Gospel Story Finder

Let’s hurry along to Redwood Road. There is a much larger home here where many widows reside. Most are seated in the well-lighted living room. But in her bedroom, alone, is one on whom I must call. She hasn’t spoken a word since a devastating stroke some years ago. But then, who knows what she hears?—so I speak of good times together. There isn’t a flicker of recognition, not a word spoken. In fact, an attendant asks if I am aware that this patient hasn’t uttered a word for years. It made no difference. Not only had I enjoyed my one-sided conversation with her—I had communed with God.

My first district leader’s motto seemed to be “Work smarter, not harder.” I don’t agree with the second half of this motto, but if I had it to do over, I would certainly try to work smarter. My district leader was quite creative and quite successful. For instance, he organized a volleyball team among the youth in his branch, and they invited their friends to play. It was a fun and simple way to help the youth be missionaries. Teaching opportunities and conversions resulted from this nonthreatening approach to sharing the gospel.

Seth squirmed in his chair. He could hardly wait to hear what Grandma and Grandpa had to say. When everyone was quiet, Grandpa began. “For a long time, Grandma and I have prayed about serving a mission. We want to do what the prophet has asked, so we turned in our mission papers. The Lord has called us to serve a mission in Puerto Rico.”
Everyone was happy and excited for Grandma and Grandpa. Everyone except Seth. He felt sad and lonely. “It’s almost like everyone wants them to go away,” Seth thought. He went to his room, curled up on his bed, and cried.
Mom found him there. “Seth, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t believe that Grandma and Grandpa are leaving us. What about when my new baby sister is born? She won’t know who they are. And what about me? Don’t they care about me?”
“Seth, Grandma and Grandpa love you very much,” Mom said. “That’s one of the reasons they’re going to serve—to set a good example for you and for all of us.”
Seth didn’t understand. He had never felt more miserable.
The next morning, Grandma’s soft voice woke Seth up. “I thought maybe you and I could have breakfast together,” she said.
Seth sprang out of bed. Maybe Grandma and Grandpa had changed their minds!
After Grandma and Seth finished their waffles, she told him a story. “When Grandpa and I started thinking about going on a mission, I was concerned about you. I prayed that Heavenly Father would help you to understand our feelings. Then at general conference, Elder Robert D. Hales said if we serve a mission, our families will be blessed.
“Grandpa and I want those blessings for you, Seth. We also want to show you that it’s important to follow the prophet. We want you to share this special time with us and be happy.”
Seth knew that Grandma was right. “I am happy for you, Grandma. I just didn’t know that following the prophet meant I’d lose you.”
“You will never lose me, Seth,” Grandma said. “We are an eternal family. But we are asking you to share us with people in Puerto Rico who need us. The time will pass quickly. We’ll write letters and send you stamps for your collection. And when we get back, I’ll be an even better grandma!”
On Sunday, Seth’s Primary sang “Follow the Prophet.” It seemed like a whole new song to Seth. Now he knew that sharing Grandma and Grandpa was one way he could follow the prophet too.

I am so grateful for the ongoing building of temples in this “dispensation of the fulness of times” (Doctrine and Covenants 128:18). Since the early days of the Restoration, faithful Saints have made many sacrifices to receive temple ordinances and covenants. Following their great example, in 1975, after many economic sacrifices to travel from Mexico City, my dear wife, Evelia, and I, being accompanied by our dear parents, were sealed as an eternal husband and wife in the Mesa Arizona Temple. That day, as we were united by the authority of the priesthood in the house of the Lord, we truly experienced a glimpse of heaven.

