Gospel Story Finder

Jenny knew something special was going to happen that Christmas of 1938. She had just been baptized. Her baptism had been so special that she knew Christmas would be special too. But she didn’t know how it would be special.
On Christmas morning Jenny woke up early. She heard Dad and her brother Marcus go out to milk the cows, and she knew she had to stay in bed until they came back. That was the rule on Christmas.
“Mayda,” she whispered to her older sister. “Mayda, are you awake?” Jenny wanted to talk about the special day, but Mayda was still asleep. So was Herbie, who slept in a crib across the room. He was only two years old, but she would have been happy to talk even to him.
Jenny sighed and thought about the day ahead. Maybe the special thing would be something under the Christmas tree.
“A Shirley Temple doll!” she whispered. That’s what she hoped it would be—a Shirley Temple doll with curly yellow ringlets, eyes that opened and shut, and frilly clothes with dainty little shoes! Jenny already had a doll, but it was a rubber baby doll with hair and eyes just painted on. When Jenny put the doll to bed, its eyes stayed wide open, staring up at her. A Shirley Temple doll that was under the Christmas tree would make it a really special Christmas!
Finally Jenny heard Dad and Marcus come back from milking the cows. Mama came into the bedroom to get Herbie. “Everybody up,” she said cheerily. “It’s Christmas.”
The large room that was both kitchen and living room was warm and cozy when Jenny got there. Dad and Marcus were warming their hands over the big black stove.
“It’s a cold one today,” Dad said. “I think it’s going to snow.”
As soon as Mama and Herbie and Mayda came, they all went over to the tree. Jenny and Mayda had decorated it the day before with rings of colored paper and strings of popcorn. Mama had said that maybe next year they could afford a string of lights. But it was pretty, even without lights.
Jenny didn’t let herself look underneath the tree until after they had all held hands and sung “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” She liked that part of Christmas morning.
Finally it was time to look under the Christmas tree. She spotted her gift right away. It was a doll, all right, but not a Shirley Temple doll. It was just another rubber baby doll, although this one did have eyes that opened and shut. Mama had made the doll a set of tiny clothes and a little pillow and quilt. It was a nice doll. But it couldn’t be the special thing.
Mama said she liked the paper-plate comb holder Jenny had made for her in school. Dad was patting his new shaving lotion onto his face. Mayda flipped through the pages of her new autograph book, saying it was just what she wanted. Marcus grinned as he examined his new jackknife, and Herbie galloped around the kitchen on his new stick horse that had a carved head and a rope tail. Maybe the something special will be something that happens, Jenny thought.
The family ate breakfast, finishing up with an orange for each person, which was almost special, but not quite.
Since it was Sunday, Jenny wondered if what she was waiting for would happen at church during the Christmas program.
Dad went out to hitch the horses to the sleigh. They had an old truck, but it always froze up in cold weather. Jenny liked the horses better anyway.
Mama filled the sleigh with quilts, and they all got in. Just as they were starting out, the Sorensens, who lived farther up the road, came along. The sleigh bells on their horses jingled, making it really sound like Christmas. They all waved, except Raymond, who stuck his tongue out at Jenny. That meant he really liked her! It made Jenny happy—but still, that couldn’t be her special thing.
The Christmas program was nice. Aunt Jessie Fugal sang “O Holy Night,” and didn’t miss even the highest notes. Teeny DeMars played a piano solo, and Red Sorensen played a violin solo. Then Bishop Johnson gave a talk about the birth of Jesus. To close the meeting, some of the Junior Sunday School children presented a tableau of the manger scene while everyone sang “Silent Night.”
It was time to go home, and still the special thing hadn’t happened. Jenny felt disappointed.
Snow was falling. Mama put a blanket over Herbie’s head and ran for the sleigh, followed by Mayda, Marcus, and Jenny. Dad helped them crawl in under the quilts. Then he shouted to the horses. “Giddap!”
The snowflakes were as big as popcorn as they wafted down, and were so thick that it was hard to see the Sorensen sleigh only a few yards away.
“Jenny,” Mama said, “this is the way it was snowing on the day you were born.”
The day I was born, Jenny mused. The day I came to live with Dad and Mama and Mayda and Marcus. Of course Herbie hadn’t been born yet.
Jenny looked around at them, at their heads poking out from under the quilts. They all smiled at her.
The day I was born, she thought again. If I had been born to some other family, I probably wouldn’t know any of them!
Suddenly Jenny knew that this was the special something she had waited for all day. It wasn’t a special gift or a special happening. It was a special knowing. It was knowing that she was where she wanted to be, with the people she wanted to be with. It was knowing she was right where she belonged.
Jenny snuggled down under the quilts, knowing. It truly was a special Christmas.

