Gospel Story Finder

Seven-year-old Craig Parker of Spanish Fork, Utah, gained a testimony of the role of prayer in the repentance process. One day while he was playing, he said a word that he knew was wrong. He felt very bad afterward. “In our home and at church I have learned about Jesus, and I know that He would not want me to say that word.”
Craig decided to kneel and pray for forgiveness. “I folded my arms and told Heavenly Father I was sorry for saying that word. I felt better after praying. I knew that Heavenly Father forgave me, and I have never said that word again.”

Why does it feel so different? Laura wondered, staring down at her hands and nervously twisting her CTR ring.
The chairs were the same. The carpet was the same color. The songs were the same. Even the teacher, Sister Wright, happened to have the same name as Laura’s Primary teacher in her old ward. Mom, who had moved many times as a child, had reassured Laura that the Church was the same wherever you went. “Saints are Saints, and that means friends,” she always said.
Well, it doesn’t feel the same to me! Laura thought as a tear dropped onto her hands.
“Boys and girls, let’s welcome Laura Bybee, a new member of our class,” Sister Wright announced. “Laura, where do you live?”
Laura struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. “We’re staying in a motel for a week, until we can move into our house. I think our address will be 48 Earl Street.”
“That’s close to my house!” the girl sitting next to Laura exclaimed.
“How nice, Stacey.” Sister Wright smiled. “Let’s all introduce ourselves to Laura.”
Laura managed a quick glance at each of her new classmates as they said their names. Everyone was trying to be nice, but still Laura wanted to run out the door and never come back. She wanted to return to her old ward, where she knew everyone and where everyone loved her.
She wanted elderly Sister Glove to hug her and tell her how tall she’d grown in just one week. She longed to have Brother Webster squeeze her small hand in his huge, rough one and tease her by asking when she was coming to slop his hogs. She wished she could help catch Brother and Sister Jensen’s active twin boys when it was time to load them into the car. Most of all, she wished she could sit in the shade of the pine tree on the church’s back lawn and laugh with her friend Rachel while they waited for their parents.
As Sister Wright began the lesson, Laura realized it was the same one the other Sister Wright had taught the week before in Laura’s old ward.
“Why is it important to keep the Sabbath day holy?” the new teacher asked.
“It’s a commandment,” a boy named Daniel answered.
Laura remembered what the other Sister Wright had taught: “It is a commandment, but it is also a way to show that we are Christ’s followers. By keeping the Sabbath day holy, we receive help to stay clean from sin. Keeping the Sabbath day holy is a privilege.” Laura had promised herself and the Lord right then that she would always treat the Sabbath with reverence. Remembering that promise helped Laura feel calm and peaceful.
“What are some things we should avoid doing on Sunday?” the new Sister Wright asked.
“We shouldn’t go hunting or fishing or to ball games,” one boy said.
“We shouldn’t work,” answered another.
“We shouldn’t make others work by going shopping or out to eat,” the girl at the end of the row added.
“Excellent answers,” Sister Wright said.
Suddenly Laura’s awful feeling returned. Tears filled her eyes. This time all of them came spilling onto her lap.
“Laura, what’s wrong?” Stacey whispered.
Sister Wright stopped her lesson and knelt in front of Laura. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
“I had this lesson last week,” Laura sobbed, “and I promised Heavenly Father that I would always keep the Sabbath day holy. But I just remembered that we’re staying in a motel and we’ll have to eat in a restaurant today. And it’s Sunday.”
Sister Wright wrapped her arms around Laura’s shaking shoulders. “It’s all right, Laura. The Lord understands your situation.”
“Laura doesn’t have to eat in a restaurant!” Stacey declared. “She can eat at my house. I know my mom will say it’s OK.”
As soon as Primary was over, Stacey grabbed Laura’s hand and pulled her down the hall toward the Relief Society room. “Mom! Mom! Can Laura’s family eat with us? They’re new in the ward, and they’re staying in a motel, and Laura doesn’t want to break her promise to keep the Sabbath day holy by eating in a restaurant, so I told her—”
“Whoa!” Stacey’s mom held up her hand. “I think we already have things worked out.” Turning toward the woman next to her, Stacey’s mom said, “This is Sister Bybee, and I’ve already invited her and her family to come to our house to eat.”
“Yippee!” Stacey clapped her hands and then gave Laura a big hug. “See, I told you my mom would say it’s OK.”
Laura smiled. Her mom was right. Saints are Saints, and that means friends!

Wild fires burned out of control in the seaside town of Laguna Beach, California, for two days. When the smoke finally cleared, the young men and young women of the area went to work.
The youth sorted clothing, made thank-you signs and treats for firefighters, planted trees, and prepared meals for families who had lost their homes. When early-fall rains threatened to flood the fire-ravaged landscape, the youth were at it again, this time stacking sandbags to divert water away from the town.
The youth worked hard and helped each other out. Those who were fortunate to have their homes intact helped those who hadn’t been so lucky.
“My family came so close to losing our home, I feel like I should do my part to help others,” said priest Martin Bartholomew, after a long day of sandbagging. “Even though my back aches, I feel happy inside.”

