Gospel Story Finder

It was six years after my first awkward testimony when, at the age of 23, I found myself feeling like a visitor again, in a different ward. But I was patiently embraced by friends, neighbors, home teachers, and ward members who made me feel welcomed, who took me as I was, and helped me through my life’s challenges. They were not afraid to associate with me. They did their best not to judge me. Were there awkward moments? Of course! But I have come to believe that most of the judgements, inconsiderate statements, and misguided advice people make and give are generally not communicated out of spite or malice, but out of a struggle to understand, sympathize with, or even embrace that which might be considered “different.”

As humans, Christians, and as struggling Saints we sometimes make mistakes. And while we strive to hold Latter-day Saints to a “Visitors welcome” ideal, we also need to recognize human fallibility in that process.

At the end of January 1831, Joseph and Emma Smith traveled to Kirtland, Ohio, in a horse-drawn sleigh. It was very cold, and Emma was expecting a baby. They arrived safely in front of Newel K. Whitney’s store in Kirtland the first part of February. As they stopped, the prophet sprang from the sleigh, entered the store, and approached Brother Whitney, whom he had never met before. “Newel K. Whitney!” he declared, extending his hand to shake. “Thou art the man.”

“You have the advantage of me,” replied Brother Whitney. “I could not call you by name as you have me.”

“I am Joseph the Prophet. You prayed me here, now what do you want of me?” Joseph then explained that while he was still in New York he had seen Brother Whitney in a vision, praying for him to come to Kirtland. With great joy the Whitneys made room in their home for the Smiths until they could find another place to live.**

Four years later, Katie, one of my daughters-in-law, underwent an emergency C-section to deliver twin baby girls at 25 weeks of gestation, too close to the threshold of infant viability for comfort. When the girls were just eight weeks old, Katie was returning home late at night from her daily visit with them in the neonatal intensive care unit of the hospital and was hit and killed by a drunk driver, leaving my son a widower with six children.
My wife was everything to me, and my son’s wife was everything to him. Those were tough times for our family.
I didn’t fully appreciate how great Tanya was and how much I depended on her until she was gone. But we had knelt at an altar in a holy temple, and someone having the sealing power had pronounced blessings upon us. I have clung to the promise of those blessings. I trust in those promised blessings.
Tanya’s death was a crisis of faith for me. I had to decide, “Do I really believe?” Faith is called a gift of God, but it’s also a choice we make—a choice to believe. I chose to believe, and I found out that Moroni was correct when he wrote that we receive no witness until after the trial of our faith (see Ether 12:6). After the trial, the witness did come. My faith was rewarded with a confirming peace of mind. That’s what has enabled me to go forward.
As my second wife, Becky, says: “We need faith the most when we face a crisis. Going to the Lord really is the only answer. It is the way to cope and hope.”
Brother Evans and his wife, Becky, share photos of his daughter-in-law and her twin baby girls.
For a time, I struggled to figure out what was faith and what was hope. Alma describes faith as a “hope for things which are not seen, which are true” (Alma 32:21). Because of my faith in Jesus Christ, I have hope that if I remain faithful and true to my covenants, I can share eternal life with Tanya. I am also grateful for the assurance I have that the Savior is there for each of us. There’s a difference between thinking, “He’s there” and realizing, “He’s there for me.”
My two grandchildren have lasting ill effects from their car accident, and I still grieve Tanya’s absence in my life. I’ll never stop missing her, and the love I have for her is not diminished by the love I have for my second wife. The love has just multiplied.
My son has also remarried. His new wife is Becky’s first cousin once removed. We both married into the same family. What are the odds of that? It’s an amazing coincidence, or maybe it’s not.
Our family has had its share of challenges, but we have also experienced blessings. My son has become one of my heroes. He forgave the drunk driver who killed his wife, and he told her he hoped she would straighten out her life. His two little girls recently celebrated their fifth birthday. They are real miracle babies.
“I am grateful for the assurance I have that the Savior is there for each of us.”
For the past 17 years, I have had the privilege of serving as a patriarch. At first, I was afraid I couldn’t fulfill the calling, but I have learned that the blessings come from the Lord, not the patriarch. There are common themes in patriarchal blessings because our Heavenly Father wants many of the same things for all His children, but each blessing is different, individual, and personal.
One of the purposes of a patriarchal blessing is to help individuals see who they are as children of God and to discern how much their Heavenly Father loves them. As a patriarch, whenever I lay my hands on someone’s head to give them a patriarchal blessing, for just a few precious moments, Heavenly Father allows me to feel the love He has for that individual. It is an overpowering feeling. When I feel how much He loves each blessing recipient, I can feel that He loves me too.
“Nothing brings me greater joy than the promises of the temple, which give me hope that through Christ, I can overcome all trials,” says Brother Evans.
Today, Becky and I focus on the temple. One of the reasons our Lord has given us the temple is to give us a glimpse of Zion. In addition to being a patriarch, I was invited some years ago to serve as a sealer in the temple. That has been another great joy of my life. It is a calling of all happy occasions. Nothing brings me greater joy than the promises of the temple, which give me hope that through Christ, I can overcome all trials.

