Gospel Story Finder

Many of the area’s teachers were killed in the tsunami, creating a significant teacher shortage. Kamaruzzaman, a teacher from Banda Aceh, is one of just two surviving teachers from his school. With the loss of buildings, teachers, and children, the education system operated in a very makeshift fashion until these new schools were constructed.
“They have been going to a temporary building for school—a community hall where there are about 40 students in the room,” said Kamaruzzaman, who is now a head schoolmaster of a newly built school. “The students now have a better school that’s more helpful to learning. They now have a more hopeful future.”

The elder had been taken to the hospital that day fully expecting to be sent home. “It’s a miracle!” the doctors said. And after studying the X-rays even closer, they said it again. Elder Morrill had no broken bones. And it was a miracle, because he had been pinned under a boulder that put an estimated 2,000 pounds of pressure on his leg.
Elder Howard C. Morrill was serving a mission in the Philippines Cebu City Mission and was assigned to Iloilo City. On March 18, 1976, he saw a rock fall and roll toward him, his companion, and 11-year-old Mary Tuminez. He reached out and pushed Mary out of the path of the huge boulder that had broken loose from its mooring. As he did so his left leg was caught under the rock. It took four elders to lift the rock enough to free Elder Morrill’s leg.
“His recovery was unusually fast,” said his mission president, and Elder Morrill returned to his mission duties within weeks. His comment was that he knew that the Lord had blessed him exceedingly, and he was grateful he could help preserve the life of little Mary Tuminez and still be permitted to complete his mission.

Bryan’s favorite family home evening lesson was one his mom gave on repentance. She hid paper footprints around the house. Each footprint had a step of repentance written on it. The children first had to find the hidden steps. “I found some and let Rachel find some,” Bryan recalls. Then the family talked about each one and put them in order on the floor. Then each person walked on the footprints, naming the steps of repentance as he or she went.

“I want to be a missionary. I’ve been reading the scriptures to prepare.”

Bryan knows that all Latter-day Saints have been called to be a light to the world and that his home is a “lighthouse” for neighbors and friends. His family is looking forward to going to yet another house of light—the holy temple—where they will be sealed for time and eternity. They want all the light they can get.

Minerva’s spiritual life was guided by dreams and by an increasing ability to rely on the Lord. As a young mother, she turned down an opportunity to study in London, England, with her great teacher Robert Henri when she dreamed of a daughter who would soon be born to her. Laurie, the only Teichert daughter, was born with the next year or so. In the same way, Minerva saw future daughters-in-law in dreams before she met them. She trusted implicitly what she felt the Lord had told her and taught her children and grandchildren to rely on His guidance.

A few years ago I had the opportunity to teach seminary at Timpview High School in Provo, Utah. I was excited to begin a new year and looked forward with great anticipation to what the future held.
I was somewhat apprehensive, however, about going to Timpview because it would be my first experience of teaching or attending school without spending my afternoons playing football or baseball or coaching. I knew I could do it, but I worried nevertheless. I suppose that is why I enjoyed pep assemblies so much. It was an opportunity to feel many of the same feelings I had had as a player and as a coach. You have probably had the same experience—chills running down your arms and the back of your neck when you enter the gymnasium while the band is playing and the cheerleaders are cheering. It’s exciting!
I remember one particular assembly before a big game. The cheerleaders had planned a special class competition involving cream pies. I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember that some of the athletes, you know the type, the ones who all sit together and won’t cheer except on rare occasions, got an idea to liven things up by throwing some of the pies at the cheerleaders. Somehow the activities the cheerleaders had planned were left in a barrage of pies being thrown, hairdos being ruined, and the student body cheering for the athletic culprits. I must admit, it was quite an experience.
Very little was said to these young men, that I am aware of, by the cheerleaders. Each girl allowed the boys to think they had really gained the upper hand and gotten away with a fast one.
The pies were soon forgotten, and another pep assembly greeted us a few weeks later.
This time, as we entered the gym, there were 12 caramel apples on center court. Big, beautiful, brown caramel apples, waiting for someone to eat them.
When everyone was settled down and the band had ceased playing, the head cheerleader walked to the microphone and began to explain that morning’s class competition. From the small piece of paper she read the names of six football players and challenged them to a candied-apple-eating contest. As each name was read the responding young man came down to the basketball court with confidence, raising his hands as if in triumph, knowing that he could eat an apple faster than any girl.
Myself and another teacher were called upon to judge this historic event. The cheerleaders explained the rules to me, and I then explained them to the young men. The young men, however, were not overly concerned because each was proficient in eating and eating quickly. The only two rules were (1) every apple on each team must be completely devoured and (2) the girls were to be allowed a ten-second head start.
After hearing the rules, the young men decided on a game plan: they would not chew—just bite, swallow, bite, swallow, until each apple was gone. With such strategy the contest began.
The whistle blew, and the girls began to eat with great care and deliberate actions. The boys, on the other hand, stood watching, waiting for their winning opportunity.
When the second whistle blew, each young man, without any hesitation or forethought, lunged toward the caramel apple before him. With no table manners evident, they began to devour them with great haste—bite, swallow, bite, swallow. Then suddenly, in unison, as if a light switch had been turned on inside each boy, heads raised in shock and disbelief as they realized they were not eating candy covered apples but candy-covered onions! The crowd roared when they realized what had happened. The cheerleaders, on the other hand, stood calmly, hands signaling the peace sign in recognition of their sly plan to deceive the football players.
By now these poor boys were looking as white as sheets and trying to get rid of the large bites of raw onion which were now floating throughout their systems.
I’ll never forget it! Those poor guys smelled like onions for quite some time, and it was not an easy task to rid themselves of the stench.

