Gospel Story Finder

When I was seven years old, our family tragically lost my younger brother, who was only six years old. It was a very hard time for my parents; the pain of losing such a young son was immense to them and perhaps very unfair. Instead of blaming someone or something, I saw my parents seek comfort in the gospel and in the Savior. This helped them to develop and to increase their faith in Christ and in the hope that one day they could see their beloved son again. That faith and hope which they developed over the years helped them bear the loss of their son with courage. The temple was one of the keys for them to gain enough understanding and strength to cope with this difficult physical separation. Because they had received the sacred ordinances of the temple many years before, these covenants gave them hope that they could one day rise up as parents and children again.

Some years ago, I was called to serve as the bishop of a large ward. One evening, my telephone rang. I heard a voice say, “Bishop Monson, this is the hospital calling. Kathleen McKee, a member of your congregation, has just passed away. Your name is listed as the one to be notified of her death. Could you come to the hospital right away?”
Upon arriving there, I was presented with a key to the apartment in which Kathleen had lived. I entered her apartment, turned the light switch, and discovered a letter. It read:
“Bishop Monson,
“I think I shall not return from the hospital. In the kitchen are my three precious canaries. Two of them are beautiful, yellow-gold in color and perfectly marked. On their cages I have noted the names of friends to whom they are to be given. In the third cage is ‘Billie.’ He is my favorite. Billie looks a bit scrubby, and his yellow hue [color] is marred by gray on his wings. Will you and your family make a home for him? He isn’t the prettiest, but his song is the best.”
Kathleen McKee had befriended many neighbors in need. She had brightened each life she touched. Kathleen was much like “Billie,” her prized yellow canary with gray on its wings. She was not blessed with beauty. Yet her song helped others to more willingly bear their burdens.

There have been many times when the purity of her life has helped me, even saved me. I will show one example.

Once on my mission, we encountered a severe storm and were thrown overboard. I thought I was a good swimmer, but eventually I ran out of energy. As I went under, for what could have been the last time, I saw in my mind Jean's pure smile. It was as though she instantly came 9,000 miles and lifted me up.

No one can tell me there is not power in purity because I know there is.

Seven-year-old Joseph was sick for only two weeks, but the terrible fever caused an infection in the bone between the knee and ankle of his left leg. The skin there swelled tight, and for over two weeks Joseph suffered terrible pain in his leg. Twelve-year-old Hyrum showed great love for his little brother. He sat beside Joseph almost day and night, pressing the swollen leg in his hands, trying to help Joseph endure the pain.

Twice the doctor tried to drain the infection and reduce the swelling, but it didn’t work. Finally he told Joseph’s parents that the leg ought to be removed before the infection spread to the rest of Joseph’s body. But Joseph’s mother insisted that they try again to save the leg.

Dr. Nathan Smith, who knew more about this disease than any other doctor in the United States at that time, was one of the doctors who treated Joseph. He agreed to try one more time to cut out only the infection. Before he began to operate, he wanted to tie Joseph to the bed and to give him some liquor to dull the pain. Joseph refused both helps. “No,” exclaimed Joseph, “I will not touch one particle of liquor, neither will I be tied down. … I will have my father sit on the bed and hold me in his arms.”* He also wanted his mother to leave the room so that she wouldn’t have to see him suffer. The surgery was extremely painful. When Dr. Smith broke off the infected part of the bone, Joseph screamed.

When the surgery was finally over, Joseph was sent to visit his Uncle Jesse Smith at a seaside town, Salem, Massachusetts, to help him recover. But though both his life and leg were spared, for three years he walked with crutches, and for the rest of his life—especially when he was tired—he walked with a slight limp.

“When our children were very small, I started to write down a few things about what happened every day. Let me tell you how that got started. I came home late from a Church assignment. It was after dark. My father-in-law, who lived near us, surprised me as I walked toward the front door of my house. He was carrying a load of pipes over his shoulder, walking very fast and dressed in his work clothes. I knew that he had been building a system to pump water from a stream below us up to our property.

He smiled, spoke softly, and then rushed past me into the darkness to go on with his work. I took a few steps toward the house, thinking of what he was doing for us, and just as I got to the door, I heard in my mind—not in my own voice—these words: “I’m not giving you these experiences for yourself. Write them down.”

I went inside. I didn’t go to bed. Although I was tired, I took out some paper and began to write. And as I did, I understood the message I had heard in my mind. I was supposed to record for my children to read, someday in the future, how I had seen the hand of God blessing our family. Grandpa didn’t have to do what he was doing for us. He could have had someone else do it or not have done it at all. But he was serving us, his family, in the way covenant disciples of Jesus Christ always do. I knew that was true. And so I wrote it down, so that my children could have the memory someday when they would need it.

I wrote down a few lines every day for years. I never missed a day no matter how tired I was or how early I would have to start the next day. Before I would write, I would ponder this question: “Have I seen the hand of God reaching out to touch us or our children or our family today?” As I kept at it, something began to happen. As I would cast my mind over the day, I would see evidence of what God had done for one of us that I had not recognized in the busy moments of the day. As that happened, and it happened often, I realized that trying to remember had allowed God to show me what He had done.”