There is an interesting example in the history of the Church that illustrates the difference between doubting—which often leads to darkness and uncertainty—and patient and intelligent inquiry—which leads to understanding and spiritual confirmation. When the Prophet Joseph Smith received the vision concerning the three degrees of glory, which is in section 76 of the Doctrine and Covenants, many members of the Church, including Brigham Young, initially had a difficult time accepting it as a revelation from the Lord because it departed significantly from the mainstream Christian view of one heaven and one hell. However, listen to how Brigham chose to respond: “My traditions were such, that when the Vision came first to me, it was so directly contrary and opposite to my former education, I said, wait a little, I did not reject it, but I could not understand it.”

Brigham decided to exercise patience, to pray, to ponder, and to seek clarification from the prophet. But while he sought further understanding, he did not let go of what he had come to love in the restored gospel. And soon, he obtained his own witness from the Holy Ghost.

There are many people in the world who travel great distances at great personal sacrifice to go to the temple. I know our Heavenly Father is aware of their righteous desires and blesses them abundantly for their efforts. Recently a group came to the Tokyo Temple from Okinawa—nine hundred miles by plane—among them a young couple who had come to be married. It had required all the money they could possibly save to pay for their transportation, and there was nothing left for a wedding celebration or honeymoon. When those who accompanied the couple realized their plight, they dug deep into their own pockets and contributed what little they had so the couple could have money for a delightful one-day honeymoon in Tokyo. Not only did the young couple enjoy the blessings of the temple, but they also enjoyed and appreciated the generosity and kindness of their brothers and sisters. Surely Paul’s teachings to the Ephesian Saints apply, when he said, “Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God.” (Eph. 2:19.)