About eight years ago, in far-off Dresden, a city in the German Democratic Republic, I visited, with a few members, a small cemetery. The night was dark, and a cold rain had been falling throughout the day.
We had come to visit the grave of a missionary who many years before had died while in the service of the Lord. A hushed silence shrouded the scene as we gathered about the grave. With a flashlight illuminating the headstone, I read the inscription:
Joseph A. Ott
Born: 12 December 1870—Virgin, Utah
Died: 10 January 1896—Dresden, Germany
(See “In the Lord’s Time,” by C. Eric Ott, Tambuli, May 1989, page 7.)
Then the light revealed that this grave was unlike any other in the cemetery. The headstone had been polished, weeds such as those which covered other graves had been carefully removed, and in their place was an immaculately edged bit of lawn and some beautiful flowers that told of tender and loving care. I asked, “Who has made this grave so attractive?” My query was met by silence.
Finally, a twelve-year-old deacon acknowledged that he had wanted to take on this responsibility and, without prompting from parents or leaders, had done so. He said that he just wanted to do something for a missionary who gave his life while in the service of the Lord. He said, “I’ll never be able to serve a mission, as did my father. I feel close to missionary work when I care for this grave where the body of a missionary rests.”
I wept out of respect for his faith. I sorrowed at his inability to fulfill his greatest desire—to serve as a missionary. But God did hear his prayer. He noted his faith. He honored one who magnified the calling of a deacon.
Several years have gone by since that special night in Dresden. Many significant changes have taken place in the German Democratic Republic. A temple of God adorns the land, chapels accommodate wards and stakes, and the full program of the Church blesses the lives of our members. On Thursday, 30 March 1989, the first Church missionaries in fifty years crossed the border into the German Democratic Republic. Already investigators are being taught and the first baptisms have taken place.
But what about the boy who so tenderly tended the grave of Joseph Ott? Well, Tobias Burkhardt, a deacon then, is an elder now. On 28 May 1989 he and nine other companions entered the Missionary Training Center, the first ever from their country to serve abroad as missionaries. Asked about his feelings at this special time, he responded, “I am anxious to serve my mission. I’ll strive to work so diligently, that Joseph Ott can, through me, yet perform an earthly mission.”

My mother brought that happiness into our home. She didn’t scold us very often—but she reminded us quite a bit. One day my brother and I decided to hike with friends to the lookout tower on “Mount Peak” (Pinnacle Peak), a small mountain near my home in Enumclaw, Washington. The trip took much longer than we had planned. As it began to get dark, I suspected we were really going to be in trouble when we got home. But when we walked in the door, all Mother showed was relief. She reminded us to always let her know where we would be, and we tried very hard to be responsible after that.

