Gospel Story Finder

Anthony peered out the window of his pretend time machine. It was actually a cardboard box that he had decorated with markers, foil, and other things. For several days he had had lots of fun playing in it. Now he was imagining a strange-looking object in front of him. It was like a car, but it had wings. It was big enough for him to take a ride in, and that was what he wanted to do. But as he began to climb out of the time machine to do that, a real-life voice spoke to him: “Time to get ready for bed, Anthony.”
“Aw, Mom,” he said, flopping down on the floor in disappointment. “I was just going to take a ride in a flying car.”
“Well, you’ll have to do that tomorrow,” Mom replied. “Right now you need to get ready for Book of Mormon time and bed.”
Anthony reluctantly dragged the box into the corner where they kept the toys, then went off to his room. In a few minutes everyone was sitting in the living room with a Book of Mormon in hand.
Dad said, “Tonight we’ve come to the part where Nephi tells us about the words of a prophet named Isaiah. He’s the same prophet Isaiah who’s in the Bible.” Father showed them where the book of Isaiah was in the Bible, then where Isaiah was quoted in the Book of Mormon. He began to read what Isaiah had said.
Anthony found the right page and tried to follow along, but after a few minutes his eyes started to close. The next thing he knew, his mother was waking him up, telling him that it was time for bed.
The following night Anthony had taken another imaginary ride to the future. When his mother called, he was pretending to talk to some creatures from Pluto who had come to earth to live. Slowly he climbed out of the box, went to his room, got ready for bed, then sat down for scripture time.
But he didn’t understand what Dad was reading, and he kept wriggling and squirming. That made his brother and sister wriggle and squirm, too. When Anthony’s mother reminded them all to sit still and listen, Anthony tried to, but the words all sounded strange. “Isaiah is too hard,” he said when Dad finished for that night.
“Yes, his words are difficult to understand,” Dad agreed. “But if we read slowly and you listen carefully, you might be able to understand.”
“And,” Mom added, “we can ask Heavenly Father to help us understand.” As she offered the prayer that evening, she asked for help in understanding Isaiah.
The next night, Anthony was dragging his box to the corner again when Dad stopped him. “Wait, Anthony. Leave your box there for now. I want to do something different for our scripture reading tonight.”
When everyone was settled, Father began, “Tonight I thought that we should learn more about Isaiah and his teachings. That way we might be able to understand a little better when we read his words.
“Isaiah was a prophet who lived a long time ago, even a long time before Jesus was born. But he prophesied, or told about, things that would happen many years later. When we read his words, it’s like listening to someone who had traveled in a time machine.”
Anthony sat up tall. “Did he travel to the future?”
“No,” Dad answered. “But with Heavenly Father’s help, he saw visions of things that would happen in the future, and he told about those things.”
Dad had the three children climb into Anthony’s time machine. “When we read Isaiah,” Dad said, “it’s like we are traveling in a time machine with him. We can listen to his words and imagine that we are there, seeing the things that he saw.”
Anthony and his brother and sister were excited. They wanted to ride in the time machine with Isaiah.
Father went on. “In the Bible, we learn about things that happened while he was actually alive. One of those stories is about a king named Hezekiah. One time King Hezekiah was very sick and was about to die. He prayed and asked the Lord to let him live longer. The Lord told Isaiah what Hezekiah should do to get better, and He told Isaiah to tell Hezekiah that he could live for 15 more years. As a sign to Hezekiah, the Lord turned the sun back 10 degrees. Another time Isaiah helped King Hezekiah win a battle and save Jerusalem.”
The next night they read about things that Isaiah saw would happen in the future. They climbed in the time machine and pretended that they were with Isaiah when he saw a vision showing Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus. They listened to the prophet’s beautiful words: “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given.”
The children next listened to Isaiah’s words about the sad time when Jesus died: “But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities.”
Then they pretended to travel ahead many more years and listened to Isaiah telling about the coming of the Book of Mormon: “Thy voice shall be, as of one that hath a familiar spirit, out of the ground, and thy speech shall whisper out of the dust.”
Each night that week at Book of Mormon time, they climbed into the time machine and pretended to travel with Isaiah. One night Anthony asked, “Has everything that Isaiah saw already happened?”
“No,” Dad answered, “not everything. Isaiah saw things that would happen in our very own day, and he saw things that are still in the future, in a time called the Millennium, when Jesus will come and live on earth again.”
“Isaiah was so lucky,” Anthony’s little sister said. “He saw so many things.”
“Yeah,” Anthony agreed as he climbed back into the time machine. “But we’re lucky, too—we can go with him and see them, too, when we read the scriptures.”*

