Gospel Story Finder

President George Albert Smith taught a very important lesson on the disposition of tithes. He told of inviting a boyhood friend, whom he had not seen for some time, to accompany him to a stake conference. This friend had achieved success in the financial world. As they were driving home from the conference, he told President Smith about his method of paying tithing. He said that if he made ten thousand dollars, he would put one thousand dollars in the bank for tithing. Then, he said, when someone needed money for a worthwhile cause, he would write them a check. “Little by little I exhaust the thousand dollars,” he said, “and every dollar of it has gone where I know it has done good.” Then he asked President Smith what he thought of that plan.

President Smith replied: “I think you are a very generous man with someone else’s property. You have not paid any tithing. You have told me what you have done with the Lord’s money, but you have not told me that you have given anyone a penny of your own. He is the best partner you have in the world. He gives you everything you have, even the air you breathe. He has said you should take one-tenth of what comes to you and give it to the Church as directed by the Lord. You haven’t done that; you have taken your best partner’s money, and have given it away.”

About a month later, the two men met on the street, and President Smith was happy to learn that his friend was paying his tithing as the Lord has directed. (See Improvement Era, June 1947, p. 357.)

Now to more serious matters. When I was a young boy, 13 years old, I was about to enter junior high school in Grand Junction, Colorado. I am the oldest of five boys and thus felt some pressure to accomplish great things and be a good example for my four younger brothers. I expected that junior high would be difficult. I wouldn’t know all the kids, since in junior high we came from several different elementary schools. The thought of going from classroom to classroom made me wonder if I would get lost and look like a fool. I wondered: What if some of the teachers are mean? And I was most worried about how skinny I was at the time and about my new crop of pimples. (When you think about it, how does anyone survive junior high school?)
Most of all I worried that I would not compete well academically with the other students, as being a scholar was my goal. So I was a bundle of nerves that summer of 1962.
Fortunately I was blessed with a great mom who always seemed to be able to calm me down. Let me show you a photo of me making homemade fudge with my mother in 1953. The Salt Lake Tribune took the picture and published my mom’s great no-cook fudge recipe. This is where I got my sweet tooth! As I was worrying about starting junior high, my mom calmed me down with one of the wisest, most caring, and rational statements a mom could make to her worrywart son.
She said, “Jeff, we don’t care what your grades are. All we expect is that you do your best. If you do your best, we will be proud of you regardless of your grades.”
With that statement my anxiety was cut in half, and I started looking forward to junior high. After all, I could not control my final GPA, but I could control how hard I tried. I couldn’t control my intelligence, which was average—okay, maybe a little above average—how mean the teachers would be, how smart the other students would be, or even my final grade in any particular class. But control my levels of dedication and effort? I could do that!
Mom taught me the value of setting realistic expectations in life that day. She taught me that process or effort is more important and manageable than the final outcome. So for over a half century of living I have used her wise counsel in my life to accomplish much, get over my failures, keep perspective in all I do, and not beat myself up when I don’t succeed the first time.

Those who know him best—his wife and four children—agree that one of Enzio Busche’s most extraordinary achievements is his sensitivity as a husband and father. “What the missionaries brought us,” says Sister Busche, “has totally changed our lives. It has really been a blessing for us, for our marriage and our family.”

Sister Busche says that her husband has an unusual ability to respond to people, especially to his children. “The most important thing is that he has a good feeling for people—that he can love them and understand them and help them.” She tells of a time when one son faced the difficult choice of marriage or a mission. The Busches were in the mission home in Munich at the time, and their son and his girlfriend came to visit them. Elder Busche told his son, “We love you, and you are totally free. If you feel you should marry, we will still love you. But before you decide, go in your room and ask Heavenly Father.” The son came from his room with tears in his eyes and the commitment that he would go on a mission.

Elder Busche explains that he and his wife had seen that the traditional way of raising children in Germany caused a tremendous rift between generations. “We did not want to have children who mocked their parents, who obeyed just because their parents fed them. We did not want to force our children to go to church and have them rebel against us.”

Elder Busche feels it was the Spirit that taught them to regard their children, from their earliest years, as equals. Even when the children were three or four years old, the Busches tried to respect their opinions. “We were surprised and touched by how much we could learn from them,” says Elder Busche. “When children are raised in an unintimidating environment, they are so pure and innocent, so loving and sensitive that it is embarrassing to adults.”

Daughter Maja (Mrs. Paul Wensel) remembers that her father’s approach to discipline was always to reason with her, never to threaten. He would often say, “Jesus would do something different.”

“Once when I broke a window, he came out and calmly said, ‘You’ve done something wrong, and you need to do something so that you can understand that you can’t do this.’ Then he asked what kind of penalty I thought would be fair. As a result, I never felt rebellious.” In fact, the Busches found that the children would usually assign themselves stricter penalties than their parents would have.