Many years ago I attended a large gathering of Church members in the city of Berlin, Germany. A spirit of quiet reverence permeated the gathering as an organ prelude of hymns was played. I gazed at those who sat before me. There were mothers and fathers and relatively few children. The majority of those who sat on crowded benches were women about middle age—and alone. Suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps these were widows, having lost their husbands during World War II. My curiosity demanded an answer to my unexpressed thought, so I asked the conducting officer to take a sort of standing roll call. When he asked all those who were widows to please arise, it seemed that half the vast throng stood. Their faces reflected the grim effect of war’s cruelty. Their hopes had been shattered, their lives altered, and their future had in a way been taken from them. Behind each countenance was a personal travail of tears. I addressed my remarks to them and to all who have loved, then lost, those most dear.
Frederick W. Babbel, who accompanied Elder Ezra Taft Benson on his postwar visit to Europe to assist the struggling Saints, recounts in his book On Wings of Faith one heartrending account. A woman, even the mother of four small children, had been newly widowed. Her husband, young and handsome, whom she loved more than life itself, had been killed during the final days of the frightful battles in their homeland of East Prussia. She and her children were forced to flee to West Germany, a distance of a thousand miles. The weather was mild as they began their long and difficult trek on foot. Constantly being faced with dangers from panicky refugees and marauding troops was difficult enough, but then came the cold of winter, with its accompanying snow and ice. Her resources were meager; now they were gone. All she had was her strong faith in God and in the gospel as revealed to the latter-day prophet Joseph Smith.
And then one morning the unthinkable happened. She awakened with a chill in her heart. The tiny form of her three-year-old daughter was cold and still, and she realized that death had claimed her. With great effort the mother prepared a shallow grave and buried her precious child.
Death, however, was to be her companion again and again on the journey. Her seven-year-old perished, and then her five-year-old. Her despair was all-consuming. Finally, as she was reaching the end of her travel, the baby died in her arms. She had lost her husband and all her children. She had given up all her earthly goods, her home, and even her homeland.
From the depths of her despair, she knelt and prayed more fervently than she had ever prayed in her life: “Dear Heavenly Father, I do not know how I can go on. I have nothing left—except my faith in thee. I feel amidst the desolation of my soul an overwhelming gratitude for the atoning sacrifice of thy Son, Jesus Christ. I know that because he suffered and died, I shall live again with my family; that because he broke the chains of death, I shall see my children again in the flesh and will have the joy of raising them. Though I do not at this moment wish to live, I will do so, that we may be reunited as a family and return, together, to thee.” This prayer, this testimony sustained her until finally she reached Karlsruhe, her destination.

I came home from my mission with a desire to make that choice. I dated, and I learned a lot from some wonderful people, but things never quite seemed to click. Horror of horrors, I graduated from BYU single. I wondered if there was something wrong with me, but the only thing that was really wrong was that the time was not right. I needed to be in the same place as the other who would choose me. I needed to develop talents that would be attractive to her. I had to learn to distinguish between my own feelings and the confirming voice of the Spirit. But when the time was right, the choices were made, and calm, peaceful confirmation then followed. I made the best choice ever, and that has been a foundation for the greatest blessings in my life ever since.

Henry, 15, was outside his house when Joseph Smith left for Carthage “the last time alive.” Henry saw Joseph shake hands and exchange canes with a stranger. Then Joseph rode away. Henry first heard the tragic news from Carthage Jail “when a runner went past our house shouting that the prophet was killed.”
A day or two later Henry and crowds of others visited the Mansion House, where “I saw their murdered bodies after they were brought from Carthage.” The murders were “a sad blow to my father,” Henry said, “and for a time he was at a loss to know what the results would be, but he finally settled to the conviction that the church would continue its progress and that the Twelve Apostles were the proper leaders.”

