Gospel Story Finder

The first principle is to have a feeling of gratitude to Heavenly Father during the sacrament for the Atonement of His Son. The following story is told about passing the sacrament:
“The sacrament never really meant much to me until the Sunday I was ordained a deacon. That afternoon I passed the sacrament for the first time. Prior to the meeting, one of the deacons warned me, ‘Look out for Brother Schmidt. You may have to wake him up!’ Finally the time came for me to participate in the passing of the sacrament. I handled the first six rows quite well. Children and adults partook of the bread with no noticeable thought or problem. Then I got to row seven, the row where Brother Schmidt always sat. But I was surprised. Instead of being asleep he was wide awake. Unlike many of the others I had served, he took the bread with what seemed to be great thought and reverence.
“A few minutes later I found myself again approaching row seven with the water. This time my friend was right. Brother Schmidt sat with his head bowed and his big German eyes shut. He was evidently sound asleep. What could I do or say? I looked for a moment at his brow, wrinkled and worn from years of toil and hardship. He had joined the Church as a teenager and had experienced much persecution in his small German town. I had heard the story many times in testimony meeting. I decided finally to gently nudge his shoulder in hopes of waking him. As I reached to do so, his head slowly lifted. There were tears streaming down his cheeks and as I looked into his eyes I saw love and joy. He quietly reached up and took the water. Even though I was only twelve then, I can still remember vividly the feeling I had as I watched this rugged old man partake of the sacrament. I knew without a doubt that he was feeling something about the sacrament that I had never felt. I determined then that I wanted to feel those same feelings.”
Brother Schmidt had communicated with heaven, and heaven had communicated with him.

Ítalo was excited for the ward temple trip. They were going to the Recife Brazil Temple. It was 15 hours away!
Ítalo, his older brother, Henrique, and their parents left early in the morning. As they rode along, Ítalo kept thinking about something Mom had told him. “This year, you can see how beautiful the temple is from the outside,” she said. “Next year, you’ll be old enough to see how beautiful it is on the inside.”
Ítalo hadn’t been to any temple before. But he had been watching the new temple being built in Fortaleza, where his family lived. It was amazing!
They stopped for lunch. Ítalo had his favorite, feijoada, black bean stew with rice. While he ate, he kept thinking about the temple. When the temple in Fortaleza was finally dedicated, it would be a temple his family could visit over and over again. They wouldn’t have to drive so far.
The sun was setting when Ítalo and his family arrived at the temple in Recife. “Que bonito!” Ítalo said. “How beautiful!” He couldn’t stop smiling.
The next morning, Mom showed Ítalo where he would be waiting with his friends from the ward. “Even though you can’t go inside the temple yet,” she said, “pay attention to the special spirit you can feel while you’re on the temple grounds.” Then the rest of Ítalo’s family went inside the temple.
Members of the ward sat with Ítalo and the other children on the grass near the temple. They read stories from O Livro de Mórmon (the Book of Mormon) together. Reading scriptures is a good way to get ready for the temple, Ítalo thought. He felt calm and safe. Mom’s right, he thought. There is a special feeling here.
Then the adults took Ítalo and the other children for a walk around the temple grounds. That’s when Ítalo noticed the words over the entrance to the temple. “Santidade ao Senhor. A casa do Senhor,” they said. “Holiness to the Lord: the House of the Lord.”
No wonder I feel so peaceful here, he thought. This is God’s house.
When the temple trip was over, Ítalo and his family returned home. He wanted to remember how he had felt at the temple. What could he do?
Sometimes Ítalo felt he could draw his feelings better than he could write about them. So he drew a picture of the temple. Then he showed it to Mom and Dad.
“This will remind me of where I want to go,” he said. He kept the picture in his room where he could look at it each day.
“I want to be ready,” he said. “Because I want to go inside someday!”

Boy:Over a hundred and eight years ago, some parents in Farmington, Utah, were worried about their children.

Girl:They wondered how they could help the children understand the gospel so that they would live happier lives.

Bishop:I am Bishop Hess. Many children in the ward were allowed to be out late at night, and some were rowdy. I called a meeting of the mothers in the ward. We talked about the importance of guiding the minds of young children.

Aurelia:I am Aurelia Rogers. “I had reflected seriously upon the necessity of more strict discipline for our little boys. … What will our girls do for good husbands, if this state of things continues? … I had children of my own, and was just as anxious as a mother could be to have them brought up properly. But what was to be done? It needed the united effort of the parents.”

Boy:One day Eliza R. Snow, the General President of the Relief Society, had been to a conference in Farmington. The train back to Salt Lake was not due for some time, so Sister Snow decided to visit her friend Aurelia.