The youngest son, Daniel, who returned last year from a mission in Argentina, describes his father as a loving teacher. “One night we had won a baseball game, and I didn’t get home until two in the morning. As I drove up and saw Dad waiting for me outside, I was really scared. I was thinking up all kinds of excuses. But instead of accusing me, he said, ‘I’m glad you’re home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’ I knew I had done wrong, but I also knew that he was concerned about me and wanted to help me.”

The children in Ryan’s new neighborhood were from all over the world: Australia, Canada, Egypt, England, India, Kuwait, Mexico, Saudi Arabia, Scotland, the United States, and Vietnam.
Ryan had been amazed to meet people from so many places, but he noticed that sometimes children in the park played only with other children who spoke the same language. Ryan couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t want to play together, no matter where they were from or what language they spoke. Sometimes children from one country would be mean to children from another country. That made Ryan sad.
Ryan wondered what he could do, but it was hard to think of anything. He couldn’t just tell everyone to be friends—because they spoke so many different languages, they wouldn’t understand.
One day Ryan’s family took a walk down the street. Some of the boys who had been mean were outside. One of them was holding a soccer ball. Ryan liked to play soccer too. Getting up his courage, Ryan walked over to the boys. He knew a few words of their language, and they knew a little of his. Ryan and the boys started smiling and laughing as they tried out the different languages. Then Ryan pointed to the soccer ball. “Do you want to play soccer with me?” he asked slowly, hoping they would understand. He smiled extra big.
The boys looked at him, then at each other. They talked for a minute, but Ryan couldn’t understand the words. Then they looked back at Ryan and nodded. Ryan grinned, and they ran to the nearby park. Ryan waved to his friends who spoke English, and a little shyly they walked over. One boy set down the soccer ball, and the game began.
A while later Ryan took a quick break to run home for a drink of water.
“How’s it going out there?” Mom asked.
“Great!” Ryan said. “It’s like this, Mom. We’re all shoes!”
“Shoes?” Mom asked.
“Sure. We’re all different, but we all wear two shoes—and that’s all you need for soccer.”
“Good discovery,” Mom said. “You’re all children of Heavenly Father, and you’re more alike than you think.”
Ryan waved as he ran back out the door to play with his new friends.
After that day the children in the neighborhood went to the park every Thursday to play soccer together. It didn’t matter what languages they spoke or where they were from—they were all shoes, and that was enough.

I want to thank each of you—the translators and all those who help publish the Liahona. It is because of you that I have the blessing of holding the words of our prophets and the General Authorities in my hands.
I was baptized as a child but was lost to the Church for a long time. When I heard Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles (in October 2004 general conference), he helped me believe that the Savior made it possible for me to be redeemed from my sins. I have experienced that change of heart spoken of by Alma, and my joy is complete.Araceli Arroyo Romero, Mexico

When President George Albert Smith was young, his deceased grandfather George A. Smith appeared to him in a dream and asked, “I would like to know what you have done with my name.” President Smith responded, “I have never done anything with your name of which you need be ashamed.”1
Each week as we partake of the sacrament, we covenant and promise that we are willing to take upon us the name of Christ, always remember Him, and keep His commandments. If we are willing to do so, we are promised that most wonderful blessing—that His Spirit will always be with us.2
Just as President George Albert Smith had to account to his grandfather for what he had done with his name, someday each one of us will have to account to our Savior, Jesus Christ, for what we have done with His name.
The importance of having a good name is spoken of in Proverbs, where we read: “A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favour rather than silver and gold”3 and “The [name] of the just is blessed.”4
As I pondered these scriptures and the importance of having a good name, a flood of memories came into my mind about the good name and legacy my parents left my four brothers, my two sisters, and me. My parents did not have the riches of the world, nor did they have silver or gold. Nine of us lived in a two-bedroom, one-bath home with an enclosed back porch, where my sisters slept. When my parents passed away, my brothers and sisters and I gathered to divide their earthly possessions, which were few in number. My mother left a few dresses, some used furniture, and a few other personal items. My father left some carpenter tools, some old hunting rifles, and little else. The only things of any monetary value were a modest home and a small savings account.
Together we wept openly, giving thanks, knowing they had left us something much more precious than silver or gold. They had given us their love and their time. They had often borne testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel, which we can now read in their precious journals. Not so much by words but more by their example, they had taught us to work hard, to be honest, and to pay a full tithing. They also engendered a desire to further our education, to serve a mission, and most important, to find an eternal companion, be married in the temple, and endure to the end. Truly they left us the legacy of a good name, for which we shall ever be grateful.