Dear Miss A,Just a note to say hello and let you know of my love. I hope all is well.Love,Miss Antaloop
Julia folded up the note, then, in red marker, wrote, “Miss A,” in an extravagant, cursive style that didn’t resemble her own handwriting.
The bell rang, and the second grade classroom exploded in a frenzy of activity—backpacks zipped, desks slammed, and children noisily exited the room. Julia set the envelope on her teacher’s desk without being noticed and left with her classmates. She was determined that Miss Allen, or Miss A, as her second grade students called her, would have no clues about the mysterious Miss Antaloop.
A month earlier, Julia had overheard Miss A telling another teacher that she had nowhere to go for the upcoming Christmas holiday. Julia could not imagine a Christmas without family.
“I heard Miss A say she had nowhere to go for Christmas,” Julia told her mom after school. “Why doesn’t she go home to her family?”
“Julia, Miss Allen told me once that she was an only child, and I know that both of her parents have passed away. She probably doesn’t have any family to go to.”
Julia’s face twisted into a frown. “That’s so sad! Why, Miss A is the nicest, most wonderful teacher ever!” She paused, thinking. “Hey—can we be her family?”
“She is a very special teacher,” Mom agreed. “I’ve invited her to come to dinner before, when David was in her class. I also invited her to his mission farewell, but she didn’t come.”
That night Julia wrote her first letter to Miss A from the make-believe Miss Antaloop. Most of the students loved Miss A. But Julia wanted to find a way to show her that she was loved as a friend, not just as a teacher who might be forgotten. So she made up the character of Miss Antaloop. Julia wasn’t sure of Miss Antaloop’s age or background, but she knew that Miss Antaloop loved adventure and loved Miss A. The second letter established England as Miss Antaloop’s home.
Dear Miss A,I’ve heard all about you and what an incredible teacher you are. I was hoping we could be pen pals and friends. I’ve been in Italy, painting, and just moved to London to design jewelry for the Queen of England. You are pretty and a great teacher.Love,Miss AntaloopP.S. I’ve enclosed one of my latest jewelry designs. I hope you like it.
Julia carefully wrapped a bracelet she’d sculpted out of tinfoil in some tissues and placed it in a brown paper bag with the letter. The next morning she arrived at school early. She tiptoed into the main office, placed the brown sack in Miss Allen’s mailbox, and then ran out before she could be spotted.
Later that day, Miss A was wearing the silver foil bracelet.
“Hey, Miss A, where’d you get that silver thing?” Tommy asked.
“Why, it’s a bracelet all the way from England,” Miss A said with a big smile. Julia looked up from her spelling book with a start.
“Who gave it to you? Is it from a kid?”
Miss A put her finger to her lips, signaling Tommy to use his quiet voice.
“Is it from a kid?” Tommy repeated in a fierce whisper.
Julia swallowed.
Miss A’s blue eyes sparkled. “It’s from a special friend,” she said. Since the first delivery, Julia had noticed her little gifts and letters appearing on Miss A’s bookshelf.
On the day before school was to close for the Christmas break, Miss A let the children share their holiday plans. Phillip was going sledding. Andrea was going to California to visit her grandparents. Tommy planned to eat all of the candy in his stocking in one day.
“What are you going to do, Miss A?” Andrea asked.
“I am going to spend my holiday at home.”
“Why don’t you come to my house?” Julia asked.
“And then come over to mine!” Phillip echoed. Suddenly the classroom broke out in a chorus of second-graders begging their teacher to join them for Christmas.
“You’re all very sweet,” said Miss A, “but you have your families to celebrate with and, as you’ve just told me, many activities planned. I’ll be right here by my desk at the first of January, waiting to see you and hear about all of your fun.”
The bell rang. As Julia walked slowly out of the room, Miss A said, “Good-bye, Julia. Merry Christmas!”
Julia’s house buzzed with Christmas preparations over the next few days.
While Julia helped wrap presents and bake food, she kept thinking of Miss A’s face as the different students described their holiday activities with their families. She had smiled, but her blue eyes had looked empty with loneliness. Julia decided to do something about it.
“David, David,” Julia whispered as she knocked on her brother’s bedroom door.
The door swung open, and David looked down at his little sister. “Hey, Jules, what’s up? Are you being a Christmas elf?”
“No,” Julia said. “I need help.”
David crouched down to look Julia in the face. “OK, Jules, what’s up?”
“I need you to help me—it’s very important. I want to deliver this to Miss A.” She held up a large white box. “Dad said you could take me.”
“What is it, Jules? I thought you already gave her a Christmas present.”
“I did, but this is a special present.”
David lifted the box lid to see the nativity scene that Julia had made with salt dough in Primary last year, nestled in tissue paper. Last year Julia had been so proud of it that she insisted that it be displayed in the living room.
“Your nativity set? But you love this.”
“I know.” Julia lovingly touched the Baby Jesus in the manger. “But I think Miss A feels lonely. I think she forgot that Jesus loves her.”
David smiled at the misshapen dough figures. “OK,” he said, picking up the box in one arm and Julia in the other. “Then let’s go, little elf.”
The car cut through the snowy, dark streets and stopped at a brown apartment building.
“I guess this is it.”
“Are you sure?”
“This is the address in the phone book,” David said. Julia looked doubtfully at the long staircase and dark windows.
“Jules, do you want me to do it?”
Julia’s face relaxed into a smile. “Will you?”
“Hand it over,” David laughed.
Julia straightened the bow so that “Merry Christmas from England! Love, Miss Antaloop” was visible. “Be careful, and run fast so she doesn’t see you,” she whispered.
Julia quickly changed into a Sunday dress and came down for the annual Christmas Eve family home evening. The family had just settled in the living room, when the doorbell rang. “Who could that be on Christmas Eve?” Mom wondered aloud. Dad went to answer the door and returned, followed by Miss A.
“Miss A!” Julia ran up to her teacher.
“Miss Allen, what a wonderful surprise!” Mom said. “Come in.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But I received a very special present this evening, and I had to come thank the person who gave it to me.”
“What … but … how did you know, Miss A?” Julia asked, embarrassed she’d been discovered.
Miss A smiled. “Julia, you must tell Miss Antaloop thank you for bringing some light into my Christmas.” She hugged Julia. “I had just sat down to watch a Christmas special on television, when the doorbell rang. I was surprised to find a present there and to open it and find such a beautiful reminder of the reason for Christmas!” Miss A’s eyes sparkled.
“Miss Allen, why don’t you take off your coat and stay. We’re going to have a little Christmas program, then dinner,” Mom said.
“Yes, please stay!” Julia begged.
“Come on, Miss A,” David chimed in.
“Well,” Miss A said. She looked around at the faces looking back at her with hopeful, welcoming expressions on them. Suddenly she did not want to return to her empty apartment. “OK—I will.”
“Hurray!” Julia cried.
“I’ll have to stay if I want to catch Miss Antaloop,” she whispered to Julia with a wink.
Julia smiled. She knew that Christmas wasn’t about make-believe friends. It was about love.