Eliza:I am Eliza R. Snow. Although I had no children of my own, I had a great interest in them. I was a poet and a teacher and had written songs and stories for little children. I was pleased with Sister Rogers’s idea when she asked:

Aurelia:“Could there not be an organization for little boys wherein they could be taught everything good, and how to behave?”

Eliza:I agreed to discuss the matter with the First Presidency, who later gave approval. A letter was written to Bishop Hess, asking for his permission to organize the children in his ward.

Bishop:After I received the letter from Sister Snow, I talked with Sister Rogers and asked if she would be willing to preside over an organization of the children. She said:

Aurelia:“I felt willing, but very incompetent. From that time my mind was busy thinking how it was to be managed. … As singing was necessary, it needed the voices of little girls as well as boys to make it sound as well as it should.”

Eliza:I agreed with Aurelia. “‘We must have the girls as well as the boys—they must be trained together.’” I suggested that the organization be called “Primary.”

Bishop:On August 11, 1878, I set apart Sister Rogers and her two counselors, Louisa Haight and Helen Miller. I suggested that they visit every home in the ward during the next two weeks, which they did. They took the names and ages of two hundred twenty-four children and invited them to the first meeting.

Girl:The first Primary meeting was held on Sunday, August 25, 1878, in the rock chapel in Farmington.

Aurelia:“Imagine our feelings as we stood before an audience of children who had come there to receive instructions from us. We were very weak indeed, but felt to lean upon the Lord.”

Boy:The meeting began with prayer; then the children were given instructions and taught to sing.

Girl:The children were asked to “see how much they could do for [their fathers and mothers] without grumbling.”

Boy:Children were also asked to not quarrel with brothers and sisters.

Girl:Little boys were instructed to not go into orchards and melon patches that weren’t their own, and little girls were told to not hang on to wagons, a practice not only wrong but dangerous.

Boy:Other Primaries were organized throughout the territory before the first Primary was even one month old. Sister Snow continued to speak to mothers about the spiritual training of their children. She felt that women with the very best talents—women who loved children and were appealing to them—should preside over the Primary.

Elder Kikuchi’s mother struggled to raise her four children after her husband’s death. After graduating from junior high school, Elder Kikuchi went to work in a tofu (bean-curd) shop during the day and attended school at night. He became seriously ill from the exhausting schedule and was hospitalized.
“Though I was not LDS or even a Christian,” Elder Kikuchi said, “I really prayed to God to help me. My recovery was miraculous, and I know that I was cured through the blessings of God and the help of medications.”

When I was five years old, I became very ill. It turned out that I had polio, a disease that was completely unknown to the small-town doctor. I lay for several weeks on a World War I army cot in our front room beside a coal stove. Afterward, I could not walk. I remember very clearly sliding around on the linoleum floor and pulling myself up on chairs, learning to walk again. I was more fortunate than some. A friend walked with crutches and steel leg braces all of his life.
As I moved into school, I found that my muscles were weak. I was very self-conscious. I knew that I could never be an athlete.
It did not help a lot when I read about the man who went to a doctor to find a cure for his inferiority complex. After a careful examination, the doctor told him, “You don’t have a complex. You really are inferior!”
With that for encouragement, I set about through life and determined to compensate in other ways.
I found hope in my patriarchal blessing. The patriarch, whom I had never met before, confirmed to me that patriarchs do have prophetic insight. He said that I had a desire to come to earth life and was willing to meet the tests that would accompany life in a mortal body. He said that I had been given a body of such physical proportion and fitness to enable my spirit to function through it unhampered by physical impediment. That encouraged me.
I learned that you should always take care of your body. Take nothing into your body that will harm it, such as we are counseled in the Word of Wisdom: tea, coffee, liquor, tobacco, or anything else that is habit-forming, addictive, or harmful.
Read section 89 in the Doctrine and Covenants. You will find great promises:
“All saints who remember to keep and do these sayings, walking in obedience to the commandments, shall receive health in their navel and marrow to their bones;
“And shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures;
“And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint.”
And then this promise: “And I, the Lord, give unto them a promise, that the destroying angel shall pass by them, as the children of Israel, and not slay them.”10

“Ouch!” Nate cried. “That hurt.”
Meg looked over at her little brother. Mom had brought them to their favorite playground for the afternoon. Nate was digging in the sand near the swings. Now two girls playing near him were throwing toys at him.
“That’s not very nice,” he said. “Please stop.”
The two girls just laughed and kept throwing toys and sand.
Meg was upset. Nate hadn’t done anything to the girls. He had been playing by himself. They should be nicer to him.
Meg looked for Mom. She was talking with other adults on the other side of the playground. Meg worried that by the time she got Mom to come help, Nate would be really hurt.
Meg decided to take care of it herself. She walked over and stood between Nate and the girls. The girls looked surprised. They stopped throwing toys.
“That’s my little brother,” Meg told the girls. “You should be nice to him.” Then Meg had an idea. “What if we play together? Do you know how to play freeze tag?”
One of the girls smiled and said, “That’s my favorite game!”
As the girls ran off toward the field, Nate turned to Meg. “Thanks for helping me. You’re a great sister.”
Meg smiled and hugged him. She was glad she had been able to help her brother.

