Gospel Story Finder

Elder Newcome was a little bit nervous when he entered the office for his personal interview. Earlier, when all of us met together, I had noticed that he had trouble reading the scriptures.
“I’m a new convert. I’ve only been a member of the Church for a little over a year.”
“And you feel like you’ll never catch up with the others?”
“I’ve always had a hard time learning. I don’t know a lot about the details of the Church.”
“How do you feel about the Book of Mormon and the gospel?”
“The Spirit has born witness to me. I know they’re true.”
When I heard that, I knew he’d do well.
Elder Newcome was assigned to an area where a counselor in the stake presidency lived. That counselor came to me as the mission president and said, “I have a very well educated 29-year-old friend who has had a lot of problems in his life. He’s finally searching for some answers, and he’s anxious to be taught the gospel. Do you have some good elders who can teach him?”
At first I thought about sending my assistants. But the Spirit whispered to me that this was the assigned area for Elder Newcome and his companion, and this was a job for them.
Two weeks later, I had the opportunity of meeting with this member of the stake presidency and the investigator as well. They were both very complimentary of the missionaries and their ability to teach. A short time later, the investigator was baptized, and I spoke with him and the counselor again.
“Did you know that Elder Newcome cannot read?” the counselor asked me.
“Yes, I know,” I said with emotion. “But he knows our Father in Heaven and his Son.”
“And he teaches with the Spirit,” said our newly baptized friend.

I was on the baseball team in high school, but I needed shoulder surgery my junior year and was unable to recover enough to play. When I had to quit baseball, I was very torn up. I wasn’t sure what to do with my life.
I have always been into music and had started writing songs on my guitar. For a long time I did this as a hobby and nothing more, but when I couldn’t spend my time playing baseball, I decided to transfer all of my passion into my music. I contacted a friend who had a home recording studio, and we started recording some of my songs. After four months I came out with an eight-song CD.
My parents have been encouraging me to save up for my mission since I was very young, but until this point I still didn’t have a lot of money in my mission fund. I decided that once my CD was finished I would sell it and save all of the profit for my mission fund. My goal is to make half the money I need for my mission through my music.
I know how important serving a mission is, and I’m working hard to earn the money I need. While it was disappointing to not be able to play baseball anymore, I know the Lord has a plan for me. I can’t play baseball, but I can play music. I see now how the Lord has opened up a way for me to earn some of the money I need to serve Him on a full-time mission.

HI! My name is Brittany Scott. I want to tell you about Richie Tanner, a special member of our Primary class. What makes Richie special? Well, he’s developmentally delayed, or what some people call mentally handicapped. He looks like most ten-year-old boys, but he acts younger—like maybe a five-year-old. He doesn’t speak very clearly yet, and it takes him longer to learn things.
Richie and I are in the Valiant B class in the Monument Park Ninth Ward, Salt Lake Monument Park Stake. There are five children in our class: Steven Jones, Marcus Foulger, Michael Knudson, Richie, and me. Our teacher is Janet Fawcett. She’s great! She always tells Richie what a good job he’s doing when he listens quietly to the lessons. Sister Fawcett calls on Richie to say prayers and to answer questions. She treats him like everyone else, and she tries to help Richie learn the gospel, just as she helps us.
Richie hasn’t always been able to sit through a lesson. So our Primary has tried different ways to help him. He used to have a special teacher, Sister Neva Clayton, just for him. She would sit with Richie in our class and take him out in the hall if he got noisy or disrupted the class in some other way. But now Richie can sit in class all by himself, just like everyone else!
I’ve seen Richie make good progress: he talks better, he pays attention longer, and he sings in Primary programs. I hope that someday Richie will be able to give a talk by himself.
Richie’s brothers, Michael and Russell, and his sister, Anne, help him come to Primary. He really likes Primary, and he likes to be with all the Primary children because they let him know that he belongs there. Richie adds a lot to our Primary, and he always listens to the other children when they give their talks. He sets a good example for all of us.
Sometimes I wish that I could be more like Richie, because he’s so gentle, friendly, honest, appreciative, and sincere. Richie shows his love in special ways. He’s my friend! I hope that Richie thinks of me as a true friend too. Richie is one of the neatest boys I know!

One example, taken from the life of Heber C. Kimball, illustrates this point. After being baptized and confirmed, he penned, “I received the Holy Ghost, as the disciples did in ancient days, which was like a consuming fire.”[4] As I studied his life, I found that he never lost that feeling even in times of great stress and trial. On 4 June 1837 the Prophet Joseph Smith said, “Brother Heber, the Spirit of the Lord has whispered to me: `Let my servant Heber go to England and proclaim my Gospel, and open the door of salvation to that nation.’” In obedience to the prophetic prompting, Heber “felt a determination to go at all hazards”[5] “I put my trust in God, believing that He would assist me in publishing the truth, give me utterance, and be a present help in time of need.[6] His confidence was not misplaced. After preaching to a gathering in Chatburn, England, he felt someone pulling at his coat exclaiming,
“Maister maister.” I turned around and asked what was wanted. . . . “Please sir, will you baptize me?” “And me?” “And me?” exclaimed more than a dozen voices. Accordingly I went down into the water and baptized twenty-five.[7]
Of his glorious success on that mission, Heber exclaimed, “Blessed be the name of the Lord, who has crowned our labors with such success!”