My first assignment was the Ashtabula Ward, part of the Kirtland stake. On our way to my first area, my companion, Elder Shawn Patrick Murphy, and I stopped at the Newel K. Whitney store in Kirtland. Today there is a large visitors’ center there, but at the time it was a small place. I remember walking up the stairs to the room above the store where Joseph Smith held the School of the Prophets. I knew little of the history of the place, but I still felt something distinct as we entered that plain room with its simple wooden benches.
The director of the center was a former mission president, President Brewer. As he spoke about this place where the Brethren studied and learned together, I felt the Spirit deeply. I began to see the role Kirtland played as a hinge point in the history of the Church.
In the early 1830s, Independence, Missouri, was identified as the site of the New Jerusalem. The Saints had begun to settle there. But they were then forced out because of differences with other Missouri residents and opposition to the Saints’ beliefs. In 1834, Joseph organized a group of about 230 men, women, and children, later known as Zion’s Camp. They were to travel 900 miles (1,450 km) from Ohio to Missouri to help the Saints regain land they had legally purchased. The journey was not successful in getting the land back, but it created a setting that helped prepare many future leaders of the Church, including Church Presidents Brigham Young and Wilford Woodruff.
It wasn’t just the preparation of leaders that was important. The sanctifying effect of Zion’s Camp prepared a people who were willing to sacrifice to build a temple.
In Kirtland, the Prophet received revelation after revelation about the organization of the Church, all in preparation for what would be the crowning achievement—the building of the temple.1 And sacrifice literally brought forth the blessings of heaven.2 The Saints were so poor they could hardly afford the necessities of life. Yet they consecrated their time, talents, and possessions—the very covenant we make in the temple today—to build the house of the Lord.
Today the Kirtland Temple is owned and maintained by another church—the Community of Christ. When a guide from that church took us through the building, I felt the Spirit as he quoted from journals of those who witnessed marvelous events at the temple’s dedication. These events included seeing angels and the temple seeming to be ablaze with light.3 The Spirit confirmed to me that this had indeed been a house of God.
I served in the Ashtabula Ward for seven months. Almost every preparation day, we took those we were teaching to visit the Newel K. Whitney store and talk about the Kirtland Temple. Many times we recited the inspiring account of Christ’s appearance at the temple:
The Lord Appears in the Kirtland Temple, by Del Parson
“His eyes were as a flame of fire; the hair of his head was white like the pure snow; his countenance shone above the brightness of the sun; and his voice was as the sound of the rushing of great waters, even the voice of Jehovah, saying:
“I am the first and the last; I am he who liveth, I am he who was slain; I am your advocate with the Father” (Doctrine and Covenants 110:3–4).
In addition to the Savior, others also visited the temple—Moses, Elias, and Elijah. They committed to Joseph keys for the gathering of Israel, the dispensation of the gospel of Abraham, and temple and family history work. (See Doctrine and Covenants 110:10–16.)
Because these visitations are so significant, I think we sometimes overlook the significance of other things that also occurred. In the dedicatory prayer, Joseph Smith addressed the Lord God of Israel, “who keepest covenant and showest mercy,” and pleaded with the Lord to “accept the dedication of this house unto thee, the work of our hands, which we have built unto thy name” (Doctrine and Covenants 109:1, 78).
By appearing in answer to that prayer, Jesus Christ, as the mouthpiece of God the Father, showed that He accepted His house, the ordinances that would be performed there, and the covenants that would be made there. That acceptance has been granted to every temple that has been dedicated since then, as well as to the covenants made and ordinances performed in those temples.
In the dedicatory prayer, Joseph also specifically asked the Lord to bless those who served in presidencies, as well as their families. Today, those blessings are extended to Relief Society presidents, quorum presidents, Young Women presidents, stake presidents, mission presidents, and so on. (See Doctrine and Covenants 109:71.) Then Joseph asked the Lord to “remember all thy church, O Lord, with all their families … that thy church may come forth out of the wilderness of darkness, and shine forth” (Doctrine and Covenants 109:72–73).
Joseph sought specific blessings for presidencies and their families, for members and their families, and for the Church as a whole. We regularly witness the fulfillment of those blessings as the Church shines forth as a light in the darkness.
The dedication of the Kirtland Temple exemplifies for me three basic truths:
We are blessed when we prepare for the temple. The Saints had to prepare for the Kirtland Temple to be built. They had to sacrifice, purify themselves, and develop willing hearts. We need to do the same to become more ready to receive blessings the Lord has for us.
We can receive revelation in the house of the Lord. The visions given to Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery in the Kirtland Temple provided guidance, direction, and understanding. On a personal level, we can also find inspiration when we go to the temple seeking answers.
We can find refuge in the temple. In a time of persecution and poverty, the Saints in Kirtland found that the house of the Lord was a sanctuary from the worries surrounding them. The same is true for us today.
Over the years, I have found that the things I learned about the temple as a young missionary in Ohio have blessed my family and me. For example, in the temple a year after we were married, my wife, Amy, and I received an impression that it was time to have a child. We were students, and because of tight finances I was tempted to cast the prompting aside. But the Lord was preparing us.
We had three miscarriages over the next two years, and I wondered, “Why the prompting to have children if we’re not able to have them?” Then we moved to California, worked with a fertility specialist, and finally had our first child, Mackenzie.
By following the inspiration we received in the temple, we began a process that took three years. If we had not followed the prompting when we did, it would probably have been at least another three years before we had our first child. We count that experience as a blessing of preparation and revelation.
We had a second child, Emma, but then we had another miscarriage and the loss of our son, Stewart. In subsequent months and years, as we sought peace, we learned that most of the symbols in the temple point us to the Savior and the healing balm only His Atonement can give.
I am grateful for the blessings of the temple. I testify to you that it is a place of preparation, revelation, and peace.

DeAnne Winkel composed most of the songs. She recalls Sister Anderson meeting her at school and telling her she needed another song by that evening with the only instructions being the range and that it should be “a questioning song.” She knelt by the piano bench and pleaded with the Lord for his help. One-half hour later she was knocking on Sister Anderson’s door with the song recorded on the tape in her hand. They both wept as they listened.

One day my older brother, Lynn, came hurrying home from high school basketball practice, bringing a teammate with him. Upon entering the house, both made a dash for the kitchen to satisfy their hungry appetites. My brother’s friend loudly described his feeling of hunger by using a few vulgar and profane words to accent his anxious mood. Lynn quickly, quietly, but firmly said, “Hey, don’t talk like that. My little brothers might hear you. I don’t want them to learn words like that. Besides, they might think less of you than they ought to.”

