instantly as they hit a sprinkler line on wheels, which was not visible because of its height and its silver color against the snowy field. The impact knocked Brian off the machine and broke his neck. His cousin was not injured. Every fast Sunday, Brian, had been the first one to bear his testimony and express how much he wanted to go on a mission. We envisioned he would receive a call like most young men at the age of 19. Our lives were changed! Our hearts were broken! Our spirits were more contrite! Our empathy for others was more pure! The following month, on the 26th of January, my wife and I went to the temple to do his work. I felt his presence with me as I was ordained to the Melchizedek Priesthood and received the endowment for him. It was an emotional experience at the veil, and I wept as I felt him quickly leave, and knew he was happy to begin preaching "in the great world of the spirits of the dead."[22]

When I was almost eight years old, my father, a doctor, died of an ailment he caught from one of his patients. A few months later, my mother left my little brother and sister and me in the care of her parents and went away to attend a university so she could earn enough money to support us. But the stress of her husband’s death, combined with the stress of leaving her children affected her health very seriously, and she was placed in the care of a nurse. I didn’t see her for many months.
I had lost my father, and for a time, I lost my mother, too. I was very unhappy and did not do well in school. I didn’t learn how to write cursive, and to this day I can hardly write in cursive except my own signature. My spelling was terrible,and my math was worse. My teacher would have the class pass their arithmetic papers forward one seat to be corrected; then we had to announce the results out loud. On a 20-problem exercise, I’d usually get 15 or 16 wrong answers. I believed I was the dumbest boy in the room. I remember one occasion when some classmates threw snowballs at me and called me stupid.
Mother recovered, and when she was able to take care of us, we moved to Vernal, Utah, where Pearl Shaffer became my fifth-grade teacher. What she did for me can never be repaid. She had confidence in me, and as a result I regained confidence in myself. She helped me to learn. By the time I finished my fifth-grade year, I was competing with the better students.

Contrast this woman with the Latter-day Saint girl who climbed the heights of self-control as she forgave the man who disfigured her lovely face. Let the United Press newsman, Neal Corbett, tell the story as it appeared in the pages of the San Francisco newspapers.

“‘I would think he must be suffering, anybody who’s like that, we ought to feel sorry for him,’ said April Aaron of the man who had sent her to a hospital for three weeks, following a brutal … knife attack. April Aaron is a devout Mormon, 22 years of age. … She is a secretary who is as pretty as her name, but her face has just one blemish—the right eye is missing … April lost it to the ‘wildly slashing knife of a purse snatcher,’ near San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park while en route to an MIA dance. … She also suffered deep slashes on her left arm and right leg during a struggle with her assailant, after she tripped and fell in her efforts to elude him just one block from the Mormon chapel. …

“‘I ran for a block and a half before he caught me. You can’t run very fast on high heels,’ April said with a smile. Slashes on her leg were so severe [that] doctors feared for a time it would need amputation. The sharp edge of the weapon could damage neither April’s vivaciousness, nor her compassion. ‘… I wish that somebody could do something for him, to help him. He should have some treatment. Who knows what leads a person to do a thing like this? If they don’t find him, he’s likely to do it again.’

“… April Aaron has won the hearts of the people in the San Francisco Bay area with her courage and good spirit in face of tragedy. Her room at St. Francis hospital was banked with flowers throughout her stay and attendants said they couldn’t recall when anyone received more cards and expressions of good wishes.” (Cited in The Miracle of Forgiveness, p. 294.)

I was recently in Vladivostok, on the east coast of Russia. As I sat on the stand at the beginning of a youth and adult fireside, I noticed a young man in the second row immersed in a Duty to God guidebook for priests. I was thrilled and thought to myself: “Marvelous! Seventeen time zones away from Salt Lake City, and Duty to God is alive and well.” When I rose to speak, I asked him what his name was.
“Gere,” was the reply.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
I then moved to my real inquiry: “I noticed that you have been reading a book. What book have you been reading?”
Quickly came the reply: “I don’t know!”
“Well, where did you get it?”
“Out in the hall just before the meeting!” was his reply.
Immediately, as Gere spoke, Dimitri, a young man on the front row, jumped up, left the room, quickly returned with his own copy, and began to read. They were so ready for opportunities to grow.