After the Saturday evening session of stake conference, on my way to the hotel, I noticed people buying food along the road late at night. I asked my driver why they were doing it when it was so dark rather than during the day. He responded that they were working during the day to have the money to do it later.

“Oh, they were working today to eat tomorrow,” I said.

But he corrected me: “No, they were working during the day to eat tonight.” I had hoped our members might be in a better situation, but he confirmed that many faced similar challenges in that part of the country. The next morning, during our Sunday session and newly aware of their circumstances, I was even more moved by their smiling faces and grateful hearts.

I stood in line at a gas station. In front of me, a mother with two small children asked for $3 worth of gas and two vanilla ice cream cones.
At first glance I could see that they had very little. The children were barefoot and wearing tattered clothing.
I heard the woman place what seemed to be an infinite number of coins on the counter to pay her bill.
After paying for my gas, I walked out and glanced at the mother’s car. It was an older model that likely got very poor gas mileage.
I felt a twinge of sympathy for this mother of two, but I started my motorcycle and went on with my day.
Less than a minute into my ride on the highway, a voice came to me: “Go help her.” The prompting came twice.
I shook my head, thinking that she had probably already left. What would I say to her anyway?
The voice came clearly a third time: “Go help her!”
I turned back toward the service station, trying to figure out what I was going to say if she was still there.
Upon arriving, I saw that her car doors were open. She was in the driver’s seat, and her two small children were enjoying their ice cream in the backseat.
I offered a small prayer, asking Heavenly Father what I should say. The same voice said to me, “Introduce yourself and ask if she needs help.” I approached her car and introduced myself. I shared with her that I felt impressed to ask her if she needed help.
She began to cry and said, “I just finished praying to Jesus, asking Him to send someone to help me.”
Heavenly Father had answered her prayer. I paid to fill up her tank with gas and gave her the phone number of someone in our elders quorum who was hiring at the time. I do not know what happened with this young mother afterward, but I am grateful I followed the prompting to help her.

For my first teaching job, I took my young family to Las Cruces, New Mexico. It was very different from Idaho. Instead of lawns, most people had gravel. Instead of wood and brick, the houses were made of adobe and stucco. Instead of grass and trees, there was sand and creosote. They had things that they called rivers, but there was no water in them. They had mountains, but they weren't covered with trees; instead they appeared to be nothing but dirt and rock. Everything seemed to poke you, pinch you, bite you, or sting you. I looked about me and decided that it wouldn't be long before we moved away and went somewhere more attractive.

But as it turned out, we stayed for 17 years. We raised our children there, built an opera company, served in the Church, and came to love the people of the Mesilla Valley. We built a house in the desert and got to know its myriad plant and animal life: the cactuses, the mesquite, the jameston weed, the jackrabbits, the lizards, even the snakes and tarantulas. We camped and hiked with our children in the mountains. My wife built Christmas wreaths out of pods from yucca plants. We first endured, then tolerated, then embraced the hot green chili that grew in the fields along the Rio Grande. We discovered that there were toads in the desert that slept in the sand for 11 months of the year, but when the summer monsoons came they would come out of their torpor and hop all over the streets, yards, and sidewalks, and lay eggs in the short-lived pools of standing water. In a few days the puddles were filled with polliwogs, then in a few more they would change into toads and burrow into the sand again. We also discovered that every three or four springs, when the winter had been just right, millions of orange Mexican poppies would blanket the valleys and mountainsides. Nearly every evening-spring, summer, fall, and winter-we were treated to a magnificent sunset. And the weather! As former Idahoans, we especially enjoyed our annual New Years' Day picnic. We came to love New Mexico. Just like Idaho and Michigan, we found it to be beautiful. We just needed to get to know it.