I chose another hero in that little branch of the Church. He was a United States Marine who came to our meetings wearing his green marine uniform. It was wartime, so that alone made him my hero. He had been sent to Princeton University by the marines to further his education. But far more than admiring his military uniform, I watched him play in Palmer Stadium as captain of the Princeton University football team. I saw him play on the university basketball team and also watched him play as the star catcher on their baseball team.
But even more, he came to my home during the week to show me how to shoot a basketball with both my left and my right hand. He told me that I would need that skill because I would someday play basketball on good teams. I did not realize it then, but for years he was, for me, a model of a true priesthood man.

Two years after my father’s death, I left Uruguay on a mission to Peru. Upon my return, life blessed me with a family of my own, university degrees, and a career in business. I became an international executive, which made it necessary for us to move from country to country—Peru, Argentina, Venezuela, and the United States. My home base was then in the United States, and I eventually became a citizen.
Then life took a sudden turn. I became a diplomat for the United States government, first in Mexico, then in Chile. I sought the assignment to Chile because I desired to get to know the country where I had been born and perhaps find more about my father.
A few months after my arrival in Chile, I had the opportunity to make an official visit to Antofagasta, the city of my birth. I knew that my father, a British subject from whom I had inherited my name, had worked at the Chile-Bolivia Railroad as his own father once had. Therefore, I asked my secretary to make an appointment with the president of the Chile-Bolivia Railroad to see what I could learn about my father. As the main diplomat on commercial business, this meeting with the railroad was eminently qualified for my assignment as well.
Because the company’s president was traveling, my secretary set up an appointment with another executive by the name of Jorge Lyon on a Saturday morning. Saturday came. I put on my best suit and headed for the offices of the railroad. Mr. Lyon soon arrived, and I introduced myself as John Harris, head of commerce for the United States in Chile. He was a stately man in his sixties, who had sacrificed part of his day off to see a visitor from Chile’s main trading partner.
I started the conversation with the usual questions about goods transported, tonnage routes, and expansion plans. After a few minutes, Mr. Lyon interrupted me and said, “It is quite a coincidence, but I used to work at the railroad for a man with your same name.”
I remained silent for a moment. John Harris is not a common name in South America, much less in a railroad company in the midst of the Atacama Desert. I knew I had found someone who had known my father personally.
“How was he?” I managed to ask. But inside I was asking questions similar to those of Joseph of Egypt: Did he love me? Did he care about me?
Mr. Lyon answered. “He was a good man. He hired me and trained me. He was a patient and good teacher. He knew the railroad business better than anyone else in the company.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “He was my father,” I said, barely containing a tear.
Mr. Lyon then showed me what my father did and where he worked. I did not find out about his feelings toward me; for that I will have to wait a few years. But in my search I have been able to define my feelings toward him.
That day in the city of my birth, I learned something about my two fathers. I learned about the life of my earthly father, but more importantly, I learned that my Heavenly Father cared enough for me that 33 years after my father’s death he had helped me find the only man alive in Chile who had known my father. If the president of the railroad had been able to receive me, I would have missed the opportunity to meet Jorge Lyon and thus learn about my own father.
I have learned that our Father in Heaven lives, that He loves us, that He indeed cares for us and is always close to us. I know I was guided by the Lord to meet Jorge Lyon in order to satisfy my thirst to know my earthly father. How grateful I am for the plan of salvation and eternal life and for the opportunity to reunite with loved ones in the next life.