I did not appreciate fully memories and self until I, with the help of others, compiled my oral history. I gave my wife a rough copy of my life story and asked her to edit it. My instructions were: “You know me better than I know myself, so please read it carefully and polish the manuscript.” A half hour later, when I returned to see how she was doing, she was crying. I said, “My goodness, is it that bad?” “No,” she answered. “It is that good!” “Have you made any changes?” I asked. “No,” she replied. “It is you speaking, and I don’t want to erase or edit you out of the record.”

Later, we gave bound copies of my history to our children. Both of us knew that the thing would probably be placed on a shelf and read only sometime. A few weeks ago, however, one of our daughters said to me: “Dad, I love you so very much.” I wondered what was wrong and I asked: “What brought this on?” She explained, “It was your oral history; I have been reading about your life.” She added: “I did not realize that you had done. … I didn’t know that you had experiences such as. …”

What a pity it would be if your children and grandchildren were denied that part of you that really should be recorded. Make certain that you are transmitting to your posterity, along with other graces of life, your innermost thoughts, your poignant feelings, and your sincere testimonies. You owe the rising generation this blessing and more.

My dad was an apple grower in Washington, USA, and so were my grandparents. There were all kinds of jobs to do, so I learned how to work when I was young. My grandmother lived on a hill surrounded by apple trees. At the bottom of the hill there were blackberry bushes.
In the summertime the bushes were full of ripe berries. My grandmother would give my younger brothers and sisters and me each a plastic bucket. She’d tell us to come back with buckets full of blackberries. Then she made jam and syrup and all kinds of yummy things.
It was hot, and blackberry bushes have lots of thorns. And worst of all, there were snakes! We used every excuse we could think of to not pick blackberries. But I was the oldest, so I had to be a good example. Even though it was hard, we worked. It seemed to take forever to fill up our buckets. We got distracted. We watched for snakes. We ate a bunch of berries.
When our buckets were finally full, we took them back up to my grandmother. Then we could play for the rest of the day. At dinner that night, my grandmother always served a blackberry cobbler or pie. It was delicious! We ate it hot out of the oven with a scoop of ice cream.
We learned a couple of things from our summers picking blackberries. First, everybody worked. Everyone in the family, no matter how small, could help in some way. Second, we learned that if we wanted to enjoy the blackberry pie, we had to do the work. Years later as a young missionary, I learned how important work is. Heavenly Father blesses us when we put in effort. If we work hard and keep the commandments, we will be blessed.

Although just as friendly as her sister, Larisa tends to be more quiet and reserved. “She’s a great student,” her mom says. Larisa has always had a special affection for Jesus Christ and knows of His great love for children. She tells her parents, “I hope He comes while I’m still little!” In fact, when she was in kindergarten, she wanted to see Him so much that she often spent her whole recess staring up at the sky, waiting for Him to appear.