It was the week before Christmas, and Billy Otter lay in bed wishing for a pair of snowshoes. He brushed the tumble of straight black hair back from his brown face as he listened to the snip snip of his mother’s scissors. She was at work, cutting out moccasins from a deerskin.
Father had died of a lung disease three years ago, and since then Mother added to a meager pension by making beaded articles to sell to tourists who came to the Cree reservation. Her soft cough as she worked deepened the worried creases on Billy’s forehead. I must get some snowshoes so I can do the trapping for her, he resolved. It is too cold in the bush, especially when she’s sick.
“Your breakfast is on the warming shelf of the stove, son,” Mother called when she heard him stirring. Billy stretched and yawned widely. He got up and crossed the small, one-room cabin to warm himself by the wood stove while he dressed. When he had finished pulling on his clothes, Billy took his bannock biscuits (of unleavened oat or barley flour) and herb tea to the table. As he munched, his dark eyes watched the flash of his mother’s needle. “Mother,” he said, breaking the silence, “I’m going to help you.”
“How is that, dear?” she asked.
“By snaring the rabbits for the fur trim on the mittens and moccasins.”
“I appreciate that, Billy, but there’s no money to buy snowshoes for you, and mine are too big. You can’t get through the deep snow in the bush without them.”
While his mother sewed the bright beads to the deerskin, Billy sat thinking. Finally he said, “Old Joe Carver is the wisest Indian on the reservation. I’ll ask him what to do.”
When Billy arrived at Joe’s cabin, he found the old man sitting in his rocking chair, carving. A growling bear was taking shape from the birch block held between his knees.
“What brings you to visit, young man?” Joe asked pleasantly.
“How can I get a pair of snowshoes without any money? I need them to snare rabbits for my mother.”
Joe’s wrinkled copper face, framed by gray braids, creased even deeper as he thought. Then his gravelly voice intoned, “There is one way. Make them like our fathers did.”
“But I don’t know how.”
“I need a new pair myself. I’ll make them and show you how. We’ll start this afternoon.”
After lunch the two friends walked down a packed trail into the woods. The cold snow crunched under their feet as they strode along. Joe swung his axe in rhythm with his strides, stopping occasionally to examine the trees.
“What are you looking for?” Billy asked.
“A straight young birch.”
Soon they found a tree just the right size, and Joe cut it down and limbed it. Then Billy helped him drag it back to his cabin.
“What do we do next, Joe?” Billy asked excitedly.
“First we must cut this birch tree into three-foot lengths.”
“Can I do it?” Billy asked.
The old man handed the boy a large saw. Billy’s arms ached as he pulled and pushed it. Then the sawteeth caught and wouldn’t move in either direction.
“Here, let me help you,” offered Joe. “You must saw at a right angle or the teeth will bind.”
After Billy finished cutting the first length, and then two more, the old man ripsawed the curved sides away, leaving long square pieces. These he divided down the length into four sticks, each one about an inch thick.
By this time the sun was low. “Come back after supper,” the old man suggested, “and we’ll start the next step.”
After a supper of rabbit stew, Billy arrived at the old man’s cabin and saw a big tub had been placed on the stove. Now Joe was carrying pails of water from a hole chopped in the lake ice to fill it.
“Let me do that, Joe,” Billy offered. After he had lugged four more pailsful of water, Joe laid the long sticks of wood across the steaming tub.
“Why do you put them there, Joe?” Billy asked.
“We must soften the wood by steaming, so it will bend without breaking,” the old man answered. “While we wait, help me cut this moose hide into strips.”
As Joe slit the skin in a circular pattern with his knife, Billy gathered the thick velvet rope into a pile. Then the old man put the strips into the boiling water to soak.
Joe selected a golden strip of wood from a pile by the door and sawed it in half. Next he nailed the short pieces between two long slats from the tub.
“That looks like a ladder,” Billy said.
“Wait and see,” replied the old man.
Patiently the Indian curved the tips together, and Billy held them while Joe secured them with moose hide. The procedure was repeated on the other end.
“They have a snowshoe shape now, but how will you keep them on?” Billy asked.
“Tomorrow you will find out, when our moose hide babiche (pliable rawhide thongs) has soaked enough.”
The next morning when Billy arrived, the old man was weaving the babiche between the sides of the snowshoe. He showed Billy how to wrap the babiche around the frame and pull it tight. Finally a firm, flat net stretched between both frames.
When they had finished, Joe steamed the front tips again. Then he tied them around a log to form a curl. “Let them dry,” he said. “Tomorrow they will be ready.”
The next day, there lay two golden ovals with curved tips. The moose hide mesh had dried taut as a strung bow. Billy handled them longingly.
Suddenly his face fell, and he turned to Joe. “I’ll never be able to make a pair myself.”
“But with my help you can,” Joe said encouragingly.
“Not in time for Christmas, though,” Billy sighed. “I guess it’s sort of silly, but I’d really counted on getting some then.”
“Maybe Santa Claus will find the reservation this year,” Joe said, and they both laughed.
But on Christmas morning only boots and a shirt lay under the tree. Even the oranges and candy did not ease Billy’s disappointment.
That afternoon there was a knock on the door. When his mother opened it, Joe greeted her with a shy Merry Christmas.
“Come in,” Mother invited.
“Thank you,” Joe answered. “And how is your Christmas?” the old man asked, turning to Billy.
“No snowshoes,” Billy said sadly.
“Well then, maybe you’d better look outside.”
Billy opened the door. There leaning against the cabin was a pair of golden snowshoes with red tassels!
“They’re just my size! Where did you get them?” cried Billy excitedly.
“Each night after you left, I worked on them,” Joe explained. “I knew your heart was set on having them for Christmas. Now we can run the traplines together.”
Billy’s eyes were bright with anticipation. “Well, what are we waiting for?” he laughed and reached down to strap on one of the snowshoes.