Brother Pace met his future wife, Anne Marie Langeland, while the two were second-grade classmates in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA. Later, while attending different high schools in the city, they reconnected during a combined seminary activity. They wrote each other for the next few years as she accompanied her family to Norway, where her father presided over the Norway Oslo Mission, and while Brother Pace served in the Spain Madrid Mission. They were married in the Salt Lake Temple on November 21, 1978, and are the parents of seven children.

My dad taught us to work hard. We worked hard all the time, and it became a habit. We even worked on holidays! One year between Christmas and New Year, we built a mile and a half of fence out on the ranch in the snow. But my dad taught us how to make work enjoyable. He taught us a little song that said, “Sing as you work, and work will be play.” So we sang all the time while we were working, and that way we learned the joy of working hard and seeing a job well done. I have found throughout my life that being able to work hard is very important in anything we do.

Lee was a member of his high school track team—he both sprinted and high-jumped. During the 1968 Summer Olympic Games held in Mexico City, the world became enamored with a little-known high jumper named Dick Fosbury. He had experimented with a new high-jumping technique that involved sprinting diagonally toward the bar, then curving and leaping backward over the bar. It came to be called the Fosbury flop.
Like many others, Lee was intrigued by this new technique, but until the new school year started, he didn’t have a place to practice it. I came home one evening to find him practicing the Fosbury flop in our basement. He had set up two makeshift standards by stacking chairs, and he was jumping over a broomstick set on the chairs, using a sofa to cushion his landing. It was very clear to me that the sofa would not hold up under such treatment, so I called a halt to his indoor high-jumping. Instead, I invited him to go with me to a sporting-goods store, where we purchased some foam padding to use for landing and high-jumping standards so he could move the activity out of doors.
After experimenting with the Fosbury flop, Lee decided to return to the western-roll technique that he had used previously. Still, through the end of the summer into the fall, he practiced high-jumping for many hours in our backyard.
One evening as I returned home from work, I found Lee practicing his jumping. I asked, “How high is the bar?”
He said, “Five feet, eight inches.”
“Why that height?”
He answered, “You must clear that height to qualify for the state track meet.”
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“I can clear it every time. I haven’t missed.”
My reply: “Let’s raise the bar and see how well you do then.”
He replied, “Then I might miss.”
I queried, “If you don’t raise the bar, how will you ever know your potential?”
So we started moving the bar up to five feet, ten inches; then to six feet; and so on, as he sought to improve. Lee became a better high jumper because he was not content with just clearing the minimum standard. He learned that even if it meant missing, he wanted to keep raising the bar to become the best high jumper he was capable of becoming.

One day at recess my friends and I were picking flowers off a tree. Some girls came up to us and told us we weren’t supposed to pick the flowers. We stopped picking the flowers and walked away. I told my friends we should tell the truth. We told a teacher that we had been picking the flowers for our teacher. The teacher said we could pick the flowers as long as we didn’t pull on the branches. I’m glad I told the truth.

I loved girls’ camp. I loved singing songs and dressing up in crazy outfits. I also loved the clear, crisp mornings and the bright stars at night. But most of all, I loved when my ward gathered around the campfire to have a testimony meeting. My testimony grew so much from those meetings.
The morning before my fifth time at camp, I woke up with a splitting headache. I sat up with a groan and rubbed my forehead to try to ease the pain. I felt achy and dizzy. I had chills even though I was still under my covers. I was sick. There was no way I could go into the mountains sick. But I couldn’t miss camp! A feeling of frustration swept over me.
All morning long, I restlessly drifted in and out of sleep while my family was at church. Periodically, I would say a little prayer in my heart asking Heavenly Father to help me find a way to be able to go to camp. Suddenly, I felt a strong impression that I should ask my father for a blessing. I felt a growing warmth in my heart, and I knew that through the power of the priesthood I would be made well enough to attend camp. Knowing that Heavenly Father loved me and was mindful of my concerns allowed me to rest a little easier.
A few hours later, my dad and my bishop gave me a priesthood blessing. As they laid their hands on my head, I could feel Heavenly Father’s love. As my father spoke the words of the blessing, he promised I would be healed according to my faith. My heart swelled with confidence and gratitude for the feeling of assurance that had been given to me earlier that day.
That same gratitude overwhelmed me the next Friday as the young women of my ward surrounded the campfire for a testimony meeting. I bore witness of how mindful God is of all of His children. I told the young women that, because of my experience, I had a testimony of the power of faith and that Heavenly Father wants us to know and have confidence in His will and His promises.