Like medicine and golf balls, new experiences are often hard to swallow. Take dancing.
Now you might not think a church youth dance is something to be afraid of, but for my friends and me, this one was different. It was our first.
Unfortunately, the bulk of our adolescent training to this point was in camp-outs and knot tying. Girls had scarcely begun to crack our vocabulary. We tried to look excited, but secretly we were scared stiff.
So when the music finally started, we found ourselves standing at the edge of the dance floor, staring straight ahead like timid zookeepers looking into an alligator pit. Just one false move and …
“Do you want to dance?”
Yipes! A girl I had known since first grade was standing in front of me in a new role: potential dance partner. What do I say? What do I do? I wanted to say yes, but I choked.
“Uh … thanks, but I’m just going to watch for a while.”
Rats! I couldn’t believe what I had just said. But while I was busy feeling sorry for myself, she turned to Rob, a friend of mine, and asked him. Incredibly, he said yes.
What courage! The rest of us watched in awe as the couple moved to the middle of the room. Though Rob wasn’t winning any awards for grace or style, it looked like he was actually having fun. And when the music changed, he asked someone else to dance.
Wow! He made it look easy, but my remaining friends and I would definitely need more experience before trying something that risky. Until then we would stick to safer jobs, like supporting the cultural hall walls.
After hours of indecision, the night finally ended. I had kept my position along the wall, but by holding out I had forfeited any chance of having a good time.
When the next dance came, it was a stake Halloween dance, so I could pretend to be as confident as the identity I was assuming. I chose to be Zorro, but as I walked in the hall carrying my sword and wearing my mom’s frilly white blouse, it didn’t look like I was going to leave my mark anywhere quick. I laid low by the refreshment table and tried to muster some courage.
Then suddenly a girl approached me. She was dressed as a princess.
“Do you want to dance?” She assured me she didn’t bite.
To this day I don’t know who said yes, me or Zorro, but the next thing I knew I was out there—talking and dancing (or at least flailing my arms and legs). I didn’t know exactly what to do, but no one seemed to care.
When the music stopped I was brimming with confidence. I cautiously walked up to a girl dressed as an angel, and feeling like I was on top of the Empire State Building, I closed my eyes and jumped.
“Do you want to dance?”
“Sure, let’s go!” she said.
Really? I could hardly believe it. I had landed on my feet. As we headed to the floor, I realized how much better it was to join in instead of hold back. I started searching for something witty to say. After all, I had nothing to lose.

Cherry was 12 years old when her mom died. Cherry was not yet a member of the Church and felt that her life no longer had meaning. She felt broken and sad and alone. She even thought about taking her own life. Then she learned about the gospel, and she is now preparing to be baptized for her mom in the temple. She knows that because the Savior died and was resurrected, we will all be resurrected someday. Death is not the end.