One of the trials that our family endured was when my oldest brother got sick and, after a while, died. It was really hard for us at first, but our family was able to overcome that trial. Because our family was sealed in the temple, we know that we will be with my brother again and with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ when the right time comes.
I know that this trial was one of the ways the Lord prepared us for other trials—to help us become stronger. Everyone has trials to endure, and our Heavenly Father knows we can overcome them. So we shouldn’t lose hope.
Carmila R., age 18, Southern Tagalog, Philippines

“Just before I take part in competition, I always ask Heavenly Father to help me get through,” says 13-year-old discus thrower Leanne Grey, of Sutton Coldfield, England. “This is a great comfort. Having a clear conscience and feeling good inside helps too.”
It seems to be working. She’s won first place in the Independent Schools 16-and-under age group, after facing stiff competition from the rest of the country.

As a young missionary serving in the Central States Mission, Elder Kimball was traveling on a train to Chicago, Illinois, when a man approached him.
Man: Hey there, young fellow. I have a book that I think you’ll like.
It was a vulgar book filled with obscene pictures. Spencer wouldn’t touch it.
Elder Kimball: You are wrong, sir. That book does not appeal to me.
The man tried a different approach.
Man: Come into the city with me. I’ll show you where you can have a good time.
Elder Kimball: Absolutely not. I am a representative of Jesus Christ, and I will not follow where you go.
The man realized that the young missionary was in earnest and finally left him alone. Spencer recorded in his journal that he could feel himself blush for an hour.
Elder Kimball: Oh, how hard Satan, through his imps, tries to lead young people astray.I thank the Lord that I had the power to resist.

I was given the chore of cleaning up our large playroom by myself. I looked at the mess all over the floor and felt sad because I knew I would be cleaning for a long time. My mom teaches me to pray when I feel sad, so I knelt down and asked Heavenly Father to help me clean the playroom and not feel sad. I stood up and had the idea of singing Primary songs as I cleaned. As I sang, I felt much better and was able to clean the whole playroom very quickly. I know that Heavenly Father answers prayers sometimes by giving us ideas in our minds.

In a western city a young man had been preparing for 18 years to go on a mission. He was excited, his parents were excited, his girlfriend was also, and he was ready.
One evening at the city swimming pool, he and some friends were diving from the highboard. The second he hit the water, he knew his approach angle had not been good. He was in trouble. His head pierced the water and struck the bottom of the pool with a sickening thud. He was immediately knocked unconscious. He was brought carefully to the poolside and then rushed to the hospital. After weeks of medical attention, he was finally told that he would be paralyzed for the rest of his life from his neck down. He couldn’t move a finger or a toe, an arm or a leg. He would now lie in bed forever. His body would become a useless thing, and unless something unusual happened, so would his spirit.
A wise bishop recognized the problem. After talking with the boy’s parents and the doctor, the bishop gave him an assignment. It was unbelievable, unreal, impossible! The assignment: would he please write a letter each month to every missionary and serviceman from their ward? Was the bishop just not thinking or was he inspired? How could the boy write with no hands or fingers to assist? Some had learned to use their toes in such an emergency, but he couldn’t move his. Having faith in their bishop, the boy and his parents started to work on the assignment. It took days, weeks, and months of effort and discouragement. In time, it began to happen.
By putting a pencil between his teeth and moving his head, he learned to make a mark, then a word, next a sentence, and finally a page. He wrote and wrote.
For over 20 years he has been writing beautiful letters. He has inspired thousands. The side benefit is that his own spirit, simply stated, is magnificent. Is it worth the effort to follow our leaders’ counsel no matter how hard or how difficult? He thinks so. So do I.