I had the privilege of visiting with a faithful family of Latter-day Saints in a small nipa hut in the Philippines. In this humble setting a beautiful young woman, fourteen years old, listened intently while her father explained that by saving all the money they could and selling everything they owned, the family would one day have enough to go to the temple, where they could be sealed as a family forever.

It is our faith in the importance of making covenants with God and coming to understand our immense possibilities that the temple, the house of the Lord, becomes the focus for all that really matters. In the temple we participate in ordinances and covenants that span the distance between heaven and earth. They prepare us to one day return to God’s presence and enjoy the blessings of eternal families and eternal life.

In 1992, time was a precious and limited commodity for Elder S. Mark Palmer and his wife, Jacqueline.
Elder Palmer was serving on the stake high council at the time. He was also working hard to build his professional career. Sister Palmer’s time was stretched just as thin. The Palmers were raising six children in their Austin, Texas, USA, home—including a six-month-old baby boy.
When their stake president invited them to serve as workers at the Dallas Texas Temple, they didn’t know how they could handle one more duty. But they accepted the call—and then prayerfully asked for the Lord’s help.
Making a monthly bus trip to serve all day in the temple required sacrifice and careful planning. “But it blessed our lives enormously,” says Elder Palmer.
Serving in the temple, he adds, prepared him spiritually for future priesthood callings. It also made him a better husband and father—and he found balance in his busy life.
“Going to the temple often helps you reset your priorities and be reminded of the covenants you have made,” he says.

Illustrations by Kevin Keele
Parker liked lots of things—music, art, rocks with cool shapes. But his favorite thing was riding his dirt bike. He loved racing over hills on his bike. He wanted to be the best racer ever!
But no matter how hard he tried, he never was. As he zoomed over dirt hills and across winding trails, it looked like he wouldn’t be best in this race either.
Parker crossed the finish line and braked to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him. He heard his family cheering as he squinted up at the scoreboard. Parker felt his stomach clench. Eighth place.
“You did great!” Dad said, clapping Parker on the back.
“No, I didn’t!” Parker dumped his helmet on the ground.
“Last time you got 10th,” Mom said. “You’re doing better every time.”
“It doesn’t matter!” Parker almost shouted. “I’ll never get anywhere close to winning.” He threw his gloves on the ground too.
“Cumulus,” Mom said.
Cumulus was the code word that helped Parker calm down. When Mom or Dad said that word, Parker closed his eyes, pictured a big puffy cloud, and did the breathing exercises Mom and Dad had taught him.
Usually it worked. Parker didn’t really want to think of clouds right now. But he closed his eyes anyway. He breathed in for five seconds. He held it for five seconds. And then he breathed out for five seconds. He did it over and over until he felt a little better.
When they got home, Parker tried to calm himself down by playing the piano. He sat down at the piano and started playing a song he knew. He liked it when he could play it perfectly. But today he messed up at the end. Parker slammed his fist onto the keys. The jarring notes rang in his ears.
Mom came in from the other room. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do anything right,” Parker said.
Mom sat down on the piano bench and put her arm around Parker’s shoulders. “I’m sorry you feel so frustrated today.” She picked up the Book of Mormon on top of the piano. “One of my favorite scriptures is Ether 12:27. Can we read it together?”
She turned to the right page and handed it to Parker.
“My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me,” Parker read. “For if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.”
Mom smiled. “I like that promise. It reminds me that Jesus Christ can help me with my weaknesses.”
Parker nodded. He liked that promise too.
“You know, you are good at so many things,” Mom said. “But something you struggle with is being patient with yourself. It takes time to learn and grow and get better. And it’s OK to not be the best at something.” Mom gave Parker a hug. That made him feel a little better.
“Heavenly Father and Jesus can help you be patient with yourself,” Mom said. “With piano and dirt bike.”
The next day, Parker tried playing a new song. The first part was easy, but he kept messing up in the middle. He was almost ready to throw his music book on the floor, but he stopped. He pictured fluffy white clouds and breathed slowly in and out.
It’s OK, Parker told himself. He could be patient and kind to himself. He looked at the picture of Jesus on the piano and thought of the promise his mom had read. I’m getting a little better every day.