Jeremy rocked the porch swing while his sister, Meg, fanned herself with one hand. “It’s hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk,” she said.
Jeremy shrugged. “Mom and Dad still want us to find a summer job. If we don’t, they’ll find one for us.”
Both children looked glum. Their parents’ job ideas tended to be long on service, short on cash.
“Baby-sitting?” Meg suggested.
“And be stuck all summer with someone’s kids? I don’t think so. How about yard work?”
“And be stuck all summer with someone’s yard? I don’t think so,” Meg mimicked. She paused, her eyes growing large. “That’s it! We’ll combine the two ideas!”
“Too much sun, Sis?”
She ignored him. “Remember last year when we got back from vacation? The tomatoes were dead, and the grass was knee-high.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So let’s start a yard-sitting business for people on vacation! We’d only have to spend a couple of weeks on any one yard, and we’d probably only have one or two yards at a time. We could work in the early morning, when it’s cooler, and spend the afternoons at the movies. Mom and Dad will go for it. You know how they like ‘initiative.’ Besides, this will keep us too busy for those service projects they always plan.”
“Like working in the soup kitchen,” Jeremy said.
“Or cleaning litter out of the park.”
“Or delivering meals to the elderly.”
Finally! An excuse to get out of being nice. They hurried inside.
“What a wonderful idea,” their mother said.
“Shows a lot of initiative,” their father agreed, “but. …”
Meg looked at Jeremy. “But what?”
Their parents consulted in whispers for a few moments.
“You can set up your yard-sitting business,” their father finally said. “But we hope you’ll also help someone, unpaid. We’ve always planned service projects for you, but we think that at eleven and twelve years of age, you’re ready to come up with one on your own.”
“I hate helping other people,” Meg said. “It’s just a lot of hard work for nothing.”
“Not if you do it right,” Mother insisted.
“They’re always trying to teach us great moral lessons,” Meg said later. “Still, I suppose we could find some really quick thing we could do to satisfy them.”
The next day they made posters advertising their yard-sitting service.
To their amazement, the phone was soon ringing. It seemed everyone had vacations planned and wanted someone to take in the mail, mow the lawn, and keep the garden watered.
“This is a gold mine!” Jeremy said.
Meg looked at their schedule. “We can still get everything done in the morning, if we push it. We’ll make a fortune!”
Their parents’ request that they come up with a service project completely slipped their minds.
It was hard work, but profitable. Sitting on the porch, Meg and Jeremy rattled the change in their pockets and smiled.
“Maybe we could expand,” Jeremy suggested.
“I thought you didn’t like work.”
Jeremy grinned. “Nope, but I like money. Besides, lots of yards around here could use a little extra work. Look at Mrs. Mahoney’s for example.”
Mrs. Mahoney lived only a few doors away.
“Yeah,” Meg agreed. “The grass is high, and the hedge is overgrown. She has planted a garden, but it hasn’t been weeded, and I think she’s expecting dandelions to inherit the earth!”
“It’s an eyesore,” Jeremy agreed, “but that’s life, I guess. She may be getting too old to take good care of her yard. She can’t afford to pay us, though, so it’s not our problem.”
“Maybe the neighborhood could help,” Meg offered.
Jeremy laughed. “She’d never accept charity. Last Thanksgiving we practically had to force that pie on her. There’s no way she’d ever let someone else clean up her yard.”
They dropped the subject, but Meg couldn’t get Mrs. Mahoney’s yard out of her mind.
The next morning Jeremy was surprised to see Meg up already, when he went down to breakfast. Her shoes were damp, and the knees of her jeans were dirty.
“What’ve you been doing?” he asked.
“Nothing much,” she replied. But as they passed Mrs. Mahoney’s yard, Jeremy noticed the garden had recently been weeded.
During the next week the dandelions began to disappear from Mrs. Mahoney’s lawn. Jeremy didn’t say anything. At first he was afraid Meg would rope him into it. Then he got a little peeved when she didn’t even try.
Finally, one morning, he got up earlier than usual. When Meg headed out the door, gardening tools in hand, he was waiting.
“So, what are you doing today?” he asked, falling into step beside her.
Meg hesitated. “I’m weeding the garden again, and starting to trim the hedge.”
“Mrs. Mahoney must have noticed what you’re doing,” Jeremy said. “What about when she catches you?”
“She doesn’t get up until ten o’clock. I’m long gone by then.”
“Give me the hedge clippers,” Jeremy said gruffly. “I don’t want us to be late to our first job this morning.”
Meg smiled.
Over the next few weeks, Mrs. Mahoney’s yard bloomed. She woke up earlier and earlier, hoping to catch sight of the mysterious gardeners. Finally one morning she heard low voices outside her window and quickly flung it open. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Two open-mouthed faces stared at her.
“This is trespassing,” Mrs. Mahoney said firmly. “Besides, you know how I feel about charity. I appreciate what you’ve done, and I’ll find a way to pay you, but I wish you’d stop. I’ve never owed anyone in my life, and I don’t intend to start now.”
Meg tried to speak, but Jeremy beat her to the punch.
“Charity?” he said. “Charity? I don’t like charity, either. That’s why we’re sneaking around like this. We didn’t want to admit that we owed you something.”
“You owe me?”
“Sure,” Jeremy said. “You know about our yard-sitting business?”
Mrs. Mahoney nodded. “I’ve seen the posters.”
“Well, our parents told us we had to do one yard free, or we couldn’t open the business. Your yard is perfect. It’s close, and it’s small. But we were afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
Mrs. Mahoney looked doubtful, but finally smiled. “Well, if you need my yard, it’s yours for the summer,” she finally said, “but only if you’re sure it’s not a bother.”
“It isn’t,” Jeremy said, surprised to find that it was true. “We really like doing it. Besides, it’s good for business.”
Meg grinned. “Thank heavens we got that settled. Now we can mow the lawn without worrying about waking you up!”
They all laughed.
September came, and school began again. The yard-sitting business closed. Still, Meg and Jeremy found time to rake Mrs. Mahoney’s leaves. In the winter they shoveled her walks.
Their parents watched and smiled.
“See?” their father said. “Helping others is great, if you do it the right way.”
“We’re not ‘helping others,’” Jeremy and Meg insisted. “We’re doing a favor for a friend.”
“Exactly!” their parents said together.

Months later, my youth leaders challenged me to read the entire Book of Mormon before attending a summer camp. I agreed but procrastinated, and I soon fell behind. In a rush to catch up, I began to read for longer periods of time. I can still recall sitting on my porch reading for the better part of an hour. Before this, I was lucky to read for 10 minutes at a time. For the first time in my life, I lost myself in the scriptures. I realized that Alma the Younger was a real person. He wasn’t just a story my leaders taught me. He actually rebelled against his prophet father, and, through faith and the Atonement, was still able to change. I wondered what happened next. I had pieces of the story in my mind, but it hadn’t come together into a whole. I kept reading, watching him grow. For the first time I actually enjoyed what I read.
These experiences and many others began to build my small testimony. Yet, I still questioned. I questioned a lot. I decided to read the Book of Mormon daily and ask for confirmation that it was true. After many nights of reading and many prayers, I felt I received an answer from heaven. It was something I couldn’t create. There was no one else around to lead me to the feeling. I felt a warmth—almost like a light—in me. It somehow seemed to calm and excite me simultaneously. I felt that my Heavenly Father had heard my prayer. He sent a message through my thoughts that the Book of Mormon is true and the Church is His kingdom on earth. I also felt He wanted me to know that He had been answering my prayers continually throughout my life. I just hadn’t realized it. Where would my testimony be without the scriptures?
Later I read the same scriptures to calm my nerves on a plane to the mission field. I read them to inspire and motivate me through my college years. I read them to confirm if I should ask my wife to marry me. I read them for guidance in my career. I read them to find out how to be a better father. Every day I felt I learned and grew more. My testimony became stronger. I found the strength to trust in the Lord more and more.
The majority of my Christmas presents I received growing up were eventually packed in boxes, broken and discarded, or given to secondhand stores. But I still have those maroon scriptures with my name embossed on the cover. They are faded and worn. Some pages are torn, and the margins are filled with notes and quotes.
I cannot think of another Christmas gift that I have used more or one that has affected me more than what was in that little white box. Over time, it changed my life. It helped me come to my Savior Jesus Christ and learn to follow Him. It helped me gain a testimony of His gospel and motivated me to do my part in it. It has helped me become more like Him. What could be a more fitting Christmas gift? I thank my Heavenly Father that my parents gave me a gift I didn’t want.