In 1988, I was concerned for the Mistolar Saints when the snow on the Andes mountains, more than double the usual amount, began to melt. It meant that the Pilcomayo River would probably flood again. But, I was told, the Saints there said, “Don’t worry, we will not be flooded this year because our land was dedicated.” Twice the flood waters surged down the riverbed, flowed over the land, but receded before reaching Mistolar.

I was born in India and have 19 siblings, and I love them all like crazy! In Savior of the World, I had lots of fun wearing unique and interesting clothes along with the pounds of stage makeup. I played a resurrected being in the Resurrection scene, which was special for me since I lost two little brothers and thought about how great it will be when we get to see them again when they are resurrected. Being in Savior of the World broadened my understanding of the Savior, His life and what He did for us.
Olivia W., 17, Missouri, USA

During her first year at school, when she lived with four roommates, Fleur had a hard time finding time alone to pray and study scriptures. “There wasn’t much privacy to pray, unless I got in the dorm early. The other option was to pray in the bathroom. It wasn’t the greatest place, but it was private.”

Fleur makes time for gospel study because, she says, “reading the scriptures daily for seminary helps me to live Church principles away from home.” Fortunately, this year Fleur has her own room, making it easier for her to pray and study.

The autumn wind whistled noisily as it whipped at the black mud clinging stubbornly to conceal the cracks between the spruce logs of the Jameston’s cabin.
Persistently, as if in an effort to determine whose strength was greater, the breath of strong air picked up small rocks and huge thistles and hurled them powerfully against the pioneer structure that housed the family of 13.
“Sounds like a real storm’s brewing,” papa said as he reached for a block of wood to replenish the dancing flame in the potbellied stove that stood in the corner.
Emily looked at mama to see if she was going to verify what papa had said, but mama seemed deep in thought as her fingers expertly guided the heavy thread with her darning needle.
Emily walked to the window and stood looking anxiously out. “I don’t think it’s going to be a bad storm,” she said, hoping someone would agree with her. “It’s much too early in the year.” She looked around. No one seemed to care that the wind was blowing and soon there would be snow. Much, much too soon winter would be upon them.
She stood a moment longer at the window and then hurried to the bedroom and removed a small fruit jar from the third drawer of the dresser. She turned the wick up and lit the lamp that stood on the table by the bed. Carefully she emptied the contents of the jar and began to count the coins.
“Five, 15, 25, 50 …”
Lora opened the door and tiptoed in. She stood in silence as she watched her older sister pick up the money and drop it one coin at a time into the jar.
“Four dollars and thirty cents, $4.4, $4.45.”
When Emily finished, she put the lid back on the jar and gave a deep sigh. Lora sat down on the bed beside her.
“Is there enough?” she asked hopefully.
“Not yet,” Emily answered, “but soon there will be. Soon there will be,” she echoed.
“Show me the picture of the coat again, Emily,” Lora said excitedly.” I could look at it forever.”
Emily leaned over and pulled the catalog from underneath the bed. Without effort she opened the book to the turned-down page, its edge ragged from constant contact.
“I think it is the most beautiful coat in the whole world,” Emily said breathlessly.
“So do I,” Lora agreed. “Do you think I will ever have a new coat, Emily?”
“If you want it strongly enough,” Emily nodded. “Mama says if you really want something and work hard enough for it, you’ll most likely get it.”
“How long have you been saving for the coat?” Lora wanted to know.
“About two years now,” Emily answered as she carefully placed the catalog back under the bed.
“Seems like you’ve been saving forever.” Lora pulled the covers back and fluffed the feather pillows vigorously. “And you’ve counted the money a hundred times, maybe a thousand, and there still isn’t enough.”
“I know,” Emily said, “but soon there will be, you’ll see.”
The next day was cold, and the night’s wind had not subsided.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to bring in Aunt Hattie’s used coat from the box in the granary and make it over for you?” Mama asked anxiously as she examined the worn wrap Emily was putting on.
“No,” Emily stated firmly, “it would be a waste of time, mama. The sale catalog will be here soon, and I’m sure by then I’ll have enough money.”
“Will they have your coat in the sale catalog?” Lora asked doubtfully.
“Oh, I hope so,” Emily said as she took her younger sister Karen by the hand and started for school.
“You can find Lora or David to go home with this afternoon if you want to,” Emily counseled as they walked along. “I’m going to stop by Mrs. Harwells’ after school to help her clean house.”
“I know why,” Karen said importantly. “So you can buy an unused coat.”
Emily smiled and gave her sister’s hand a tight squeeze.
The afternoon sun had long departed from visibility as Emily hurried out the Harwell’s gate and down the road towards home. Her mind had no room to think about how tired she was, for thoughts of owning the coat crowded everything else out as it drew closer to becoming a reality.
“Oh, I hope the sale catalog came in the mail today,” Emily thought and she started to run in her anticipation. But the catalog wasn’t there when she got home, and in the many days that followed while she waited for the book, she worked. When folks could afford to and whenever mama could spare her, she worked and saved and saved and worked for a nickel or a dime, and although money was getting more and more scarce, the coins in her jar continued to slowly to add up.
On a particularly cold December day shortly before Christmas, the sale catalog came. Lora went to the Post Office, and if there was any other mail she failed to notice it in her excitement. With a squeal of delight she raced toward home, and as the cabin came into view, she began waving the book and shouting, “It’s here! It’s here!”
Emily burst out of the door and met her at the gate. Karen was close behind, and it seemed the whole family came from every direction oblivious of the wet, cold snow.
“Open it and tell me if the coat is there,” Emily said, not daring to look for herself.
Lora held out the book and started to open it. Then she stopped. “Oh, it’s on the cover,” she said in a hushed tone. “Your beautiful blue coat is right here on the cover of the catalog.”
Emily reached quickly for the book, looked at the price of the coat, and then without warning she burst into tears. No one knew what to do.
“Don’t you have enough money to buy it?” Karen asked worriedly.
Emily picked up her young sister. “Oh yes, Karen. I do! That’s why I’m crying, because I’m so happy.”
“Girls are dumb.” Sam threw a snowball at Emily and everyone started laughing.
The mood carried over into the evening, and all were having a good time. Emily, the center of attention, was at the table filling out the order blank when Chris Landin and his wife, Irene, came to the door. Papa hurried to open it.
“Good evening, Brother Jameston.” Chris shook papa’s hand.
“Come in, come in,” papa smiled.