In a meeting, I once told of a dentist in my ward who each year visited the Philippine Islands to work his skills without compensation to provide corrective dentistry for children. Smiles were restored, spirits lifted, and futures enhanced. I did not know the daughter of this dentist was in the congregation to which I was speaking. At the conclusion of my remarks, she came forward and, with a broad smile of proper pride, said, “You have been speaking of my father. How I love him and what he is doing for children!”

Coach Ken Jenks has some good news and some bad news for the boys on his soccer team. As members of a recreation-league soccer team, they’ve had incredible success. The LDS boys, who have teamed up with nonmember friends, are some of the best soccer players in the area.
The coach starts with the good news. “Well, boys, we’ve got a great team, and the Southern California Soccer League championship is in the bag,” he says. Then his face clouds a bit, and he delivers the bad news. “But we’ll be playing three games, and one of them is on a Sunday. How do you feel about that?”
Five hands reluctantly but firmly go up. Eric Miller, 14, Jeff Jenks, 14, Justin Bonsey, 14, and twins Trent and Travis Weaver, 15, stand up and tell the group, “We can’t play on Sunday.” The boys, who are members of the Cypress First Ward, Cypress California Stake, aren’t happy about the idea of missing out on the biggest game of the season, but they are sure about their decision.
They’re following a precedent set five years earlier by a basketball team of mostly Primary-aged Mormon boys (some of whom now play on the soccer team) from the Cypress Stake. The team, the Cypress Bulldogs, chose to play basketball with the Orange County youth league because games were not held on Sunday.
The Bulldogs won every game and were set for the championship final game play-off. But unlike regular-season play, the championship game was scheduled on a Sunday. When the coach (who is also a member of the Church) found out about the Sunday game, he called the team together. He explained to them his belief that they shouldn’t play on Sunday, but he left the decision of whether or not they should play to the boys. He suggested that they take a vote to see if the team wanted to play on Sunday or not. The team voted unanimously to support their coach, meaning they would forfeit the game.
Richard Wynder, who is now 15, says, “Even though we had won every game during the whole season, nobody had second thoughts about not playing the championship game on Sunday. It was something we all felt we had to do.”
John Harris, one of the members of the basketball team who was not LDS, has since joined the Church because of the examples of his LDS teammates. Also, some of the other basketball teams from the area are now refusing to play on Sunday. This has also influenced several of the soccer teams and football teams who have taken the same stand.
One of the non-LDS coaches said, “I don’t want the league to schedule games on Sunday because some of my best players are Mormons.”
Although the controversy of the games on Sunday still continues in Orange County sports leagues, the boys’ stand is beginning to make a difference. Many local sports organizations are holding Sunday games less often.
So, as expected, the soccer team plays well on Saturday and wins easily. Then the Mormon boys wish their team the best and go to church on Sunday. The non-LDS members of the team play the championship game and lose. The team takes third place.
Eric shrugs his shoulders, “This game is a temporary thing. I really would have liked to play that championship game if it hadn’t been on Sunday, but I know that keeping the Sabbath will help me return to my Father in Heaven.”
Justin echoes Eric, “It was an individual decision for me, too. I know that it is right and so it didn’t bother me either. The next day some of the kids at school were a little upset, but I think they respected me for staying with my standards.”
And respect from peers, parents, coaches, and other players is a valuable by-product of the sacrifice these boys have made. But perhaps even more important than that is the fact that their example does not go unnoticed by the younger boys waiting for their turn to play the game—but not on Sunday.
Editor’s note: Because of the stand these and other LDS boys have made, regular-season soccer games are no longer held on Sunday in Orange County, California.

