Gospel Story Finder

Please consider a story told by President Dieter F. Uchtdorf at the October 2008 General Conference ("Lift Where You Stand"):
“Some years ago in our meetinghouse in Darmstadt, Germany, a group of brethren was asked to move a grand piano from the chapel to the adjoining cultural hall, where it was needed for a musical event. . . . Everybody knew that this task required not only physical strength but also careful coordination. There were plenty of ideas, but not one could keep the piano balanced correctly. . . .
“As they stood around the piano, uncertain of what to do next, a good friend of mine, Brother Hanno Luschin, spoke up. He said, “Brethren, stand close together and lift where you stand.”
“It seemed too simple. Nevertheless, each lifted where he stood, and the piano rose from the ground and moved into the cultural hall as if on its own power. That was the answer to the challenge. They merely needed to stand close together and lift where they stood.”
Here is a wonderful example of making a difference together. With a strong assist from Brother Luschin, this group of brethren was able to accomplish something an individual could not accomplish on his own.

Dustin Matsumori, a Stanford freshman from Murray, Utah, faced a dilemma similar to Elsa’s. He knew he was going to go to college, but where? And why? So Dustin started doing what any good student would do—his homework. He considered cost, class sizes, majors offered, and the student population at each school on his list.
“I came to visit Stanford with my parents and was really impressed with the beautiful campus and the great weather,” says Dustin. “Then the tour guide started giving us the stats about Supreme Court justices and Nobel laureates and other impressive people who have graduated from Stanford.”
Dustin was excited by the prospect of being able to go to a school that had such an awesome reputation. But he wasn’t ready to sign on the dotted line just yet. Something was still missing.
“When I was getting information about Stanford, I found out that the Latter-day Saint Student Association [LDSSA] hosted a seminar each Friday at lunchtime. When I walked into that room with the other LDS students, I felt right at home. It was then that I knew I could go away from home and have wonderful educational experiences and still strengthen my testimony.”

Indeed, President Romney had much to share with his family and with the Church because of his own struggles to know and trust the Lord’s will. “During the early years of our married life,” he once said, “my wife and I intensely desired what we considered to be a particular blessing. We set about through fasting and prayer to obtain it. … But though we fasted often and prayed fervently, the years rolled by without bringing us the desired answer to our prayers. Finally, we concluded that we had not fully understood somehow—that we were concentrating our faith and prayers upon receiving the particular thing, which by predetermination we had set our hearts upon. … We had to learn to be as earnest in praying ‘if it be Thy will,’ as we were when presenting our personal desires and appeals. We have no need to fear that our well-being will not be served by such an attitude.” (Address delivered at Salt Lake Institute of Religion, 18 Oct. 1974, pp. 8–9.)

For more than nine years I was a pre-service trainer, meaning my job was to help find, teach, and train those who wanted to be full-time seminary teachers for the Church. One day I was sitting in the back of a classroom watching a young man teach seminary. He asked a great question. I could tell this could be a wonderful conversation with the class. A student raised his hand to answer. The answer he gave was: "I could really pray." Another student said, "We could study our scriptures." A third student replied, "I think the answer is church."

The teacher quickly said, "Enough! I don't want the 'Primary' answers. I don't want the 'Sunday School' answers. I want real answers!" To him, and to you, I suggest, those are the real answers. Just last week, Sister Lant reminded us of these things. They are salvational.

Salvational Principle 1: Say your prayersSalvational Principle 2: Read your scripturesSalvational Principle 3: Go to church

When I was almost 12, I was so excited to go to the temple. My family and I talked about what it was going to be like inside, and I looked at pictures of the inside of a temple as well.
A few weeks before I went to do temple baptisms, my family had a special family home evening. We listened to great stories about some of our ancestors and learned about where they lived and what their lives were like. I even found out that my great-great-grandpa was struck by lightning and survived! Some of my ancestors were from England, so my little brothers and I colored pictures of the English flag. I felt like I made a little connection with my ancestors.
The temple was as beautiful inside as it was outside. Everyone there was so nice, and there was a warm and peaceful spirit there. It was different than anything I had felt before. Everything was exactly perfect. My aunt brought names of some family members who hadn’t been baptized yet. As we were waiting, my mom and aunt and I imagined what these women were like when they lived on earth 300 years ago. It was special to have my dad baptize me for them.
Seeing everyone in white made me feel like I was surrounded by angels. The temple is like heaven on earth.