Unknown to my brother, my friend and I did hear that conversation, but the profane words were quickly erased from my mind by the thoughtful concern and courage shown by my older brother. That experience made a positive, lasting impression on my young mind. At the risk of sacrificing a friendship, his kindly chastisement of his friend taught me a lesson of love and concern for others and of courage to uphold the right.

We were introduced to the Church by our neighbor who sang songs that we later learned were hymns. Our neighbor told us about a wonderful place called Primary, where children learned to sing. The missionaries were contacted, and they started visiting our home to teach us.

However, my dad had strong feelings against the Church and about his children being taught by the missionaries. Being a small boy, I never understood what those two elders went through to bring the gospel into our lives. Dad would kick them out if he found them at our home, and he would deliberately turn off the lights if the elders stopped by in the evening. Just as my dad was relentless in trying to stop the missionaries from teaching, Thelma was twice as determined to learn about the gospel and read the Book of Mormon. Thelma and the elders never gave up, and for this I am thankful.

Going to church was a struggle because Dad tried to stop us by using a variety of tactics, such as requiring that we do chores before we could leave for church.

One Sunday morning was particularly hard. He did not want to let us go, but we refused to be stopped. He kicked a garbage can and spilled its contents all over the floor we had just cleaned. Thelma quietly began picking up the garbage without complaining. After she had cleaned the floor again, she asked if we could go to church. We had finished all the chores and more, but he still did not want to give his permission. Finally he asked pointedly, “Why do you insist on going to this church anyway?” Thelma then bore a powerful testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel and of the message of the Restoration of the gospel. As she concluded, my dad waved his hand and gave his permission.

Dad never tried to stop us again after this incident and eventually, even though he did not like it, gave his consent for us to join the Church.

The stars hung in the icy night like frozen teardrops above the Arizona desert mesa. Old mother moon rode high, clustering her starry children about her as if to warm their chilly faces. On the snow-crusted earth below, Danny Yazzi shivered in his worn jacket as he chanted a Navajo lullaby to the small band of sheep milling around him.
As Danny stamped his feet to keep warm, he thought of the mud hogan where his mother would be preparing mutton stew. His brothers and sisters would be playing about the black pot-bellied stove, turned a cherry red by the crackling fire, while his father pounded thin slices of silver into delicate bracelets and rings.
Danny whistled softly, and the white animals, shaggy with thick wool, began to move down the sloping side of the mesa, brushing against one another. Grazing time had ended for another wintry day, and now they turned homeward toward a corral.
As Danny began to move behind them, the sheep bells fastened about his waist jingled merrily. The sounds of the bells rang through the still night. Tonight the bells seemed to ring with a different tone. Even the animals seemed to listen to the new sweet sound of joy.
Danny’s thoughts went back to the day of his last Primary class. He and seven other Navajo children had sat before a tall slender missionary who told them the story of the birth of Jesus in a far-off land called Judea. Danny remembered Elder Johnson’s words and the way the young man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke. Danny also remembered how his heart had pounded with delight when the missionary told of the shepherds in the fields on that star-bright night long ago. Danny had thought about the story many times as he watched his own flock during the winter days of Christmas vacation.
Christmas! That word seemed so special to Danny now that he knew about Baby Jesus and that first Christmas night. The story of the Baby and the gentle shepherds who visited Him thrilled Danny as though he himself had stood guard that wondrous night. Danny shut his dark eyes, and the picture filled his mind—a manger, one bright star, the shaggy head of a donkey, a small newborn Child, and the white woolly curious sheep.
Suddenly the frantic bleating of a lamb brought Danny back to reality. He saw the small white animal struggling in the grip of a thorny cactus. The needles had thrust deep into the lamb’s wool and the animal was caught. Danny knelt beside the frightened lamb and gently began to remove the needles. It was slow work, but when the tiny lamb was finally freed, it rubbed its soft head against Danny’s knee in thanks. Then the lamb scampered off to join the flock already nearing the corral.
Danny’s moccasined feet moved quickly over the thin crust of snow as he saw the thick smoke rising from the small mud chimney. Soon he would be sitting in the warmth and light, and the chill of the night air would be forgotten as he snuggled beneath the heavy sheepskins on his bed.
The sheep bells jangled in time to Danny’s steady steps. Their Christmas magic took Danny back to the small classroom again, and he seemed to hear once more how Elder Johnson had finished the wonderful story. Danny could remember the tender words and the question that followed as the elder looked into the eager faces about him and smiled, saying, “Jesus loves you. How will you love Him?”
Danny sighed as he pondered those words for the hundredth time. What could he do to show the love and happiness that filled him when he thought of that first Christmas. He knew that money could purchase many gifts, but Danny had no money. “No,” he sighed to himself, “I have no money, and so I can give no gifts.”
Soon the sheep found their way into the protection of the corral and quickly began to bed themselves down. Danny closed the wooden gate and then paused for a moment. He looked carefully at the sheep, counting them to be sure they were all there. He knew that one lost sheep meant a return to the grazing grounds and a long search until the stray was found and returned.
The door of the hogan swung open, and Danny’s mother, dressed in her warm velvet blouse and long skirt, was watching for him. Her smile was gentle as she gazed out at her eldest child and waited for him as he entered the warm dwelling. With hands outstretched to the fire, Danny smiled at his younger brothers and sisters as they looked up from their play.
Danny’s father knelt in one corner of the small round room. His delicate hammers and chisels lay about him as he worked his skill on the silver and turquoise. Danny felt a thrill of pride as he watched the slender fingers molding and shaping the metal into beautiful jewelry.
But a pang of sorrow shot through Danny as he looked upon these faces that were so dear to him. What gift of love did he have to give?
“Danny,” his mother’s soft voice called. “It’s Christmas Eve. Your father and I met with some missionaries while you were away to school. What they have told us is good and feels right in our hearts.” She paused and glanced at Danny’s father.
The man stopped his work and looked up at his oldest son. The words he spoke were low and steady. “The elders have told us that you learned the story of the first Christmas while at school.”
The children stopped their play and gazed in admiration at their brother, who was learning many new things at the far-off school.
Danny felt a glow in his heart. He seemed to hear the joyous ringing of the sheep bells, and the picture of the manger and the gentle shepherds returned to him as he thought about the first Christmas. A voice seemed to whisper, “This is the gift of love you can give.” At last Danny knew what gift he could give to his beloved family!
Danny turned to his father, who gently smiled and then said, “We have been waiting for you. Come, my son, and tell us the story of Jesus.”