One day I received a party invitation from one of my best friends, Joshua. The only problem was that his party was going to be on Sunday. I told him that I really wanted to be with him on his birthday but that Sunday was the Sabbath Day and not a day for me to go to parties. I asked him if he could change it to Saturday so that I could go. I learned that since he is Jewish, his Sabbath Day is on Saturday. Joshua understood why I couldn’t come to his party. Instead, I took a present to his house on Tuesday after school and shared leftover cake from his party. Tuesday even turned out to be his real birthday, and it was fun to share it together. He had even saved a party bag and treats for me!
That same week, I received another party invitation. It was to a bowling party of another kindergarten friend. His party was also on Sunday. Again, I decided to tell my friend Chase that I really wanted to be at his party but that Sunday was the Sabbath Day and I didn’t go to parties on Sundays. Instead, my mom picked us boys up from school and surprised us with lunch and two games of bowling! It makes me feel happy inside to know that I can do both—keep the Sabbath Day holy and share in celebrating birthdays with my friends.
It also helps me feel like a missionary to teach my friends about the importance of honoring the Sabbath Day. Since his party, Chase’s mom has been asking my mom lots of questions about the Church, and they have been interested in coming to ward activities with us. I hope they come, and I hope that they will join the Church. Then Chase and his family can come to church with me on Sundays!

My mother taught me to work hard. She asked me to get the work done first and then go play. One day a few of us helped my mom move a piano from upstairs to downstairs. It was a big, old piano. It wasn’t easy to move. We moved it around corners and finally down the stairs. When we set it down, my mother was glowing with happiness—just because we’d moved a piano! I said, “Mom, I think you would rather move a piano than listen to a piano.” She nodded. She loved to work.

Brad took to Scouting with the same gusto as the other boys his age. Hiking, swimming, and other strenuous activities didn’t discourage him. He asked no special treatment in passing his Scouting tests, and he got none. A Scoutmaster recalls the astonishment of canoeing instructors at Bear Lake when Brad emerged from the water wearing his “fishing leg.” Some of the merit badges, Life Saving for example, were especially difficult, but they were goals, and they were met.

Brad’s leg has never been a source of embarrassment to himself or his family, so it has never been a source of embarrassment to others. There is something about Brad that makes it easier to envy him than to pity him. He was always expected to do his share of the work at home and to accomplish just as much outside the home as the other children. He was also allowed to take part in the rough and tumble play of the neighborhood boys the same as everyone else. His “handicap was simply never treated as a limiting factor.

In fact, it gave him a rather novel way of having fun. Throughout school he delighted in playing tricks on substitute teachers by such little devices as calmly turning his leg around backwards in class, or kicking it off entirely in the middle of a spirited game of playground ball. One little classmate was so impressed with the possibilities that he went home and tearfully demanded “a leg like Brad’s.”

An incident that took place one summer typifies Brad’s attitude. “I was at the swimming pool and had on my fishing leg, of course. A little boy saw it, and of course he pointed and said right out loud, ‘Look, Mommy! That guy’s leg!’ His mom was embarrassed. I walked over to her and said, ‘Don’t worry; you’ve got a good boy there; he’s observant. Don’t try to cover it up. I’m not.’”

Now is the time of year when most of us get out a clean sheet of paper and write down a list of new year’s resolutions we have absolutely no intention of keeping. We will find plenty of “handicaps” along the way to use as excuses for failure, and then next year we will still have the same unaccomplished goals to put down on another clean sheet of paper.

This year when we get ready to abandon the last resolution on the list, perhaps we should form a mental picture of a red-headed young man with freckles, in a green and white jersey, with absolutely no handicaps, lining up a field goal.

Maybe we can’t all kick a 49-yard field goal; our talents don’t all lie in the same areas. But we can do a lot more than we are doing, and there’s no better time to begin than right now at the beginning of a new year.

That’s part of Brad’s philosophy too. “What you do now—your habits, studies, morals, goals—it all adds up to what you’re going to be in the end.”

I think of a young man who was recently convicted of automobile homicide because he killed an innocent victim while driving drunk. He was a young man of great potential. There is no telling what he might have become, but today he sits in prison, not only in the misery of his surroundings but also in the torture of his conscience. Our Father in Heaven, who loves us, has reminded us of the evils of these things and has warned us against them.