I grew up faithfully participating with my family in the Catholic Church. We attended church and church activities regularly, and we prayed as a family each evening at home. Throughout my boyhood, friends from church helped me make good choices.
When I was nine years old, I became an altar boy. Altar boys in the Catholic Church help the priest during the Sunday worship service, called Mass. My brothers and many of my friends served with me—a great honor for us. We lit candles at the altar, carefully unfolded the priest’s robes, and placed the scriptures next to the altar. During the service we helped pass the bread for Communion, similar to the sacrament.
To become altar boys, we memorized words of the Mass in Latin. We also participated in weekly religion classes. Each summer my friends and brothers and sisters and I attended Bible school about 20 miles (32 km) from our home. My parents were busy on our wheat farm during the summer. They could have used our help during those weeks, but they felt it was important that we have this opportunity to learn about God and be with good friends. The faith of the priests and nuns who were our teachers impressed me. I decided then that I would do what God wanted me to do.

It had been an exciting visit, the first one ever made to Samoa by an apostle. Long rowboats decorated with colorful garlands of vines and flowers had met the boat when David O. McKay and Hugh J. Cannon arrived. A Mormon band greeted the rowboats at the wharf and proudly escorted the visitors to a circle where all the chiefs of the island waited to welcome them with speeches and the kava drink ceremony. Then a great feast was enjoyed under a coconut leaf canopy, and many people brought their children and their sick ones to be blessed.

During the next week meetings had been held on the various islands, and now the last morning was to be spent with the children in their school at Sauniatu.

This was May 31, 1921—thirty years before David O. McKay became president of the Church—but he often referred to the day as one of the most memorable of his life. That night he wrote about it in his diary:

“As we came out of the school, we found the people standing in double column from our door out across the lawn to the street.

“Finally, the last little boy crowding around had pressed our hands, so with tear-bedimmed eyes, we walked slowly toward the stream beyond which our horses were waiting. The band on the porch played ‘Tofa, My Feleni’ and the people stood waving their farewell. Before we were ready to start, they gathered around us again, eager to have one more handshake.

“As we rode slowly away, the band leading, the people followed as if they just would not yield to parting. We had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead of them, when I felt impressed to say, ‘I think we should return and leave our blessing with them here in this beautiful grove.’

“As we approached the sobbing crowd, I could not help thrilling with the scene!

“Hanging my folded umbrella on an overhanging limb of a kopoc tree, I dismounted. The sobs of the people were louder than my voice when I began the prayer, but they became more subdued as I continued and their Amene was distinct and impressive at the close.

“Oh, I never will forget you, Samoa e le galo atu.”

Some who were present testified that as the inspired words of the blessing to the people were spoken, a halo of brightness rested upon Elder McKay, and although many in the group could not understand English, they knew what had been said before the Samoan translation was given.

The next year a monument to mark the spot of this event was dedicated on which was written:

“Apostle David O. McKay Stood Just Across the River

And Pronounced a Memorable Apostolic Blessing

Upon the Assembled Sauniatu Saints

A Fitting Climax to a Perfect Visit …”

Thomas (that is not his real name) was one who had lost his way. We became acquainted at a special fireside attended by members one doesn’t normally see on Sunday. He was then 35 years old and had not been active in the Church for some 20 years. The day before, Thomas’s father had invited him to attend the fireside. Thomas said, “I’ll think about it.” I quote now from a letter written by his father:
“Thirty minutes before the fireside, [Thomas] called and asked me to pick him up. I can’t explain the anticipation I felt as we walked into the room [to join] you and about 40 others. There was a special feeling and spirit there that touched [Tom’s] heart and he went home determined to read again the passages in the Book of Mormon that you had outlined.
“This led to a reading of the whole book and the beginning of his payment of tithing. He began to see his life in a different light. … He stopped using drugs and caffeine. He continued to read, not only the Book of Mormon, but also the Doctrine and Covenants. He started to attend sacrament meetings and … literally began to be a different person. In fact, we jokingly asked him, ‘What have you done with our son?’
“The great blessing to us was when he was interviewed by the bishop … to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. This has truly been an answer to prayers which have been offered in his behalf for almost 20 years” (personal letter, 1 Aug. 1997).

While we were living in California, one of our sons was seriously injured in an automobile accident. His skull was badly fractured, and doctors gave us very little encouragement that he would survive. Three days after he was admitted to the hospital, he contracted meningitis and his condition worsened. Our family doctor and neighbor came to our home and said, “All we can do now is pray.”

And pray we did. For several weeks our neighbors, friends, and business associates joined us in praying for our son and for our own strength. After almost a month, our son’s condition finally stabilized and then improved, and we were blessed to see him eventually recovered and smiling again.