My first acquaintance with this prophet leader was 24 years ago when I served as a young bishop here in Salt Lake City. One morning, upon answering my telephone, a voice said, “This is Elder Spencer W. Kimball. I have a favor to ask of you. In your ward, hidden away behind a large building on Fifth South Street, is a tiny trailer home. Living there is Margaret Bird, a Navajo widow. She feels unwanted, unneeded, and lost. Could you and the Relief Society presidency seek her out, extend to her the hand of fellowship, and provide for her a special welcome?” This we did.
A miracle resulted. Margaret Bird blossomed in her newly found environment. Despair disappeared. The widow in her affliction had been visited. The lost sheep had been found. Each who participated in the simple human drama emerged a better person.
In reality, the true shepherd was the concerned apostle who, leaving the ninety and nine of his ministry, went in search of the precious soul who was lost. Spencer W. Kimball had walked the pathway Jesus walked. He did so then. He does so now.

My Crisis
After having given the final exam to a spring-term class of Humanities 101, I was sitting in my old office in the JKHB wondering what my students would remember from the class I had just taught. The more I thought, the more distressed I became because I realized that I had remembered virtually nothing from the classes I had taken at the university. I began seriously to question this whole endeavor: spending enormous sums of money and expending years of toil in pursuit of an impossible dream. For if we retain virtually nothing of what we learn here, then why bother? No savvy businessman would ever risk investing in a venture that produced no tangible lasting results. Sure, we have grades printed on transcripts available at the Records Office, but what does my A- in organic chemistry from Dixie College mean if all I can now remember is the formula for water (H2O) and the formula for sulfuric acid (H2SO4)? Nevertheless, I gradually realized that I did remember something about my early schooling. What was striking, however, was not what I remembered, but why I remembered it.
*I remember the religion course I took from Dean B. West Belnap called “Your Religious Problems” because the students had to present their personal religious problems, and then each student had to provide a written response the next class period to the presenter. I don’t remember what the other students’ problems were, but I remember mine, because I had to write it down and present it in class.
*I also remember Chauncey Riddle’s beginning philosophy class because he used a modified Socratic method: probing for our answers to philosophical issues rather than loading us with information that we would likely soon forget. The final paper required us to formulate our own philosophy: our own ethics, epistemology, logic, aesthetics, and metaphysics. It was a revelation to me that philosophy involved me in a deeply personal way, that I even had a personal philosophy.

These remembered moments from my education are convincing evidence that what I retained over the years were the indelible experiences I was directly involved with, whereas the information I read or was told in class evaporated into the wind like disappearing ink. These realities form the basis for my new agenda as a teacher: to find ways to involve my students more directly in interactive learning experiences with the aid of new computer technology, and to help them develop applicable perceptual skills they can use for the rest of their lives and not promptly forget once the class is over.