Brother and Sister Landin spoke to the children and then sat visiting with mama and papa.
“We just came from the Andersons,” Chris said. “Joe’s health is getting worse, and it seems that if he is to get well, he must move to a lower climate soon.”
“How ironic it is,” Irene shook her head sadly, “that since he has been too ill to work, his finances won’t permit him to do this.”
“Do you suppose there is some way we neighbors could appropriate some money to help Joe?” Chris wondered.
Papa’s eyes saddened. He remembered how Joe had stopped in the middle of his work and rushed Sam to the hospital 18 miles away when the accident with the runaway horses had crushed the little boy badly. The Jamestons had all known that Joe’s instant concern and his automobile were an important part of the team that had been needed to meet the emergency that day.
“I have done a lot of custom work lately,” papa said finally, “but no one has been able to pay me for more than a month, and although we raised a big garden and have plenty to eat, I have no cash on hand at all.”
“I know. That’s the way it is with most of us,” Chris agreed, “It has been especially hard for a lot of folks this year. All of us are feeling the pinch of the depression.”
Emily sat listening. She liked the Andersons. Joe and his family weren’t members of the Church, but he was often doing something good for others. The kids in the neighborhood all liked him and called him Uncle Joe. He always had time to listen to troubles and never made light of an individual’s problem, no matter how small. In spite of how busy he was, Uncle Joe would often stop and play a game of softball if an extra player was needed, and Emily especially liked the way he could tell a story. His imaginative tales fascinated not only small children but teenagers as well. But one of the things that claimed priority in importance in Emily’s thoughts was how Uncle Joe had helped her and David and Lora make a tie rack for papa’s birthday after he had hired the three to pull weeds in his garden so they could purchase lumber for the gift.
After the Landins left, Emily closed the catalog, mumbled something about deciding to wait for a day or two before ordering the coat, and then hurried to the bedroom before anyone could question her further.
The next day Joe Anderson’s health was constantly on Emily’s mind. She caught snatches of conversation at school from his daughter who was two years younger than Emily. “People have been good. So many have given what they could, but there is not quite enough money. He is getting worse—his lungs …”
Papa and the neighbors helped with the Andersons’ chores and offered words of cheer, but few could contribute financially.
A few days later, when the Jamestons were gathered around the pump organ singing, Emily slipped unnoticed into the bedroom. For a long time she stood quietly thinking.
“Yes,” she whispered to herself, “if my papa were ill, I would want everyone who could to help him get well.” Then she took the small jar of coins from the drawer of the dresser and joined her family in the front room.
Going to mama and papa, Emily held out her hard-earned savings. “I’ve thought about it for a long time, and I’ve decided that I want you to give this money to the Andersons,” she said.
Lora pressed her hand quickly over her mouth to smother the cry of disbelief that sprang to her lips. She looked around. Wasn’t anyone going to stop Emily from giving her money away? Mama was just sitting there, sitting there smiling, and papa, what was papa doing? Was something the matter with his eyes? Why was he brushing his hand across them so vigorously?
Finally, Lora could stand the silence no longer. “Are you sure, Emily?” she burst out. “What about your coat? You’ve waited so long and worked so hard.”
“I’m sure,” Emily said. “At least I’m sure that it isn’t as important for me to have a new coat as it is for Uncle Joe to get well.”
Papa placed his hand on Emily’s shoulder. For a few seconds he was silent When he spoke, the tone of his voice was low and unnatural for he was touched by the courage his 14-year-old daughter had shown in deciding to part with her savings.
“You are very unselfish, Emily, and you are filled with sweet compassion for others.” He stopped and swallowed hard before he went on. “And since you have given this considerable thought and this is what you want to do, then I think it would be nice if you gave the Andersons the money yourself.”
The next morning mama brought in Aunt Hattie’s coat that she had been altering as a surprise and gave it to her daughter. Emily’s eyes portrayed a quick preview of a smile that was coming. If she couldn’t have a new coat, this was next best, and her happy expression mingled gratitude with admiration at mama’s insight.
Emily wore the coat that night to a special school program. She arrived a little early, and the prelude music was being played softly when two classmates, Nadine and Lucille, neared the bench that she was sitting on. Emily heard their voices as they approached, but she wasn’t prepared for the shock she received when she looked up to speak to them, for Lucille had on a new wrap. Emily caught her breath sharply as she recognized it as being the beautiful blue coat from the sale catalog.
The program became a blur as Emily kept looking at the coat she had wanted so much, and after the closing song, she slipped quickly out of the building and stood for a moment, her hand pressed tightly on the jar of coins concealed in her large patch pocket. As Nadine and Lucille came out they were laughing and whispering. They didn’t see Emily hidden by the shadows.
“Did you see Emily’s made-over coat?” Lucille asked her cousin in a low tone.
“Did I ever!” Nadine giggled. “I have never seen such an ugly mess in my entire life.”
“Did you see how it bagged and how it sagged?” Lucille pulled at the hem of her coat in an exaggerated gesture to emphasize her meaning.
The two girls burst out laughing as they walked away. Emily waited until they were out of sight; then she turned and ran toward home, her tears keeping fast tempo to her running steps. She kept her hand tightly gripped on the small jar in her pocket while the decision to give her money away stood on rocky ground.
When she came to the Andersons’ residence, she stopped abruptly. Joe was propped in a chair in front of the window, and he looked pale, even at a distance. She saw him cough harshly, and his wife hurry to his side. Emily thought of Sam and how Uncle Joe had come immediately to the rescue when he had been needed. After the coughing subsided, Emily opened the gate and went up the walk to the door.
As she left the Andersons’ home, the piercing stab of hurt that had come from Lucille and Nadine’s cruel words began to fade from her memory. Instead she recalled the mist that had come to Uncle Joe’s eyes when she had handed him the money and his raspy voice thanking her again and again.
The crisp December air was near freezing, but Emily stopped for a moment in the darkness before she reached the cabin and looked at her secondhand wrap. Then a soft smile touched her lips, for in a sense, the coins were serving their purpose after all. True they hadn’t been used to purchase a new coat, yet because of the giving, Emily was aware that something new and beautiful was hers, and it was wrapping her in a feeling of warmth she had never experienced before.
Her smile broadened, and she hugged her made-over coat closer around her as she hurried on.