On Sunday, 1 October 1854, Elders David Jeremy and Daniel Thomas walked to preach in Llangeler Parish, Carmarthenshire. The weather was good, and the missionaries complied with their previous invitation to preach by conducting an outdoor meeting. However, their preaching was interrupted by people from the Saron Independent Welsh Chapel who were leaving their own meeting. Some of the new listeners began to call out at the elders—and then began to throw stones and clods of dirt.
The attacks were mostly directed at Elder Daniel Thomas. The crowd was led by John Davies, a farmer who also ran a small tavern. Davies shouted boasts of cruelty louder than the missionaries could speak. The stones came harder, hitting Daniel so that blood began to flow down his face.
David Jeremy recalled hearing the words, “Away with them!” With Daniel’s injury, they turned to walk away not expecting the crowd to follow. But the stones and yelling continued with them along the road. David estimated that there were 30 to 40 people coming after them, still throwing stones, some of which hit their marks—the elders began to stumble.
After running for some time “like foxes before the hounds,” David realised that the crowd were still calling Daniel’s name. Believing that Daniel was the main target, David stopped and turned to reason with the crowd, which allowed enough time for Daniel to escape into the brambles and bogs along the streams flowing north to the Afon Teifi. Several of the mob broke off to follow him. But Daniel was able to lose them and made it home to have his wounds attended.
The remainder of the mob then turned its fury on David Jeremy. Someone hit his head with a large rock causing a wound to the skull about two inches long. Falling to the ground, David felt the mobbers kick him as someone called out, “Now you’ve finally killed him, his skull is broken!”
Just then, a man who went by the name Dafydd, probably a local and respected farmer named David Evans, stood against the mob to protest. He shouted, “You’ll not kill him before killing me! Leave him alone!” Dafydd drove off the crowd and helped David Jeremy stumble to Treolmawr1, the house of Mr. H. Howells.
Mr. Howells cared for David and bound his wounds. David rested there that night. The next day, Mr. Howells lent him one of his own horses, and David was able to make his way home to Brechfa.
In 1855, both elders emigrated from Britain to the United States. They travelled by wagon to Utah. Daniel subsequently raised a large family. He died in 1890 and is buried in Ogden, Utah. David also married but had no children. He suffered from epileptic fits for the rest of his life, believed to be caused by the injury to his skull on the run from Saron Chapel. On 3 April 1885, he died in Salt Lake City of such a fit.