One winter’s night during a particularly nasty snowstorm, there was a serious automobile accident in a small Idaho town not far from the Utah border. A young child was critically injured. I was an air ambulance pilot in the Salt Lake City area and was dispatched in a fixed-wing aircraft to pick her up and bring her back to Salt Lake.
The closest airport to the accident was in Pocatello, Idaho. While it would take us only about 45 minutes to fly from Salt Lake City to Pocatello, it would take the ambulance crew nearly three hours to transport the girl from the accident site to Pocatello because of hazardous driving conditions. Even though the air transport team would arrive well before the ambulance crew, the doctor in charge wanted us there early to transfer the little girl from the ambulance to the airplane without any delay, getting her on her way to a major trauma center.
The weather was bad; these were the absolute minimum conditions we could land in. A small commuter airliner was also on approach to Pocatello, about 10 minutes ahead of us. I listened intently to the other pilot’s radio communications, knowing we would encounter the same conditions. His approach was routine, until he should have been able to see the runway. It wasn’t visible, however, and he had to give up the approach and go around.
Now it was our turn. I was very concerned—what if we couldn’t get in and had to return without the injured girl? I quickly said a silent prayer. I told Heavenly Father if He wanted us to pick up that little girl I would need His help.
I began the descent. It seemed to take forever. I couldn’t see a thing except gray cloud and snow blowing horizontally past the windshield. I was quickly approaching the point where, like the commuter airliner, I would have to break off the approach. I waited until the last possible instant, and then suddenly the runway lights came into view. They were dim but good enough. I reduced the power and landed and offered a silent prayer of gratitude for the miracle I had just experienced.
As I taxied to our parking spot, two things were obvious—the storm wasn’t going to let up, and the company that usually provided us with deicing service and a hangar to protect the aircraft from the weather had closed for the evening.
A few minutes later the commuter airliner landed safely. Immediately the control tower closed and the controllers went home. After the passengers and crew of the commuter plane left, the ground staff locked up the airport terminal building and went home too. My colleagues and I were left with no way to deice the airplane or to put it in a hangar, and the snow was beginning to fall even harder. There was a very real possibility we would not be able to leave until the next morning.
The transport team and I decided it would be best to wait and see what conditions were like when the ambulance arrived. As I looked out the plane’s window, I could see the snow starting to stick to the commuter airliner, parked not far from where we were. Knowing it would be unsafe to attempt a takeoff with any amount of snow or ice on our airplane, I went outside. The snow was falling very hard and beginning to stick to our wings. I walked around to where I would be out of view and offered another prayer.
Time seemed to pass very slowly that evening. Occasionally I would look out at the snow accumulating steadily on the commuter plane, but I avoided going outside again to check our own wings.
After nearly two hours the ambulance arrived with the little girl. I opened the cabin door and got out. The commuter plane was covered with snow and ice. I turned around to see what condition our plane was in. Although I had tried to have faith and be optimistic, I am ashamed to say I was astounded by what I saw. Tears of gratitude welled up in my eyes as I walked around the airplane. It was clean and dry—absolutely no snow or ice anywhere on it. It looked as if it had just come out of a heated hangar. The snow had also stopped falling, and visibility had improved to the point where it would be possible to take off.
Heavenly Father had provided the miracles we needed that night to get a little girl to the hospital. It was a very humble pilot who bowed his head in gratitude that evening for the great blessings he had received.
The flight back to Salt Lake was completely routine. Certainly my prayers and the prayers of that girl’s family and friends had been answered. I never did hear what the little girl’s final outcome was, but my testimony of the overwhelming love and compassion our Father in Heaven has for His children was strengthened that winter night.

The other story I should like to tell is about another prodigal son in similar circumstances who also became involved with companions who persuaded him to leave home and family for the so-called freedom from the shackles of what they call “the establishment.” He too went the whole route—alcohol, tobacco, drugs, immorality.

The difference is between the endings of these stories. Something deep within kept the boy in touch with his family. Something stirred his memory of the teachings learned in his youth, and as his family strained to the breaking point to reach out and express their love on those occasions when he made contact with them, he eventually reluctantly consented to attend a family reunion, which was being held during one of his trips home. Unshaven, unkempt, long hair and all, he went.

Although disapproving, the family extended their welcome and their love. The boy felt their deep affection and knew that this was better than the superficial expressions of friendship from his other associates. He later accompanied his family to church and there met a sweet, young girl who showed an interest in him. Soon he was bathed, shaved, properly groomed, and living as he should.

It is honoring one’s parents and conforming to the standards of decency of a well-ordered and God-fearing society that will keep one from wandering into some of the forbidden paths. Generally speaking, we behave in accordance with the way we look and speak. If we want to be a part of a clean, refined group or organization, then we must accept their rules and standards.