When I was a young man, I was inducted into the United States Army Air Corps. One cold night at Chanute Field, Illinois, I was given all-night guard duty. As I walked around my post, I meditated and pondered the whole miserable, long night through. By morning I had come to some firm conclusions. I was engaged to be married and knew that I could not support my wife on a private’s pay. In a day or two, I filed my application for Officer’s Candidate School. Shortly thereafter, I was summoned before the board of inquiry. My qualifications were few, but I had had two years of college and had finished a mission for the Church in South America.
The questions asked of me at the officers’ board of inquiry took a very surprising turn. Nearly all of them centered upon my beliefs. “Do you smoke?” “Do you drink?” “What do you think of others who smoke and drink?” I had no trouble answering.
“Do you pray?” “Do you believe that an officer should pray?” The officer asking these questions was a hard-bitten career soldier. He did not look like he prayed very often. I pondered. Would I give him offense if I answered how I truly believed? I wanted to be an officer so that I would not have to do all-night guard duty and KP and clean latrines, but mostly so my sweetheart and I could afford to be married.
I decided to be honest. I admitted I did pray and that I felt officers might seek divine guidance as some truly great generals had done. I told them I thought officers should be prepared to lead their men in all appropriate activities, if the occasion requires, including prayer.
More interesting questions came. “In times of war, should not the moral code be relaxed? Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
I recognized that here was a chance perhaps to make some points and look broad-minded. I suspected that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I had been taught. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could say that I had my own beliefs, but I did not wish to impose them on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. In the end I simply said, “I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.”
I left the hearing resigned to the fact that these hard-bitten officers would not like the answers I had given and would surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my astonishment I had passed. I was in the first group taken for Officer’s Candidate School! I graduated, became a second lieutenant, married my sweetheart, and we have “lived together happily ever after.”

Matt scowled into the mirror. The freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks looked bigger than ever. In fact, his whole face seemed to be one big freckle. “Mom,” he asked, “why do I have so many freckles? You and Dad don’t have any.”
“I did when I was your age. So did my father. And his father before him.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen pictures of them. Your great-grandfather had so many freckles that people called him ‘Red’ when he was your age. His name was Matthew too.”
“Oh, great,” Matt muttered.
“He was a great man,” Mother chided. “My father used to tell me wonderful stories about him.”
But Matt didn’t want to hear that. He just wanted to get rid of about fifty thousand freckles.
“Your great-great-aunt Emily is coming tomorrow. She could tell you a lot more about him. He was her brother.”
“Can she tell me how to get rid of freckles?”
Mom ruffled his hair. “Your freckles won’t last forever.”
Matt grumbled his way through breakfast. When he learned he’d have to give up ball practice to come home to meet his aunt, he grumbled even louder.
“Your aunt wants to see you,” his mother said in the tone she used when she wasn’t happy with him. “Besides, she has something special for you.”
Matt mumbled an apology and slid from his chair. He wanted to rub lemon juice over his face. He’d read in a magazine that lemon juice faded freckles.
Thirty minutes later, he looked in the mirror in disgust. His freckles were still there. If anything, they were more noticeable than ever.
His mood didn’t improve any when he got to school.
“Hey, Matt, you look like you were swallowed by a freckle,” his friend Josh teased.
“Yeah,” Sam added. “A big freckle!”
“Lay off,” Matt said.
By the time school was over, Matt was tired of being teased. He didn’t really feel like meeting Aunt Emily or anyone else, either. But she was there waiting when he walked into the kitchen.
“You look just like my brother Matthew did when he was eleven,” Aunt Emily said.
In spite of himself, Matt was curious. “I do?”
Aunt Emily’s lined face crinkled into a smile. “He had the same stubborn chin, the same blue eyes, and the same freckles.”
Matt scowled. “Did he hate them too?”
Her smile deepened. “He sure did—at first.”
Intrigued, Matt sat down at the kitchen table. He said “thanks” when his mother placed four peanut butter cookies in front of him, but he was more interested in what Aunt Emily had to say. “He didn’t always hate them?”
She shook her head. “No, he didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because they helped him get the lead in the school play. He tried out for the part of Tom Sawyer and got it because of his freckles.”
“But I don’t want to be Tom Sawyer,” Matt said.
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to be a professional ball player or president of a company or something.”
Aunt Emily shoved a package toward him. “Here.”
Eagerly Matt unwrapped the brown paper, then stared in disappointment at an old leather-bound book. “What’s this?”
“It’s your great-grandfather’s journal. He started keeping it when he was just about your age.”
Matt opened it. Pasted inside the front cover was an old-fashioned photograph of a young boy. Even the faded tones of the picture couldn’t hide the freckles scattered across his face. “This is my great-grandfather?” Matt asked.
Aunt Emily nodded. “Does he look familiar?”
Matt didn’t answer. His own face stared back at him.
That evening, he excused himself after dinner and went upstairs to his room. He started flipping through the journal. He stopped at an entry dated June 15, 1911: “Worked in the fields today. It was hot! Earned $1.50.”
Matt kept reading. His eyes drooped, but he couldn’t put the book down.
“Aunt Emily, do you have any more of my great-grandfather’s journals?” he asked the next morning.
“I sure do. I had a feeling that you might be interested in them.” She motioned to him to follow her to the bedroom, where she opened her suitcase. Inside were eight journals—seven brown and one black. She picked up the black one and handed it to Matt. “This one is very special,” she said.
Matt looked inside. The pages were blank. “It’s empty.”
She smiled. “I know. You get to fill them.”
He wanted to look through the other journals right away, but he had to hurry off to school. After gulping his juice, he folded a piece of toast and jammed it into a napkin and ran to catch the bus.
His fifth grade teacher assigned a report due the next day. “Choose someone you admire and tell us about him.”
The other kids started talking about whom they would choose. Josh chose Abraham Lincoln. Sam picked Thomas Edison. Mary chose Babe Didrikson Zaharias. Matt frowned. All the good names seemed to be taken. But by that evening, Matt knew whom he was going to give his report on.
As he stood before the class the following day, he rubbed his wet palms against his jeans and took a deep breath. “My great-grandfather was never president. He never invented anything. He never even finished school. But he was a great man. When he was twelve, his father died. So he dropped out of school to help support his family. He hoed beets for only a dollar-fifty a day. When he was nineteen, he went on a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
By the end of his report, Matt was flushed. “I’m proud that I look like my great-grandfather. I hope I can be the kind of man he was.”
The class applauded.
After school, Matt hurried to spend more time talking with Aunt Emily about his great-grandfather Matthew. He also wanted to write in his own journal about his class report. Before going to bed, he looked in the mirror. His customary scowl had been replaced by a smile as he studied his freckles. He decided he didn’t mind them so much, after all.