I grew up in the Methodist Church. Even though my family usually attended church only on Christmas and Easter, I always knew I had a Father in Heaven. My brother and I used to pray with my mom. What my parents taught me as a child prepared me for what I would learn in the future.
In sixth grade I learned that my parents were getting divorced. I was heartbroken and felt very alone. My friend Courtney could relate to me because her parents divorced when she was a little girl. She became my best friend.
Courtney and I were sitting on my bed talking when she first introduced the Church to me. She didn’t go into detail about it. She just asked me if I wanted to attend church with her on Sunday. I started going to church with her every once in a while, and then I went every Sunday. After I turned 12, I even attended Mutual. There was something there. I didn’t know what it was, but I enjoyed it.
In seventh grade Courtney and another good friend, Aubrey, introduced me to the missionaries. I soon learned what the missionaries meant when they talked about feeling the Spirit. I knew the Church was true after the second discussion.
Despite my testimony of the gospel, I was scared to death to ask my parents if I could be baptized. I continued to go to church and have incredible testimony-building experiences, but I put off the “big question” for two years.
In my freshman year of high school, I enrolled in seminary, and by November I knew I had to ask. I talked with my mom. She told me the Church had only made changes in me for the better, and if being baptized was what I really wanted, then I should go ahead and do it. My first thought was, “Why in the world did I wait so long?”
Then I called my dad, but he wasn’t very excited. When I asked him if I could be baptized, he said no. He said he wanted me to attend some other churches first. So I went to some other churches, and I met some amazing people—people who lived very righteous lives. But nothing could change the feeling I felt when I stepped into a Latter-day Saint chapel. In February I called my dad and said, “I’m getting baptized on March 7th. I hope you’ll be there.”
My whole family came, including my dad. To have my family there meant the world to me. It was the most incredible day of my life.

President Otay, who was Brother Yefi’s branch president at that time, challenged him to pay tithing and prepare himself to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. A few months after the interview, on a rainy, wet day, Brother Yefi appeared and asked to speak with the president about paying his first tithing donation. President Otay invited him to come in, but Brother Yefi said that he had his tithing outside—three sacks of potatoes.
Imagine this brother’s faithfulness in keeping the Lord’s commandments! He had transported three sacks of potatoes by horseback, boat, bus, and then wagon to the church.
Listening to Brother Yefi testify of the law of tithing is a special experience. “Before leaving home to bring our tithing to the bishop,” he said, “I pray to Heavenly Father to bless me that I might be honest. I would not like to have the feeling that I have stolen what really belongs to Him.”
Brother Yefi testified that the Lord has greatly blessed his family for obeying the law of tithing. At the time he was baptized, he said, he had only the minimum of necessities to sustain his family—a team of oxen which he used to plow the earth, a horse, and a few goats and sheep. But, he said with great reverence, since learning the gospel and paying his tithing, “We have been greatly blessed. I have horses, goats, sheep, and nine milking cows that give us enough milk to feed our children and to make cheese to sell. And we sow and harvest our own wheat. We are very blessed!”

Jonathon Morales, 14, leans over the front seat of his older brother’s car and guides him through the streets of Mexico City, population 20 million. Israel Morales has just returned from a mission to New York City. He has forgotten some of Mexico City’s streets. The two brothers talk softly, trying to figure out the best way to their destination. There are questions and confusion, but no impatience or sharpness. There’s a peaceful feeling in the car.
Finally the two brothers find the right street, and a few minutes later arrive at their destination. Their influence on each other is warm and genuine. While Jonathon has been looking up to his older brother for many years, the reverse is also true. Israel is motivated to do what is right because his younger brother is doing what is right. And Israel knows that Jonathon is watching him.