On a warm August morning in Aurora, Colorado, 30 children armed with brand new soccer balls and kickballs gathered in the local park to play sports and have a good time. But when the game ended, the children and their parents left 150 unused balls behind.
That may sound strange, but 14-year-old Brandon Campbell had planned it that way. Brandon, a teacher in the Fox Hollow Ward, Arapahoe Colorado Stake, knew that his Eagle project would provide the Aaronic Priesthood holders in the ward with an opportunity to bless the lives of children locally and all over the world.
An avid sports fan, Brandon found a way to use his love of athletics to create a project that would benefit children in developing nations. Brandon organized a sports day in his area, and the participants at the event donated balls to a charitable organization that helps communities all over the world establish stable political and social environments. With the help of his family and the youth in his ward and Scout troop, Brandon was able to provide struggling children with a little bit of fun and relief.
Brandon says he’s learned the importance of serving others through his Church membership. He notes that giving meaningful service is one of the purposes of the Aaronic Priesthood. “Scouting is the activity arm of the priesthood,” he says. “Because of the activity we organized, now kids are going to have things to play with. Helping children is a way of respecting them.”
As he progresses in the Aaronic Priesthood and other areas of his life, Brandon recognizes the benefits of Scouting. “I came up with the idea for my Eagle project and organized it,” he says. “Learning to be a leader is a big part of Scouting and Church. Learning to be a leader now prepares you to be a leader in your Church callings later. That’s why we do it.” Brandon and his fellow quorum members were leaders on the field, acting as referees of the games and ensuring the safety and enjoyment of the participants.
So now that he has finished his Eagle project, what’s next?
“I’ve finished my Duty to God requirements as a deacon,” Brandon says. “But I’m now a teacher, so I’ve started working on my Duty to God requirements as a teacher.”

“Before the big dam was built near Hyrum, there was an open place called ‘the holler.’ That’s where my Grandfather Wilson had his pastures. One of the grandchildren’s duties was to take the cows down to pasture every morning. Nearby was a stream where we fished and swam. The ‘holler’ was located between Hyrum and the town of Paradise. The holler was truly a paradise for us kids. We’d get together there with our cousins and swim, fish, hunt, and play all day long. Toward evening we would get the cows and lead them back home to be milked.”

When I was younger, my dad was bishop for six years. Almost every Sunday I would sit with him just because I loved him. Three years ago my dad died. I am still sad, but it isn’t as hard as it used to be. I believe that my family can live together in heaven. Thank you, everybody who has helped me. I love you. I love the Friend magazine too. It is my favorite thing to read.Rebecca Rose H., age 11Arizona

When I was a year old, I had a serious infection that scarred my right lung for life. We lived in Missouri at the time, in the Nauvoo Stake. It was a nice place to live, but it was too damp for my lungs. My mother said that I coughed all day and all night. So we moved to Arizona, and I don’t cough all day and all night anymore.
In spite of Arizona’s dry climate, sometimes I have ended up in the hospital with pneumonia, because of my scarred lung. I am grateful for hospitals, which have saved my life, but they are not my favorite places to visit. I don’t like the IVs, and the food doesn’t taste like my mom’s cooking. I really miss my family when I am there. Some nights can get really lonely. But I do like watching kids’ movies there that I haven’t seen before. It’s even fun to be pushed around in a wheelchair. However it’s still really sad to not be in my own home.
One night, I heard a tinkling of music in the hallway. It sounded like an ice-cream truck. Soon a happy-looking man wearing a rainbow helicopter hat was standing at my door. He was pushing a cart full of tiny stuffed animals. On top of the cart was a music box. He smiled at me and asked how I felt. He even made me laugh. He told me I could have any of the stuffed animals I wanted! I chose a bright, yellow bear. I was so happy! I even forgot that I was feeling sad.
He made me forget my sadness. He truly was following Jesus’ example, helping those of us who were sick and lonely. I know that he will be blessed forever and that all the happiness that he has given away will come back to him tenfold.