One summer my family went on a vacation to southern China, where we rode all-terrain vehicles (ATVs) through a rainforest. When we arrived at the ATV camp, we were surprised when guides gave us full-body protective suits with massive helmets and goggles. It seemed a bit much for amateur riders on such a hot, humid day, but we wore the gear anyway.
After receiving riding instructions, we took off and eventually reached the summit of our journey. There we stopped to drink water and wipe the sweat from our faces.
Our guide then explained that going down would be trickier. We would need to stay close together and form an ATV train, with each ATV touching the vehicle in front and behind to stabilize the group.
As we began to descend, we called to one another to coordinate our descent. We slowly separated, however, leaving a gap between my vehicle and the ATV ridden by my dad and little sister, Vivi. Suddenly Vivi and my dad were thrown off their vehicle! My dad jumped on top of Vivi just in time to protect her from the ATV rolling over her.
We were incredibly relieved when we saw my dad and Vivi stand up and brush the dirt off their pants. Thanks to the protective gear they wore, my dad sustained only minor injuries. Vivi was terrified but uninjured. When we regrouped, the guide reminded us in a firm voice that we had to keep our ATVs connected if we didn’t want to tumble down the hill again.

Live theater was my passion! As a young adult, I threw myself into acting and singing on the stage. I was blessed with talent and hoped to establish a career performing professionally. I won the most challenging roles I could get and always behaved professionally in order to win the respect of my fellow thespians.
I was thrilled when the most influential director in our area told me that he would be holding auditions for an operetta and that he wanted me to try out. The show would be performed in our area’s most prestigious venue, and it seemed that my director friend already had me in mind for the leading role.
The script was unavailable for perusal before the audition, but the operetta was based on a novel by an 18th-century philosopher, which I read. I also became familiar with the show’s music, which was exceptionally beautiful and challenging.
The audition went well, and I was soon informed that the leading role—the most important part—was mine! I believed that this role was a huge opportunity.
I walked on clouds of excitement—until the script arrived. As I read it, my elation rapidly floated away. While the novel and the music were worthy, the script was irreverent and contained suggestive and inappropriate stage directions. I knew that I shouldn’t be involved in this production. It was a terrible disappointment.
Suddenly I had a dilemma. Theater etiquette dictates that after accepting a role, an actor does not quit because the production schedule does not allow time for changes in cast. Backing out now would be considered very unprofessional. I feared losing the trust of the theater company, offending the director, and even losing the opportunity to continue performing elsewhere.
Of course, I was tempted to rationalize! A voice strutted across my mind, proclaiming, “You can’t quit now. The script isn’t so bad. The good in the show will make up for the naughty parts.” But the Holy Spirit was always in the wings of my heart—firmly, patiently, unwaveringly cuing me that I needed to exit the operetta.
I knew what I had to do. Trembling, I picked up the phone and dialed the director.
“Hello, sir,” I said when he answered. “This is Annie.”
“Annie! I’m so excited about the show. Did you get the script?”
“Yes, I did, and I … I …”
I burst into tears. Talk about unprofessional!
Somehow, between sobs, I managed to explain to the director why I could not be in his show. And then I waited for the world to end.
The dear man laughed. He respected my choice. At first he tried to talk me into staying with the show, but he relented. He said he would still adore me even if I didn’t want to be in his operetta. And he simply asked me to bring the script to him right away so that he could give it to somebody else. I hung up the phone, mortified at my weeping but grateful for the director’s affectionate, understanding response.
I wiped away my tears and then grabbed the script and jumped into my car. As the engine started, the radio also came to life. It was preset to the local classical music station, and to my amazement, the tune playing was the overture of the very same operetta. I had never ever heard it played on the radio before.
I felt like Heavenly Father was playing this music for me. He wanted me to understand that He loved me and that He approved of my choice. The music coming over the airwaves was one of God’s tender mercies. Through it I felt the comfort of His love.