I remember that it was chilly that Saturday evening. I walked down the dirt path to the well to get another bucket of water for my bath. My bare feet were cold. I dropped the bucket down the well and listened for it to splash. All the while I was stamping my feet to try to get them warm. When the bucket was full, I hurried back to our sod house.
As I walked up the path, some of the water slopped out of the bucket onto my feet and made my teeth chatter. I wished then that I could have my own shoes, especially for Sundays, before winter came.
Most of the time I liked running around without shoes, and I didn’t mind too much going to school without them. But I sure didn’t want to go to church again until I had a pair of shoes, even old ones. I wanted to be all dressed up, at least the best I could.
When I came in with the bucket of water, Ma was fixing supper. It seemed like we always had the same thing for supper. We called it lumpydick. Ma made it by mixing flour and milk and an egg together. It doesn’t sound too good, but it tasted all right if you were hungry, and I was hungry that night.
Sometimes I wished we could have different things to eat, but Ma was a widow and we were pretty poor, so we couldn’t be too choosy. I guess nobody in Salt Lake Valley had very much. Things were pretty rough.
“Are we going to church tomorrow?” I asked as I poured the water into the wooden tub we used for baths.
Ma looked around at me and said, “George Little! Why of course we’re going! We always go.”
“But, Ma, I don’t have any shoes. I can’t go.”
Ma pressed her lips together like she does when she’s not quite sure what to say. Finally she said, “What makes you think of that now? You haven’t had shoes before, and you’ve never said anything.”
“It wasn’t so bad in the summer because lots of kids didn’t have shoes. But last Sunday when President Young was talking, I looked around and couldn’t see any bare feet except mine.”
“It’s not a crime to go barefoot. We don’t go to church to look at people’s feet. When the Lord wants you to have shoes, you’ll have them. Ever since your pa died, He’s taken care of us.”
“But, Ma—”
“George, we need more water for our baths.”
I knew I couldn’t argue with Ma. She didn’t seem to understand that a boy needed shoes when he went to church. But I knew, too, that even if she’d had money—which nobody did—there were hardly any shoes to buy in Salt Lake City.
When I’d filled up the old tub, I sat down and rested while Ma dished out the lumpydick. I was so hungry that it even smelled good. It seemed like I was hungry all the time anymore.
We knelt and had our family prayer. It was times like that that I wished Pa was around. Even though I couldn’t remember him, I thought it would be right nice to have my own Pa like the other kids. I was just a baby when he died. His wagon broke through the ice on the Mississippi when the Saints were leaving Nauvoo, and he fell into the river. Ma said he was all blue when the men pulled him out, and he got real sick and died a few weeks later.
“Why do we pray so much?” I asked Ma as we started eating our lumpydick. “We say family prayers in the morning and at night. We say our own prayers morning and night, and we pray a lot in between. That’s a lot of praying.”
“We have a lot to be thankful for, Son.”
“We do?” I asked, looking around at our one bed, two chairs and table, and the two boxes we used for a dresser and a cupboard. It seemed to me that we didn’t have much of anything. Ma had to wash people’s clothes and sew and clean, and I had to work for Brother Jeffers and Brother Simms. We didn’t get any money for it, either—just flour and sugar and stuff like that.
“We have a lot,” Ma said. “We have a house. We always manage to find something to eat. We have each other. We have the gospel, and we know that someday we’ll be with your pa. Doesn’t that sound like a lot?”
I nodded my head but kept eating my lumpydick and thinking about my bare feet.
“The Lord has blessed us, George, and when we need His help, all we have to do is ask Him in faith, just like the Prophet Joseph did. Heavenly Father wants to help us, but we have to ask.”
That gave me an idea. If the Lord wanted me to have shoes, then maybe He would help me get some.
“You mean we can ask the Lord for anything?”
“Anything that’s right,” she said. “We do have to remember that it’s still up to the Lord and that sometimes His answer is no. We let His will be done.”
I knew Ma was telling the truth, because she doesn’t ever lie. Once she said that if we had enough faith, it would rain. And it rained the very next day. Another time I was very sick, and everybody thought I was going to die, but Ma asked Brother Abott and Brother Beecher to come and give me a blessing. I was better after a couple of hours.
Before I went to bed that night, I said a special prayer to Heavenly Father. I told Him about my bare feet and how I felt bad about going to church without shoes. I said I’d go anyway, even without shoes, but if He felt I should have some shoes, I’d sure appreciate it. When I finished my prayer, I felt good all over. It was just like Heavenly Father was telling me that somehow I’d have a pair of shoes for church the next day.
I woke up just as the sun was peeking over the mountains. I hurried and got dressed and started outside because I knew my new shoes would be there.
“Where are you off to?” Ma asked as I opened the door. “It’s Sunday, you know.”
“I’m just going out to get my shoes,” I called back as I ran down the path to the old wooden gate. Right on top of the gatepost were my shoes, just as I knew they’d be. They were brand-new, and they were just my size.
I was so excited that I could hardly stand still. I wanted to shout and run, but about all I could do was cry a little bit because I was so happy. I knelt down right there by the gate and said a little prayer and thanked Heavenly Father for sending me those shoes.
I didn’t understand how it happened or who Heavenly Father inspired to put the shoes there, but I put them on and ran into the house. “Look, Ma!” I shouted. “Look at my new shoes!”
Ma didn’t know what to say. She just stood there with her mouth open. Finally she asked, “Where did they come from?”
“They’re mine. They’re the ones I prayed for. They were on the gatepost, just waiting for me. You were right. The Lord does answer our prayers.”
Ma looked worried. “George, those are brand-new shoes. You can’t keep them. They belong to someone else.”
“Oh, no, Ma. They’re mine. Heavenly Father helped someone decide to give them to me. I know He did.”
“Take them off,” Ma said.
I knew it was no use to argue with her.
“We’ll take them to church with us and ask President Young to find the owner. I’m sure the owner will be anxious to have them back.”
President Young held the shoes up and asked the owner to come up and get them after the meeting, but nobody did. I would have gone, but Ma wouldn’t let me, even though I knew they were mine.
The next Sunday I went barefoot, and the next Sunday too. It had warmed up a bit, so I wasn’t cold, but I sure was anxious to get my shoes back. Before I went to church that third Sunday, I said a prayer and told Heavenly Father that if He wanted to give those shoes to someone who needed them more than I did, it was all right with me.
President Young held up the shoes after meeting again and asked the owner to claim them. But he still had them in his hand when he came over to Ma and me. “Well, Sister Little,” he said, “it doesn’t look like anyone’s going to claim these shoes. Do you think they’ll fit George?”
“Sure they will,” I said. “The Lord wouldn’t make it possible for me to get a pair of shoes and then have them too big or too little.”
“What’s this?” President Young asked with a twinkle in his eye.
I told him what I’d done—how I’d prayed and had just known that the Lord was going to help me and how I’d found my shoes on the gatepost.
President Young nodded his head, and his eyes got real smiley when he said, “And all this time we’ve been trying to give your shoes away?” I nodded my head. “No wonder no one claimed them. They were yours all along. Well, Sister Little, I think we’d better let George keep his shoes. After the Lord went to all that trouble, I don’t think He would want us giving George’s shoes to someone else.”
I smiled and sat down right there to put on my shoes, and as I pulled them on, I said another little prayer and thanked Heavenly Father for helping me get my shoes back.