It was about 4:00 P.M. on a cheerless February day in 1977, and I was sitting in my office at the university, preparing for a night class, when the phone rang.
“Dad?” the voice came. “Mom said to call and tell you she’s taking John to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” I asked. “What for?”
It was Kathryn, and she sounded rather nervous. “Well … see … I was coming home in the wagon, and he wanted me to give him a ride on the fender.”
“Oh no,” I groaned. “How many times have I warned you guys about—”
“But it was only about half a block,” she said, “and I was going really slow. He didn’t even get hurt until I stopped, and I told him I didn’t want him to get on in the first—”
“Okay, never mind. Just tell me what happened. How bad is it?”
“Not very bad. I mean, I don’t think so. He just sort of jumped off, and then fell over backward and hit his head.”
My anxiety had suddenly mounted. “Well, what’s his condition? Is he really hurt? Is he in a lot of pain, or what?”
“No,” she replied, “he’s just been acting kind of funny. He can’t remember things, and the fingers on his left hand keep curling in like he’s trying to scratch something.”
Moments later I had phoned the hospital emergency room and was talking to my wife, Sharon. “He’s not in much pain,” she informed me, “and his memory’s pretty well returned. They just want to keep him under observation for a while and maybe take some X rays to make sure his skull isn’t fractured.”
“All right,” I replied and felt better. “I have to prepare for my night class, but call me if he gets any worse; I’ll be right over.”
Darkness had settled in a faint wintry drizzle, and I was halfway through a three-hour class session when my son Tony, a member of the janitorial crew, appeared in the doorway. Just behind him was our good friend and neighbor Dr. Evan Memmott, head of the college audio-visual department. Both of them appeared very solemn. I will never forget, in fact, the expression of tragedy on Evan’s rugged, empathic countenance. He seemed to be on the verge of tears, and in that instant I concluded that my son had died.
What occurred during the next few minutes is blurry; I was standing there in the hall, looking into their eyes, hearing the urgent agony of my own voice as though it were spoken by someone else. “What is it? What’s happened?” My thoughts mingled in relief and anxiety over the reply. Johnny was alive, but he had taken a distinct turn for the worse and was having convulsions.
He was sitting on the edge of a hospital bed as we arrived, and was surrounded by his mother; Dr. Grant Way, our pediatrician; and two or three nurses. Johnny’s face was sallow, tinged with grayish green, his hair was in a rooster tail, and he looked terribly frail and vulnerable. They were holding a crescent-shaped pan under his chin, and there was blood in it. My stomach clenched.
“Johnny,” I said quietly and placed my hand on his shoulder with great care. “You okay, pal?”
He actually smiled a little, spit futilely into the pan, and someone wiped his lips with a tissue. “Not too hot,” he managed. “I’d better lie back down.” Pretty courageous, I thought, especially for a kid of 13.
“All right.” I helped lower him to the pillow. “Want us to administer to you?”
He closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth. “Yeah … I guess … only don’t press too hard.” I glanced at Evan, and we laughed a little. No, we’d try not to be heavy-handed about it.
Later, conferring with Dr. Way in the hall, I learned that John had landed on the back of his head but had sustained a fracture on top, right down the middle, and that he might be suffering from subcranial bleeding, perhaps even a blood clot. Dr. Way glanced toward the bed and its occupant. “Looking better now, though, isn’t he?” I nodded a bit dubiously, still offering silent prayers in hopes of building up some kind of reservoir.
They kept him there for the next 48 hours, but despite the excellent care, his mother stayed on hand during the days, his father during the nights. At 6:00 A.M. on the morning of his scheduled departure, having made “steady improvement,” he suddenly developed intense pains. “My head’s killing me,” he moaned. “It feels like somebody’s cut a cross right down the middle of it.”
The nurses had been making their rounds every 30 minutes at first, now every hour, observing him carefully, shining a light in his eyes to see if the pupils were properly dilated, but I didn’t wait. His description of the pain greatly disturbed me, and even as I left the room, he was tossing about, clasping his head and moaning. I returned moments later, having received approval to give him another mild painkiller. A nurse would be there soon.
Soon, however, was too long. John made no response as I entered the room. “Johnny!” I said, “are you all right?” I bent over him, frowning, clasping his shoulder. “John? Can you hear me?” But his eyes were glazed, losing their color, and a tiny bubble was forming between his lips. He was turning gray again—receding, shriveling before my eyes. Dying! Absolutely incredible … absolutely true. Johnny!
I bolted for the door. “Get the doctor in residence, quick!” I shouted. “He’s in a coma, and he’s fading fast!” A young nurse swished into the room—checked his pulse, his eyes, did other things (I don’t know what), and left, crying. Crying! Undoubtedly she had been trained not to display such emotion, but sometimes emotions take precedence regardless of the circumstances.
I’m not certain of the following sequence, but a call was placed immediately to Dr. Way, and I phoned Sharon moments later. She took the news with what can only be described as beautiful fortitude and asked one question: “Is there someone there who can help you administer to him?”
“I’ll find somebody,” I replied, asking her to phone family and friends and request their prayers.
I have never known doctors to arrive with such speed. Within the first two or three minutes a young intern, Ed Parker—a bearer of the priesthood—appeared, and somehow, before we even had time to perform the administration, Dr. Way was there as well. I don’t recall what l said during that blessing, but I do know that I made some strong, unqualified commitments to the Father of our spirits if only he would spare my son, his son. I do know that despite my failings, I have been a better man since. I do know that almost immediately after our administration, the light returned to John’s eyes, that he emerged from the depths of his coma, speaking a little, communicating all that was required to neurosurgeon J. H. Hauser, who had also arrived with remarkable swiftness.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Hauser explained that a large hematoma (blood clot) was exerting pressure on John’s brain and that it might still be growing. “We have two options,” he said. “One is to use drugs. That may help eliminate the clot, but we can’t really be certain of their effectiveness or the speed with which they will act. The other is to bore some holes in his head and remove the clot directly.”
“Please do exactly what you would do if he were your own son,” I said, and moments later Johnny was on his way to the operating room for surgery that was to last almost two hours.