Tommy stood at the window looking out at the drifted snow. He sighed a long, loud sigh. The snow hadn’t melted a bit since yesterday. He was tired of winter.
“That was a mighty big sigh for a small boy,” Grandpa said.
Tommy looked at Grandpa who had just come into the room. Then he looked back out the window at the snow and said, “I don’t like winter. I can’t go outside and play. The snow just stays in heaps and mounds all over the yard.”
“It does stay snowy and cold,” Grandpa agreed.
“I can’t even fly my kite, it’s so cold and wet outside,” Tommy complained.
Grandpa laughed.
But Tommy was still cross. “I wish I could push winter so far away that it would never come again.”
“Never have winter!” Grandpa was astonished.
“I don’t know what good it is,” Tommy said. “So I wish it would never come again. Then I wouldn’t have to keep waiting through winter.”
Grandpa put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you get your coat and cap? The sun is out for awhile and we can go for a walk and see about the winter you don’t like.”
Tommy bundled up and met Grandpa, who smiled at him as they went outside together.
They had gone only as far as the front walk when Grandpa stopped. He pulled a branch of the maple tree down close to Tommy’s face.
“See those shiny brown bumps?” he asked.
Tommy looked closely at the branch and nodded his head.
“Those are leaf buds,” Grandpa said. “The tree is just waiting for the bright sunshine to melt the snow so that the water will go down to its deep roots. Without water, the tree can’t make its leaves open for spring. It would stay bare and brown forever.”
After they had walked a little farther, Grandpa stopped again. This time he bent close to the ground and pushed away the snow. Tommy could see some bright green shoots poking right up out of the ground.
“These are spring crocuses and hyacinths,” Grandpa said. “The snow has already melted deep enough into the soil to wake them up. They’re only waiting for the sunshine to tell them it’s time to grow taller.”
Grandpa pushed the snow back over the shoots and stood up. “Let’s go this way,” he said, pointing up the street.
They had gone only as far as the corner when Grandpa stopped. Beside the wall of a house he showed Tommy a spot of brown earth where the snow had melted.
Grandpa poked at the brown earth. Tommy poked at it too.
“See how soft and damp the soil is already,” Grandpa asked. “It’s just waiting for the sunshine to warm the seeds so they can burst into life.”
Tommy walked beside Grandpa. And Grandpa said, “Soon the snow will melt and make ponds where wild ducks and geese can live. It will fill streams where fish live. And, most important of all, it will melt into water for all of us to drink.”
Tommy nodded his head up and down. He looked at the snow that still lay in heaps and mounds all over the lawn and laughed right out loud.
“Now that I understand how important winter is,” Tommy said, “I won’t mind having to wait through it after all.”