Thomas Giles, a Welsh convert who joined the Church in 1844, suffered much in his lifetime. He was a miner, and while he was digging coal in the mine, a large piece of coal hit him on the head and made a wound nine inches (23 cm) long. The doctor who examined him said the injured man would not live longer than 24 hours. But then the elders came and blessed him. He was promised that he would get well and that “even if he would never see again, he would live to do much good in the Church.” Brother Giles did indeed live but was blind the rest of his life.

In 1856 Brother Giles and his family moved to Utah, but before he left his homeland, the Welsh Saints presented him with a harp, which he learned to play well. At Council Bluffs, Iowa, he joined a handcart company and headed west. “Though blind he pulled a handcart from Council Bluffs to Salt Lake City.” While crossing the plains his wife and two children died. “His sorrow was great and his heart almost broken, but his faith did not fail him.” When Brother Giles arrived in Salt Lake City, President Brigham Young, who had heard his story, loaned Brother Giles a valuable harp until his own arrived from Wales. Brother Giles “traveled from settlement to settlement in Utah, … gladdening the hearts of the people with his sweet music.”

Toward the end of his high school career, Mike Schwartz of the Malad Idaho First Ward, Malad Idaho Stake, started having nightmares about people forcing him to stay home from school. There was nothing he could do but just give in and stay home.
Sound more like a dream come true to you? Well, Mike was working toward a goal very few people ever achieve. In all of his schooling, Mike has never missed a day of school. That’s right, beginning with his first day of finger painting, and ending with his high school commencement, Mike has had perfect attendance.
In order to be in school all 2,340 days, Mike relied on good luck, good health, and help from his family.
“My family never put pressure on me to miss school,” Mike told an Idaho newspaper reporter. “In fact, when I was going to miss a day for my grandpa’s funeral, they encouraged me, saying Grandpa would want me to keep my perfect attendance.” Mike went to the funeral, but only missed a few hours of school, instead of the whole day.
Mike’s determination and perseverance has also helped him be a leader in his Aaronic Priesthood quorums and in his high school sports endeavors. Mike is now using his time management skills and determination to help him on his mission in the Texas Houston Mission.

Our baptisms are supposed to be in two weeks. Dad—oops! I mean Bishop May—is going to interview me on Sunday. Brenda says that she wants to wait until she’s older. I think that maybe I want to wait too. Maybe I’ll wait until you come home. Maybe I’ll wait till I’m old like Mr. Rockwell. That way, if I make some mistakes between now and then, my baptism will wash away all my sins from my whole life.
Love,Buddy

Dear Buddy,
Getting baptized is a wonderful event. Of course I would like to be there for your baptism, but I certainly don’t want you to wait just for me. It’s too important! And there’s no advantage in waiting until you’re old before you’re baptized. In fact, Mr. Rockwell wishes that he could have found the Church when he was much younger so that he could have been baptized then.
You see, waiting until the end of your life to be baptized would be like waiting until the end of a baseball game before putting on your catcher’s equipment. Baptism makes us clean of all our sins, the ones both before and after we’re baptized, if we truly repent of them. Your baptism now will be a blessing to you throughout your life. And every time you take the sacrament, it’ll be like renewing your baptism.
And two other great things happen when you get baptized. One is that you’ll become a confirmed member of the Lord’s Church. The other is that you’ll be given the gift of the Holy Ghost to help you have a fuller, happier life.
A good way to learn how to use that gift is to bear your testimony. Elder Butler and I bear our testimonies to everyone we can. It gives us a wonderful, peaceful feeling.
I’m proud of you, and I’ll be thinking of you on your baptism day.
Love,Reed

I read your letter to Brenda. We had a good talk, and she told me a secret. She’s afraid of the water because she can’t swim. She said that some people have to be put underwater two or three times.
Dad showed me how to make sure to go underwater completely so that it only has to be done once. It’s fast and easy! I showed Brenda how, and we practiced it. Now Brenda has decided that she’s going to be baptized the same day that I am.