“We’ll do our best,” they had said. That was all—no promises.
By now we had formed quite a congregation—his mother, Grandfather Allred (who spontaneously offered perhaps the simplest, most fervent and beautiful prayer I have ever heard), various medical personnel, several of our own children, and our neighbors the Memmotts—true Good Samaritans. We sat there together in the main waiting room, conversing quietly, and young Mike Memmott, one of John’s best buddies, was blinking back tears. That fall in the road three days earlier had momentarily knocked John unconscious and left his head bleeding rather profusely. Bending over him in great anxiety, Mike had called John’s name, then actually picked him up and carried him into our home.
During the half hour that followed, we phoned our oldest son, Mark, then at the Language Training Mission in Provo in preparation for his departure to Hamburg, Germany. We also phoned the Ogden Temple to place John’s name on the prayer roll and learned that someone else had done the same thing at the Salt Lake Temple. Shortly thereafter we received a call from the receptionist at the LTM in Provo. “President Pinegar took the liberty of placing your son’s name on the rolls at the temple here,” she said. “We hope you don’t mind.” Hoped we didn’t mind!
Such an incredible interplay of feelings! Such a sense of spirituality, of belonging, of family—not only our immediate kin, but all those others, virtually everyone we talked to, in fact! Friends of our daughters were now on hand also, and various acquaintances passing through the hospital had stopped to visit with us, offering words of concern and consolation. It seemed as though everyone knew our young son personally and truly loved him.
And yet, despite all those things—love, comfort, faith, buoyant warmth—there was the lingering odor of fear, pervasive as the smell of antiseptic, the kind that seems to shrivel one’s innards a little. At one point I encountered a doctor friend on the elevator and explained briefly our son’s condition. “That’s too bad,” he said. “Same thing happened to the Jones boy last week, very same accident. He never made it through the operation.”
Somehow that observation didn’t add much to my spirit, nor had our son Mark’s earlier response to our phone call. “I always thought John was too good for us to keep him very long,” he had said. Pacing the hall outside the operating room, I glanced at the forbidding green doors marked “Surgery—Unauthorized Personnel Not Permitted” and reflected upon that other boy, the one who hadn’t made it. I had met his father, and I knew in part his family’s grief, for at one point I had supposed that my own son was dead. At another, I had literally seen the life fade, and who really knew the outcome even now? No assurance of anything, only those final words: “We’ll do our best.”
Leaning against the tiled wall with one hand, I rested my head on my outstretched arm. “Father in Heaven,” I asked, “why did that other son have to die? Why all the pain and sorrow for his loved ones?” I knew full well, of course, that answers are rarely given to such questions. “Is it right,” I inquired, “for me to ask that my own son be spared under the circumstances?” I remembered the blessing, my commitment to rededicate my life if only John could be spared. But who am I, the thought came, to be setting up conditions for the Lord? I should be constantly striving to live a better life regardless of the circumstances.
There was no one in the hall. I closed my eyes and continued. “Father,” I said, “I have no right to bargain or to establish terms. Thy will be done in all things.” Pausing, I struggled for some small particle of wisdom. “On the other hand, if we’re allowed to keep him, well, I can guarantee you this: it will certainly be great motivation.”
The surgery was pronounced a success, and I remember walking with my arm around Sharon out into the sunlit parking lot of that winter morning; we were trying to reassemble ourselves emotionally, breathing deeply the air of mortality, offering our thanks. The morning was very pure and bright, almost transparent.
I remember the night that followed—Johnny in the intensive care unit, head furled in white wrappings like a swami, taking intravenous fluid, moaning occasionally, causing my heart to fibrillate slightly each time it happened. The following afternoon, having improved rapidly, he was returned to the pediatrics ward.
I remained in the hospital each night, Sharon taking the days so that I could continue my classes at the college nearby. And Johnny rapidly grew better, startling everyone—doctors included—with the rate of his recovery. Periodically, however, there were the low points—the time, for example, I was lying with a blanket and pillow on the floor of his private room, and awoke to hear him crying. He was standing in the bathroom and didn’t quite know where he was. “What’s the matter, son?” I called.
“I don’t know,” he lamented, “I don’t know!” Guidid, I hoisted him into it.
“Having pain?” I asked. “Need me to call the nurse?”
“No,” he sighed and turned his head away from me for a moment. “It’s just that I’m still getting headaches, and I keep thinking about those holes and not havin’ no hair or nothin’.” He knew it was atrocious grammar, but he didn’t care and neither did I. “It’s just that … well, for a minute, I didn’t know where you were, and I couldn’t handle it.”
I paused, and then laid my hand on his brow with utmost care. “I understand, buddy. Just let your old dad handle it for you, okay? Everything’s going to be all right, just great, in fact, and we’ll have you home before you know it. Your hair will grow back in no time.”
He had turned to face me now, and I could see his eyes, big and brown with luminous depths in his pale face, almost like a painting by Keane. “Not like yours,” he smiled. All my own hair had deserted me in one great apostasy a few years earlier.
“No,” I grinned. “Mine will have to await the resurrection. But then, man, watch out because you know what I’ll be sporting?”
“What?”
“An Afro the size of a tumbleweed!”
“Hey, all right!” He began to laugh, but it hurt his head.
He looked thoughtful, frowned a little, but it was a pleasurable frown somehow. “I can’t exactly remember,” he said slowly, “but, well, I sort of do in a way, like I can still feel it.”
“Yeah,” I said, “we can really feel some of these things, can’t we?”
“Yeah,” he said.
My hand was on his wrist now, and I could feel the life there, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing, all very steadily. Yes, strong and steady now, and it looked as if we were going to keep him. It looked as if he would go on to become a doctor as he had planned, perhaps even a surgeon. It appeared that he would realize some special calling here on earth, for there had always been a special spirit about him, and at times he seemed to move along in something like a state of grace.
“John the beloved,” I said.
He peered at me inquisitively, not really comprehending.
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I replied. “Just rest now. Try to get some sleep.” It was the secret name I had given him that night long ago, the one reserved for very special occasions.