The story is told of a man who simply would not work. He wanted to be taken care of in every need. To his way of thinking, the Church or the government, or both, owed him a living because he had paid his taxes and his tithing. He had nothing to eat but refused to work to care for himself. Out of desperation and disgust, those who had tried to help him decided that since he would not lift a finger to sustain himself, they might as well just take him to the cemetery and let him pass on. On the way to the cemetery, one man said, “We can’t do this. I have some corn I will give him.”
So they explained this to the man, and he asked, “Have the husks been removed?”
They responded, “No.”
“Well, then,” he said, “drive on.”

Marcia was sitting at the kitchen table, watching her mother make a cake. “Thanksgiving isn’t going to be any fun this year,” she said. “I wish we could go back to New York and be with Grandmother and Granddad. Why did we have to move to Denver, anyway?”
“It’s hard for all of us to be away from the family at holiday time,” said Marcia’s mother, wiping flour from her hands. “I guess we’re all a little homesick. But Daddy’s job is here now, and Denver is our new home.”
“Last Thanksgiving there were seventeen relatives around Grandmother’s table. What fun we had!” said Marcia. “This year there will be only the three of us at our table. It just isn’t fair.” As Marcia went into the living room, she heard her mother sigh. Marcia knew that her mother wanted to be with the family at Thanksgiving too.
This is terrible, thought Marcia. We’re all so gloomy. Lots of families are apart on holidays. Then, sighing herself, she resolved, We’ll just have to make the best of it.
However, things weren’t much better the next day at school when Marcia’s teacher asked each student what his family was going to do on the Thanksgiving holiday. Marcia only half listened to the wonderful plans the other children were telling about. She felt worse than ever. What would she say when it was her turn?
As Marcia tried to decide what to say, she began to get interested in what Sally was saying. Sally’s family was going to have a picnic in the mountains for its Thanksgiving dinner. That surely was different from any Thanksgiving that Marcia knew about.
Next it was John’s turn. His family was going skiing. Then Jeff told about his family’s plans to go to a hospital and entertain the patients. Amy’s family was going to help serve at a church dinner.
Marcia was amazed. She’d thought that the only thing you did on Thanksgiving was go to your grandmother’s house and have a big dinner. Suddenly Marcia saw that Thanksgiving could be a wonderful new experience!
When the teacher called on Marcia, Marcia stood up very slowly. “We haven’t made any plans yet,” she said, “but all of you have given me a lot of good ideas!”
Later, when the school bus dropped her off, Marcia ran the rest of the way home. “Mom,” she called as she burst through the kitchen door, “I have the most wonderful ideas for Thanksgiving! Just wait until you hear!” Marcia told her mother about all the different Thanksgiving plans that she’d heard about at school.
When Marcia finished, Mother said, “Those are all wonderful things to do for Thanksgiving.”
“Maybe we could think of something special to do on Thanksgiving day, too,” Marcia went on excitedly. “Since it’s a day of giving, maybe we could entertain at a hospital, like Jeff, or serve at a church dinner, like Amy.”
“You mean not have a Thanksgiving dinner?” asked Mother.
“Oh, no!” said Marcia. “I still want to have Thanksgiving dinner.” She thought for a minute, then said, “Maybe we could share our dinner with some people who are away from their families like we are.”
“But we don’t know anyone here yet,” said Mother.
“I do!” Marcia told her. “I mean, one of the boys in my class was telling about his grandmother in a nursing home. He said that lots of older people in the nursing home are far away from their families and that they are very lonesome. Couldn’t we invite some of the people from the nursing home to have Thanksgiving dinner with us at our house?”
Mother didn’t say anything for a minute. Then she slowly nodded her head. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Marcia. And I’m sure your daddy will think so too. We could have a big dinner just like Grandmother always has. It would be a happy time.” Mother grinned at Marcia. “Well, come on,” she said. “We haven’t a minute to lose. There are a hundred things to do to get ready. First, we’ll call Daddy and the nursing home; then we’ll plan the dinner; then we’ll get out the good dishes. Then we’ll—” she stopped and gave Marcia a hug.
Marcia hadn’t seen her mother so happy since they’d left New York. As a matter of fact, thought Marcia, I don’t know when I’ve been so happy myself. Thanksgiving is going to be more fun than ever this year!