Lisa stood in the doorway of Grandpa’s bedroom. She wanted to talk to him, but he was sound asleep. There was so much to say and so little time. Grandpa couldn’t even get out of bed now.
“I’ll be thankful if I get to see another crocus,” he had said. Those words brought back vividly all the hurt and pain she had felt when Keekee, her pet hamster, died.
Lisa hurried out of the house and went directly to the far end of the garden where Keekee was buried. Since it was mid-January, the plants were bare. Not a leaf or bud anywhere. She and Grandpa had put Keekee to rest between the red rose bushes. She swallowed hard, remembering it all.
“I won’t ever see Keekee again,” she had cried.
“Death isn’t forever, Lisa,” Grandpa comforted.
After Grandpa talked to her, some of the pain seemed to ease.
“By loving Keekee,” he said, “he will always live in your heart. All else can fade away but love is forever.”
They stood beside the grave. “What would you like to say on the marker?” Grandpa had asked.
Lisa hesitated. “Name and dates, I guess.”
“Don’t be ashamed to say what’s in your heart,” encouraged Grandpa.
Lisa looked into Grandpa’s warm brown eyes, then down at the ground. “I love you, Keekee …” she whispered.
Grandpa smiled. “Each time you read those words, Lisa, your memory of Keekee will come alive. Dying is a fact of life. One day we all must go away for a while.”
“Will that happen to you, too, Grandpa?”
“Yes, Lisa, but you must remember that separation is not a final thing and that someday we’ll all be together again.”
Now it is Grandpa’s turn to go, Lisa thought sadly. All the pain of parting came back again. Once more she looked over the garden. Every year she and Grandpa had planted bulbs along both sides of the walkway but now Grandpa was too ill. She remembered how one by one she had handed Grandpa the crocus bulbs and watched him place them into freshly dug holes. Then he covered them gently, almost with a prayer.
Lisa went back to Grandpa’s room. He seemed to still be asleep but then he opened his eyes. “Is that you, Lisa?” he asked.
“Yes, Grandpa, is there anything I can do for you? Anything you want?”
“Just sit and talk to me,” he said, taking her hand.
“The garden misses you, Grandpa. We don’t want you to go.”
“It will only be for a little while. In Heavenly Father’s time it will only be like a winter away. Plants sleep during the winter and wake up in the spring. So it is with people. We are parted for a while and come together again in a world where there is no more separation.”
Grandpa’s hand became limp and he fell asleep.
Lisa went out into the garden again.
“Grandpa loves you,” she spoke to the lilac tree and the rosebushes as though they could understand. “If you could give him a flower, it would make him so happy.” But only the silence and the cold wind answered her. Every day after that, Lisa carefully examined each plant, but there wasn’t even a sign of a swollen node.
Mother had asked Lisa to help in preparing the house for company who would want to visit with Grandpa. “Friends and relatives will come to see Grandpa often,” she said, “and you must keep the porch and steps clean.”
Many people did come to see Grandpa, and each day he seemed to sleep a little longer. Sometimes he didn’t know Lisa was there beside him. One day as she was sweeping the porch, the pain of losing Grandpa seemed to grow so big within Lisa that she thought it would burst. She began to cry. The broom slipped from her hand and fell beside the steps. As she stooped to pick it up, something caught her eye. It was half-hidden under the porch and behind the steps. She got on her knees and could hardly believe what she saw. In a sheltered place, well-protected from the wind and cold, was a purple crocus poking up from the dark earth. Although it was still winter, a flower had been born.
Lisa rushed to Grandpa’s bedroom where he lay sleeping. “Please wake up, Grandpa, and see what I found!” she cried. But Grandpa didn’t stir. Lisa waited and waited. She was about to leave the room when Grandpa opened his eyes.
“Look, Grandpa. Look what I have for you!” Lisa said softly.
“A crocus,” he whispered. “How wonderful!” He took the flower and held it to his face. “Where did you find it, Lisa? We took up all the bulbs last fall.”
“I guess we missed this one. It was in the corner by the steps.”
Grandpa smiled. “Lisa, did I ever tell you the story about the tree that began to sprout leaves in the winter? At the time, people called it a miracle. It brought new hope to many who needed it. Later it was discovered that a steam pipe near the tree had a leak and the warmth made the tree think it was spring—time to wake up and time to show its leaves. People talked about it for months afterward. Many felt it was a message from God, telling them that they should never despair.”
Lisa sat quietly thinking about the miracle tree. She looked down at Grandpa, who had fallen asleep again, the crocus still in his hand. Lisa stood beside the bed for a long time. Slowly some of the pain she felt began to ease. Grandpa’s going away didn’t hurt quite as much now. She knew that one day they would be together again.
“I love you, Grandpa,” she whispered, recalling his words, All else can fade away but love is forever.

While he was recovering from his illness, Elder Kikuchi stayed at his uncle’s home in Muroran City, west of Hokkaido. In the spring of 1958, two American missionaries knocked at the door. Because he knew nothing about the real causes of World War II, Elder Kikuchi’s first response was, “No thank you. You Americans killed my father.” The missionaries, out tracting on their preparation day, told the young man that they had an important message for him and that they wanted to tell him a story about a boy his age—Joseph Smith. He said that he would listen for ten minutes.
“They taught me the most beautiful story of Joseph Smith who saw Heavenly Father and the Son,” Elder Kikuchi said. “I felt a sweet spirit. It changed my life immediately, and I requested to study more. After fourteen days I was baptized.” Elder Kikuchi was baptized on April 13, 1958. “Since then,” Elder Kikuchi noted, “I’ve ‘felt to sing the song of redeeming love’” (Alma 5:26).
After his conversion to the gospel, Elder Kikuchi found that his attitude about his father’s death changed. He followed the Savior’s teachings to “love one another” (John 13:34) and to “love your enemies” (Matt. 5:44).