In an October general conference, Sister Grassli, the Primary General President, reported: “Nine-year-old Matt spoke in church about something he had learned from the scriptures that brought him peace. He said, ‘When my father told our family that we would be moving from Denver to Wisconsin, my mother reminded us of Lehi’s family. Like them, I was leaving the only home I had known, all my friends, my school, my ward. Luckily we were able to bring all our possessions with us, though they were in storage for three months, and we missed having a house and our “precious things.”
“‘My mother reminded us of how Nephi accepted this challenge—willingly—knowing that the Lord would “prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (See 1 Ne. 3:7.)
“‘I have learned that I can do without things, but not without my family. My brotheres and sisters and I have tried to be more like Nephi than his complaining brothers. I am grateful for the things that the Book of Mormon teaches us.’” (Ensign, November 1988, page 79.)
Matt was comforted by the story of Lehi’s family from the Book of Mormon. As you read or listen to stories from the scriptures, which of the stories bring you peace?

Next: "I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink."[6] Having grown up along the banks of the Columbia River in Washington state, I never really acquired a serious appreciation for water--drinking water--until I spent some time in a country where you must not drink the water that comes out of the tap unless you wish to become seriously ill.

On the screen you can see three large six-liter bottles of water—yes, water. The bottle in the middle holds the first six liters of water that came out of the tap one day in the apartment where I stayed on a study abroad trip in St. Petersburg, Russia, about 12 years ago.

I honestly don't know what exactly made the water so orange, but it was rather disturbing to look at and contemplate drinking. Unseen in this water is a nasty parasite called giardia lamblia, which you really should avoid.

The bottle on the left contains the next six liters of water to come out of the tap--slightly less colored.

The bottle on the right has clear, pure water and was straight from the store. On the label is written, in rather small letters, pit'evaja voda, or "drinking water."

I'm sure you can guess from which bottle we chose to drink. This water was not easy to acquire: It involved carrying these rather heavy bottles about a quarter of a mile from the nearest store that sold them and then sometimes lugging them up the stairs when the elevator in our apartment building didn't work. They were not cheap, either, but the alternative was not appealing.

When I returned to St. Petersburg in 2015 to spend two months on a sabbatical leave, I was quite relieved to see a bottled-water dispenser in my host family's kitchen. I had a reliable source of clean drinking water.

Just about the time he turned 12, other parts of Jeff’s life seemed to take on more importance, too. It was about that time that he made up his mind that he was going to get the highest grades that he possibly could. And after school started again in the fall, he went from being an okay student to earning a place on the honor roll.
Ask Jeff how he did it, what he did differently to improve his grades so much, and he sort of looks down and grins, “I just studied and did my homework.”

I have a friend who grew up in a less-active Latter-day Saint family. When he was a young adult, he too “came to himself” and decided to prepare for a mission.

He became an excellent missionary. On his last day before returning home, the mission president interviewed him and asked him to bear his testimony. He did so, and after a tearful embrace, the president said, “Elder, you could forget or deny everything you have just testified of in a matter of months if you do not continue to do the things that built your testimony in the first place.”

My friend later told me that he has prayed and read the scriptures daily since he returned from his mission. Being constantly “nourished by the good word of God” has kept him “in the right way.”12

In Uruguay on a rainy spring day in 1948, Omar’s mother offered her umbrella to two Latter-day Saint sister missionaries waiting for the bus. As a result, the missionaries started visiting the Canals family, and Omar’s older sister was later baptized. Born in 1948, Omar was the first baby blessed in the Uruguay Mission, which had opened in 1947. Omar and his parents were baptized when he was nine. A few years after Omar married his sweetheart, they immigrated to the United States. Already a broadcaster, Omar was hired by the Church in 1973 and became a Spanish interpreter for general conference.