Since baptisms were illegal at the time, we arranged to meet some Saints at a street car depot at night and go to the river for the baptismal ceremony. On the appointed day, I came home from school so ill I could not eat my supper. When the time came to leave, I felt worse, and mother said I should wait and be baptized later. I insisted that I wanted baptism now and would not wait any longer. We rode the street car for about an hour to get to the Chemitz River, then walked through the park to where the baptism would take place.
By the time we got off the street car I was feeling so bad that I could not talk or walk. My father and some of the brethren took turns carrying me. When we arrived, we found a policeman on guard, but he was sitting against a tree, asleep. Barbed wire was strung across the path leading to the river, but some of the brethren held the wire apart while we crept through. We found the river frozen over, but the brethren broke the ice, and then I was asked if I still wanted to be baptized that night. It was about midnight. I nodded, for I still couldn’t talk, and I was the first of eleven people (three children and eight adults) to be baptized. It must have been the impact of the cold water, but when I was immersed, I felt as if a thick shell was being peeled off me. I was able to climb up the embankment by myself and I felt well again. Mother and some sisters helped me dry and dress. Afterward, I sat on a little folding stool to be confirmed.
Following the baptisms, we returned as we had come, along the narrow path and through the barbed wire fence, past the policeman who was still asleep. A big bright moon made the night seem almost day, and as we walked back to the street car depot we sang hymns of praise to our Father in Heaven.

That strength is given to those who are older as well as the young. I know a widow more than 90 years of age. She is in a wheelchair. She prays as you do, pleading for help to solve problems beyond her human power to resolve. The answer is a feeling in her heart. It draws her to keep a commandment: “And behold, ye shall meet together oft.” So she finds a way to get to her meetings. People who attend there have told me, “We are so glad to see her. She brings such a spirit with her.”
She partakes of the sacrament, and she renews a covenant. She remembers the Savior, and she tries to keep His commandments. And so she takes His Spirit with her, always. Her problems may not be resolved. Most of them come from the choices of others, and even the Heavenly Father who hears her prayers and loves her cannot force others to choose the right. But He can send her to the safety of the Savior and the promise of His Spirit to be with her. And so I am sure that she will, in the strength of the Lord, pass the test she faces, because she keeps the commandment to gather often with the Saints. That is both the evidence that she is enduring well and the source of her strength for what lies ahead.

Can a clown fish from the Indian Ocean find happiness with an anemone from the Gulf of California? That is the question we asked ourselves as we watched our recently acquired Amphiprion bicinctus wriggle out of the plastic bag it had resided in for the past hour and into our aquarium. The salesman at the tropical fish store had assured us that the two of them would get along famously, but then that’s what he had also told us when we introduced a moray eel to our now seven-armed octopus!
The meeting in this instance was considerably less dramatic. After hovering around in an upper corner of the tank for a few minutes and being sized up by the other fish, the banded clown made her maiden voyage across the ten-foot expanse of our upstairs show tank. Scattered across this stretch of sand and coral are twelve different anemones that we have collected from the Gulf of California just south of Puerto Penasco, Mexico. We wondered which one the clown would choose for her own. Would it be one of the smaller reddish ones? Or would it be the large brown and purple one in the center of the tank? Or maybe several of them?
Throughout that first day we didn’t notice too much activity on the part of the clown fish directed toward any of the anemones. But then on the second day, we saw that she had taken up a semipermanent residence close by the large anemone near the center of the tank. And soon she was vigorously wriggling among the many tentacles of her newly claimed possession.
This close association between clown fish and anemones has been a topic of some controversy among observers of the symbiotic (living together) relationship for several years. It has usually been agreed that nestled among the tentacles of the anemone the clown is protected from its enemies. But what does the anemone reap from the association?
At various times it has been suggested that the clowns purposely provided anemones with food or even lured other fish toward the anemones’ grasping tentacles with their nematocysts (poisonous stingers). This view has been challenged, however, by the observation that although clown fish have been observed to bring large chunks of food to an anemone partner, they do not let the anemone eat it. Instead, they often tear at it as soon as the anemone has grasped it, feeding themselves with small portions they break away from the large chunk. In the end, the anemone is left with nothing.
Which view is true? We decided to find out for ourselves—and find out we did.
Our first step was to provide a suitable food source. A quick trip to a nearby pond supplied us with plenty of freshwater minnows. We introduced three of them to the tank. Immediately the water churned with activity as the community of marine fish began to subdivide the minnows for their lunch. But then, as if from out of nowhere, the banded clown darted into the melee and returned just as rapidly with one of the minnows intact in her mouth. The clown fish’s rapid wriggling reminded us all of the joyous wagging of a puppy’s tail as the puppy returns to its master with a stick it has retrieved.
Upon reaching the large brown and purple anemone, the clown fish actually shoved the minnow down into its outstretched tentacles. Immediately they responded to the stimulus and began to close about the prey. Assured that the minnow was securely trapped, the clown turned back to the fracas at the end of the tank. Once again she somehow managed to secure another minnow, and once again she wigwagged her way back to the blob of bloated protoplasm (organized living matter) that comprised the plump anemone. Plumper still with her second delivery, the anemone was soon to be truly gorged when the clown returned a third time with the last of the minnows.
On the following day, in the manner of true scientists, we proceeded to see if our observations were repeatable. And indeed they were. Not only did the clown fish again succeed in securing three minnows for the anemone, but she retrieved them when a sneaky Heniochus (pennant butterfly fish) stole them out of the anemone’s grip. And in no instance did the clown fish attempt to reclaim any of the minnows as her own.
It thus appears that the answer to our initial query about the banded clown and the displaced anemone is affirmative. An A. bicinctus can indeed find happiness with an anemone from the Gulf of California, and the association is most certainly mutually beneficial. What else can you say about a friend who brings you a three-course meal each day?