Illustration by Tracy Walker
I was 14 years old when I experienced my first Christmas without snow. My family had just moved from the mountains of Utah to Texas, USA. To me, Texas felt too flat and hot. It was hard to feel the Christmas spirit when I had no friends at my new school and especially when there was no snow on the ground. I felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere, so I often felt lonely and sad.
Despite my gloom, Christmas was only a week away, and I was depending on our Christmas family traditions to lift my spirits. The fun activities my family did together in past years always made me feel so happy. Traditions were a big part of how we celebrated Christmas, so I thought I had nothing to worry about. They were called traditions for a reason, so I knew they had to be kept.
The days leading up to Christmas crawled by slowly. We hadn’t done anything together as a family yet to celebrate, so I was feeling pretty defeated. When Christmas Eve finally arrived, I waited all day for something to happen—anything that would show me that our cherished family traditions could still be kept in our new home. I’m sure I could have spurred these treasured traditions on my own, but I didn’t want to. In a way, I was looking for a sign to show me that the Christmas spirit was still alive.
Day faded to night and I grew more and more upset. Tears welled up in my eyes as my family gathered together to say our evening prayers. My entire home felt cold and empty, even with all of us living inside it. Suddenly, my dad pierced the silence with one question.
“Would anyone like to receive a priesthood blessing?”
My heart skipped a beat. I had worried so much about whether or not we would be putting up Christmas lights or baking holiday cookies that I had forgotten about one very special tradition we did every Christmas Eve—we all received a priesthood blessing. Receiving a blessing from my dad in the past always gave me peace, but not everybody in my family enjoyed receiving one. Sometimes my siblings and my mom would say they didn’t feel like they needed one. I didn’t want to get my hopes up again if everyone else was going to turn it down.
But this time was different. My mom stood up and sat down on the chair my dad had brought out for us.
“I would like one,” she said softly.
We were all very surprised, but my dad didn’t even hesitate. He placed his hands on my mom’s head and began to speak. I could sense how tuned in my dad was to my mom’s feelings and personal struggles. He spoke words of comfort and peace to her during this time of change.
I suddenly felt a burning sensation within my chest—almost like someone had lit a match inside of me. I knew I was feeling the Holy Ghost, even though the burning in my chest wasn’t the way I had always felt the Spirit before. It was like Heavenly Father was speaking directly to me, and it wasn’t even my priesthood blessing!
As my father quietly said “amen” and I opened my tear-filled eyes, I realized that my whole family was crying. We had all heard the Spirit speak to us in a tender and loving way that everything was going to be OK. My mom and dad hugged, and I felt like the raincloud that had been hanging over my head for so long had finally given way to sunshine.
We may not have kept every tradition that year, but we always remembered how it felt to witness the power of God flow through my dad’s priesthood blessing. I will always remember how it changed my feelings of sadness to peace and joy. I also learned a valuable lesson about the power of the priesthood. When everything around you seems to be going the wrong way, a priesthood blessing can remind you of the Lord’s watchful and loving presence in your life.