Every year my parents took me to visit Aunt Ruby and Uncle George, who lived on a dairy farm. I enjoyed visiting them because there were so many different things for me to see and do. I played in the barn, helped feed the animals, rode on the tractor, and explored the big red shed.
One year, a few days after we had arrived, I was helping Uncle George feed the animals in the barn. “You sure are quiet this morning, Justin,” he said.
“I was thinking about something my Primary teacher said in class last week.”
“Oh—what did she say?” Uncle George asked as he pitched a forkful of hay to one of the cows.
“She said that making right choices will help me keep the promises I made to Heavenly Father when I was baptized. The problem is, it’s hard to always make the right choice.”
Leaning on his pitchfork, Uncle George nodded. “It is hard to always make correct choices, Justin. But when we live the gospel standards and follow the strait and narrow path, like the scriptures tell us to, the Lord will help us.”
I thought about the “strait and narrow path,” for the rest of the morning. When we finished feeding all the animals, Uncle George said, “Thanks for your help, Justin. I surely appreciate it. What would you like to do now?”
“I’d like to go over to my friend Jeff’s and play, but Mom and Dad usually drive me to his house.”
Tilting his hat back on his head, Uncle George said, “And they’ve gone into town to help Ruby with the shopping. I’d like to take you over there, but I have to fix the tractor.”
He put his arm around my shoulders and led me to a big dry ditch. “If you get in this ditch, you can follow it all the way to Jeff’s house. Do you think you can do that?”
I told him that I was sure I could do it. Before he sent me on my way, he gave me two warnings. One, I was to stay in the ditch. If I got out, I could get hurt or lost. Two, I was to keep going, even if I got tired. Then he assured me that if I followed his instructions, I would have no trouble reaching my friend’s house.
At first I was nervous. The grass on both sides of the ditch was so tall that I couldn’t see over it. But soon I began to see interesting things all around me and being in the ditch didn’t bother me. I found a small, white-colored snail shell, a lot of joint grass I could pull apart, and milkweed pods filled with silk and seeds. Then I found a round, clear pebble that I shined up and put into my pocket.
After a while, the newness of my adventure began to wear off. I’d seen everything twice, and my legs were beginning to hurt. I felt like I’d been walking for miles and miles. My faith in Uncle George’s words began to waver. Maybe I’d already passed Jeff’s house. I wasn’t even sure if I was still going in the right direction. My uncle’s warnings were still clear in my mind, but I carefully climbed to the top of the ditch so that I could see over the tall grass and find out where I was.
Happily, I saw that only a fence and a large, green pasture stood between me and my goal. All I had to do was walk through the pasture, and I’d be there. The day took on a new excitement. My goal was in sight; my uncle’s warnings were forgotten.
Finding a hole in the fence, I slipped through. All I thought about was the fun Jeff and I were going to have once I reached his house. I paid no attention to what might be going on around me, until I heard a loud snort and the snapping of breaking sticks. Turning, I saw a large bull charging toward me out of the tall willow patch at the edge of the pasture.
Running wasn’t my greatest talent unless I was scared. And I was really scared. I ran like the wind. It felt like I was running a hundred miles an hour. I could hear the air whistling around my ears. Everything around me was a blur. I had a new goal in life—to reach the fence before the bull reached me. All the time, I was silently praying that Heavenly Father would bless me to run faster than the bull.
The fence was getting closer, but so was the bull. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder, because I was afraid it might slow me down. Although I was only nine years old, I already knew that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. So I ran, as straight as an arrow, back to the hole in the fence I had climbed through earlier.
I was sure I felt the bull’s hot breath on my neck as I dove through the fence to safety. The bull snorted loudly as his nose pushed through the hole and he realized he couldn’t reach me.
My life had been spared. Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. My heart was full of gratitude to Him. I would see the sun come up in the morning. I would see my family again. I could still play with my friend. Life was good!
Now all I wanted to do was return to the “strait and narrow path” and follow my uncle’s instructions. I knew that there were no bulls in the ditch. It was a safe place. I also knew that I would never forget the words my uncle told me that morning. “Go down the ditch in the direction that I’ll show you. Stay in the ditch, because if you get out, you could get hurt or lost. And you need to keep going, even if you get tired.”
I had learned that my Primary teacher and Uncle George were right. There is great safety when choosing the right and following the correct path. I was sure that the Lord had helped me run faster than the charging bull. He had saved my life, and I was grateful. I was glad to have a chance to be back on the right path, and I knew that Heavenly Father would always help me stay on the “strait and narrow path” if I would listen and obey.

One of the most cherished and fundamental beliefs of our faith is that, through the sealing ordinance, we can be bound together as families for eternity. As a young student, I eagerly looked forward to being sealed in the temple to a worthy companion and creating an eternal family together.

But I graduated from BYU single. I had not planned on that, and my lack of planning left me feeling adrift.

In the ensuing years I had a lot of questions for Heavenly Father. When I was at my lowest, they sounded like this:

“What am I doing wrong?”
“Why can my friends find companions and I can’t?”
“Why hast Thou forgotten me?”

These questions were born of loneliness, sorrow, and frustration. In those times I would have been well served by Sister Michelle D. Craig’s words:

When hard times come, I try to remember that I chose to follow Christ before I came to earth and that challenges to my faith, my health, and my endurance are all part of the reason I’m here. And I certainly should never think that today’s trial calls into question God’s love for me or let it turn my faith in Him into doubt. Trials do not mean that the plan is failing; they are part of the plan meant to help me seek God. I become more like Him when I endure patiently, and hopefully, like Him, when in agony, I pray more earnestly.

The challenge of waiting for marriage did help me to seek God and to pray more earnestly. My questions for Heavenly Father became more productive and faith-focused:

“What is Thy plan for me at this time, if not marriage and parenthood?”
“How should I be using my talents to build the kingdom?”