At Young Women camp in the mountains of California, girls and leaders waited for dinner in an A-frame lodge. As we waited, some girls noticed something under a table. A hummingbird had somehow flown into the lodge, couldn’t find its way out, and finally collapsed on the floor. They asked me to help.
The bird looked near death, its beak wrapped with cobwebs and its feathers askew. I gently put it into a cup and carried it outside. I hoped it would recover on its own but realistically expected it to go the way of all nature. However, as I tipped the cup to gently deposit the hummingbird onto the ground, in mid-slide the hummingbird grasped the rim of the cup with its tiny talons. I held the cup upright, the bird perched on the rim, its eyes closed. Now what?
One leader, seeing the bird, mixed a solution of sugar and water and brought it to me. First I gently brushed the cobwebs from the needle-sharp beak. The bird didn’t flinch. Then I dipped a finger in the sugar water and held a drop to the tip of the beak. The drop disappeared, even though the bird didn’t move. Perhaps the liquid seeped into the beak? I dipped my finger again and held it to the bird’s beak. This time a tiny tongue, thinner than a hair, licked my fingertip.
For 10 or 15 minutes, the hummingbird drank one drop after another. By then, several other leaders had gathered around me, and I offered them a try at feeding it.
Suddenly the bird opened its eyes, and its ruffled feathers fell instantly into place. After drinking a couple more drops, it started its wings, warmed them for a second, and flew straight up. It hesitated a moment above us, and then shot away.
We stood there, stunned. And then, as suddenly as the bird had flown away, the spiritual lessons came:
Often, as we reach out to the less active, our efforts don’t seem to make a difference. But the love we offer does slip into the cracks—like the nectar into the unmoving beak of the hummingbird—providing spiritual nutrition that one day may produce results.
At times we can’t go further on our own; we need a kind, caring hand up.
Sometimes people get tangled in the cobwebs of sin or addiction and need the help of a friend or priesthood leader and the Savior’s assistance to get free.
We need regular spiritual nutrition in order to endure, else we run out of spiritual strength and fall victim to evil influences.
The hummingbird kept hanging on. Literally. Hanging on made all the difference. At times, we must simply endure in faith as we deal with the painful and sometimes horrible challenges of life.
The New Testament says that the Master is aware of even the sparrow’s fall (see Matthew 10:29–31). I now know He is also aware of a hummingbird’s fall. And He is aware of you.