I told the bishop he had the wrong person.
“I do not like other people’s children, I’ve never taught children, and I can’t sing,” I said.
“Sister Taylor,” he replied, “the Lord qualifies whomever He calls. You’ll be great.”
He asked me to think about the calling and let him know the next Sunday whether I would accept it.
“I’m trying to raise a six-year-old, a three-year-old, and a baby,” I said. “I can barely make it through the day with my own children, and now you want to put me with 40 more and have me teach them music?”
He responded, “Pray about it.”
That afternoon I tried to explain to my husband, Mark, why the calling was a bad idea. How could I work in Primary when I couldn’t even be the kind of mother to my own children I wanted to be? A fear had been plaguing me for months that I was failing as a mother.
The week went by in a blur, but my thoughts kept turning to the bishop’s parting words. Finally, Sunday morning in my bedroom, I fell to my knees in prayer. Tears started down my face, but a sweet peace filled my heart. Immediately I knew it was right to accept the calling. As I submitted to the Lord’s will, all the angst fled my heart.
When I entered the Primary room after sacrament meeting, the Primary president introduced me, and the children sang a welcome song. Looking into their hopeful eyes and seeing my six-year-old son beam, I resolved to be the best Primary chorister I could be.
From then on I spent a lot of time learning songs and preparing lessons. I played the Primary songs at home, in the car, and on walks. I researched different teaching methods and devoted hours each week to making posters and developing games.
As I prepared a lesson for singing time one afternoon at the kitchen table, I was humming the song “Scripture Power.” My six-year-old was sitting at the counter eating a sandwich, and my three-year-old was cutting pieces of paper next to me. As I hummed the chorus, suddenly both children burst out:
Scripture power keeps me safe from sin.
Scripture power is the power to win.
Scripture power! Ev’ry day I need
The power that I get each time I read.1
That’s when I knew that the calling was an answer to my prayers. I had been asking the Lord to show me how to be a better mother, and He gave me a calling that would teach me how as I taught music to my children.
I am so grateful for my bishop’s inspiration and his loving words: “Pray about it.”

As you all know, three months ago our beloved President Joseph Fielding Smith was called home to his great reward and to other duties. He was certainly a true servant of the Lord and a prophet of God, who from his childhood lived to the best of his ability the teachings of the gospel and kept his covenants. He was a man without guile, and his passing was as near a translation as possible.
The Thursday before his death he gave a powerful address to the seminar of the Regional Representatives and Mission Representatives assembled in Salt Lake City. Sunday, July 2, the day of his death, he attended his Sunday meetings in his ward and participated as usual. He returned home, and after his evening meal he sat in his favorite chair talking to his daughter and quietly passed from mortal life.