As I listened in stillness, God began answering these questions. He prompted me to undertake a series of very intentional actions through which I offered my heart to Christ, who, in turn, bound me to Him.

Personal gospel study and prayer provided me with guidance for my situation. The temple became a beloved refuge. I felt the support of family on the other side of the veil as I engaged in temple and family history work. I wholeheartedly invested in my roles as a daughter, sister, aunt, and friend and in building relationships that I cherish. Serving in the Primary, Sunday School, Young Women, and Relief Society ­organizations gave me additional purpose and community. By consistently engaging in these activities, I experienced Christ’s goodness regularly. Seeing evidence of His mercy and love helped me ­maintain a “brightness of hope” for my future. How grateful I felt to be fettered to the Prince of Peace!

The first time Aries and Lowenna saw each other was at a young single adult dance. It was just a glance; neither spoke. Six months later, Aries and a couple of his friends traveled 120 miles (190 km) to a young single adult housewarming activity at Lowenna’s student house. He says, “I guess it was the normal thing to do where the young single adults are so far spread.”

They both recognized each other from the dance, and Aries wasted no time inviting Lowenna and her sister to go wakeboarding with him. Lowenna and her sister didn’t make it because the distance to pick them up and return would have been too difficult for Aries, but they continued to see each other a couple of times a month at dances and activities. They grew to be good friends. As their feelings became stronger, they would regularly call and talk on the phone.

As Lowenna says, “Our feelings were stronger than we had ever experienced with past boyfriends or girlfriends. We both wanted to be the best that we possibly could for each other.”

Aries planned to propose and secretly bought a ring and overcame the daunting task of asking her dad’s permission. The couple planned to walk to a beautiful waterfall in a place where Aries spent a lot of his childhood. As Aries knelt to rummage in his backpack for the ring, Lowenna, thinking he wanted to take everything slower, said, “Is there anything you would like to change in our relationship?”

Aries replied, “Yes, there is actually. I would like to change quite a lot.” He pulled out a box with a ring inside.

The couple immediately started making plans. They were married 10 weeks later in the Preston England Temple, with Lowenna’s grandfather performing the temple sealing.

Lowenna says, “The Spirit was really strong through the day and served as an excellent introduction to the gospel to all our nonmember family and friends. We felt that there was nothing more important in this life than our eternal marriage. We are so grateful for the strength that we were to each other during our courtship, which enabled us to enter worthily into our Father’s house to make the sacred covenants that guide us in our married life today.”

Perhaps I can illustrate from a story that happened to me. Forty-one years ago when I was in the LTM--that's how old I am, before the MTC--I was learning Spanish to go to Spain on my mission. I was reading the intercessory prayer when Christ was praying to the Father, and I was reading it in Spanish. I should say I was trying to read it in Spanish, and I read this verse that--well, let me read it. It's such a beautiful verse; I just don't want to make a mistake. "And this is life eternal, that they might know thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom thou has sent." When I read that, the Spirit came upon me. I had just learned the day before in Spanish class that in Spanish there are two different ways of using the verb "to know" for our English verb "to know." There's saber, which means "to know about something or to know something" and there's the verb conocer, which means "to be acquainted with or to know someone personally." When I read that scripture that this is life eternal, that we might know thee, the verb concocer was used. I realized it was not enough to know about God. Yes, it's important and that's what we try to do, but we need "to know" Him personally. We need to be acquainted with Him. It was a great revelatory experience for me.

For the past 41 years I have tried to come to know my God and His beloved Son personally, to be acquainted with them. Because the scriptures say this is what we have to do to gain eternal life, and I think the reason is that when we get to know Them, the Father and the Son, we want to be like Them. We want to rise up from carnality and evil, and we want to be holy like They are holy. Once we come to know Them, then we become like the Apostle Paul when he said: "For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ. For it is the power of God unto salvation." And when we come to know Them, our faith is increased and we are like my late uncle, the apostle Bruce R. McConkie, who said, "I believe in Christ, come what may."

And, we do not have to do this alone. He will help us all the way. He knows each of us. He loves us. I had a special witness of this just the other day. It was a moment of deep spirituality for me. I was vacuuming, mulling over in my mother's mind all of the challenges members of my family are facing right now. Okay, I was worrying a little as mothers will. And I happened to look up at a picture on the wall of my son. Whenever I look at this picture I have particularly sweet, tender feelings because he is the son that we lost in an accident just three years ago at the age of 34. But this day, as I looked up and saw him, words came instantly into my mind so clearly, I could almost hear his voice saying to me, "Mom, everything is going to be all right, because He loves us more than you can even know." And I knew that he knew this because he has felt the arms of the Savior around him. He has looked into his face. He has gone ahead of us and has experienced things that we all long to experience. He understands, better than we do, life in the eternal perspective.

1 I’m glad you asked for a blessing, sweetheart. Daddy’s calling Brother Simon to come help.
2 I hope you don’t mind my coming, too, Mei Lin. When I heard that one of my girls was sick, I just couldn’t stay away.
I’m glad you came.
4 Thank you, Brother Simon. Thanks, Dad. When you put your hands on my head, I could feel your love.
5 And Heavenly Father’s and Jesus’ love too. The priesthood is their power, not ours, and they’ve revealed that it must always be used with love.
6 My head feels a little better already, and I feel a lot better inside.
So do I, sweetheart.
And so do I.