“And please, Heavenly Father, bless me to know what our family can do to help build the temple,” Mama prayed. Phoebe looked at Mama’s face and saw tears rolling down her cheeks, dripping onto her faded blouse. “Into bed with you now,” Mama instructed.
As she pulled the covers up Phoebe asked, “Why are you crying, Mama? Is it because Papa’s on another mission?”
“I do miss Papa. It will be a glorious day when we’re all together again,” Mama said. She tucked the quilts around Phoebe, tight against the bitter night. “But we have so much to be grateful for—our house here in Nauvoo, and six healthy, beautiful children. The Lord is watching over us, Phoebe.”
“But why are you crying, Mama?”
Mama sighed. “I just want so much to help finish the temple.” Mama stood up. “Good night, sweet Phoebe,” she said, and snuffed out the candle.
Phoebe found it hard to sleep. Her arms ached from scrubbing, wringing, and hanging laundry. Her thumb throbbed from pricking it again and again while mending. Even her back was tired from carrying wood.
All of Nauvoo was busy as the Saints worked to finish the temple. While the men did the heaviest labor of hauling and hammering, carving and cutting, the women and children helped by spinning, weaving, knitting, and embroidering the finest additions for the inside of the temple. They also kept the workers fed. A warm feeling filled Phoebe’s heart as she remembered dishing the soup from the big pot at the temple grounds.
“Over here, little sister,” a worker had called to her.
As she offered the soup to the stonecutter she noticed how he held the steaming cup in both hands, soaking the warmth deep into his freezing fingers. The workers only took a moment to relax, then back they went to the next task. “Thank you, little sister,” the man had called.
And with that memory, Phoebe was sound asleep.
As the sun lightened the sky, Phoebe awakened and began to prepare for church. Sunday was the day she missed Papa most. But there were many things she loved about the Sabbath. She loved how everyone looked their best for church, and she loved how even the babies quieted when the Prophet Joseph Smith stood to speak.
This morning the Prophet thanked the Saints for their hard work on the temple and hoped they would double their efforts. Tears formed in Mama’s eyes again, and Phoebe imagined she could hear her mother praying, “How I wish we had more to give.” But they had given everything. How could Mama’s prayer be answered?
Driving home in the wagon, Mama suddenly yanked back on the reins, jerking the wagon to a stop while straining to see something near the roadside. Phoebe peered over the side of the wagon and saw two brown, furry heaps.
“Why, there’s the answer to our prayer,” Mama said. She pulled her sewing scissors from her bag and asked the older children to help her.
“Buffalo,” said little Sarah, pointing a chubby finger.
Two dead buffalo lay in the underbrush and Phoebe wondered where they possibly had come from.
“Help me, children,” Mama directed. The older children pulled at the long mane hair and Mama cut and snipped until they had a large bundle of brown, coarse hair. It took a long time, but their work had just begun. The next day, they washed the hair squeaky clean with strong lye soap. Next, Phoebe brushed and brushed the hair with the carding comb till it was straight and tangle free. Mama spun the hair on a spindle, making yards of dark brown yarn.
All the while Phoebe held back the question until she couldn’t wait another minute. “What, why … how could we ever use such ugly, coarse yarn for something as beautiful as the temple?”
“You’ll see,” Mama replied.
At last the yarn was ready. As Mama began to knit, Phoebe watched in fascination as it slowly took shape. Suddenly, the image of the stonecutter’s cold, red hands came clearly to Phoebe’s memory.
“Mittens!” Phoebe exclaimed. “Mittens for the stonecutters. Now they won’t have to wait for a bowl of soup to warm their hands.”
By the time Mama finished she had knit eight pairs of brown mittens. “They’re beautiful,” Phoebe sighed as she touched each pair. She felt as if her heart was wrapped up in a warm mitten. Mama’s prayers had been answered and their buffalo mittens would help build the temple.