Last year when I was called to be the Young Women general president, as I was leaving President Monson’s office, he reached over to a bouquet of white roses, took one from the vase, and handed it to me. The moment he handed me that beautiful white rose, I knew why. I went back to the time when, as a young woman, I chose the white rose as my symbol of purity—my personal banner. How did President Monson know? I took that precious rose home, put it in a beautiful crystal vase, and placed it on a table where I could see it every day. Every day that rose reminded me of the importance of my own personal purity and virtue, and it reminded me of you. As you grow and blossom, your personal purity will enable you to become a force for good and an influence for righteousness in the world. I truly believe that one virtuous young woman, led by the Spirit, can change the world.

I thought of another great man in my life—a coach who has affected my life for eternity. I am pleased to announce that he and I are engaged together in learning more fully the gospel of Jesus Christ in a missionary effort.
I will never forget the day I walked into his office, scared to death as fifteen-year-olds are, trying to sign up for a varsity team. I stood outside his door for the better part of five minutes; and then, when I got the courage, I knocked timidly. The voice said, “Come in!” I opened the door and walked in.
He said, “What can I do for you, son?”
I said, “Where do you sign up for varsity baseball?”
He said, “Let me ask you a question—do you want to play ball or be a champion?”
I said, “I came to play ball.”
He said, “I’m sorry, we’re all filled up.”
With a broken heart, I turned and walked out. That wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear! I stood in the hall for a minute (thank goodness my dad had taught me courage to keep trying), then plucked up my courage and again knocked on the door. The answer came as before, “Come in!” I walked in.
He said, “Oh, it’s you again.”
I said, “Yes, sir, maybe you didn’t understand my earlier question. I asked you where to sign up for varsity baseball.”
He said, “I asked you a question. Do you want to play ball or be a champion?”
Well, I knew the other answer hadn’t worked, so I said, “I want to be a champion.”
“Oh,” he said, “sign here.” And I did. He said, “We build champions.” Then he turned and said, “Have you ever signed a contract before?”
I said, “No, sir, I’m only fifteen.”
He said, “At this institution, we commit ourselves to principles.”
He took from the bottom drawer of his file a contract already typed, and on it were the standards that we have been listening to in this great conference. He said, “You take that home and read it over with your parents. If you can agree to the conditions, you sign it and bring it back tomorrow.” I did. Somehow, I made the team.
In the contractual agreement were promises to be the kind of a Latter-day Saint I knew I ought to be. We went through a great, great season. It ended in a tie with our arch-rival high school. The play-off game was to determine the state championship. As we assembled on the field in the last-minute preparation for the great event, the coach had us around the batting cage. As he was making his little pep talk, he stopped in front of me and said, “Oh, by the way, you will pitch the deciding game.” My heart dropped! He continued his counsel. And then he stopped in front of our excellent second baseman. Most of you would know him because he went on to play for the Chicago White Sox for a number of years. He said, as he looked, “Jimmy, is that a nicotine stain on your finger?” Jimmy, like the rest of us, had made a commitment to keep his body clean.
Jimmy, looking at his finger, quickly hid his hand and said, embarrassed, “Yes, sir.”
The coach said in front of the whole team, “Did you sign a contract with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you broke the contract?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know the penalty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you turn in your uniform? You’re through.”
I wanted to say, “Coach, tomorrow’s the big game. (Jimmy was batting .385 and hadn’t made an error at second base all year.) But the coach was thinking of a boy, not a game. Jimmy turned in his uniform, but the coach kept close to him.
I drew the assignment the next day to pitch against Al Yalian, who later signed with the New York Yankees for a fabulous bonus. Thirteen innings we went, and he beat me in the thirteenth—1–0. The run came when a ground ball was hit to second where Jimmy normally played. The ball got through a nervous substitute’s legs onto the outfield grass and eventually scored an unearned run, which defeated us. And now, years later, I thank God for a great coach who taught me that principles are more important than games.