My journey started when I was introduced to the Church in 2015 by my son (who is a Graduate student in Texas), while he was visiting Kolkata. It was then, that I had received my first Book of Mormon in Bengali and had the opportunity to visit the Relief Society President of our Kolkata Branch. Soon enough, I started taking lessons through Skype from the Elders belonging to the New Delhi Mission. On 18th June 2016, my daughter and I became the then newest members of our Kolkata Branch. My son was present then to baptize us.

I am sometimes made fun of for the way I look. I am half Japanese, which means my eyes are smaller than other people’s eyes. It really hurts my feelings when I am not treated equally. I talked about my problems with my parents and they told me to remember that Heavenly Father thinks I’m beautiful, and His opinion is the only one that matters. From that day I learned to forget the mean things people say. I also learned to not make fun of the way others look.

At the top of Mr. Gellért, high above the magnificent city of Budapest, Hungary, two sister missionaries search for a secluded spot in a grove of trees where they can be alone and unobserved.
They open their scriptures and bring out a typewritten copy of a prayer—the apostolic blessing, newly translated into the Hungarian language, that Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve pronounced on Hungary in April 1987. It was here on Mt. Gellért—overlooking the Danube River, with the hills of Buda on one side and the plains of Pest on the other—that Elder Nelson originally gave this prayer, asking the Lord to pour out his blessings upon the nation and its people. Now, kneeling reverently among the trees, the sisters quietly review the prayer aloud in their own tongue. Overhead, a warm breeze gently stirs the leaves, and the bright sun shines in a cloudless sky. For a few moments, the sisters are enveloped in a spirit of warmth and peace.
Sisters. They love the sound of that word. There’s no family relationship between Sister Nagy Erika and Sister Pálinkás Bernadett. (Hungarian surnames are used first, followed by the given names.) And they met for the first time after becoming missionaries. But no sisters could feel more united in purpose and spirit. Their mission is filled with a sense of history in the making: These sisters are sharing the privilege of being the first two Hungarian citizens ever to serve as full-time missionaries in Hungary.
“For me,” says Sister Pálinkás, “it’s unbelievable that we Hungarians can actually do this now—hear the gospel message and then serve as missionaries.” Indeed, the events that brought them to this opportunity are miraculous. For nearly 40 years, Hungary was a communist-controlled socialist state, with no freedom of religion. In June 1988, just one year after Elder Nelson gave his dedicatory prayer, the Church received official recognition in this land. In October 1989, Hungary became a democracy, and in July 1990 a mission of the Church was opened in Budapest. Sister Nagy and Sister Pálinkás were baptized within a month of each other in 1992.
“I believe Elder Nelson was an instrument in the hands of God when he gave this blessing,” Sister Nagy says. “As I studied it again today, I thought about all the missionaries who are here right now and all the missionaries who will come later, after us. The prayer talks about all of them. I thought about the youth. I thought about all the stakes and wards that Elder Nelson prophesied would dot this land. I thought, too, about our Hungarian national anthem, which starts out ‘God Bless the Hungarians.’ God really has blessed the Hungarians!”
“Of course, we Latter-day Saints aren’t the only ones proselyting in Hungary,” says Sister Pálinkás. “Missionaries from many, many other churches are here now, too. This makes it hard for the people. After a long period of everything being forbidden, now it’s completely free as far as religion goes—and the people are a bit scared and confused and overwhelmed with all of these churches. Many keep to themselves a little bit and don’t want to make any decisions.
“That’s why our way of spreading the gospel is so important. If we do it with love, with Christlike love, and show them that we care for them and are not doing it for other reasons, then I don’t think there’s a person in the world whose heart won’t be touched.”
Both of these sisters know firsthand the religious confusion and uncertainty some of their investigators are feeling. Sister Pálinkás Bernadett is from Dunaújváros, a factory city built by Joseph Stalin as a model Communist city. For many years, there were no churches at all in the city. “My parents are not believers in God,” she says. “But somehow I felt close to Him and felt that He loved me.
“I often thought about what I was doing here on earth, what the purpose of life was, why I was born here in Hungary and not somewhere else, and why now and not earlier or later. Something was missing in my life, but I didn’t know exactly what.”
When Bernadett was almost 20, two American missionaries came into the store where she sold office supplies. “My co-workers and I could tell from the very first that these young men were different from others,” she remembers. “There was something shining from their eyes that made me very curious as to who they were and what they were doing here in Hungary. I felt that they could show me something that I didn’t know—something that I needed to know.”
Bernadett and a co-worker arranged to hear the first discussion. Although her friend soon lost interest, Bernadett attended sacrament meeting alone the following Sunday and was baptized a month later, on 22 August 1992. A year and a half later, she became a full-time missionary. None of her family has yet been baptized.
Bernadett’s parents are not happy with either decision—to be baptized or to serve a mission. “It hurts them because they don’t understand what I’m doing and why, even though I’ve tried to explain it to them. When I decided to be a missionary, my first goal was to somehow bring my parents closer to the Church. Now I recognize that each person has to personally walk the road to get to God, and it takes some people longer than others. I write to my parents every week and pray for them always.”
Although Bernadett doesn’t hear from her family, she is grateful for letters from branch members—especially the youth—back home. And she has a lot of support around her in the mission. Her first zone leader was the missionary who had baptized her in Dunaújváros a year and a half earlier! “When he baptized me, he was a beginner missionary,” she says. “Now I was a beginner, and he was more experienced. I felt very proud to be able to work at the same time with him.”
In April 1992, Nagy Erika was 20 years old and was living with her family in the city of Nyiregyháza when a friend encouraged them to listen to the missionaries. Erika’s father, a devout Christian, had taught his family about God, and the whole family had attended their own church earlier that day. “But when the two elders came in the door and greeted us—my parents and all eight of us children—we felt a surprising feeling of happiness because of the spirit that came from them.”
With that spirit, the missionaries “became our friends,” says Erika. “It was wonderful how they showed their love to us—to my younger brothers and sister, to us older children, and to our parents—and how they talked about their own parents with such love and respect. We thought that if someday, somehow, we could show this much love to other people, that would be a great thing. When they began talking about God and Jesus Christ, a wonderful discussion flowed between us.”
After the second discussion, the family suddenly lost contact with the missionaries. First, one of the elders was transferred. Then, unexpectedly, Erika’s family had to move to Budapest. “Every evening I tried to pray—the best I knew how—and I asked God to help me find somebody to talk to about what the missionaries had taught us.”
Two months after moving to Budapest, Erika had one of those days when everything seemed to go wrong. First, she missed her bus. Then she had to walk a great distance in the rain. When she finally reached a subway station, she was feel’mg pretty discouraged. “Then, whi1e waiting for the subway, I suddenly noticed two elders-and one of them was the one who had taught us in Nyiregyháza! I couldn’t believe it—in a city of more than two million people!”
The discussions immediately resumed with the family, and Erika was baptized alone on 13 September 1992, just five months after first meeting the missionaries. By December, seven of the ten family members had also been baptized. And she is confident the other three will follow. “In every letter, I send them good spiritual messages, and they are progressing,” she says with a smile.
A year after her baptism, Erika received her mission call to Hungary. “I was happy to be called to serve my own people in my own language. But I worried whether I was worthy to be the first Hungarian citizen to serve in Hungary and if I would be able to give the people what they needed. I prayed about it and felt many special feelings that night. I knew that God loved me and my family. I felt very close to God.”
As the two sisters reminisce about experiences they are having as missionaries, it is obvious that they are being richly blessed by the Lord in their efforts. “When I went to my first city as a new missionary,” says Sister Pálinkás, “my companion and I looked in our planners and there was nothing scheduled. I said, ‘Oh no, what are we going to do?’ But we went out and worked hard. I learned that when there’s an empty day in our planners, we can say, ‘No problem; we’re going to teach three or four discussions.’ Then we include in our prayers a plea to the Lord to help us with that righteous desire. I’ve learned that if we ask with real faith and real intent, the Lord will help us with it, as long as it’s according to his will.”
The joy of seeing a person change his life and be baptized is the greatest reward. “I can’t express how excited I was for my first baptism as a missionary,” says Sister Pálinkás. “I felt as if I could fly because of the happiness. It was a great thing to know that this wonderful person was going to be a member of the Lord’s church—a person whom I and many other members could learn from.”
As these sisters see it, the preaching of the gospel in Hungary is both a beginning and an end. “The gospel gives us Hungarians a new start,” says Sister Pálinkás. “We have a chance to come to know God and his gospel and to know ourselves. Maybe this means an end to the feeling some people have had that they needed to be apart from everyone else, that they couldn’t love each other.”
“Big walls are falling down and gates are opening up because of the gospel,” says Sister Nagy. “Over the years, we’ve built walls to protect us from things that were going to happen in our lives, and love and brotherliness were missing. But the gospel helps us open the gates to love and service.”