Among the many phonograph records we have at our home, none is as much enjoyed by our grandchildren as a record given to me in Korea that features singing by a chorus of little Korean orphan girls. The music is beautiful!
Soldiers serving in Korea often have spare time. Many of them waste this time, but a young man from Blanding, Utah, named Stan Bronson was not one of them. He decided instead to do some good with his extra hours, so he visited an orphanage where little orphan girls lived. Stan played his guitar and sang to them, and they were delighted with his music. Since the Koreans have beautiful voices, these girls soon joined Stan in singing. In no time he was the leader of a wonderful chorus of children.
These little girls sang to us at a Sunday meeting held in the chapel of the army base on the outskirts of Seoul, Korea. As they sang, I could scarcely hold back the tears. I watched Stan lead these beautiful girls, and I thought of Jesus’ statement, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God” (Mark 10:14).
Among the songs they sang, I enjoyed most a song I learned as a little boy in Primary, “Give, Said the Little Stream.” They sang the first verse in English, the second verse in Korean, and then the third verse again in English. I would like to give you the words of that third verse:
Give, then for Jesus give;
Give, oh! give, give, oh! give.
Give, then for Jesus give;
There is something all can give.
Do as the streams and blossoms do,
For God and others live.
I have often thought of these words and of this young soldier who gave to help others and of the marvelous way in which the lives of these little children were brightened by his talent. Under his leadership, the girls gave of their talents to brighten the lives of others.
Truly, as the song says, “There is something all can give. Do as the streams and blossoms do, For God and others live.”

As a young man, Heber J. Grant became seriously ill. He feared that he would die.
Heber: Heavenly Father, if I am allowed to live, I promise I’ll be willing to go to the ends of the earth to preach the gospel.
Heber recovered, and in 1901 he was able to keep his promise when President Lorenzo Snow called him as a missionary.
President Snow: You are called to be the first missionary in Japan. It will not be easy, but the Lord has revealed that it is your duty. Will you go?
Heber: Yes, President Snow.

We have created a tradition for our family of six children that they like very much. Each year at Christmastime, we prepare carols, bake cookies, make rag dolls, and gather some of the children’s own toys and clothing in preparation for our activity. Then, with one of the children dressed as Santa Claus and the others as his helpers, we visit the old and sick in our ward, people in a nearby hospital, and less fortunate people in the streets. This activity has helped us feel the true meaning of Christmas and learn to be more like Jesus Christ.
Fajardo Romero Family,Casas Grandes Ward, Colonia Juárez Mexico Stake

