Gospel Story Finder

When her nine-year-old cousin rushed in, bleeding badly from an injured arm, Terri Edwards, 13, approached the emergency calmly and correctly.
The youngster had torn his arm severely on a piece of metal. Terri remembered the first-aid training she received at girls’ camp and used clean cloths to stop the bleeding. While she kept pressure on the boy’s arm, she told her sister to call for help. The boy was rushed to the hospital where he had emergency surgery.
Terri received a commendation from the Madison County sheriff for the correct manner in which she responded to the emergency. Terri is a member of the Rexburg Seventh Ward, Rexburg Idaho Stake.

My daughters and I baked the cake. We frosted the cake! We even picked out some epic candles that said “Happy Birthday” on them—one letter per candle. We would present the cake in a scenic riverside picnic spot.
My wife’s birthday party was shaping up to be one my family would never forget. And, um, we certainly haven’t forgotten it.
My wife, April, normally makes all the birthday cakes in our family, including her own (by her choice). This time, though, my girls and I wanted to step it up. As Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has taught, “We need to both express and demonstrate love.”1 We were ready to bring some razzle-dazzle.
The razzle-dazzle, however, got off to a bumpy start, as the cake came out of the oven dry and crumbly. No problem! That’s what extra frosting is for.
With all signs of dryness buried beneath the welcome folds of buttercream frosting, my daughters helped me encase the whole cake in plastic wrap so we could transport it. We would soon learn that this product happens to cling to everything it touches with the tenacity of an octopus in a death grip.
Once we were in our epic picnic spot, we presented the cake to April. I was proud of our fine work and how the night was coming together. It was time to remove the wrapping.
Much to our dismay, the plastic wrap turned octopus gashed out great swaths of perfection as it ripped loose huge slabs of frosting. And because we’d baked it dry, the cake itself crumbled freely once relieved of its frosting infrastructure.
That was about the time April lost her ability to suppress her first chuckle.
Photograph courtesy of the author
The heat of the day started taking its own toll. The remaining frosting began to melt and slide off the cake. Naturally, this was the perfect time to add flames!
I hurriedly lit all 13 letter candles of “Happy Birthday.” Then I realized something: half-melted wax letters take on a decidedly creepy effect. That was not quite the birthday look we were going for.
By now, my wife’s chuckles had become all-out peals of laughter. And she got us all laughing along, despite the fiasco. One of my favorite family photos is of April laughing so hard at this train wreck of a cake that she almost appears to be in tears!

I was twelve years old when my grandfather died. To me he was the epitome of a saint—kindly, gentle, purely good.
His death was difficult for me to believe, and it made me very sad. I had not only lost a friend but I was also convinced that somehow heaven had allowed him to die too early. In my childish (though enthusiastic) understanding of the gospel, I had been sure that he was destined to be a great leader in the Church before he left this world. He was a man of great charity, who had literally given his shoes to a beggar knocking at the door, his coat to another man who was colder than he. I was sure that his death came too early. He had too much more service to give.
As I look back now, I see that I equated service with high callings. So many of the Saints have a basic goodness, a charity that qualifies them to be disciples. But serving is not synonymous with position. Whether serving in a visible calling or in secluded corners, disciples follow the example of the Christ. A calling may formalize our work for him, but serving is a blessing available to all of us, whether officially called through the Church organization or in our daily association with others.
My grandfather tried to copy the Savior’s life. My grandfather’s life was not wasted. I was deeply affected by his life, and I’m sure many other people were also influenced by him. I will tell my own children about the patterns of goodness that emerged in his life in simple yet powerful ways. Any one of us can become a disciple by following examples of goodness as he did.

The first full-time missionary called from the Bahamas was Keith Dean. He joined the Church while attending school at Brigham Young University—Hawaii. “I had no intentions of joining the Church,” he said, “and I dodged the missionaries for the first two months I was there.” But after hearing the missionary discussions and having a spiritual confirmation of the truthfulness of the gospel, he was baptized 5 December 1981. Three years later, Elder Dean served in the California Fresno Mission. Now Brother Dean and his wife, Winnie, have three children, and he serves as elders quorum president in the Nassau Branch.