In a worldwide leadership training meeting, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland told this story: “For many years, I have loved the story that President Packer has told about William E. Berrett’s boyhood Sunday School teacher. An elderly Danish brother was called to teach a class of rowdy boys. … He didn’t speak the language very well; he still had a heavy Danish brogue; he was much older, with big farm hands. Yet he was to teach these young, rambunctious 15-year-olds. For all intents and purposes, it would not have seemed like a very good match. But Brother Berrett used to say—and this is the part President Packer quotes—that this man somehow taught them; that across all those barriers, across all those limitations, this man reached into the hearts of those rowdy 15-year-old kids and changed their lives. And Brother Berrett’s testimony was ‘We could have warmed our hands by the fire of his faith.’”

My husband and I were living in on-campus housing at the Texas State Technical Institute when our two oldest children were four and two. It was our first experience in Texas hill country, and I loved it! Every spring, central Texas is awash with flowers. In gardens, woods, vacant fields, on roadsides, everywhere I looked there were more blossoms to see.
I took my children on stroller rides nearly every day. We’d find new places to explore, and I let the children pick as many wildflowers as they wanted. We’d finish our ride through a neighborhood where most of the houses had beautifully maintained flower gardens.
One day we came around a corner to discover a large mass of papers spread across one of the flower gardens. The wind quickly scattered the paper all over the yard. I decided to tidy up the litter before it spread further. I grabbed handfuls of pages and stuffed them in my diaper bag.
As I looked down, I realized I was holding pornography. Appalled, I asked my children to stay in the stroller as I snatched up the rest of the pages. I became upset as I saw glimpses of things I never wanted to see. In my heart, I began complaining, “Why didn’t God warn me to go another way home?”
Then I heard the unmistakable huff of school bus brakes. About a dozen kids got off the bus. They all moved past the yard that had been filled with pornography only moments before.
In that moment, my whole perspective changed. I now knew why I hadn’t been warned to go another way. I was grateful I was there to pick up those pages so those children could be spared seeing those damaging images. As I made my way back home, I thought, “What if the school bus had come later? What if I had never found out why I had that experience? How long would I have been upset with God?”

I became a member of the Church in 1997 through my elder brother, Francis Marveh, who received the gospel in Freetown through his friend. Through the callings I have had, I was motivated to serve a full-time mission. Though I thought it was to be a place of laxity and comfort, I realized it was entirely the opposite. I had a lot to learn and to experience, and I clearly understood what it was. I served diligently as a senior companion, trainer, district leader, and a zone leader. I am grateful to be a returned missionary, still serving in the Church as a leader in my ward. I am married and sealed to my beautiful and supportive wife, Isatu Fatima Marveh, and we are truly blessed. I know that perseverance strengthens our weaknesses if only we rely on our Saviour and Redeemer of the world, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen. —Josephus Salia Marveh, Njagboima Ward, Bo-Sierra Leone West Stake

I now would like to share another experience. In January of 2019, my wife, Debbie, and I were invited into the office of President Nelson. He had positioned a chair close to us, and we sat almost knee to knee. After extending to us our current calling, President Nelson turned to Debbie and focused on her. He was kind, loving, gentle, and full of joy, like the perfect father or grandfather. He held Debbie’s hand and patted it, reassuring her that it would be OK and that our family would be blessed. It seemed to us at that moment that we were the most important people to him and that he had all the time in the world for us. We left his office that Friday afternoon feeling reassured, loved, and joyful.

On Monday we saw the news. During that same day that President Nelson had spent with us, one of his daughters had passed away from cancer. We were stunned. Our hearts were full as we mourned for him and his family. Our hearts were also full of gratitude for his Christlike attention to us while mourning for his daughter who was suffering.

As we pondered this experience, we asked ourselves, “How could he be so kind, loving, and even joyful at such a difficult time?” The answer is because he knows. He knows that Christ has been victorious. He knows he will be with his daughter again and will spend an eternity with her. Joy and eternal perspective come through being bound to the Savior by making and keeping covenants and through Christlike discipleship.