I would not wish a similar experience on anyone, but that terrible, difficult period taught us the principle that President Thomas S. Monson has taught the Church. Said he, “Prayer is the passport to spiritual power.” During our son’s illness, we saw and felt the spiritual power of prayer! Our ward had never prayed harder than it did then, and I don’t think that the members had ever been closer to each other. Our family was sustained by the collective faith and prayers of our friends. And even as our hearts were breaking in fear that we might lose our son, we felt closer to Heavenly Father and more aware of our dependency on Him than at almost any other time in our lives.

And that’s where Zenaida Akimova comes in. An older woman in the neighborhood, Zenaida was a friend of Anna’s mother, Alla, and was quickly becoming a friend of the entire family (which also includes Anna’s father, Konstantin, and her brother, Aleksander, also known as Sasha). Zenaida knew they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but she wasn’t sure exactly what they meant by that.

“Keep learning more about it,” Anna invited, “and you’ll see what we mean.”

Zenaida thought about what she already knew. For example, this family treated each other well.

“They were always kind and courteous to each other,” she says. “But most of all they genuinely cared about each other.”

She knew—and had personally witnessed—how important the Church is in their lives. She knew about family history, since Alla had told her about the hundreds of names she has researched. She knew the Sterligovs went on trips to a sacred place called a temple. She knew about Konstantin’s commitment to service as president of the Moscow Russia East District.

Soon Zenaida was meeting with the missionaries, praying, coming to church. She was asking more and more questions, getting more and more answers. Thanks in part to Anna’s constant comments about the Book of Mormon, Zenaida longed to read and understand that holy scripture.

But there was a problem. Zenaida is legally blind. She can’t see well enough to read. She doesn’t know Braille, and even if she did, there is no Braille edition of the Book of Mormon in Russian.

So Anna and Alla developed a plan. Each evening they would read aloud and record several chapters from the Book of Mormon. The following morning, they would deliver the audiocassette to Zenaida. She was thrilled as she learned about Lehi, Nephi, and other prophets. Tape by tape, week by week, her testimony became firmer and clearer. Like the colorful pictures in Anna’s copy of the Book of Mormon, the stories came alive in Zenaida’s mind.

When Anna was busy, Alla recorded. When Alla was busy, Anna recorded. Sometimes Sasha or President Sterligov read into the tape recorder. But every day, verse by verse, chapter by chapter, the tapes were prepared.

“I wanted Sister Akimova to have the same experience with the Book of Mormon that I had,” Anna explains. “The first time the elders showed me the book, I knew it was true. I had no trouble believing it, no doubts. So it was easy for me to tell her how I felt about it and easy to record it for her, since I read it every night anyway.”

Now it is one week before Zenaida’s baptism. She has come to meet with the missionaries once again in the Sterligovs’ apartment. There is a feeling of happiness and hope in the air.

“I am ready to be baptized,” Zenaida says. “I am looking forward to the day. This family has been so great to me. I have my Book of Mormon tapes because of them, and I can listen whenever I want to. I have their example and their love, and with that, I’m ready to begin a new life. I may not be able to see clearly enough to read, but thanks to Anna and Sasha and President and Sister Sterligov, I am starting to see exactly what the gospel means.”

I used to hear the story, when I first came under President Harold B. Lee’s influence in the welfare program, about a man whom they could not get to work. He wanted to be taken care of. The Church or government, so he thought, owed him a living because he had paid his tithing and taxes. He did not have anything to eat and refused to labor to care for himself. Out of desperation and disgust they decided they might as well take him to the cemetery.

On the way, one man said, “We can’t do this. I have some corn I will give to him.”

So they explained this to the man, and he said, “Is it husked?”

They said, “No.”

He said, “Well, then, drive on.”

This would not be humorous if it were not so close to the truth. You cannot save a man who has such an attitude, and a nation made up of men and women with similar attitudes is vulnerable to the problems which led to the fall of Rome. The saddest day of a person’s life is when he sits down to work out a means whereby he can live thereafter without his own effort. One of the most demeaning things a government can do is to teach people that the government owes them a living.