The silence of the sacrament service lingered as the young bishop walked slowly to the pulpit. “May I please see by a show of hands, how many of you love the Lord?”
Everywhere in the congregation hands were raised—some high, some low; some people raised only a finger. A few kept their hands in their laps. “That’s fine,” nodded the bishop. “How many of you would like to have a perfect day?”
Again the hands were raised.
“Larry, would you like to have a perfect day? Would you please come up here in front. Gene and LaRae? DeeAnn? Sean? Tess and John? Lynn and Mike?”
The names were called slowly and carefully, a short pause between each one. Some of the hands dropped lower, some fell back into the laps of their owners, only a few remained high.
“A widow? Do we have a widow who would like to live a perfect day?” There was a moment of silence as the bishop looked over the congregation filled mostly with widows and older people. “Vivian, would you like to have a perfect day?”
The bishop then turned to those who were on the stand behind him. “Now which day would you like to be your perfect day? Tuesday?”
Shock, disbelief, bewilderment—no one had really expected to have to make a real commitment. Some heads were nodding yes. Others stood motionless. After several seconds someone suggested Thursday because it was farther away and would give them more time to prepare. So Thursday was set as the day.
The bishop, with eyes twinkling, said, “That’s fine. Thursday you will have a perfect day. And next Sunday we’d like you to describe your perfect day in sacrament meeting.”
Then he turned back to the congregation. “Is there anyone else who would like to live a perfect day?” James, a young Aaronic Priesthood teacher, with freckled face and a winning grin, raised his hand. He was included.
“Thursday these eleven people are going to have a perfect day,” the bishop continued addressing the congregation. “Your responsibility as ward members is to pray that they accomplish that assignment.”
What makes a day perfect? How does one live a perfect day? All through the week when ward members would get together, the subject of the perfect day would come up. We were excited to hear the reports.
Sunday finally came.

Like many young women in Uganda, Sandra walks more than a mile to church, helps clean the meetinghouse on Fridays, and attends seminary on Saturdays. During the week, she rises before 5:00 a.m. to read schoolbooks, and then she walks to school, returning home after 6:00 p.m. She missed a year of school because of financial difficulties but faces her challenges with a positive attitude: “The gospel has really helped me to stay steadfast and immovable.”
Sandra is the only Church member in her home, but her parents support her Church service, such as helping when the ward cleaned the grounds of a local orphanage. Her family sees how the gospel has helped her be strong, even when facing unresolved problems. Reflecting on the source of that strength, Sandra says, “When I go to church, I feel like I am putting on the armor of God” (see Ephesians 6:11–17).

Recently I heard a father tell of the powerful influence his own testimony and example had in the life of his daughter. His lovely daughter was being pursued by an ardent admirer—one who had unfortunately turned away from the Church and who, through his wrongdoings, had been cut off from the blessings of the priesthood and Church membership. This girl thought she loved him and believed she might be happy with him.

Her concerned parents invited the young man into their home and tried to convince him of the need to put his life in order and to follow Christ. The father bore a fervent testimony of the reality of the Savior and of the joy that comes through obedience to his gospel. However, his words were rejected by the young man. In fact, the boy scoffed at such ideas and afterward tried to convince the girl that her father was old-fashioned and a hypocrite.

This accusation, the father said, was the young man’s undoing. That daughter defended her father and his beliefs. She knew him. She knew the validity of his testimony. She knew her father lived as he believed—his sincere love of the gospel and his example of living its teachings she could not doubt nor deny.

Her love she would save for another whose testimony was like that of her father, whose life would be blessed with the joy and peace that comes from living the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Today she is the wife of such a man, a happy mother of a lovely family born in the covenant of an eternal marriage. Oh, how blessed is the influence of a righteous father!

I had a sad errand to perform one day as I went with a mission president to tell an elder in the field of the passing of his father. He met us at the door to tell us how thrilled he was with the work of that day and what had been accomplished. Then we asked him to sit down for a moment, and we delivered the message. I shall never forget the experience.
He said, “I have learned a lot of things since I have been out in the field and have had time to think them through. I wish I could have talked to my father one more time because I had so many things to tell him.”
This is true of most of us in life. The letter we did not write, the word of appreciation we intended to express but did not take the time to do so—there are so many little things we could have done to brighten our lives and to brighten the lives of others.