I had a fun experience not so long ago with our youngest daughter. We were picking up leaves in our backyard and I noticed she was only using one hand to do so. Needless to say, I was picking up most of the leaves. Upon closer inspection, I could see her phone was clasped tightly in her hand. I suggested the job would go far more quickly if she put away her phone and picked the leaves up with both hands. But even more quickly, she explained that that wasn’t possible because she was in the middle of a text conversation with her friend.

With my patience now a tad thinner, I responded her friend could wait a few minutes and to put the phone away. She refused. Our conversation then went something like this “Phoebe, put the phone away.” “No Dad.” “Phoebe, put the phone away, right now.” “Aww Dad.” “Phoebe, I am going to count to three, if you don’t put the phone away by the time I’m done, you are going to lose it for the next month.” She barely put it away in time.

This experience reminds me of movies when the police officer tells the bad guy to “put the gun down” or “move away from the gun.” Needless to say, with my daughter using both hands and her full attention, the job was soon finished and there was still time to text her friend.

President Angel Alarcón from the Puente Piedra stake in Lima, Peru, shared the following experience with me: “Each Saturday, the missionaries, the bishop, some leaders from auxiliary organizations, and I visit less-active members, nonmembers, and new converts from 8:30 a.m. till noon.”
At this point of his story, the words of the hymn came to my mind:
Dear to the heart of the Shepherd,
Dear are the lambs of his fold;
Some from the pastures are straying,
Hungry and helpless and cold.
See, the Good Shepherd is seeking,
Seeking the lambs that are lost,
Bringing them in with rejoicing,
Saved at such infinite cost.
(“Dear to the Heart of the Shepherd,” Hymns, no. 221)
Brother Vargas, whose home was located in an area of limited access, received a call one Saturday morning. It was President Alarcón, calling from his mobile phone, announcing his arrival. Brother Vargas then said: “I am surprised; it is very hard to reach my house.”
To which came the reply: “Well, I am at your door right now, and I wish to speak to you. We need you, and we invite you to come to our Church meetings tomorrow.”
Then the man, who had stopped attending church for many years, replied, “I will be there.” Thus, he started his journey back home.

Mother knew more about Joey than anyone else in the world except me. Once when I was five years old, she and I were lying on her bed, and after she’d read me half a dozen nap-time stories I decided to tell her I had a friend named Joey. Mother thought that was just wonderful and wanted to know all about him.

I told her how one day I’d gone exploring in the hills above our house. Tom and Scott hadn’t come because they were playing kick soccer with a bunch of kids in our backyard. At first I was going to play, but when they chose up sides I was the last one to be chosen, and then there was a fight to see who had to take me on their team. So I said I didn’t want to play, but I really did, but I’m glad I didn’t. Because that was the day I met Joey. He was just my age, but smarter. Almost every day after that we’d play in the hills hunting lizards or digging in the sand. Sometimes though I’d meet him other places.

Mother was amazed at the things we’d do, so every day before my nap I’d wait until her voice sounded sleepier and sleepier while she was reading me stories, and then I’d say, “Now I’ll tell you about Joey and me.” Once in a while Mother would get up and write something down. She wrote down the lion hunt, and the time we were lost at sea, and our exploration of the new planet.

Joey was a joke to Tom and Scott, but Mother thought Joey was magnificent—that was her very word. And she said some day she would write a book about him if I didn’t. Mother was always thinking about writing, but she never got around to it much.

“You are a remarkable boy,” my mom would say to me. I wasn’t sure just what she meant by that, but it made me feel strong and warm both together. And when I finally wrote my first story I signed it, “Remarkable Rulon.”

If you will permit me, I would like to be autobiographical for a minute and admit some well-intended but rather fruitless attempts to grasp the meaning and the means of becoming Christlike. I was born and raised in the mission field, and when I was nine we were holding our meetings in the practice band room of Colorado College. Because my two older brothers were the only Aaronic Priesthood bearers in the branch, I unofficially helped them prepare the sacrament table. After each meeting when we would clean up, I would carefully sequester myself in the janitor’s closet, and, while polishing the water trays, I would eat all the extra sacrament bread and drink the extra water. (Now, I know none of you brethren have done that.) But as fate would have it, one day my father caught my closet act, and, as the branch president, he requested an explanation. While I admitted that the bread was filling, I protested, “Dad, all this extra sacrament will help me be more like Jesus right through the week.” Such wonderful naivete! I didn’t understand that emblems, in and of themselves, could not deliver me from the power of the adversary. I was trusting in the arm of the flesh—in things. Things or possessions simply have not the power to bring forth Christlike character. I was the prototype materialist, ignorant of the powers of the Atonement commemorated in the sacrament.