Great Britain has the world’s most regal (elegant) letter boxes. The tall cylinders stand like palace guards, their scarlet tunics emblazoned with a golden crown and the insignia of the queen. One such letter box stands sentry on Cottam Lane in Preston, in front of Ingol County Primary School. From time to time a pretty eight-year-old girl approaches and reaches high to drop in a letter addressed to Masha Melnikova in Mogilev, Belarus. The sender is Lorna Wilson, a Latter-day Saint, and Masha’s true friend.
Lorna’s father, Christopher, is a software designer who spends much of his spare time working for a charity called Medicine and Chernobyl. This organization provides medical aid for the Belarusian victims of a nuclear disaster in the nearby Ukrainian city of Chernobyl. Each year the charity brings a group of Belarusian children for a month-long visit to England. These children live downwind from Chernobyl, and their resistance to disease has been impaired. A month in a healthy environment helps them rebuild their physical and emotional reserves. Masha was one of these children.
Masha arrived at the Wilson home speaking almost no English. Lorna spoke even less Russian. Still, they managed to communicate with gestures and occasional help from a Russian phrase book. Within a day, somehow, they were best friends. Although Masha had her own room the first night, the two girls’ friendship blossomed so quickly that from the second night on, they chose to share a room. Lorna’s parents had to go in each night and persuade them to turn out the lights. They’d be talking away, drawing, and dressing dolls. Neither learned much of the other’s language, but they understood each other very well. On the morning Masha left to return home, Lorna was so upset that she couldn’t go to school.
That was unusual, because Lorna likes school. A very good student, her favorite subjects are art and math. When her school formed a group called the Troubleshooters from among the most able students, Lorna was the youngest person chosen. The Troubleshooters go to local businesses and help them solve problems. Lorna’s group first went to the Preston office of the Royal Mail. They were given two problems to solve. One was that the staff wasn’t looking at the notice boards. The other was that a stray letter was occasionally left in the bottom of a supposedly empty mail sack. The Troubleshooters went to work and produced many good suggestions, several of which were adopted. In a small way, Lorna was helping to speed her letters from the letter box on Cottam Lane to her friend in Belarus!
“Lorna’s an inspiration to me,” her mother, Helen, says. “I really do try to follow her example. When I go to a parents’ evening at school, her teachers tell me, ‘What can I say? She’s just wonderful!’”
Lorna wants to be either a zookeeper or an artist when she grows up. Whatever she chooses, she will do it well. She likes to do art and sewing, especially cross-stitch, and she always tries to do them perfectly. She has been taking ballet for three years. She also is a Brownie and a skilled Maypole dancer.
The oldest of six children, Lorna sometimes feels frustrated when a little sister wrecks a project or pinches (takes) her crayons. Even so, she loves her little brothers and sisters and takes good care of them. Her mother says, “We’re lucky Lorna is the oldest, because she’s a good example to the others. She isn’t perfect, but she’s very trustworthy, and she helps the others with reading and things like that.” In return, the younger children look up to her. Adam (6) is a football player and a dreamer. He has adopted all the older ladies in the ward. Hannah (5) is a gifted artist with a keen eye for beauty. Abigail (4) has her daddy’s sense of humor and likes to tease people. Sara (2) is sunny and outgoing. Everybody at church wants to take her home with them. Joshua (1) just started walking. He is a charming, happy boy.
The Wilsons are a close-knit family who take drives in the countryside when their busy schedules allow. They also like to play games together. Sometimes for family home evening they play a Book of Mormon game Sister Wilson made. It stretches clear across the floor. For many years they invited an elderly neighbor to each of their family home evenings and adopted him as their granddad. After his death, they began to invite a handicapped man from their ward. “He’s a lovely man with a beautiful spirit,” Sister Wilson says, “but he can’t speak. He has to use a machine to communicate.” The children welcome guests with open arms. At Christmas they invite in anyone they know is going to be alone. The family also goes caroling to some of the elderly people who live nearby.
Seeing firsthand the sorrows of others has helped the Wilson children appreciate their own blessings. When the Belarusian children came, they had very little in the way of clothing, and what they had was threadbare. Their diet in Belarus had been poor too. “We learned not to waste food,” Lorna says, “because some people have hardly anything.”
The family tries to read the Book of Mormon at breakfast each day, although sometimes it’s a struggle. Lorna’s favorite person in the Book of Mormon is Jesus Christ.
Preston and the surrounding areas were the sites of some of the greatest missionary efforts in the history of the Church. In 1837 Elder Heber C. Kimball led a group of missionaries there to begin the work in Great Britain. The Wilsons have stood by the River Ribble, where the first baptisms in Britain took place. They have walked through Market Square, where the missionaries preached. They have visited many places where the Spirit was poured out upon their land. It’s no wonder that they do missionary work whenever they can. They once had the favor returned when a nonmember referred them to the missionaries! One day the sister missionaries knocked on a door around the corner from the Wilsons where some older ladies lived. The missionaries asked them if they were interested in learning about the Church, and they said no.
“Well, do you know anybody who might be?”
“There’s a lovely family around the corner,” one of the ladies answered. “They have lots of children. They’d be good Mormons.”
She was right, of course.

While in the wilderness Nephi, the son of Lehi, was permitted to see in vision the things that would transpire concerning the destiny of America—the promised land. He said, “And I looked and beheld a man among the Gentiles, who was separated from the seed of my brethren by the many waters; and I beheld the Spirit of God, that it came down and wrought upon the man; and he went forth upon the many waters, even unto the seed of my brethren, who were in the promised land.” (1 Ne. 13:12.)