Christopher was lucky enough to be caught in an elevator with the girl of his dreams during an earthquake that knocked out power for the city. The elevator came to a sudden stop between floors. At first they were totally in the dark, but then an emergency light came on.
“This could be the Big One,” Christopher said with a sigh, shaking his head.
“You mean the major earthquake they’re always predicting for Los Angeles?”
“No, the Second Coming,” he said.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, that’s a clue, isn’t it? Because it’s supposed to happen when you’re not expecting it. You’re not expecting it, so this could be it.”
She shook her head and mumbled to herself in a teasing tone, “Ten million people in this town, and I get stuck in an elevator with a nut case.”
“I heard that. Go ahead, make fun of me. I don’t mind a little persecution,” Chris said, pretending to be injured.
“I wasn’t exactly persecuting you.”
“Well, you would if you could. You see, I’m a Mormon. So go ahead, say something bad about our beliefs. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Look, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m a member of the Church too.”
“You are?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I’m not like you.” She added quickly, “At least I hope I’m not. I hate to be critical, but you seem a little paranoid.”
“My mom says that too. Look, we’re probably going to be here for a while so we might as well introduce ourselves. I’m Christopher Wilson.”
“I’m Mackenzie Baxter.”
“Good to meet you.”
“What do you do when you’re not stuck in an elevator?” she asked.
“Well, I’m just finishing my first year of college. Right now I’m living with my parents.”
“Are you going on a mission?” she asked.
“What’s the use?” Anxious to change the subject, he said, “What do you do?”
“I’m a freshman at UCLA majoring in computer science,” she said. “I work in an office in this building about ten hours a week.”
“You sound busy. That’s good I guess.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“You don’t sound too convinced,” she said.
“I just can’t see going to all that trouble, that’s all. I’ve been watching the news a lot lately, and I think the Second Coming is going to happen real soon. I mean real soon.”
“How soon?” she asked.
“Well, let me put it this way—I wouldn’t bother to preregister for classes next fall.”
She laughed, but stopped when she saw he wasn’t entirely joking. “Nobody knows when the Second Coming is going to happen,” she said.
“Yeah, I know that. But it’s got to happen sometime, so why not next fall?”
“But also why not a hundred years from now?” she said.
“Yeah, I suppose. The trouble is, whenever I decide to do something with the rest of my life, I start thinking, What’s the point? The world could end tomorrow.”
“But that’s just it—it’s not going to end totally. Life is still going to go on. The way I see it, we should be the most positive of anybody about the future, because we know some of what’s going to happen. We know there’s going to be a thousand years of peace. Whatever knowledge or intelligence we get now won’t go to waste no matter what happens. So, no matter what, even if this is the Big One, you and I will still have a future.”
He smiled. “You really think you and I have a future?”
“I meant that individually.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Suddenly the power came on and the elevator began its descent to the first floor.
“I guess it wasn’t the Big One,” she said with a slight smile.
“I guess not. Look, I really enjoyed talking to you. Would you ever consider going out with me?”
She paused, then decided to be straightforward. “No, I’m sorry.” Cute or not, she couldn’t picture herself with Mr. Doom and Gloom.
“Why not?”
“Well … how can I explain this? You remind me of a stagnant pond—nothing comes in and nothing comes out.” The elevator door opened. “Sorry if I hurt your feelings.” She paused as she walked out of the elevator, then turned to say good-bye, “Good luck, okay?”
“What if I change?”
“Don’t change just for me.”
“What if I change because I decide you’re right?”
“From what I can see it’d have to be a pretty big change.”
“Well, it could happen, you know. It could happen.”
It was over two years later that Mackenzie stepped into the same elevator on her way to work. Just before the door closed, Christopher stepped on. She didn’t recognize him. Somewhere between floors, the elevator came to a sudden stop.
“This could be the Big One,” he said quietly.
She turned to him. “It’s you again! I remember you!”
“Yeah, it’s me. I just got in town last night.”
“Where have you been?”
“I served a mission. Then I spent fall semester on a ship in the Pacific studying the effects of pollution on coastal waters.”
“You look a lot happier.”
“I am. I’ve never been happier in my life. I just wanted to come back and thank you for all your help. You inspired me to get going and do something with my life.”
“You look so good,” she said. “Actually you look like a commercial for Old Spice aftershave.”
“Thanks. It’s all that sunshine and seawater.”
“No, it’s more than that. It’s your attitude about life too,” she said.
“Probably so. I’ve found something I love to do.”
“That’s the most important thing. Are we really stuck here?”
“Not really. I asked the building superintendent for a favor. All we have to do is push the Start button and he’ll bring us down.”
“I’m not in as much of a hurry this time to get away from you,” she said.
“Good, because I brought you a present.”
He handed a small box to her. She opened it up. It was a necklace with a single pearl.
“Compliments of the sea,” he said. “I found it in an oyster while I was diving off an island in the South Pacific. The moment I saw it I thought of you.”
“This must be worth a lot. Are you sure you want to give it to me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said softly, “this could be the Big One.”

I know from my own life that Eliza’s experience can be our own long after we leave childhood. In the early years of my career, I worked hard to secure a tenured professorship at Stanford University. I thought I had made a good life for myself and for my family. We lived close to my wife’s parents in very comfortable surroundings. By the world’s standards, I had achieved success. But I was given by the Church the chance to leave California and go to Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho. My lifetime professional objectives might have been a pavilion dividing me from a loving Father who knew better than I did what my future could hold. But I was blessed to know that whatever success I had in my career and family life to that point was a gift from God. And so, like a child, I knelt in prayer to ask what I should do. I was able to hear a quiet voice in my mind that said, “It’s my school.” There was no pavilion shielding me from God. In faith and humility, I submitted my will to His and felt His care and closeness.

When we had five young children, our family struggled to follow this prophetic counsel. It took us about 18 months to finally finish reading the Book of Mormon. Most days we read a page. Each of us read a verse and we helped our youngest daughter, aged four, repeat a verse after one of us read for her. To celebrate, we all went out to eat, and at the table I asked my family what their favourite Book of Mormon story is. The stories included Alma among the Zoramites, the journey to the promised land by Lehi’s family, Helaman and the stripling warriors, Mormon and Moroni, the missionary labors of Ammon, and the conversion of Alma the Younger. Finally, our four-year old daughter added her voice. She said, “Just Jesus!” She taught us a powerful lesson of childlike faith that day.