The ongoing family remembrance of our little Patrick began at the time I dedicated his grave on a lovely August afternoon in 1972.
Patrick was born in Abington, Pennsylvania, and because of a complication at birth he lived only six days. We lived near a lovely little cemetery, but decided that he should be buried instead in a location near where we would want our eventual home to be—or at least in an area we could easily visit, since corporate assignments might require us to move frequently for many years.
We therefore held the funeral and buried him in Utah, where we grew up and where our parents lived. Since then we have moved to two different European countries on assignment, and then back to Utah. We are grateful for having made that decision.
In the prayer of dedication at the gravesite, I asked fervently that our family might live to be worthy to join Patrick someday in that perfect place where he now is. Six years later, we still pray often for that same blessing and find that it is a significant family encouragement and challenge to work toward that goal.
We not only pray that we might someday meet and again associate with this special son and brother, but we also feel it is appropriate to pray for his current success and welfare. Nevertheless, we know that all is well with him because of the promise of the Lord that little children who die in infancy are perfect and worthy of his kingdom.
Inasmuch as we are now fortunate to live close to the cemetery where Patrick is buried, we go there from time to time to have family prayer. Sometimes one of our children will say, “Can we please stop at Patrick’s grave to have prayer?” Whenever we do, it provides us with a special teaching moment to talk with the children about things important, sacred, and eternal.
Since Patrick is, we feel, as much a part of our family as any living earthly child, we believe there is value to be gained from remembering his birthday and even in sharing a birthday cake baked in his honor. To have the children thus see our total faith as parents that Patrick is real, that his little body will be resurrected, and that we may be joined again eternally as a family is an advantage that we as parents would not want to lose.
Because four of our children have been born since Patrick died, we are grateful for the white leather book of remembrance we compiled to remember him by. In it we have his certificates, photos from the hospital and of the funeral and burial, related correspondence, and other small treasures. As we show the children this book of remembrance, Patrick remains real to those who knew him and becomes real to the children who did not meet him here.
My wife, Sandy, and I are most thankful for the fact that the Lord allowed the birth and death of this little boy to be one of the most beautiful and spiritual family experiences we have been privileged to have since our marriage. The Lord made Patrick’s presence and even his death sweet to us, and we cherish not only the memory of Patrick himself, but also the memory of those few special and sacred days we spent together. At that time we studied as thoroughly as possible the doctrines and writings of the Church regarding little children who die. As parents and as a family we cannot express how grateful we are for those promises and the future they hold. I want to say that we do not as a family constantly think and talk about Patrick, but we make a conscious effort not to forget him, nor to forget the special family challenge and promise he has given us.

Illustration by Bryan Beach
David looked at the rectangular block of wood from every angle, trying to imagine it finished and painted for his very first pinewood derby race.
“Does it matter what shape I make it?” he asked Dad.
“No,” Dad said. “The only limits are your imagination.”
After some careful thought, David drew lines on the wood in the shape of a racecar.
They both put on safety glasses and Dad turned on the saw. David loved the smell of fresh-cut pine as Dad’s saw buzzed through the wood.
“Do you think this design will win?” David asked.
“Well, I don’t really know,” Dad said. “I was never a Cub Scout. But I don’t think winning is what’s most important …”
“I know,” David said. “It’s being a good sport.”
“You got it,” Dad said, patting him on the back. “It’s just for fun.”
David knew being a good sport was important, but deep inside he really wanted the fastest car on the track.
The next day he painted his car bright red and used a special paint marker to draw pinstripes down the sides. He imagined his car zooming down the track, first every time.
“I think it looks great,” Dad said when the car was finished. “Are you excited for tomorrow?”
David nodded. “Oh, yeah! Thanks for your help, Dad.”
“It was fun working on it with you,” Dad said. He grinned. “It’s almost like we’ll be in the driver’s seat together on the race track.”
David laughed as he imagined squeezing into the small car with Dad.
But on the night of the big race, David felt sick when he saw the other cars. Many of them looked like real racecars.
Suddenly his own car seemed a lot less impressive. Did he even stand a chance?
Two boys placed their cars against pegs at the top of the track. David watched excitedly as the Cubmaster pulled a handle and the wooden pegs dropped away so that both cars started at exactly the same time.
The crowd cheered and clapped as the two cars barreled down the track. After the winner was declared, two more cars lined up.
Several races later, it was David’s turn. The sick feeling in his stomach came back. The other boy’s car looked so much faster.
The pegs dropped. Sure enough, the other car zoomed to the finish line while his seemed to crawl down the track.
After 9 out of 15 races, David hadn’t won even once.
He glanced over and noticed a disappointed look on Dad’s face. David had never thought this might be hard for him too. He walked over and squeezed Dad’s hand.
“There are more important things than winning,” David whispered.
“That’s right, David,” Dad said with a sudden smile. Dad squeezed his hand back.
It didn’t bother David anymore when his car didn’t win. He and Dad had had a lot of fun together making his car. That was more important than winning any day.