The hospital was tall, five stories tall. It was a new building with hundreds of windows in uniform rows. I stood before it, my head bent back as my eyes scanned the top row of windows. So many windows, each with a personal story behind it. Which one housed my grandpa, my childhood, my life? I looked to the pavement below my feet and slowly shook my head. My hand wiped away a tear, and I entered the modern, colorful house of birth, of joy, of pain, of loneliness, and … I shuddered … and hoped I would never have to come here again.
“Room 363, intensive care.” The woman’s face was blank, expressionless. Again I felt the tightness in my chest. Something wanted to explode there. I leaned against the elevator wall, my eyes shut tight.
The nurse was a little more human. “You’ll have to wait a moment, dear. The doctor is with him,” she whispered. The hall, the air was hushed and still. At the end of the hall in the corner, a quiet bottle rack stood with rows of empty pop bottles. It made me think of Grandpa’s store. Grandpa kept all the empty pop bottles in a bushel basket just inside the back door. It didn’t take me long to figure out that if I went in the back door, took a couple of bottles, went out the back door and around to the front door, I could give Grandpa the bottles and buy a candy bar. Then Grandpa would take the bottles out back and put them into the bushel basket to wait till the next time I got a craving for a Hershey bar. Back home we had to search up and down the streets, in and out of alleys, through garbage cans to find an empty pop bottle. Life was just easier all the way around here with Grandpa and Grandma.
Thinking of Grandma made me feel a little apprehensive. She was in with Grandpa now, but sooner or later I would have to see her, I would have to say something. It doesn’t seem possible that two people could live in the same house together for 13 years and still be strangers. How could she be so unlike Grandpa? She’d never been cross or impatient, but I couldn’t talk to her. I secretly suspected that she’d been relieved to see me go. I sighed tiredly. Grandma wouldn’t understand my hurt. How could she? She didn’t know me.
The door swung silently open. The doctor walked through the doorway and looked kindly at me. “You must be Janie,” he said. “Your Grandpa has been asking for you.”
I let out a long breath and stood. I felt light-headed. My legs felt like jelly. I looked to the doctor for strength. But he didn’t know me either. He smiled and walked down the hall.
I entered the room. Grandpa was not small and shriveled. He was not senseless. He smiled at me. He looked very pale.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I cried and ran to his open arms. He held me, patting my back.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I have no regrets.” I looked at him with a teary face. His eyes were clear. He looked tired.
“Don’t cry, Blondie Boo. Don’t cry.” His eyes closed. He held me a moment longer, then his hands, his arms, relaxed. They lay heavy on my back.
“Grandpa,” I sobbed. I could see him lying still. But someone’s warm hands were on my shoulders. I turned to look into Grandma’s face.
“For the first time in his life he was wrong,” she said. “It’s all right to cry.” Surprised, I saw that she was crying, too. I could only stare.
“Come stay with me for a while,” she said suddenly. I was confused.
“Please,” she said. “It will be kind of like wiping up raindrops. I’ll help you … and you can help me.” I couldn’t believe it. She did understand. And in her quiet way she probably always had.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll stay.” I had a grandmother to get to know.

Jason C. Jones climbed out of the hatchway and stepped on the deck of the ship. Full daylight spread across the ocean. He looked up at the enormous square sails spread overhead. Usually the rising sun tinged them gold, but this morning the clouds were heavy. No sunlight came through.
Jason walked around boxes and barrels lashed on deck that belonged to the emigrants. He was looking for his friend William Baxter, first mate of the ship.
William had told Jason shortly after they embarked from Liverpool, England, that he was glad to sail on a ship with Latter-day Saints on board.
“Sailors know,” William had said, winking at Jason, “that ships carrying your people aren’t apt to be lost at sea.”
During the long days of the voyage, William had talked with Jason, explaining many things about the ship. He pointed out how the sails worked and even let Jason raise and lower the small, triangular canvas sheets he called jibs and staysails.
He also told Jason what the captain was doing when he used a sextant. “He’s finding our way across the water,” William explained. “There are no roads on the sea. Our landmarks can’t rightly be called that. We must steer by sun and stars.”
Walking to the rail on this morning, Jason looked down at the water. He clung to the rail, frightened. Never had he seen such high waves. They looked like vast green hills, rolling forward, with deep valleys between. The waves caused the ship to pitch up and down, heavily. It was hard for Jason to stand. He was afraid.
The great square sails fastened crosswise on the ship’s mast billowed outward as the wind blew even harder. People who were beginning to come on deck for air after a night spent between decks felt its force. Jason saw Mrs. Perkins grab for her skirts as they swirled about. Mr. Wilson’s long white beard blew straight out. In spite of his fear, the sight made Jason laugh.
Then he saw his father going toward Captain Brown. Jason followed. He heard the captain shout, “Best get your folks below again, Elder Jones. She’s comin’ on to blow hard!”
Jason’s father, holding his black hat with both hands, began to direct the people back down the hatchway. Jason saw William swinging along the deck.
“Can I help?” he called, running beside the sailor.
He thought about how much William had taught him. Once they had even gone into the wheelhouse where he had let Jason take the wheel, alone. Holding the big wooden spokes, feeling the great square-rigger ship move under his hands, had made Jason feel like a king.
Now that ship was in danger, and so were the people on it! Jason worried about the old folks, the young couples with their children—even a baby born the day before—who had left their homes in England to go to new homes in the Salt Lake Valley.
Jason heard William shout, “Grab a line there, boy! Help reef the sail!”
He ran along the tilting deck. Pulling hard on a rope end, Jason helped the sailors shorten sails. Wild wind whipped his clothes. Pelting rain blew sideways and slashed at his body as he shivered with excitement and cold.
Captain Brown, standing on the forward deck with his legs sprawled wide, pointed upward. Jason heard him bellow, “Aloft, men!”
He could hardly believe that sailors were to be sent along those high ropes and into the rigging in such a storm. Jason saw the huge sails billow, felt the ship under him leap like a runaway horse. Then he knew the sailors must obey their captain; the safety of the ship depended on it.
Captain Brown took Jason’s shoulder and shouted, “Go tell your father we could use a special prayer!”
Jason scrambled down the hatchway into the darkness—no candles could burn in such a storm. Even though he knew there were more than four hundred people gathered below decks, he heard no sound except roaring wind and pounding water.
Then he saw his father. He and several other men were kneeling in a circle. Jason knew they were already saying the prayer for which Captain Brown had asked.
Jason returned to the deck. Tilting his head back, he saw sailors hanging, high above, to wooden booms that were anchored crossways on the tall mast. The sailors struggled to anchor sails to the booms. How could they keep from being blown off the swaying booms while they fastened flapping canvas? Finally the sails were secured. One by one the sailors lowered themselves on the ropes and jumped to the deck.
Suddenly Jason felt his feet slip under him. The ship was sliding sideways. Down, down it went, until Jason was sure it would never again float upright. An enormous wave crashed on deck, smothering him with green water. He gasped, fighting for air, as the ship slowly returned to an even keel.
Wiping water out of his eyes, Jason looked around. Captain Brown stood still. So did the sailors, their faces tight with fear. But the wild waves were beginning to smooth out. The screaming wind died. Gradually the calm sound of the creaking mast and of a baby crying below deck could be heard.
William Baxter spoke with awe. “The storm’s blown out.”
Jason’s father and two other men came on deck. Captain Brown went to them. He held out his hand.
“In my thirty years at sea,” he declared, “I have never seen a terrible storm end so quickly.” Then he added solemnly, “The Lord be praised!”