The miracle began when, with my husband and son, I moved back into the neighborhood where I had lived as a youth. Jane,* a non-member and a woman who had had trouble with alcohol for years, still lived there—with her husband, small daughter, and mother. For years, the neighbors had avoided dealing with Jane’s problem by deliberately having no contact with her family.
Although I remembered the stories of Jane’s wildness and drinking from my high school days, I also remembered her compassion as a nurse. She had never seemed too busy to come in the night to help someone in pain. She couldn’t be all bad, I decided. After all these years I would accept her good qualities and ignore the rumors.
I soon became aware that not all was rumor. Jane was an alcoholic. During her drinking bouts anything might happen. But the rest of the time she was a fine wife, a model mother, and a great friend. No one, however, seemed able to help her overcome her alcoholism. She was literally drinking herself to death.
Her family despaired. They accepted, they loved, they tried to cope, and their agonized hearts cried out for help. I could only offer Jane my love and friendship.
Since Jane’s daughter, Mary, and my son were almost the same age, I began including her in our family activities. We took her to church with us and on picnics and outings. She also stayed with us when Jane was drunk and out of control. For example, I remember one day I met Jane coming out of the liquor store, carrying a brown paper sack containing bottles of liquor. As soon as she saw me, Jane thrust Mary’s hand into mine and asked me to take Mary home. For several days, Jane’s mother, her husband, and I managed to care for Mary and keep things as normal as possible for her.
Through the years, a strong relationship developed between our families. I was amazed at how fast little Mary absorbed gospel teachings. She took the gospel into her home in bits and pieces, insisting on blessing the food when she was only three, and adding daily by precept and example.
Jane’s love for Mary, her desire to be the right kind of mother, and her frustration about her alcoholism almost overwhelmed her. She became desperate to change her life-style. One day she told me of a place that “cured” alcoholics. It wasn’t an easy process—most gave up under the pressure and sank back into despair. But Jane decided to risk all. She would rather die than continue the way she was.
The cure was expensive, but her family somehow got together the money needed. For months, Jane was gone. Later she compared that time to a literal hell, full of anguish and suffering.
While Jane was away, I wrote her letters of love and encouragement. One stressed the value of prayer and how much it could help. I never knew how much that letter helped her until years later when she took it from her purse, almost shredded from many readings, and read parts of it in a testimony meeting.
Jane made it. She was one of the few who were really cured. Her health had been practically ruined from the drinking, but her spirit was triumphant. She had won her fight. But there was more to come.
One day Jane came to talk to my husband and me. She told us that Mary, nearly ten now, wanted to be baptized. The real surprise came when Jane told us she wanted to be baptized, too. She wanted my husband to perform the ordinance for both of them.
Jane and Mary became faithful members of the Church. A short while later Jane’s husband and mother joined. The years passed. Then one day Mary brought a young man to see me. They spoke of plans to wed. Six months later Mary and her young man were married, and Jane’s family was sealed in the temple. The miracle was complete.

No plush seats. No ornate decor. No subdued lighting. No modern sound system. No ushers. Of course not. After all, this isn’t a concert hall; it’s Montréal’s busiest metro station. And yet it is a concert hall—the home of la Chorale de l’Accueil Bonneau. Under the harsh fluorescent glare of this noisy, cavernous station stand 18 men in black pants, white shirts, and a smattering of caps, berets, scarves, and bandannas. The singers range in age from 22 to 69. Their weathered faces glow with a joy that almost masks the lingering evidence of misfortune and rejection. “Oh happy day!” they sing, and you can’t help but believe them.
A subway train rumbles to a stop and releases a host of Saturday shoppers, weary students, and weekend workers. Many pause to listen. A few step forward and drop coins into a hat resting on the floor where you would expect the director to stand.
The performers don’t look much like a choir. In fact, they look as if someone just pulled them off the street. They don’t act like a choir either. They don’t stand up straight, and they don’t stand still. One of the older singers—sporting a long, shaggy beard—wanders through the crowd, presenting roses to women. During one of the more lively numbers, two of the singers find partners among the listeners and start to dance.
The choir’s repertoire is varied—everything from “Nearer My God to Thee,” straight from the Latter-day Saint hymnbook, to the pop song “California Dreamin’.” Although some of the men have good voices, these are not professionally trained musicians. One of the soloists even sings a bit off-key. But their energy more than compensates for any lack of training or natural ability. They sing with their whole hearts, and it is clear they are enjoying themselves. So is the audience, which changes about every three minutes as trains come and go.
By the end of two hours the hat is nearly full, and the concert is over. Only then is it evident this choir has a leader. As the last song ends and the crowd disperses, a slender man with dark hair, glasses, and a radiant smile steps from the ranks. His name is Pierre Anthian, and the choir, he will tell you, is merely an extension of his religious beliefs.
The choir ascends the stairs to street level. A yellow school bus will soon arrive to take them to a Catholic church on the outskirts of Montréal where they will perform later this evening. The afternoon sun is pleasant, and the autumn leaves, though past their prime, still adorn the city with splashes of faded yellow and rusty red. While waiting for the bus, one choir member, Jean-Louis, tells how the choir has saved him from harmful addictions. “Now I get high on music,” he boasts. Others have similar stories.
It is late Saturday evening. It has been a long day for the choir, and you can tell they are tired only because their voices don’t blend as well as they did earlier in the program and they hit a few painfully flat notes. But the more than 200 listeners at the church don’t seem to mind. The singers still exude the same level of energy they did this afternoon in the metro, and several of them patrol the aisles, pulling people at random from the audience to join them onstage.
The listeners have been treated to hymns and popular songs—but now comes the audience’s favorite part of the concert. The melody and words might be unfamiliar to a visitor from outside Québec, but it is obvious this song has special meaning to the locals. Everyone is standing, holding hands, swaying back and forth in time with the music, singing with his or her whole soul. Tears flow freely. The song ends, and for a magical moment there is only silence. Then the audience, sensing that this was the final number yet not wanting the magic to end, breaks into wild applause and calls for an encore. The choir obliges, not once but twice, and finally the audience lets them go.