This light will keep the kittens warm tonight. It’s bedtime for everyone!
You can play with the kittens tomorrow.
Go check the kittens.
Where did that thought come from?
Go check the kittens!
Oh no!
Daddy, the kittens’ box almost caught on fire!
How did you know to check on the kittens?
I kept having a thought, kind of like a voice. I think it was the Holy Ghost.
I think you’re right. I’m glad you listened.
Me too! I’m glad the Holy Ghost helped us.
See Come, Follow Me for Enos–Words of Mormon.

When asked how he came to choose his special branch of scientific research, George Washington Carver, the famous Negro scientist, said:
When I was a child I would rise early in the morning and walk in the woods marveling at nature. I prayed and asked the Lord to reveal to me all the wonders of his universe. And although I continued to walk and to study, to pray, no great flash of understanding came to me. Finally, in desperation, I pleaded, “Lord, if you can’t reveal all knowledge to me, at least help me to know some little thing—even the lowly peanut.”
Well, the Lord answered me on that one. He said, “Now, George, you’re getting down to your size.”

Then there was a Sunday School teacher—never to be forgotten, ever to be remembered. We met for the first time on a Sunday morning. She accompanied the Sunday School president into the classroom and was presented to us as a teacher who actually requested the opportunity to teach us. We learned that she had been a missionary and loved young people. Her name was Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She asked each class member to introduce himself or herself, and then she asked questions that gave her an understanding and an insight into the background of each boy, each girl. She told us of her childhood in Midway, Utah; and as she described that beautiful valley, she made its beauty live, and we desired to visit the green fields she loved so much. She never raised her voice. Somehow rudeness and boisterousness were incompatible with the beauty of her lessons. She taught us that the present is here and that we must live in it. She made the scriptures actually come to life. We became personally acquainted with Samuel, David, Jacob, Nephi, and the Lord Jesus Christ. Our gospel scholarship grew. Our deportment improved. Our love for Lucy Gertsch knew no bounds.
We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys and girls with typical appetites, we converted in our minds the monetary totals to cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious occasion—the biggest party ever. Never before had any of our teachers even suggested a social event like this one was going to be.
The summer months faded into autumn; autumn turned to winter. Our party goal had been achieved. The class had grown. A good spirit prevailed.
None of us will forget that gray morning in January when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.
The lesson that Sunday was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” At the conclusion of the presentation of a well-prepared lesson, Lucy Gertsch commented on the economic situation of Billy’s family. These were depression times; money was scarce. With a twinkle in her eyes, she asked, “How would you like to follow this teaching of the Lord? How would you feel about taking your party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted very carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope.
Ever shall I remember the tiny band walking those three city blocks, entering Billy’s home, greeting him, his brother, sisters, and father. Noticeably absent was his mother. Always I shall treasure the tears which glistened in the eyes of each one present as the white envelope containing our precious party fund passed from the delicate hand of our teacher to the needy hand of a grief-stricken father. We fairly skipped our way back to the chapel. Our hearts were lighter than they had ever been, our joy more full, our understanding more profound. This simple act of kindness welded us together as one. We learned through our own experience that indeed it is more blessed to give than to receive.
The years have flown. The old chapel is gone, a victim of industrialization. The boys and girls who learned, who laughed, who grew under the direction of that inspired teacher of truth have never forgotten her love or her lessons.
Even today when we sing that old favorite—
Thanks for the Sabbath School. Hail to the day
When evil and error are fleeing away.
Thanks for our teachers who labor with care
That we in the light of the gospel may share.
[Hymns, 1985, no. 278]
—we think of Lucy Gertsch, our Sunday School teacher, for we loved Lucy, and Lucy loved us.

I used to work at a camp where I helped campers rappel (or abseil) down a 100-foot cliff, a difficult and terrifying task for some. Most of them struggle with it for one reason: they lack trust. When rappelling, you need to trust your partners, the gear, the rope, the belay, and the carabineer. But most importantly, you need to trust yourself—or nothing can be accomplished.
Many people who approach the cliff come with wide eyes and shaking hands. But before they can scramble away in fear, I look at them and say, “Everything will be OK. I know you can do this. And I’m holding you up the whole way.” And when they make it to the ground, everyone cheers and hugs them, celebrating that they were able to conquer their fears.