The Pacific Area Presidency invited members and friends of the Church to make extra efforts to serve during February 2021—“Come and Help” month.
In South Australia, members of the Onkaparinga and Happy Valley wards chose to serve at The Stables Christian Centre at Huntfield Heights.
The volunteers dismantled two large sheds and many old tables and desks. They also sorted items for rubbish removal and recycling. Many overgrown trees and bushes were cut, the large woodpile was tidied up, and flooring and furniture were rearranged to be under cover.
They also cleaned donated medical equipment and packed it in a container to be sent overseas. Desks, tables, and other usable furniture donated by schools, were cleaned up to be either sent overseas or sold in their “Op shop”—a store to raise funds for shipping containers to Africa, Papua New Guinea, and Vanuatu.
“We appreciate that your Church has joined us in this clean-up,” Lynne said, “as the work is quite extensive. We are well on the way to restoring the site so that we can invite families, vulnerable people and people with disabilities to enjoy our unique property that we see as the Lord’s place and a place of blessing.”
The morning was a great success, providing needed service and accomplishing much more than was expected.

Many years ago, Sister Bednar and I were busy trying to meet the countless competing demands of a young and energetic family—and of Church, career, and community responsibilities. One evening after the children were asleep, we talked at length about how effectively we were attending to all of our important priorities. We realized that we would not receive the promised blessings in eternity if we did not honor more fully the covenant we had made in mortality. We resolved together to do and to be better as a husband and a wife. That lesson learned so many years ago has made a tremendous difference in our marriage.