This, as we know, refers to Christopher Columbus, who was impelled by the Spirit of God to cross the ocean for the rediscovery of America, thus assisting in the furthering of God’s purposes.

Columbus himself, in a letter to the Spanish hierarchy, wrote, “Our Lord unlocked my mind, sent me upon the sea, and gave me fire for the deed. Those who heard of my emprise called it foolish, mocked me, and laughed. But who can doubt but that the Holy Ghost inspired me?” (Quoted in Mark E. Petersen, The Great Prologue, Deseret Book Co., 1975, p. 26.)

During the voyage, after weeks of sailing with no sign of land, mutiny raised its head. Finally, Columbus promised the captains of the Pinta and the Niña, both of whom wanted to turn back, that if no land was sighted in forty-eight hours, they would turn back. Then he went to his cabin and, in his words, “prayed mightily to the Lord.” On October 12, the very next day, they sighted land.

One Sunday I noticed a little girl my age in sacrament meeting. She was new and seemed scared to go to Primary. I decided to ask her to come with me to Primary and be my friend. After church the little girl’s aunt told my parents that her niece was so happy to go to Primary with her new friend. I tried to be like Jesus by being a good friend and helping someone in need.
Reagan V., age 5, Colorado, USA

I close with a tender yet simple experience. Each time I would visit Mattie, a dear friend and an older widow whom I had known for many years and whose bishop I had been, my heart grieved at her utter loneliness. One of her sons lived many miles away, halfway across the country, but he rarely visited her. He would come to Salt Lake, take care of business matters, see his brothers and sisters, and leave for his own home without visiting his mother. When I would call to see this mother, she would make an excuse for her boy and tell me just how busy he was. Her words did not carry power or conviction. They simply masked her disappointment and grief.

The years passed. The loneliness deepened. Then one afternoon I received a telephone call. That special son was in Salt Lake City. A change had occurred in his life. He had become imbued with a desire to help others, to adhere more faithfully to God’s commandments. He was proud of his newfound ability to cast off the old man and become new and useful. He wanted to come immediately to my office that he might share with me the joy in service that he now felt. With all my heart I wanted to welcome him and to extend my personal congratulations. Then I thought of his grieving mother, that lonely widow, and suggested, “Dick, I can see you at four o’clock this afternoon, provided you visit your dear mother before coming here.” He agreed.

Just before our appointment, a call came to me. It was that same mother. There was an excitement in her voice that words cannot adequately describe. She exuded enthusiasm even over the phone and declared proudly, “Bishop, you’ll never guess who has just visited me.” Before I could answer, she exclaimed, “Dick was here! My son Dick has spent the past hour with me. He is a new man. He has found himself. I’m the happiest mother in the world!” Then she paused and quietly spoke: “I just knew he would not really forget me.”

Years later, at Mattie’s funeral, Dick and I spoke tenderly of that experience. We had witnessed a glimpse of God’s healing power through the window of a mother’s faith in her son.

The adoption of our second child was just as miraculous. The opportunity to go to Korea for a semester came about unexpectedly. It came just when I was coming up for tenure, and when I told my wife we needed to go, not for research or teaching but for an administrative assignment, she said it didn’t make sense. It didn’t. But I told her I had a strong feeling that we should go. Two weeks later, after she had wrestled with the idea, she told me that she finally agreed; we needed to go. Then she said, “There is another baby waiting for us.”

My jaw fell open. I was flabbergasted, but it suddenly made sense. Things fell into place. I went to see my department chair and told him that I needed an emergency leave and that I needed to go to Korea. He was surprised—and skeptical. But I put all my cards on the table and told him about the adopted daughter that would soon be born, and he completely supported my request. As it turns out, he had special sympathies for me—he, too, was adopted. On short notice I found a perfect replacement to teach my classes. Details on the Korean side were much more complicated, and a series of obstacles appeared in our path, but one by one everything fell into place.

My wife’s mother had died the previous year, and my wife and I are convinced that somehow—I don’t know how these things work—she engineered the details from her side of the veil. Our second baby is the sweetest child a set of parents could ever hope to have. She is a joy to us, and she has become our second greatest blessing. We love these gifts from heaven. They have given us life. They have given us love. We have been sealed for time and all eternity, and we enjoy all the blessings of the temple.