When I was about six years old, I had an adventure I’ll never forget. Mom and Dad decided to raise chickens and sell the eggs to earn money. Every day Mom or Dad would take me to the chicken coop to gather eggs. One day Mom needed my help.
“Bobby, I need two eggs for a cake I’m making,” Mom said. “I know we already gathered the eggs today, but do you think you could go and find two more for me?”
“I will, Mom,” I said. “I’ll find those eggs for you.”
This was the first time I had searched for eggs by myself. It made me feel important. Off I went to begin my search. I went inside the chicken coop, first looking in all the corners because that’s where Dad usually found eggs. But there weren’t any. I peered into a nesting box—there was an egg! I was reaching for it when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a rooster enter the chicken coop. My throat went dry. In my excitement to gather eggs, I had forgotten about the roosters.
We had big white roosters that didn’t like people. They would chase us and peck us with their sharp beaks. Usually Dad or Mom was with me and would chase them away. But now no one was there to help me.
“Stay there, rooster. Just stay there,” I muttered under my breath as I backed toward the door, keeping my eyes on the rooster. I carefully moved past the rooster until I got to the doorway. The rooster’s bright eyes watched me, but I thought I could get away by backing out and running to the house.
I turned, and outside I saw two other roosters facing me. I was surrounded! If I went back in, the two would follow me. If I tried to run, they would all chase and attack me. I didn’t know what to do. Tears filled my eyes. No one was around to help me—except Heavenly Father.
Mom always said if I needed help, I should kneel and pray and Heavenly Father would be there. Even though the roosters were surrounding me, even though they were coming closer, I dropped to my knees. Trembling, I began to pray.
“Heavenly Father, please help me get away from these roosters. Don’t let them peck me. Please make the roosters go away.”
I ended my prayer, wiped my tears, and slowly got to my feet. As soon as I stood up, a sound came from my mouth: “Putt putt putt … putt putt putt,” like the sound a tractor makes. It surprised me. The roosters stopped, looked startled, and suddenly turned their tails toward me and ran away.
I hadn’t thought to make the sound myself. I knew the Holy Ghost had put the idea into my mind. Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. I was safe. I quickly gathered two eggs and then hurried to the house to tell Mom what had happened. She was proud of me for remembering to pray when I needed help.
I was happy that I could help Mom with an important job, and I was even happier to know that Heavenly Father is always near and will always hear and answer our prayers.

The Lord also helped me to push myself and grow when I was encouraged to attend a three-year program at the Cambodian School of Prosthetics and Orthotics (CSPO). I was unsure I could join the program because no one in a wheelchair had ever applied. However, circumstances ultimately allowed me to be able to attend the CSPO in Cambodia. I graduated there as the first student with a disability in the program’s history.

Clara McMaster was the eleventh child in her family, and she learned to love music at an early age. She sang and accompanied others on the piano as she grew up in Brigham City, Utah. For twenty-two years she was a member of the Tabernacle Choir. Today she and her husband sing together for numerous church occasions. “Music is a rich gift of God, and it is in the world to make the lives of His children happier and better,” Sister McMaster says.
While serving on the Primary General Board, Sister McMaster was asked to write a song for the first reverence program. She worked hard and prayed that she would be prompted to write what would be best for the children. One day as she was looking out the window and pondering her assignment, an idea came to her. She went to the piano and quickly wrote it down. The new song was “Reverently, Quietly.” “I felt very humble, she said. “If you prepare and do all that you can do, then Heavenly Father will help you.”
Sister McMaster has written other Primary favorites such as “My Heavenly Father Loves Me” and “Teach Me to Walk in the Light of His Love.”