Lina swung her lunchbox as she walked to the lunchroom. Lunch was the best part of the day. Lina loved sitting with her friends and talking about who said what, who liked who, who got in trouble — there were always fun things to talk about. And today Lina was sure she had the most exciting news. She couldn’t wait to tell her friends.
“Guess what!” she said as soon as she sat down. “Shara Johnson had to go home early today … because she has lice!”
The girls gasped and stared at her.
Trish moaned. “I walked right by her like six times today!” she said. “What if I have lice too?”
“Oh no,” Katy said. “I have to work with her on a science project next week.”
Melissa shuddered. “That is so gross. I don’t think I can be her friend anymore.”
Lina stopped smiling. She squirmed in her seat. She had been excited to share some news, but she didn’t like how they were talking about Shara now. She didn’t want Shara to lose any friends! Getting lice didn’t mean anything bad about Shara; it could have happened to any of them. Lina tried to forget about it and just eat her food, but she just couldn’t.
When the bell rang for them to go back to class, the girls were still talking about Shara. They kept laughing and making faces. Lina felt awful.
Back in class, Mrs. Currier called Lina to her desk.
“Since you’re Shara’s neighbor, would you please take her today’s homework?” Mrs. Currier asked.
Oh no. Lina didn’t want to face Shara. Not after what she’d said. But she nodded and took the worksheets.
On her way home after school, Lina stopped by the Johnsons’ house. She rang the doorbell and hoped that anyone but Shara would open the door.
“Hi, Lina!” It was Shara. She smiled when she saw Lina standing on the porch. “What’s up?”
“I’m just bringing your homework,” Lina said, trying to smile too.
“Thanks!” Shara said. “I was worried I would fall behind after missing today.”
“So you’ll be back tomorrow?” Lina asked.
“Yep! I’ll see you in class.”
“Awesome. See you tomorrow.” Lina smiled the best she could, then walked away. Now she felt even worse. Shara was so nice, and now the girls at school were saying mean things about her. Lina wanted to fix things. But how?
Lina didn’t know what to do, but she knew who could help her. She stopped walking, closed her eyes, and bowed her head.
Heavenly Father, I really messed up today. I gossiped about Shara, and now I feel really bad about it. I am so sorry. I don’t know how to make it right. Please help me fix my mistake.
After Lina finished praying, she felt peaceful. She knew that making things right might be scary, but Heavenly Father would help her.
The next day at lunch, Lina saw her friends at their usual table. As she walked toward them, she said another quick prayer.
Please help me be brave.
“Hey,” Lina said. She didn’t sit down. “I just wanted to say … I wanted to say that I’m sorry I told you Shara had lice. Shara is really nice, and I shouldn’t have said anything. We shouldn’t spread bad news about other people.”
Trish, Katy, and Melissa stared at her. They looked too surprised to say anything. Lina turned away. She felt better for the first time since yesterday! Then she spotted Shara across the lunchroom and waved. Shara waved back, and Lina walked over to sit by her. The warm feeling in her heart told her that she had made the right choice.

Many, many years ago, woodcutters went deep into the jungle of Chiapas, Mexico, in search of precious wood. Because of the difficult terrain, they could not take their families with them. When they finally reached their work site, the men raised temporary rustic huts of thick branches, roofed with palm leaves.
Night after night, after long days of woodcutting, the men would sit around the fire and talk or sing. The songs they had learned from their ancestors floated away on the night wind. But the men were lonely, and there was sadness and even bitterness in their voices. There was a great need for some cheerful music to accompany the sad choruses that penetrated the jungle.
Among the woodcutters was a handsome young boy named Quetzal Feather. This boy loved the murmur of the jungle more than anything or anyone in the whole world.
One evening as the sun was about to set, Quetzal Feather went deep into the jungle. He was guided by the music of the wind in the foliage. Suddenly he stopped. He thought he heard the sound of voices high in the branches. He went forward cautiously until he was almost at the foot of a tasseled palm. The palm was speaking sadly to a majestic-looking silk-cotton tree.
Quetzal Feather hardly breathed as he listened to what the trees were saying.
“My friend,” said the palm, “because of my great height, I can see the place from where those heartrending songs come. Just before nightfall, I saw the woodcutters with their eyes fixed upon the jungle. How sadly they sang!”
The robust silk-cotton tree shook its branches in protest. “Man should not live sunken in sadness!” it declared.
“We should do something,” responded the palm tree.
Quetzal Feather, hidden in the underbrush, listened in wonderment to the conversation. Then, he heard another voice, shy and nervous. It sent a shiver through him as he strained to catch every word.
“Friends and companions,” said the voice humbly, “the sad songs of the woodcutters have moved me to my very roots. But—perhaps I can do something to help.”
Quetzal Feather poked his head out of the underbrush and saw the tree that had just spoken. It was an hormiguillo tree that stood not far from the stately palm.
The great silk-cotton tree answered first, a little doubtfully. “If you can help, please do so!” it begged.
“Yes,” agreed the palm, “but what can you do? How can you lift the sadness from the woodcutters’ hearts?”
“For a long time now,” began the hormiguillo tree with more self-assurance, “I have been storing under my bark the torrent of nature’s harmony. For a long time I have held the songs of the birds and the cricket, the murmur of wind and rain, and the sound of water cascading over rocks. I have treasured up in me the soft sound of doves in flight and the roar of the tempest.”
Suddenly, before Quetzal Feather had time to realize what the tree had said, beautiful chords began to come from the hormiguillo tree.
“What music is this?” Quetzal Feather asked himself in amazement. “Even the jungle trembles in delight!”
The branches of the palm and the silk-cotton tree swayed in surprised and happy approval.
Trembling with excitement, Quetzal Feather fled from the underbrush. He wished to tell the woodcutters all that he had heard.
But the woodcutters did not believe him, judging him to be a strange and imaginative boy. Wearily they entered their huts for a night’s rest. And Quetzal Feather was left by the dying fire, alone and confused. Then just before sunrise he arose and ran straight as an arrow to the place where he had hidden in the underbrush the night before. The hormiguillo tree was silent now, yet in spite of its silence, some strange love kept Quetzal Feather beside the tree.
Days and nights passed, but the youth, hugging the hormiguillo tree, heard not a single happy note of the heavenly music he had heard before.
The woodcutters were very fond of Quetzal Feather, in spite of what they thought were the boy’s strange imaginings, and they tried to persuade him to leave the tree. But it was of no use. “The tree has bewitched him,” the Old Ones said sadly.
At last, Quetzal Feather became so weak and tired that he fell asleep at the foot of the tree.
“Now,” said the oldest woodcutter, “we can help him. While he sleeps deeply, we will cut the tree down and free him from his bewitchment.”
With their sharpened axes, the woodcutters began to chop at the hormiguillo tree. But to their great surprise and fear, beautiful musical sounds came from the tree at each stroke of their axes.
Quetzal Feather, hearing the music, awoke and clung to the wounded tree that seemed to be moaning with pain.
“Finish cutting me down at once!” begged the hormiguillo tree. “Take my wood. It is full of harmony!”
The next day when Quetzal Feather gathered up the pieces of the fallen tree, he discovered to his great delight that the sticks of wood when tapped by other sticks sent out beautiful happy chords.
Day and night he worked without rest until he had arranged the small pieces of the hormiguillo tree into a rustic instrument.
Thus the noble forest of Chiapas had furnished a lively and happy accompaniment to the tired and sad voices of the woodcutters. The marimba was born, and to this day men search the jungles of Chiapas and Guatemala for the musical wood of the hormiguillo tree.