I remember as well Sunday, January 8, 1956. To understand why that is memorable to me, we must go back to 1910.

George H. Brimhall, having already served nineteen years as president of BYU, determined to establish a recognized teachers college. He had hired three professors: one with a master’s degree from Harvard, one with a doctorate from Cornell, and the other with a doctorate from Chicago. They hoped to transform the college into a full-fledged university. They determined that practicality and religion, which had characterized the school, must now give way to more intellectual and scientific philosophies.

The professors held that “the fundamentals of religion could and must be investigated by extending the [empirical] method into the spiritual realm,” and they “considered evolution to be a basic, spiritual principle through which the divinity in nature expressed itself.” The faculty sided with the new professors and the students rallied to them.

Horace H. Cummings, superintendent of Church schools, became concerned because they were “applying the evolutionary theory and other philosophical hypotheses to principles of the gospel and to the teachings of the Church in such a way as to disturb, if not destroy the faith of the pupils,” and he wrote, “Many stake presidents, some of our leading principals and teachers, and leading men who are friends of our schools have expressed deep anxiety to me about this matter.”

Superintendent Cummings reported to the board that
1. The teachers were following the “higher criticism” . . . , treating the Bible as “a collection of myths, folk-lore, dramas, literary productions, ­history and some inspiration.”
2. They rejected the flood, the confusion of tongues, the miracle of the Red Sea, and the temptation of Christ as real phenomena.
3. They said John the Revelator was not translated but died in the year A.D. 96.
4. “The theory of evolution is treated as a demonstrated law and their applications of it to gospel truths give rise to many curious and conflicting explanations of scripture.”
5. The teachers carried philosophical ideas too far: (1) “They believed sinners should be pitied and enlightened rather than blamed or punished,” (2) and they believed that “we should never agree. God never made two things alike. Only by taking different views of a thing can its real truth be seen.”
6. . . .
7. The professors taught that “all truths change as we change. Nothing is fixed or reliable.”
8. They also taught that “visions and revelations are mental suggestions. The objective reality of the presence of the Father and the Son, in Joseph Smith’s first vision, is questioned.”

Superintendent Cummings concluded his report by saying that the professors “seem to feel that they have a mission to protect the young from the errors of their parents.”

President Brimhall himself defended the ­professors—that is, until some students “frankly told him they had quit praying because they learned in school there was no real God to hear them.”

Shortly thereafter President Brimhall had a dream.

He saw several of the BYU professors standing around a peculiar machine on the campus. When one of them touched a spring a baited fish hook attached to a long thin wire rose rapidly into the air. . . .

Casting his eyes around the sky he [President Brimhall] discovered a flock of snow-white birds circling among the clouds and disporting themselves in the sky, seemingly very happy. Presently one of them, seeing the bait on the hook, darted toward it and grabbed it. Instantly one of the professors on the ground touched a spring in the machine, and the bird was rapidly hauled down to the earth.

On reaching the ground the bird proved to be a BYU student, clad in an ancient Greek costume, and was directed to join a group of other students who had been brought down in a similar manner. Brother Brimhall walked over to them, and noticing that all of them looked very sad, discouraged and downcast, he asked them:

“Why, students, what on earth makes you so sad and downhearted?”

“Alas, we can never fly again!” they replied with a sigh and a sad shake of the head.

Their Greek philosophy had tied them to the earth. They could believe only what they could demonstrate in the laboratory. Their prayers could go no higher than the ceiling. They could see no heaven—no hereafter.

Now deeply embarrassed by the controversy and caught between opposing factions, President Brimhall at first attempted to be conciliatory. He said, “I have been hoping for a year or two past that harmony could be secured by waiting, but the delays have been fraught with increased danger.” When an exercise in administrative diplomacy suddenly became an issue of faith, President Brimhall acted.

I knew I could pray with this kind of specificity because of a lesson I learned when I was a junior in college. I had started planning my summer, and my eyes were set on an internship in the western United States. I wasn’t interested in going home to Indiana that summer, and I worked really hard to ignore the quiet, persistent promptings from the Spirit that spending time at home was what would be best for me. But eventually, I couldn’t shake the feeling.

Still… I was not graceful about embracing this prompting in the beginning.