As a young adult, my bishop and his wife, who traveled a lot for their business, told me that they shared a Book of Mormon with someone on every trip they took.
That inspired me. I admired them, and their examples touched my heart. I decided that if I ever got the chance to travel outside of Utah, USA, I would follow their example and share a Book of Mormon each time.
As a cheerleader for Brigham Young University, I traveled frequently with the cheerleading team. Before my first trip, I bought a Book of Mormon and wrote my testimony in it. I wanted to develop the courage to share what I valued most with others: my testimony and the Book of Mormon. I wanted to be like my bishop and his wife. I wanted to be like Jesus Christ. I wanted to help gather others and help them to come unto Him.
I quickly learned that if I prayed before each trip to be led to the one who needed it, a person would show up at the right time and the right place for me to make sharing the Book of Mormon natural and easy. The more I practiced, the easier my sharing became. My journeys became more meaningful for me. I was always thrilled to find Heavenly Father’s blessed recipient of this sacred testament of Christ.
When I traveled, I pondered, “Where should I go to find the one whom Heavenly Father is sending me to this time? What can I say to him or her to convey how precious the Book of Mormon is to me?” My thoughts and actions became focused outside of my own needs and entertainment, and I felt increased love for everyone I met. I tried to look at them through the Savior’s eyes. I prayed for them to accept the divine gift that Heavenly Father had sent me to offer them.
I was sad when my senior year came to an end. Being a cheerleader for BYU was a lifelong dream for me. I would have enjoyed the incredible experience to cheer no matter what, but the opportunity to share a copy of the Book of Mormon on each cheerleading trip enriched my life in beautiful, unexpected ways.
Sharing the Book of Mormon was a valuable and easy way to add an extra layer of meaning to my university experience. I know that the people with whom I shared the Book of Mormon were specifically guided to receive it. I also know that into the incredible tapestry of my life, Heavenly Father wove a loving and sweet tender mercy: He allowed me to feel His love for His children in a special way every trip I took.
After I graduated, I decided to always continue looking for someone with whom I can share my testimony. Over time, I developed greater ability and comfort with sharing my testimony. I learned to no longer fear sharing it. I believe everyone can become more comfortable sharing their testimony with practice and by asking for divine help.

Every night of the open house, the temple had to be cleaned and readied for the next day’s tours. Dallas Matthews, 17, of the Orem Utah Windsor Stake, was assigned to the cleaning crew for one night, but on his own he came every night to help where he could. To Dallas, his efforts didn’t seem remarkable. But consider that after cleaning at the temple until 2:00 each morning, he was getting up at 6:00 A.M. for football practice. Dallas is the team captain at Timpanogos High School, where he is a wide receiver and backup quarterback.
Dallas was a little embarrassed when asked about the extra miles of service he put in for the temple open house. His dad says Dallas doesn’t usually talk about himself. But his devotion did not go unnoticed. Those in charge of the cleaning could not help but pay attention when this young man came faithfully every evening, sometimes bringing friends.
“I worked on patching the plastic [that protects the carpet] or redoing it every night if needed,” said Dallas. “I was never tired the next day. I just did it. I didn’t really notice that I wasn’t tired until I thought about it later.”
Every night Dallas would look in the mirrors in the sealing rooms. His reflection seemed to stretch into eternity. He tried to see the end but never could. Eternity is sometimes a hard concept for the mind to grasp, and Dallas thought about it every night. He knew that the temple was the place to be if the eternities are to be a place of progression.
“I felt the temple became a part of me,” said Dallas, “because I spent so much time there. I liked how it felt. It definitely makes me want to go back.”

Where I live, my family and I are the only members of the Church. I am the only member at my school. I have had to stand up for my belief in Jesus Christ with my friends many times. It is not easy, but I know I need to choose the right. One way I choose the right is by passing the sacrament.
I was nervous to pass the sacrament for the first time. I didn’t want to trip and fall. My friend taught me what to do. He helped me out on my first Sunday. It was also fast Sunday, so I fasted and prayed that I would not make a mistake. I felt happy after I passed the sacrament, and I knew that I did the right thing. I felt at peace.