Might I relate one experience that illustrates what is being done as these Health Services missionaries serve in so many countries. Several years ago I had an opportunity to visit Bolivia. On the Altiplano, high above the city of La Paz, at an altitude of 13,600 feet on a beautiful Sabbath morning, I visited a Sunday school of one of the branches. I felt the spirit of those wonderful people as they met there. I watched a wonderful Sunday School president conduct with great ability. When one of the 2-and-a-half-minute speakers did not show up, extemporaneously he delivered the 2-and-a-half-minute talk. What a spirit I felt as he bore his testimony to the divinity of the gospel. And even though I didn’t understand his Indian dialect, I felt of that spirit and that testimony.

After Sunday School, this good man introduced me to his lovely wife, the branch Primary president. Strapped to her back was a little bundle—their six-week-old baby. When they learned that I was a physician, they asked if I would come with them to their home to examine the baby to see if it was doing all right. I went with them down the unpaved streets to their little home. It was built of adobe brick, had a dirt floor, and was perhaps ten by fourteen feet—about the size of a single-car garage. As we went inside, I saw it was immaculately clean. One could feel the good spirit in that home. In addition to the parents and the baby, the family included two older sons.

The mother sat on the bed and began unwrapping the layers of blankets that she had placed around the baby to keep it warm. When the last blanket was removed, I looked down and gasped. There was a little baby that was no more than skin and bones. Untactfully I said, “What happened? Why is the baby so thin?” and then they explained to me how this mother had become very ill during the latter part of her pregnancy. There had not been enough food in that home to provide her with the nourishment she needed. She had developed all of the symptoms of what we here call toxemia of pregnancy. Somehow she had been able to give birth to that baby, but her sickness was so severe that she was unable to nurse. The family did the best they could. They bought a can of a dried-milk formula, but with an income that was barely twenty dollars a month (converted to United States currency), they couldn’t afford to buy more when the first can was gone. I asked them, “What are you feeding the baby now?” they showed me a baby bottle filled with fluid so diluted that I could have read newsprint through the bottle. The fluid contained only a few drops of milk from a tiny can of condensed milk. The can had to last three or four days. I gave them what instructions I could to help and, as I left their home, said to the branch president, giving him a few pesos, “Please see that this baby receives all the food that it needs.” I heard several weeks later from the mission president that the baby had died. It had gone past the point of no return.

Oh, if we could have brought it here to Provo to the Utah Valley LDS Hospital or to the Primary Children’s Medical Center and started intravenous feedings and some of the modern techniques that we employ here, perhaps the baby’s life could have been saved. But the baby had lived too long in that environment.

That was three years ago. Today in Bolivia nurses and a doctor, called as Health Services missionaries, are teaching through priesthood and auxiliary channels lessons on home nursing, care of the baby, care of the pregnant mother, nutrition, sanitation—a whole series of subjects that help people better understand how to stay strong and healthy. These health missionaries have investigated what local health resources exist that the people can use. They learned that this little family could have obtained milk from a source that was available in the community. And so today the Saints are being blessed through resources that exist locally that many didn’t know about before. The Saints are being blessed in this far-off land through the Health Services missionaries. And in Guatemala, Thailand, Taiwan, and many other places here upon this earth, the devoted efforts of Health Services missionaries are being extended to lift up our brothers and sisters and their nonmember friends.

As I speak of priesthood blessings, I have a flood of memories: I remember my sons and daughters asking for blessings to help them through the most stressful experiences of their lives. I rejoice as I recall inspired promises and the strengthened faith that came when they were fulfilled. I feel pride in the faith of a new generation when I think of a son, apprehensive about a professional examination and unable to reach his faraway father, seeking a priesthood blessing from the most accessible priesthood holder in his family, the husband of his sister. I remember a confused young convert to the Church seeking a blessing to help him change the self-destructive pattern of his life. He received a blessing so unusual I was astonished when I heard the words I spoke.
Do not hesitate to ask for a priesthood blessing when you are in need of spiritual power.