Nancy climbed up on the hard wagon seat, Papa clucked their aging chestnut mare into motion, and the trip to Gettysburg began. Carefully, Nancy placed the brown parcel on the seat between them, then smoothed the coarse paper with loving strokes. As her fingers touched the package and she thought of its contents, Nancy allowed herself to believe that at last the trip was a reality. She sighed deeply. No, she wasn’t dreaming, but was actually going to Gettysburg to see the president.
Two weeks ago, Papa rode home from the village with news that President Lincoln would come to dedicate the new cemetery on the battlefield where so many soldiers died last July. Nancy’s thirteen-year-old heart pounded in anticipation, and immediately she asked her father if he would take her there.
“It’s twelve miles to Gettysburg,” Papa said. “Take a whole day to go, hear the speeches, and come back, providing nobody talks too long. Don’t know if I can spare the time. But I do need supplies.” When Nancy saw the hard lines of his face soften and the glow that warmed his dark eyes, she knew they would go to Gettysburg.
Nancy had held a dream in her heart for months, turning it first this way in her mind then that, until it sparkled like a newly minted coin. She wanted to make a contribution to the war whose furious sounds had come so close to them last summer. She wasn’t a boy so she couldn’t volunteer as a soldier, but surely she could do something worthwhile. Then she remembered people telling about how President Lincoln worked alone through the night in the cold and drafty White House with only an old threadbare shawl draped over his shoulders for warmth.
It was then her idea took birth and her dream spun a web of hope. As she hoed among the vegetables and fed the clucking brown hens, she pictured herself dressed in a pale gown covered with pink rosebuds, knocking on the White House door and asking to see Mr. Lincoln. When he appeared, she presented him with the most beautiful woolen shawl in the world, one that she had knitted herself. Then the president would no longer look sad and lonely, and he would be warm when he worked through the night. It was a good dream and sometimes, as she stared at the darkened ceiling of her bedroom, she held it close to her, willing it to come true.
Now, bouncing along in the wagon, Nancy remembered how carefully she’d knitted during every free moment to finish the blue shawl so that she’d be prepared to give it to the president at the right moment. And soon now that moment would be here. It was the most important one of her life and she could hardly wait.
Why can’t we go faster? she wondered. She sighed deeply and tried to stop squirming on the wooden seat.
“Patience, Nancy, patience,” her father cautioned.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Look around you. Enjoy the day!”
“I’ll try,” Nancy said with a smile.
Early morning mist swirled in soiled, gray patches along the roadbed covered over with an umbrella of tangled oak and hickory, but the sun warmed clear patches of meadow just beyond, casting an occasional golden shaft of light in their path through the trees.
Could that be a hint of good things waiting to happen? She wondered if Papa’s almanac that told of weather signs and good crop-planting days had anything to say about this day. Grownups often looked for signs in nature to tell them about the future. Now that she was nearly grown up, with vague changes taking place in her body that sometimes mystified her, it was time to take on grown-up ways. Surely this gift she’d made for the president showed that she was growing up and making a contribution to the war. She wished she knew what it felt like to think grown-up thoughts. Then, maybe she’d know for sure.
Hoofbeats slowed to a trot behind them, then came alongside. Nancy turned to see their neighbor, Mr. Brooks, in his fading federal blues. He’d been an officer at Bull Run, his empty left sleeve a silent testimony of his contribution to the war.
“Howdy, Mr. Montgomery. Morning Nancy,” he greeted them. His black moustache curved upward into a bushy smile.
“Mr. Brooks,” Papa said, “You’re alone, then?”
“The child has a fever again so Martha’s home, but this is one trip I had to make.”
“You and Nancy.” Papa turned and smiled at her. “She has some mysterious reason to see the president. Wants to give him something.”
“Well, now, fancy that,” Mr. Brooks said. “I hope she’s going to give him the name of a general who knows how to fight a war and win. That he could surely use.”
“True,” Papa agreed, “although General Grant did himself proud at Vicksburg. Maybe he’ll finally be the one to bring an end to it all.”
Mr. Brooks nodded in agreement and then said, “I’ll be off now. We’ve a rare treat in store for us today and I don’t want to miss a word of Senator Everett’s speech.” He touched his horse’s flanks lightly and disappeared down the road. Nancy yearned for a horse with the speed of Mr. Brooks’ animal.
“Who’s Senator Everett?” she asked.
“He’s a fine speaker, Nancy, and he’s also been a governor and president of Harvard University.”
“All that?” she asked.
“And more,” Papa replied. “You’ll never forget what he says today. Mark my word.”
“But President Lincoln will be there, won’t he?” Nancy was suddenly anxious. “You said so.”
“Oh, yes, he’ll be there,” Papa assured her. “But I don’t know why. After Senator Everett gets through talking, there won’t be much left to say.”
They rode in silence for a few moments, then Nancy asked, “Papa?”
“Yes, Nancy?”
“Do you think I’ll really get to talk to President Lincoln? Can I really get that close?”
“Lots of people have,” Papa said. “They come to see him at the White House and he visits with soldiers in the field. He’ll talk to you too.”
Reassured, Nancy smoothed her dark green skirt, touched her blonde hair, and found that it was curling around her face again in spite of everything she’d done to make it stay back. Oh, well, she thought and leaned forward, eager for her first glimpse of Gettysburg.
Hours later, it seemed, Nancy began to wonder if they’d taken a wrong turn in the road when finally, on the horizon, the town popped into view. She shaded her eyes against the hazy sun and stood up to ease the tension that had held her taut as clean wash hanging outside on a winter’s day.
“The town looks deserted,” Papa said. “I hope we’re not too late.”
“Oh, Papa, hurry,” Nancy pleaded. “We can’t be too late after so many weeks of waiting and dreaming. It wouldn’t be fair.”
They entered town from the north on Harrisburg Road, clippety-clopping through empty streets, past silent wooden houses and churches and deserted brick stores and shops. A solitary figure stood at an intersection ahead.
“You missed the procession,” the hoop-skirted lady called to them.
Papa slowed the wagon. “Where’s the dedication ceremony being held?”
“Straight south,” she answered, “on Cemetery Ridge.”
Nancy dug her fingers into her skirt and twisted the material into a ball. “Can’t you make Dora go any faster?” she urged. She sat forward on the edge of the seat and held onto the rough sideboard of the wagon for support. Now she could see carriages and horses tied to scrub brush along the sides of the road.
Papa halted the mare, jumped down, and tied her fast. “Looks like we’ll have to walk the rest of the way, Nancy,” he said.
Nancy took her parcel and hopped down and started running toward the crowd. “I’ll meet you back here afterwards, Papa,” she called.
She heard Papa shouting to her, but she didn’t stop. No time for anything now but getting there. Hurriedly, Nancy picked her way over wagon ruts and past rail fences, still on the ground where they’d been toppled by advancing confederate troops last July. Out of breath after her hasty climb up the low ridge, Nancy leaned against a tree for support. As her hand touched something cold and metallic, she looked to see what it was. Slowly recognition came and, with it, a tingling revulsion that bunched her stomach into a knot. She jumped back and wiped her hands on her skirt. She’d been touching a bullet, a real bullet, partially imbedded into the tree! Did that bullet kill someone before the tree stopped it? she wondered and shuddered involuntarily. Shaken, she hurried on.
(To be concluded next month.)