Just for the fun of it, the youth of the Knox Ward in Melbourne decided to show their appreciation for their parents by treating them to dinner. They organized a special evening they called, “The Fabulous Fifties and the Surging Sixties.”
A youth committee selected a menu that would fit the theme; then a large group prepared and served a three-course meal. They played music from the appropriate decades, and parents and kids alike were encouraged to dance. For the adults, it brought back fond memories. For the kids, it made new ones.

My mother picked me up in front of the high school, and we headed for home. She asked, “Well, how did tryouts go?” I had talked about trying out as a kicker for the football team.

“They don’t start until four o’clock,” I answered slowly. “I’ve decided not to try out. I wouldn’t make it. I’m not good enough.” As I continued to give my reasons, my mom stopped the car, quickly turned around, and drove back towards town.

“Why don’t we get something to eat and talk this over? The only way to know for sure if you could have done it is to try out,” Mom said.

Fortified with my favorite fast-food meal and Mom’s encouragement, we drove back to the school. I had played soccer since I was five and had been told I had a good leg and a “big foot.” I had learned to kick fairly well that summer at an Explorer Scout tournament. I was nervous as tryouts began, especially when I saw all my old soccer teammates who also had strong legs.

My time came to kick, and I did amazingly well. I found out later that my mom and sister had been watching and cheering me on from the other side of the field as I sent footballs soaring through the uprights. I ended up playing for three years of high school and felt good about my participation and improved talent.

I also learned that day the meaning of Doctrine and Covenants 38:30, [D&C 38:30] “… if ye are prepared ye shall not fear.” It gave me the courage to try in other areas of my life. When I served my mission, I knew that if I prepared myself by studying and doing what I should, I need have no fear.

As you can tell from the letterhead, I am a prisoner at the Colorado State Prison. Last year for Christmas I received a subscription to the New Era from my sister and her husband. I have enjoyed reading it this past year. We use it in our Church meetings here. There are four members here with me. Our group started last January, and we have been studying the Articles of Faith by James E. Talmage. About once a month we have a general discussion. We are interested in obtaining reading material that would be of help to us. We don’t have enough good reading material. In closing, the men here would like the members to know that even though we have erred, we are concerned about our future in this life and the life hereafter. In case you’re interested, I’m twenty-two years old.
# 40131State Prison,Canon City, Colorado 81312

One night Joseph and Emma stayed up late to take care of the babies, who were both sick. A mob of angry men came into the home. The men grabbed Joseph and carried him away from the house.
The wicked men hurt Joseph and poured hot tar on him.
When the mob left, Joseph was very weak. He crawled back to the house. When Emma saw Joseph hurt, she fainted.
Joseph’s friends carefully washed him.
Sunday morning—the next day—Joseph preached to the congregation as usual. Some of the men from the mob came to listen.

In Nigeria, learning how to bake bread did more than teach an important skill. A sister in the Ikot Ekpene Branch, Nigeria Uyo Mission, says enrichment activities changed her life. She explains that after her baptism and confirmation she had stopped attending church. Then a Relief Society sister invited her to an enrichment activity where they learned how to make soap, a commodity difficult to come by in the distant village where she lived. At another activity she learned to bake high-quality bread, which was not available close to her home. Her enthusiasm has continued as sisters gather regularly to bake bread for their homes and for the sacrament on Sundays.