What wonderful memories I have of BYU. I loved everything about it - my classes, my roommates and dorm life, my involvement in the Church and school activities. John mentioned our first date - it was to a “Priesthood Ball.” Later we enjoyed devotionals, concerts, forums, talking and walking down Campus Hill to an old swing. There are great times to be had without spending money! We both dated other people, but the more we got acquainted with others, the more we were drawn to each other.

When John left on his mission we agreed to write. So for three years I wrote “Dear John” letters while continuing a busy life that included studying, dating, graduating, then going on to teach school in California.

Letters played a significant role in our lives. Often a letter John had written months earlier would arrive at just the right time, sharing an experience or some counsel that helped solve a concern I had right then. I began measuring myself and others to the mark of what I could tell John was becoming, and I knew I wanted to be available when he returned. The Lord blessed us both to be patient and always added extra help.

During my senior year, I tried to think of something appropriate to send John for Christmas. I didn’t want to distract him from his missionary work, but I wanted to send something. My helpful roommates encouraged me to send a photo of myself. “Too presumptuous,” I thought, as he had never asked for a picture nor given me one of himself. My roommates persisted, and since I couldn’t think of anything else I could afford to mail, I sent him one. Never did I suspect it, but at the same time he sent a passport picture of himself to me! These two photos crossed in the mail and both did great amounts of good on the other end.

Was it coincidence that my picture arrived in Tonga on the very day it was needed to provide John a tangible form with which to reason with an otherwise unreasonable mother? I don’t believe so. And all the letters I received at just the right time saying just the right thing, were they coincidence? I don’t believe so.

When we strive to learn the Lord’s will, then do our very best to follow it, the Lord will work with us where we are, to help us get where we should be. He uses daily events and people in our lives to give us opportunities to keep our promises to Him. As we do all we can, He directs events, and magnifies our humble efforts until His purposes and promises are realized - both in our lives and in the lives of those we touch. That is how we experience true joy.