Recently, during a hospital visit to a dear friend, she asked me to read the scriptures to her. You see, she was full of fear. Well, I planned to spend the evening in final review of materials for a test the next day at school. However, I knew that my friend had not been very close to the Lord lately; so I decided to stay and read to her.
I left the hospital much later than I had planned, and I was worried about my test. Still, I felt I had made the right decision in staying and helping my friend become closer to the Lord by reading the scriptures to her. That night I prayed that the Holy Ghost would bring back into my mind those things which I had previously read in my textbook and studied in class, for now there was no time for further study. A warm and comforting spirit came over me. I had no fear during the examination the next day, and I was blessed with the ability to remember information that otherwise might not have come back into my mind. I believe that if we truly seek God and try to live worthily, we will be blessed with the ability to accomplish all our goals and we will have the power to be what we should.

While on business in Rochester, New York, USA, I decided to make the short drive to Church history sites in Palmyra, about 25 miles (40 km) away. I especially wanted to see the Sacred Grove.
At the time, I struggled with frustrations at both work and home, and I longed for a sacred experience of my own that would confirm to me in some majestic way that Heavenly Father was mindful of me.
This was years before the Hill Cumorah Visitors’ Center and the Palmyra New York Temple were built. I parked near the Smith family home, got out of the car, and followed the signs to the Sacred Grove. With a prayer in my heart, I walked along the path through the trees. I pondered as I walked, and I even knelt to pray. I felt calm, but I saw no pillar of light and felt no overwhelming emotion. My worries and concerns still weighed on my mind.
Somewhat disappointed, I made my way to the reconstructed log home where the Smith family had lived. I imagined them working, reading scriptures, and praying there. I visited the upstairs room and the kitchen, with its brick fireplace, wooden table and chairs, plank floors, and simple furnishings. I was struck by the thought that it was in a home like this that a 14-year-old boy lived when, full of questions, he determined to go and ask of God.
As I stood in the doorway, ready to leave, I looked toward the Sacred Grove. I knew that Joseph Smith had gone into the nearby woods, prayed, and saw God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. Suddenly, compassion for Joseph washed over me. It was as if I was feeling what Joseph had felt before he prayed. I lacked wisdom, but I knew that I could ask of God and receive answers (see James 1:4–5). I remembered how I had prayed with faith as a teenager and felt peace and reassurance. I felt that same hope and love fill my heart. It was as if I was 14 again.
I bowed my head and offered a silent prayer of gratitude. I had received my answer. Heavenly Father was aware of me. And if I continued to trust Him, He would continue to respond.