When I was a boy, I was my mother’s most difficult young child to raise. I had an overabundance of energy. My mother tells me that her greatest fear was that I would not live to see adulthood. I was just too active.
I remember as a young boy sitting in one particular sacrament meeting with our family. My mother had just received a new set of scriptures. This new set combined the entire standard works into one bound edition, and in the very center was lined paper for note-taking.
During the meeting, I asked if I could hold her scriptures. With the hope of promoting my reverence, she handed them down the pew. As I perused her scriptures, I noticed that she had written a personal goal in the note section. To provide context for her goal, I must tell you that I am the second of six children and my name is Brett. My mother had written, in red, just one goal: “Patience with Brett!”
As further evidence to help you understand the challenge my parents faced in raising our family, let me tell you about our family scripture reading. Each morning, my mother read the Book of Mormon to us during breakfast. During this time, my older brother, Dave, and I would sit quietly but irreverently. To be completely honest, we weren’t listening. We were reading the print on the cereal boxes.
Finally, one morning, I decided to square up with my mother. I exclaimed, “Mom, why are you doing this to us? Why are you reading the Book of Mormon every morning?” I then made a statement that I am embarrassed to admit to. In fact, I can’t believe I actually said it. I told her, “Mom, I am not listening!”
Her loving response was a defining moment in my life. She said, “Son, I was at a meeting where President Marion G. Romney taught about the blessings of scripture reading. During this meeting, I received a promise that if I would read the Book of Mormon to my children every day, I would not lose them.” She then looked me straight in the eyes and, with absolute determination, said, “And I will not lose you!”
Her words pierced my heart. Notwithstanding my imperfections, I was worth saving! She taught me the eternal truth that I am a son of a loving Heavenly Father. I learned that no matter what the circumstance, I was worth it. This was a perfect moment for an imperfect little boy.