Teri leaned close to the windowpane and blew on it. She watched the steam spread out on the glass in front of her face. Then she wiped the steam away and looked at the swirling snow outside the window. Snowflakes were falling everywhere. Teri could barely see the green tips of the evergreens peeking out of their white covering. Even the fence had a coating of snow.
Suddenly Teri saw two sparrows flutter down and land on the porch rail.
“Mother,” she called. “Come quickly. There are some sparrows on the porch. Can we throw a few bread crumbs to them?”
Mother walked across the room and stood next to Teri at the window. Together they watched as the birds flew from the rail onto the porch.
“Can we?” Teri asked again.
“We can do better than that,” Mother answered. “Today is a perfect day for bird pie.”
“Bird pie? May I help make it?” Teri asked excitedly.
“You certainly may, and you can begin by bringing me that wire basket I hung my flowers in last summer. We’ll hang our bird pie in a basket in the apple tree.”
Teri brought the basket and put it on the kitchen counter. “What does bird pie have in it?” she asked.
“Just three things,” Mother answered. “First all the bacon drippings I’ve been saving.”
Teri spooned the drippings into a big yellow bowl.
“Next we need enough flour to make a paste,” Mother said.
Teri stirred in the flour.
“And last we’ll add sunflower seeds,” Teri guessed, picking up the seeds that were lying on the counter.
“Right,” Mother smiled.
Mother held the basket while Teri spooned the bird pie into the wire container. Then Mother took the bird pie out into the yard and hung the basket in the apple tree.
Teri looked at the wire basket blowing gently back and forth on the limb of the apple tree.
“Do you think the birds will find our pie?” she asked Mother.
“I’m sure they will,” Mother answered. “Birds always seem to know when food is nearby.”
It was quiet while they waited and watched. Teri could hear the wind blowing around the house, picking up puffs of snow as it blew.
Then she saw a sparrow land on the branch above the pie. She held her breath. The bird bobbed along the branch closer and closer to the basket. Finally it fluttered into the air and landed on the basket.
Teri hugged her mother. “The sparrow found it!” she exclaimed. “He found our bird pie!”
Mother smiled. “Look again,” she said.
Teri looked out the window. Her eyes opened wide.
“One, two, three, four, five birds,” Teri counted. Then she smiled. “You were right. It is a perfect day for bird pie!”

by Frances Asselin
Allison Brandow unpacked her suitcase and glanced quickly around the room, waiting anxiously for her weekend roommate to appear. When they met a few moments later, it was instant friendship! The girls were among 300 youth and counselors awaiting the beginning of the Toronto, Ontario, regional LDS youth conference. Held at Guelph University in Guelph, Ontario, the theme this year was “Friends Are Forever.”
The weekend began with a Friday night sock hop and dance contest, followed by a talent display. Saturday morning workshops included self-defense, modern dance, and missionary cooking (among others), and were followed by a volleyball tournament, swimming, and other sporting activities. That evening Elder Robert L. Simpson of the First Quorum of the Seventy spoke about missionary work, emphasizing that any friend can truly become a friend forever in the gospel.
Sunday meetings included inspirational messages from Elder Simpson and the Washington Temple president and matron, President and Sister Aimes. Sunday workshops on such topics as honoring the priesthood, temple marriage, and goal setting continued throughout the afternoon and were followed by a testimony meeting.
The next morning a late breakfast gave plenty of time for taking photographs, exchanging addresses, and tearful farewells. Traveling homeward, each person was warmed by the knowledge that memories, like friendship, are truly forever.

On an early morning in January, my husband and I drove to the hospital for the birth of our fifth child, Charlotte. I had been anxious during my pregnancy, and now I fretted to my husband, “What if our baby isn’t all right?”
“Then we’ll love her just the same,” he answered consolingly.
When my daughter finally lay beside me in the delivery room, I examined her. She looked perfect. But when she was whisked away, I asked in alarm, “What’s the matter? Is my baby all right?”
“The doctor will talk to you,” the nurse responded. My stomach knotted, and my worst fears began to surface.
The doctor soon told us that our baby had Down syndrome. Sorrow, disbelief, anger, and guilt boiled up.
“Why us? Why Charlotte?” I questioned. My world seemed to have changed forever, and I didn’t know how to handle it.
Charlotte’s birth was the beginning of the hard times. A short time later my mother-in-law had a stroke; two of our cars broke down; our business struggled; Charlotte required surgery on her eyes, ears, and heart; and the medical bills flooded in.
One particularly overwhelming day, I took Charlotte to our bedroom and said a discouraged prayer. “Heavenly Father, this is more than I can bear. Please help me.” Slowly I got to my feet and turned on the television news, looking for a distraction.
The top story described a plane crash that killed all the passengers. For the first time, I listened to the news in a different way. “Someone’s husband was killed in that crash,” I reflected. “If I had the power to trade places, would I rather be a widow?”
The next story told of a young man arrested for selling drugs. I thought, “That is someone’s son. Would I rather be his mother?” Dawning understanding brought a simple but important realization: we all face trials to help us progress.
I looked over at Charlotte, and some words came clearly to mind: “Why are you so sad when Heavenly Father has sent you a sweet little baby to love?” That was my answer. No plane crashes or drugs—I got to love little Charlotte. Rather than deserting me, Heavenly Father was entrusting me with a child who needed extra care. Realizing the confidence He had placed in me, I felt my bitterness slip away.
Charlotte has taught us peace and appreciation. Although frustrating times come, she is an integral part of our family. She is a little piece of heaven sent to us to love.