Such was my experience as pertains to President George H. Watson, who today serves as first counselor in the Naperville Illinois Stake presidency.
Brother Watson wrote a letter to me, never mailed, dated 3 October 1978, which tells of his conversion to the Church and of his baptism, which took place in the summer of 1959 in eastern Canada, where I served as the mission president at that time. I did not receive this letter until this past year, when it was carried to me by Elder John E. Fowler, who discovered its existence while visiting with the Watson family following a stake conference in Naperville. Both Brother Watson and I have some modest reluctance in sharing with you his private letter, but feeling the impression that the account would help to encourage many of you brethren participating in this worldwide priesthood meeting this evening, we shall do so.
I will conclude by reading President Watson’s own words. He wrote:
“Dear Elder Monson:
“This is a letter out of the blue. Its purpose is to thank you for the letters you wrote some twenty years ago—one to me and the other about me—and to let you know the effect they had on my life.
“My name is George Watson. In 1957, at the age of twenty-one, I emigrated from Ireland, where I had grown up, to Canada. The main purpose of going to Canada was to put together sufficient money to do postgraduate work at London University.
“The firm for which I worked was in Niagara Falls, and I found a room at the ridiculously inexpensive cost of $6.00 per week. The only drawback was that I had to drive the landlady—age seventy-three—to church each Sunday in St. Catharines, Ontario.
“I soon found this chore to be very annoying, as she used the twenty-five-minute drive to try to get me to see the missionaries from her church. I resisted this very effectively for better than a year, until one day she told me that there were two young ladies coming to supper, and would I care to join them. It is very difficult to be rude to lady missionaries!
“I did a great deal of thinking over the next few months and decided that although what eleven sets of missionaries were telling me felt right, I would have to give up too much, besides which I was fed up running my landlady to church. In order to stop her asking for the ride, I decided to take her half an hour late on the next Sunday and to go in and sit with her in an open-neck shirt, sneakers, and sports slacks. I thought this would embarrass her and she would not ask me again.
“My plan worked perfectly, except that she was not annoyed at being late, and I made as much impact as a damp squid. We arrived just as the Sunday School was splitting for class. I would not go into class and spent my time talking to a very fine man who was crippled and who ‘understood’ me. As I was to return to Ireland eight days later (July 1959), he suggested that I should join the Church on the Saturday before I left. He was to call and confirm this during the week, but I effectively countered this by not answering the phone all week. On Sunday, after a sleepless night, I phoned him to apologize and was baptized in Hamilton virtually on the way to the airport—knowing that I would never meet any Mormons in Ireland and that the Church would lose track of me.
“I have no idea, President Monson, where you found my address in Ireland, but on the Friday after I returned, I had a letter from you welcoming me into the Church, and on Sunday at 9:00 a.m. there was a knock on the door and a President Lynn stood on the doorstep saying he had had a letter from President Monson in Toronto asking him to watch over me.
“The next few months or years were traumatic. Three meetings on a Sunday were entirely unreasonable; no way would I speak in front of that group; they can’t expect more than 10 percent. Even more traumatic, my girlfriend set out to show me how ridiculous I was. She ended up being baptized.
“We now live in Illinois with three wonderful children. I often sit and ponder why the Lord has blessed us so greatly. We have all had reason to feel His sustaining hand in difficult times.
“Although it is unlikely that we will ever meet, I would like to very sincerely thank you for taking the trouble to write those two letters. They have completely changed the course of our lives. I am grateful for the knowledge of the Savior’s purpose in coming to earth, my relationship to Him, and what He expects of me. The courage and steadfastness of Joseph Smith, the Prophet, and the knowledge that he imparted to us will always be a source of inspiration to me. I am thrilled at the opportunity of serving in the Lord’s Church.
“May the Lord continue to bless you in His work, and thank you for the effect you have had on my life.”
“[signed] George Watson”
This past Christmas, when George Watson and his beloved Chloe came to Salt Lake City to visit two of their children and a son-in-law, they came to my office, that we might formally meet. They expressed their testimonies and again conveyed their thanks for all who had participated in this human drama, this miracle in our time. Tears flowed, prayers were offered, and gratitude conveyed.
It was an appropriate season of the year for our visit together, when all Christendom pauses for a brief moment and remembers Him—even Jesus Christ—who died that we might have eternal life. He who notes the fall of the sparrow surely orchestrated the search-and-rescue mission that brought the Watson family to His fold. May we ever be found in His service and on His errand is my humble prayer, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Meagan Hansen (15) remembered the first time her family took him walking at the track. “There is a chain that prevents people from driving cars onto the track. My Dad asked Fernando, ‘How do you get over that?’ ‘I jump,’ he answered. Dad gave him a look, and Fernando said, ‘Seriously.’ So we wheeled him up to the chain and waited to see what he would do. He just lifted the chain up and rolled under it.”

Conner Hansen (8) said, “Sometimes I think my problems are really bad, but when I look at Fernando’s problems, I don’t complain.”

The Hansens add, “No matter what comes up, we don’t miss walking with Fernando. He’s amazing! He helps us keep an eternal perspective. It’s the best thing we do each month.”

Fernando works hard every single day to improve. “I always believed I would get better. I just take it one day at a time.”

“In time he will get better,” Talmage Hansen (11) declared. “He believes it, and so do I.”

Having so many friends in the ward who love and help him, and knowing that he is an invaluable influence in their lives, has helped Fernando continue trying. His strong spirit and testimony have spiritually strengthened those who have helped him strengthen his physical body.

Fernando may have to wait to serve a full-time mission, but he is touching the lives of the Primary children in his ward right now by his example of faith, patience, and trust in the Lord. And they are touching his with their patience, love, and service. “I hope that the children know that they really can help others,” he said.