The apple went spinning to the ground. Clint was getting pretty good with his homemade slingshot. He had made it from a strong Y-shaped stick and a thick rubber band and had been practicing with it all day. Now his aim was good enough to knock an apple right out of a tree.
He saw a car coming down the road and wondered if he could hit a moving target as small as a taillight on a car. He closed one eye, pulled the rock back to his ear, and let it go. Crack! The sound of breaking plastic and glass was followed by the tinkle of pieces of glass and plastic hitting the pavement. Clint gasped. He’d actually hit the taillight of that car!
In a panic, he dropped his slingshot and scooted up the apple tree, hiding among the leaves. The car screeched to a stop, and a man jumped out. He walked around to look at his broken light, then glared straight at Clint’s hiding place.
“I know you’re up there!” he bellowed. “I saw you. You’d better get down here before I call the police!”
Clint didn’t move. He recognized the man. It was Brother Ernest, who always complained about how noisy the kids were when he went to church. Clint did not want to talk to him.
After a few minutes, Brother Ernest got back into his car and drove away. Clint waited a long time. It was nearly dark when he finally climbed down. He picked up his slingshot, pulled off the rubber band, then flung the stick into the bushes and walked slowly down the road, feeling worse with every step. By the time he got home, he was miserable, and it showed.
“What’s wrong?” Clint’s mother asked when he came into the house. Feeling that he could carry the burden no further, he blurted out everything. His mother put a hand on his shoulder. “What do you think you should do now?” she asked softly.
“I know what I need to do,” Clint said. “I just don’t want to do it.”
She nodded. “It’s hard to make things right when you’ve done wrong. But if you do your part, the Lord will take care of the rest. And you’ll feel good again. I’ll drive you to Brother Ernest’s house, if that will make it any easier.”
Without a word, Clint went out to the car. When they arrived at Brother Ernest’s house, he saw the car with its broken taillight in the driveway. He was relieved that there were no police cars.
The house was dark, and he had a glimmer of hope that maybe Brother Ernest wasn’t home. Clint slowly climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell. A dog barked. The porch light suddenly came on, and the door was flung open.
There stood Brother Ernest. “Ah-ha! You’ve come to pay your dues!”
“S-sorry about your car light, B-brother Ernest,” Clint stammered. “I’ll pay you for it.”
“You bet you will! I’ll send the bill to your parents, and if you don’t pay, I’m calling the police.” He slammed the door and turned off the light, leaving Clint standing alone in the dark.
It took Clint more than three months to repay his parents. It took all his allowance, all his paper-route money, plus anything extra he earned doing chores. But at last the bill was paid in full. And Clint discovered that his mother had been right. He did feel good again. He was glad that he had done the right thing. He was particularly glad the next time he saw Brother Ernest. …
It was Clint’s first Sunday as a deacon, and he and another deacon, Dan, were assigned to collect fast offerings. He was surprised when the second house they visited was Brother Ernest’s. It was shabbier than Clint remembered. The front step was warped, and the porch light was broken. Seeing the porch light brought back all those memories about the broken car light. He wondered briefly if someone had broken the porch light with a slingshot and hadn’t repaired it. Suddenly he felt sorry for Brother Ernest.
“This one’s yours,” Dan whispered, handing Clint the fast-offering envelope. Clint took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and rang the doorbell.
There was a sound of movement within the house. Then the front door opened slowly and Brother Ernest peered out. “What do you want?” he asked gruffly.
Clint swallowed hard. “We’re from the Church, Brother Ernest. We’re collecting fast offerings.”
“Don’t you people ever give up?” Brother Ernest grumbled. “Go away and stop bothering me.”
Clint was turning away when the front door suddenly opened wide, and Brother Ernest stepped out onto the porch. He peered closely at Clint. “Don’t I know you, boy?”
Clint stood up straighter. “Yes, sir.”
“Weren’t you that boy who—”
“Who bought you a new taillight? Yes, sir, I am.”
Brother Ernest stared at him in surprise for a few moments and then did something Clint had never seen him do before. He smiled. “You’ve changed, boy,” he said.
Clint shrugged. “When we do our part, the Lord takes care of the rest.”
Brother Ernest seemed to ponder Clint’s words a moment. He nodded. “You keep your envelope. I’ll pay my offerings next week at church. And I expect to see you there, too, young man. I don’t want to find you hiding in some apple tree.”
Clint smiled. “I don’t need to hide anymore.”

As the years go by, I continue to reflect on the Sabbath days of my youth and young adulthood. I still remember the first day I passed the sacrament as a deacon and the little glass cups I passed to the members of our ward. A few years ago a Church building in my hometown was remodeled. A compartment in the pulpit had been sealed. When it was opened, there were some of these little glass cups that had remained hidden for years. One of them was presented to me as a memento.
As I think about those sacrament cups from my youth, one in the sheltered valley of my boyhood home and the other thousands of miles away in the Pacific, I am filled with gratitude that the Savior of the world was willing to drink from the “bitter cup”17 for my sake. And because He did, I can say with the Psalmist, “My cup runneth over”18 with the blessings of His infinite and eternal Atonement.