I would like to relate to you an experience which I had with President Henry B. Eyring several years ago when he was a member of the Quorum of the Twelve. Elder Eyring was assigning missionaries to their fields of labor, and I was invited to observe.
First, we knelt together in prayer. I remember Elder Eyring using very sincere words, asking the Lord to bless him to know “perfectly” where the missionaries should be assigned. The word “perfectly” said much about the faith that Elder Eyring exhibited that day.
Then as each missionary’s picture appeared on a computer screen, to me it was as if the missionary were in the room with us. Elder Eyring would then greet the missionary with his kind and endearing voice: “Good morning, Elder Reier or Sister Yang. How are you today?”
After assigning a few missionaries, Elder Eyring turned to me as he pondered one particular missionary and said, “So, Brother Rasband, where do you think this missionary should go?” I was startled! I quietly suggested to Elder Eyring that I did not know and that I did not know I could know! He looked at me directly and simply said, “Brother Rasband, pay closer attention and you too can know!” With that, I pulled my chair a little closer to Elder Eyring and the computer screen, and I did pay much closer attention!
A couple of other times as the process moved along, Elder Eyring would turn to me and say, “Well, Brother Rasband, where do you feel this missionary should go?” I would name a particular mission, and Elder Eyring would look at me thoughtfully and say, “No, that’s not it!” He would then continue to assign the missionaries where he had felt prompted.
As we were nearing the completion of that assignment meeting, a picture of a certain missionary appeared on the screen. I had the strongest prompting that the missionary we had before us was to be assigned to Japan. I did not know that Elder Eyring was going to ask me on this one, but amazingly he did. I rather tentatively and humbly said to him, “Japan?” Elder Eyring responded immediately, “Yes, let’s go there.” And up on the computer screen the missions of Japan appeared. I instantly knew that the missionary was to go to the Japan Sapporo Mission.
Elder Eyring did not ask me the exact name of the mission, but he did assign that missionary to the Japan Sapporo Mission.
At the end of the meeting Elder Eyring bore his witness to me of the love of the Savior, which He has for each missionary assigned to go out into the world and preach the restored gospel. He said that it is by the great love of the Savior that His servants know where these wonderful young men and women, senior missionaries, and senior couple missionaries are to serve. I had a further witness that morning that every missionary called in this Church, and assigned or reassigned to a particular mission, is called by revelation from the Lord God Almighty through one of these, His servants.

My Story
Finally, how do we “keep singing” when we can’t see the Conductor or feel His presence? Bear with me as I tell you a difficult personal story.

In 2009, after a spiritually powerful performance tour with the choir, I suffered a massive crisis of faith, triggered by something I read that raised questions I couldn’t answer. What I read isn’t important; I’ll just say, it was convincing enough to destroy some weak links in what I thought was a secure testimony. I have since called this the problem of plastic parts. You know how things you buy are only as strong as the plastic parts the manufacturers put in intentionally so your item breaks right after the warranty expires? That’s a topic for another day, but it sums up the problem with my faith: it was built with too many plastic parts, meaning, even in my 40s, without realizing it, key parts of my testimony were still based on opinions of men, including my own youthful attempts to reconcile my understanding of science and the gospel. When those plastic parts failed, the whole machine fell apart. I went into a deep spiritual funk that lasted three years. I was seldom happy, my family suffered; I doubted the reality of my soul, even the existence of God.

At this moment of spiritual crisis, I realized, I had felt the Spirit and knew I had, including many times on the choir tour that year. I also recalled times in my younger life when I had unmistakably seen God’s hand, answering prayers and honoring priesthood blessings in miraculous ways that couldn’t be explained away no matter how hard my tortured mind tried.

Even in my pain, I remembered that God knew me personally, exactly as Brother Michael Lewis taught us so beautifully last week. I knew He knew my name. Through an experience too sacred to share here, I knew He even knew my phone number. Even if I couldn’t “feel so now,” I had heard and sung the song of redeeming love, and it was not imaginary.

I realized then that to be truly intellectually honest, I couldn’t dismiss my own storehouse of spiritual memories, even though I couldn’t yet answer a few hard questions. That thought—those memories—made me push the pause button and say, “Wait. Let’s give this a fair trial.”

And so I began to rewrite my song—starting with “I Am a Child of God”—which at that moment was all I felt I knew for certain. I began to build a new foundation for my faith, this time without the plastic parts.

I still believe in miracles, but not in every second-hand miracle story I’m told. I’m rebuilding my faith on the smaller but more solid blocks of daily, authentic, personal experiences with God that nobody can take away from me. Claims of “indisputable evidence” against the Church or its leaders have also lost their power to faze me. I’m imperfect, so what if my leaders are too? I’ve met many of them, including President Russell M. Nelson. They are good people, serving the Lord the best they know how, just as I am. Their mistakes, real or imagined, have nothing to do with my personal quest to learn the Lord’s song and sing my part.