A classic account of judging by appearance was printed in a national magazine many years ago. It is a true account—one which you may have heard but which bears repeating.
A woman by the name of Mary Bartels had a home directly across the street from the entrance to a hospital clinic. Her family lived on the main floor and rented the upstairs rooms to outpatients at the clinic.
One evening a truly awful-looking old man came to the door asking if there was room for him to stay the night. He was stooped and shriveled, and his face was lopsided from swelling—red and raw. He said he’d been hunting for a room since noon but with no success. “I guess it’s my face,” he said. “I know it looks terrible, but my doctor says it could possibly improve after more treatments.” He indicated he’d be happy to sleep in the rocking chair on the porch. As she talked with him, Mary realized this little old man had an oversized heart crowded into that tiny body. Although her rooms were filled, she told him to wait in the chair and she’d find him a place to sleep.
At bedtime Mary’s husband set up a camp cot for the man. When she checked in the morning, the bed linens were neatly folded and he was out on the porch. He refused breakfast, but just before he left for his bus, he asked if he could return the next time he had a treatment. “I won’t put you out a bit,” he promised. “I can sleep fine in a chair.” Mary assured him he was welcome to come again.
In the several years he went for treatments and stayed in Mary’s home, the old man, who was a fisherman by trade, always had gifts of seafood or vegetables from his garden. Other times he sent packages in the mail.
When Mary received these thoughtful gifts, she often thought of a comment her next-door neighbor made after the disfigured, stooped old man had left Mary’s home that first morning. “Did you keep that awful-looking man last night? I turned him away. You can lose customers by putting up such people.”
Mary knew that maybe they had lost customers once or twice, but she thought, “Oh, if only they could have known him, perhaps their illnesses would have been easier to bear.”
After the man passed away, Mary was visiting with a friend who had a greenhouse. As she looked at her friend’s flowers, she noticed a beautiful golden chrysanthemum but was puzzled that it was growing in a dented, old, rusty bucket. Her friend explained, “I ran short of pots, and knowing how beautiful this one would be, I thought it wouldn’t mind starting in this old pail. It’s just for a little while, until I can put it out in the garden.”
Mary smiled as she imagined just such a scene in heaven. “Here’s an especially beautiful one,” God might have said when He came to the soul of the little old man. “He won’t mind starting in this small, misshapen body.” But that was long ago, and in God’s garden how tall this lovely soul must stand!

One Christmas Eve while we lived in the Philippines, my father came home early from his work as a chaplain at Clark Air Base.
“Hey, Tam,” he said, “I need you to make cookies and practice Christmas songs on your guitar. Also, gather items for Nativity costumes. We’re going to spend the evening in the brig.”
I was still angry at my parents for moving our family across the world. The last thing I wanted to do was spend Christmas Eve in a military jail. I complained but to no avail.
When we entered the brig, we were led to a stark room with chairs and a table. Soon a door opened, and my father warmly invited a group of shackled and handcuffed men into the room.
Then we sang Christmas songs, reenacted Luke 2, and enjoyed homemade treats—the same things we would have done at home. But something was different.
My adolescent heart softened that night as I witnessed the humble gratitude of those dear men. One of them, referring to our Nativity reenactment, asked, “Can I be in it too?” Others also wanted to join. Soon, additional “angels” heralded the Savior’s special birth.
Those prisoners were not where they wanted to be, and I was in a country where I did not want to be. But I knew we were seen, known, and loved by our Savior, who had also been in a place from which He humbly sought removal (see Luke 22:42). In my 16-year-old heart, I knew I was not alone.
Those men were not the only ones who wiped away tears that Christmas Eve. The life-changing event that evening was not our Christmas celebration but rather Christ’s power to lift and heal.
It’s been almost 50 years since that Christmas Eve, but it remains a sacred memory. My most special, unexpected, and glorious Christmas gift was a new heart. Everything changed for me after that.
I embraced life in the Philippines, made new friends, found ways to serve, and chose to be happy—all because of the witness I received of Jesus Christ and His powerful love that Christmas Eve in the brig.
I know that our Savior can remove the shackles from our minds and our hearts as we come to Him. He is our greatest gift.

I remember an experience with a new missionary companion. During the first days I thought that I knew better than he did. When we intended to have a talk together, he asked me to say a prayer. I vividly remember at the very start of the prayer this feeling of peace and love nearly overwhelming me and I heard myself say how sorry I was for being so arrogant and unkind and I asked forgiveness from my companion. This changed our whole companionship. I do not exactly know which gift I received, but I cherished it as a tender mercy from God.

Nauvoo was swampy and unhealthy. As soon as the Saints began to settle, they were struck with malaria. “It was a very sickly time,” said Wilford Woodruff. “Joseph had given up his home in Commerce to the sick, and had a tent pitched in his dooryard and was living in that himself.” During this period of suffering, the Prophet called upon the power of the priesthood and went among the sick on both sides of the river, healing many.
The following summer the epidemic increased and many died. In 1841, Sidney Rigdon preached “a general funeral sermon” for the deceased, as workers hurriedly drained the swamps in an effort to control the dreaded disease.