I remember praying, almost annoyed, saying, “Okay, Heavenly Father. If You really want me to go home, here’s what I’m going to need.” Then I laid it all out, very specifically, but not very tactfully. It’s a good thing He loves me, and you, enough to listen, even when we’re having and expressing growing pains. I prayed, saying:

It felt like an impossible list. But, Heavenly Father took my very specific, somewhat demanding prayer and answered it in the way I had hoped—down to the smallest detail. For me, it was a miracle.

The very next morning, I felt prompted to do something I’d never done before: I looked at the university's career website. Students, don’t wait like I did until your junior year to visit Career Services. Make an appointment with them this week; they will be happy to help you. Thankfully, my scrolling didn’t last long. My heart nearly skipped a beat when I saw a new posting—just three places from the top: marketing and communication, paid, a housing stipend, airfare to and from the internship? And, it was in my hometown—just three miles from my parents’ home. There was no reason for this regional company to advertise on a BYU–Idaho job board.

That summer taught me and reinforced something I’ll never forget: Heavenly Father knows me personally. He listens when I pray. And He is more than willing to grant blessings He’s already prepared for me—if I’ll just ask and be humble enough to act.

Let me now describe the personal experience that brought the hope of the gospel into my life. I was 21 years old, and I had just finished my undergraduate degree at Cornell University. Just a week or two after graduation, I headed up to Cambridge, Massachusetts, to start graduate school at MIT. I knew no one in the Boston area. I didn’t know what to expect. I’m sure a lot of you had similar experiences as you have left your familiar surroundings and ventured out into the unknown. Those first two weekends in Cambridge were rainy and cold. I had planned on exploring the Boston area, but I was confined to my graduate dormitory room, all alone.

I had started to read some works by C.S. Lewis and his book Mere Christianity had a real impact on me. I started to ponder if I could live a true Christian life. Two desires started to form in my heart: I wanted to find a decent group of friends, and I wanted to find the truth. I didn’t know how to formally pray, but I found myself repeating a simple phrase, asking the Lord to show me the light.

It was soon after those two rainy weekends and my request for light from above that I met two missionaries, Elder Dewey Garner and Elder Bruce Meek. They were street contacting on the edge of the MIT campus. One of the missionaries asked me the inspired question, “Do you want to learn more about Jesus Christ?” Yes, I did. That was one of the desires of my heart.

I agreed to receive the missionary discussions. I started attending a student ward and found the decent group of friends that I was looking for. The plan of salvation made so much sense to me and it answered the questions I had about the purpose of life. When I learned about the First Vision, I had no doubts that it was true. I had a very special experience as I started reading the Book of Mormon and gained a testimony of its truthfulness.

Most important of all, I came to know Jesus Christ in a way that I had never known Him. His Atonement became very real to me as I repented. As a result, my heart changed. My thinking changed. I became a new person, a better person. The student ID on the left shows what I looked like when the missionaries met me. I admire the courage they had to stop and talk to me. The photo on the right was taken 18 months later in the MTC. My appearance, countenance, and circumstances were all vastly different. This is how hope and happiness came into my life. The great changes that occurred in my life are part of the sure evidence that I have that the gospel of Jesus Christ is true and that this is His Church upon the earth.

In last week’s devotional, Brother Jan E. Newman talked about the special places in our lives. Cambridge is such a special place to me because it was there that I came to know my Redeemer. I also had special friends added to my life, especially the two missionaries who shared the gospel with me. I have treasured their friendship over the years and I’m thankful to have Dewey Garner and his wife, Denise, here on the stand today.

When Harold B. Lee was seventeen, he became a teacher. He taught in a one-room school near Weston, Idaho. Some of his students were older than he was!
The pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room sometimes fell apart, filling the school with smoke and soot.
Harold: Quick, help me put the stovepipe back on!
Student: Yes, sir!
A year later, he became both the principal and a teacher at nearby Oxford School. The students there liked to play tricks on him. While he was busy talking to someone, they hid his horse.
So he had to walk several miles to get home.
Harold: I must keep better control of my class. I want them to be my friends.
One day, he decided to join his students during their lunch break.
Harold: Mind if I play with you? Whose team can I be on?
Students: You can be on ours.
Student: Wow! Great shot!
His plan to befriend his students worked. Joseph Gibby, one of his students, later said, “He made a place in my heart through his love and understanding that caused me to regard him, next to my own dear father, as the best friend I had on this earth.”