But think of the day when you must know what God would say and what He would do. It has already come for us all—wherever you are in your calling in the priesthood. I grew up in the mission field in the eastern United States during World War II. The members of the Church lived far apart, and there was strict gas rationing. I was the only deacon in the branch. The members gave their fast-offering envelopes to the branch president when they came to fast and testimony meeting in our home.

When I was 13 years old, we moved to Utah to live in a large ward. I remember my first assignment to walk to homes to collect fast offerings. I looked at the name on one of the envelopes I was given and noticed the last name was the same as one of the Three Witnesses of the Book of Mormon. So I knocked on the door with confidence. The man opened the door, looked at me, scowled, and then barked at me to go away. I went away with my head down.

That was nearly 70 years ago, but I still remember the feeling I had that day on the doorstep that there was something I was supposed to have said or done. If only I had prayed in faith as I went out that day, I might have been inspired to stand a moment longer on that doorstep, smile, and say something like: “It is good to meet you. Thank you for what you and your family have given in the past. I look forward to seeing you next month.”

Had I said and done that, he might have been even more irritated—and even offended. But I know now how I might have felt. Rather than feeling sadness or failure as I walked away, I might have felt the soft commendation in my mind and heart: “Well done.”

All of us must speak and act in the name of God in moments when our unaided judgment will not be enough without inspiration. Those moments can come upon us when there is not time to make preparation. That has happened to me often. It did many years ago in a hospital when a father told me and my companion that the doctors had told him that his critically injured three-year-old daughter would die within minutes. As I placed my hands on the one spot on her head not covered with bandages, I had to know, as God’s servant, what He would do and say.

The words came to my mind and my lips that she would live. The doctor standing by me snorted in disgust and asked me to get out of the way. I walked out of that hospital room with a feeling of peace and love. The little girl lived and walked down the aisle into a sacrament meeting on my last day in that city. I still remember the joy and satisfaction I felt from what I had said and done in the Lord’s service for that little girl and her family.

The difference in my feelings at the hospital and the sadness I felt as I walked away from that door as a deacon came from what I had learned about the connection of prayer to priesthood power. As a deacon, I had not yet learned that the power to speak and act in God’s name requires revelation and that to have it when we need it requires praying and working in faith for the companionship of the Holy Ghost.

On the evening before I went to that door for fast offerings, I had said my prayers at bedtime. But for weeks and months before that phone call came from the hospital, I had followed a pattern of prayer and made the effort that President Joseph F. Smith taught will allow God to give us the inspiration necessary for us to have power in the priesthood. He put it simply:

When I was a child, my dad made decisions that hurt our family. After years of prayer, counseling with church leaders, and other resources, my mom filed for divorce.
Despite her struggles, my mom remained faithful in the gospel, and three years after her divorce, she remarried in the temple to my stepdad. They are two of the most Christlike people I have ever known, and I was lucky to be raised by them.

Four years ago I spoke in this setting about couples serving full-time missions. My prayer was that “the Holy Ghost [would] touch hearts, and somewhere a spouse … [would] quietly nudge his or her companion, and a moment of truth [—a moment of decision—would] occur.” One sister later wrote me about that experience. She said, “We were sitting in the comfort of our family room enjoying conference on television. … As you spoke, my heart was touched so deeply. I looked over at my husband, and he looked at me. That moment changed my life forever.”

It’s sometimes tough to be a teenager in Iceland for the same reasons that it’s hard in other countries. It’s the time when you have to make lots of decisions about how you want to live your life. Ulfar explains: “This is a hard age. Everyone is saying, ‘Hey, come get a drink. Have a cigarette.’ Even your friends are going out drinking. They asked me two or three times, but I just kept saying no and changed the subject. They leave me alone about it now.”

Sasha K., age 11, Moscow, Russia
Two years ago a new boy joined our class at school. He was unkind to others. Everyone started to dislike him and be unkind to him. It seemed to make him sad, so I didn’t do what the others did. Several of my friends noticed and followed my example. I believe that if I do what God wants me to do, I will be happier and safer. I believe that if I have courage and speak my mind, I will find friends who will like me just the way I am.