It was the worst electrical storm in 50 years, knocking out electricity and communications over a 200-mile region overnight.
Fifteen-year-old Shane had spent the evening huddled with his family around the fireplace, enjoying the warmth and light it gave. But at ten o’clock his parents suggested everyone go to bed, and so Shane took a flashlight and padded barefoot up the stairs to his bedroom, which had been converted from an attic several years ago.
He had just gotten into bed and turned out the flashlight when the door opened and someone else stepped into the room. At first Shane thought it was one of his parents coming to check on him, but the visitor didn’t say anything, just sat down on the other side of the bed.
Shane thought that it might be a burglar, and because he was afraid of being shot, he kept quiet.
The visitor, in pajamas, removed a wristwatch and then got in under the covers on the other side of the bed from where Shane was.
Shane jumped out of bed, grabbed his flashlight and a bat, and prepared himself for a fight.
The visitor likewise jumped out of bed and went into a karate stance. From the light of the flashlight, Shane saw that he appeared to be in his late twenties. There was something strangely familiar about the man’s face.
“What are you doing here?” the visitor asked.
“Look, this is my bedroom. What are you doing here?”
“You must be mistaken. This is my bedroom.”
“Look, all the houses on this block look alike. You must be in the wrong one.”
“4216 Cedar Street,” the visitor said.
Shane was puzzled. That was his address too.
“What’s your name?” the visitor asked.
“Shane Logan.”
“Don’t play games with me,” the stranger said.
“What do you mean?” Shane asked.
“I’m Shane Logan,” the stranger said.
“You can’t be,” Shane said.
“Why can’t I?”
“Because there’s only one Shane Logan that lives at 4216 Cedar Street.”
“I don’t live here now. I just came to visit for the night. My business brings me out here a few times a year. I always stay the night so I can visit with my parents.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Shane said.
“I can’t see your face very well,” the stranger said. “Shine the flashlight on your face.”
Shane did as the man asked.
“I can’t believe it,” the visitor said.
“You can’t believe what?”
“Your face.”
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
“What year is it?”
“1988,” Shane said.
“You need counseling,” the visitor said.
“Why?”
“Because actually the year is 2003.”
“Look at the calendar on the wall if you don’t believe me,” Shane said. He pointed the flashlight at the calendar on the bulletin board.
“I think we have a problem here,” the visitor said. “The electrical storm must have caused some kind of a time warp. We’re the same person from two different times. You’re me at 15, and I’m you at 30.”
Shane paused. “This is a joke, right?”
“Afraid not.”
“Look, I don’t care who you are. You can’t spend the night here.”
“I’m afraid I have to.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m supposed to be here overnight. If and when the time warp ever reverts back, we both have to be in this room, or else we might miss it and one of us be trapped in the wrong time.”
Shane pulled up a chair from his desk and gave it to the stranger.
“Are you married?” Shane asked, sitting on his bed.
“Yes.”
“What’s your wife’s name?”
The visitor paused. “I don’t think I’ll tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t know who my wife was going to be, and since you’re me, I don’t think you should either. Does that make sense?”
“Is her first name Tara?”
“No.”
“Is her first name Melissa?”
“Look, let’s change the subject, okay? You’re on your own about who you marry. That’s the way it should be.”
“Okay, but what can you tell me about myself that might help?”
The visitor paused. “Obey your parents. Stay active in the Church. Live the Word of Wisdom. Go on a mission. Keep yourself morally clean.”
“You sound like my dad.”
“Well, maybe that’s because I am a dad.”
“You are? I mean I am? I mean I will be? What’s it like? How many kids do we have?”
“One, and one on the way.”
“Is our wife a knockout?”
“Let’s see, a knockout. It’s been a while since I heard that word. That means beautiful, right?”
“Right.”
“Then she’s a knockout.”
“How do we do next year in geometry?”
“Well, if we work hard, and get some help, we do okay.”
“But Mr. Adelstein is a tough grader.”
“I know, but he’s fair.”
“What about girls?” Shane asked.
“What about ’em?”
“Melissa Stewart, what about her? Does she ever get to like me?”
The visitor smiled. “Forget Melissa Stewart.”
Shane frowned. “Rats. What else can you tell me?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Am I going to turn out okay?”
The visitor smiled. “I think so, but of course I’m probably prejudiced.”
“Anything I should watch out for?” Shane asked.
“Drugs and alcohol.”
“Did you stay away from those things?”
“Yes, but last year I was talking to a friend of mine, a psychologist. He told me I had all the personality characteristics of someone who could become an alcoholic. He told me it was a good thing I’d never started drinking. So don’t you start either or else I might not be around at 30.”
“Did we go on a mission?”
“Let me just say, I’d strongly recommend it.”
“What kind of a job do you have?”
The visitor paused. “Actually it wouldn’t do any good to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because the work you’ll end up doing when you’re my age hasn’t even been invented yet.”
“So what do I do to prepare for it?”
“Get as good an education as you can.”
Suddenly there was a knock on the door.
“Hide,” Shane said.
The visitor got under the bed.
Shane opened the door. His mother was standing there holding a candle in her hand.
“I heard talking coming from your room.”
“I was just talking to myself,” Shane said with a strange grin, and then he burst out laughing uncontrollably.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, Mom, really,” he said, still laughing.
“Well, get to bed and get some sleep.”
“I will, Mom. Good night.”
“Good night, dear.”
He shut the door.
Suddenly the lights in the house went on.
“You can come out of there now,” Shane said. “I’ve got a lot more questions. When I go before the Eagle Scout review board next week, can you remember any of the questions they’ll ask me?”
No answer.
Shane looked under the bed. The visitor was gone.
“Where are you? Look, don’t go away. There are so many things I want to know about my life. When will my parents let me get a driver’s license?”
Another knock on the door. “Come in,” Shane said.
His mother opened the door.
Shane was on his knees looking under the bed. All he saw was an old banana peel and some dust.
“What are you doing?” his mother asked.
“I’m looking for something.”
“Shane, quit this foolishness and get to bed.”
“All right.” He paused. “Mom?”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter about Melissa Stewart.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m glad you finally came to your senses. Good night.”
His mother left.
The visitor never returned.
Actually that isn’t quite true, because in time Shane became the visitor.
As we all do.