During concert tours to Eastern Germany, Russia, Ukraine, Poland, Hungary, and the Czech Republic, I began to have a better understanding of how blessed we are as a nation under God. While working with some of these people, it was obvious that we Americans are an overindulged people. Although the wall came down in '89, I witnessed that there were still obvious signs of gloom and oppression in these impoverished areas of the former communist state. My experiences while performing in these countries caused my gratitude for life in this great land of America to soar! Indeed, this is a land choice above all other lands!

While in Moscow I contemplated on how much worse it had been in the Soviet Union years earlier during the height of communism when I entered a Yogurt store one morning near Red Square. My belongings were immediately confiscated and a police officer followed me with a gun on his belt until my shopping was completed. Obviously, there's no shoplifting in Russia-even today!

There it was. Dead ahead of us. Stopped totally and completely. It was a train. As far as we looked in either direction we saw only boxcar after boxcar with no hint of either engine or caboose. Dad parked the car. One more problem on a day like this was something he did not need.
We had been late leaving, as is our norm for vacations. Dad’s inspection of the new high school he was building in Pekin, Illinois, was not made any easier by the curiosity of six young children who wanted to “help” in any way they could. Finally, however, we were on our way to Nauvoo, Illinois, via some of the state’s seldom-used country roads. Our white station wagon was large, but we were still crowded with three adults (our grandfather was visiting us from Salt Lake City) and six wriggling kids. Gradually, the number of shoves, pinches, and whispered threats from the back seat grew.
Just when the situation was ready to erupt, we saw the train, directly in front of us. When dad got out to see what was wrong, we clamored to get out with him. He gave an emphatic no. “I’m just going to go see why it’s stopped. If any of you step out of this car …” He let the threat hang.
The most unnatural thing in the world is for a child to be in a stopped car on a spring day when he can see the sun outside sparkling its welcome. We endured it, but not too gracefully. Dad returned from his lengthy conference with the switchman with bad news. “They say it will be at least 15 minutes before they can move.”
My oldest brother, David, pleaded, “Can we get out then?”
Mom, who had been trying to restrain us from mortally wounding each other, looked at dad imploringly. His stern face melted.
“Well, I guess so,” he finally conceded. With a shout of triumph we literally poured from the doors and windows of our car.
“Look!” It was 11-year-old Jim’s discovery. “Dandelions!” Dandelions there were, seemingly acres and acres of them, some gone to seed, others with their brilliant yellow blossoms. We happily raced to the fallow field that promised so much fun for us, the adults following with not much less enthusiasm. We blew the seeds into the air, trying to catch the lucky ones that hadn’t touched the ground yet. My older sisters, Lisa and Joanne, me, and almost unbelievably, my mom, made dandelion chains. As we draped the fragile jewelry around each other’s necks, we almost forgot that mom was a grown-up. Grandpa sat in the midst of it all, blowing dandelion seeds far and high for us. Tiny arms that had been afraid of grandpa’s gruff voice wrapped themselves around his neck.
The switchman returned with a progress report. It might be another half hour before they could get the engine fully repaired. No matter! This newfound friend told us of the places this never ending track led.
At last, as the crew had assured us, the train was ready to resume her delayed journey. Dad, carried back to his boyhood days in Salt Lake City where the Bamberger Railroad served as inter-city transportation, recalled a favorite trick. He pulled a penny from his pocket and laid it on the train track. We watched in amazement as the accelerating train reduced it to a steaming mass of shiny copper. Joanne and I shivered in delighted suspense as we wondered if a U.S. marshal would suddenly appear from nowhere and commandeer our father for defacing American currency. David and Jim ran through the fields trying to keep up with the quickly moving train, if not outrun it. I helped little Stephen count the cars as they whizzed by.
When the last click of the turning wheels had subsided into the distance and the train was only a faraway speck, we climbed back into our car, an hour late but eons happier.
As I think about it now, it seems a little strange that one of our family’s fondest memories is of sitting around in a farmer’s weed patch waiting for a mechanic to finish his job. It does, though, make Doctrine and Covenants 64:33 a little easier to understand: “And out of small things proceedeth that which is great.” [D&C 64:33]
We did eventually make it to Nauvoo. I am sure that the time we spent there was fun and even inspirational, but no one seems to remember much about it. On the other hand, whenever we’re busy pulling pesky weeds out of our garden or if we must pause at railroad tracks as a train passes, someone is sure to say, “Remember the dandelions?”