“Jerome Mooney!” his mom scolded from the back porch. “Stop spitting at your sister!”
“It’s OK, Mom,” said Mary Beth as she put the last spoon on the picnic table. “Jerome is showing me how he’s going to win a blue ribbon at the 4-H fair.”
“By spitting?”
“No,” Mary Beth explained with a grin, “by whistling. Jerome is entering the whistling competition. Talented, isn’t he? Last place is in the bag.”
“Oh, yeah, smartie?” Jerome retorted. “Just listen to this.”
But for all of Jerome’s effort, his whistle was no louder than a whisper.
“Jerome,” said Dad, handing him a hamburger, it takes a lot of practice to be able to win a blue ribbon, and the fair is only two weeks away.”
“That’s right,” said Mary Beth. “Practice in your room or when I’m not around,” she teased, “and I’ll call you when the two weeks are up.”
Jerome practiced and practiced. Every morning he played records and whistled along with them. Every afternoon he watched TV and whistled along with his favorite commercial jingles. And every time Grandpa called, Jerome whistled his best tunes into the telephone. Even while he got ready for bed, he whistled the songs he heard on his radio.
The more Jerome practiced, the better he became. By the end of the first week he was sure he could win first prize at the fair. Even Grandpa said he’d never heard anything like Jerome’s whistling. Just to be sure, though, Jerome chose “Yankee Doodle” as the tune he would whistle at the fair. He was positive that everyone loved it.
“A blue-ribbon tune if ever I heard one,” agreed Grandpa.
Mom made Jerome a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam costume out of a pair of Grandpa’s old pajamas. Dad gave Jerome a haircut and shined his Sunday shoes. “I don’t see how you can lose,” he said proudly.
“Jerome will find a way,” said Mary Beth.
But Jerome was determined to win. He had one more week to polish up his act. So, for six days straight, he whistled nothing but “Yankee Doodle.” Around and around through the house he marched, whistling the tune in time to the beat.
Mary Beth went around with cotton in her ears. Mom and Dad went to the store a lot, and everyone wished fair day would hurry and arrive.
On the night before the fair, Dad insisted that Jerome would do better if he didn’t whistle again until just before the competition. So Jerome put on his pajamas, kissed Mom and Dad goodnight, and went to bed early.
At breakfast Mary Beth rolled a penny across the table. “It’s for luck,” she said, “because you’re really going to need it. Just don’t forget to give it back to me after the contest.”
“I won’t need it,” said Jerome, but he took the penny and slipped it into his pocket—just in case.
Mom carefully packed Jerome’s costume into a bag. Then they all got into the van and headed for the fair.
At the fair they went to see all the exhibits of homegrown fruits and vegetables, handmade clothes and quilts, baked goods, and livestock. Jerome and Mary Beth pretended to drive some brand-new tractors while Mom and Dad set out their lunch of sausage-and-pepper sandwiches, ice-cold lemonade, and chocolate cake. After lunch they watched race cars roar around the track, and they munched on hot roasted peanuts.
At two o’clock the whistling competition was announced over the main loudspeaker. Jerome ran to the van to put on his costume. When he got to the grandstand, it was already filled with spectators. The contestants were divided into age groups, and each competitor was given a badge with his name and number on it. Jerome was number thirteen. Mom pinned the badge onto his costume and wished him luck.
After a short speech the emcee announced, “Number one, Abigail Potter, will whistle ‘You Are My Sunshine.’”
Jerome listened as the whistlers performed. Some were very good, but Jerome knew that he had the winning tune and a wonderful costume and that he wouldn’t make a single mistake because he had practiced so hard.
When the emcee called, “Number twelve,” from a far corner of the tent a boy appeared in a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam costume! Jerome could not believe his eyes.
The emcee announced, “Theodore Buzby will now whistle ‘Yankee Doodle.’”
“Hey, you can’t do that!” yelled Mary Beth.
“Shhh,” chided someone in the audience.
Jerome felt his palms get clammy. Perspiration ran down his face. He couldn’t do “Yankee Doodle” now, and he didn’t have a second-best tune.
“You’re up next,” the emcee said to Jerome when Theodore Buzby finished his performance. “What’s the name of your song?”
“I want to go home,” whispered Jerome.
As Theodore Buzby bowed, the audience clapped and cheered. There goes my blue ribbon, thought Jerome.
“Number thirteen, Jerome Mooney,” the emcee informed the crowd, “will whistle ‘I Want to Go Home.’”
Jerome found himself at the podium staring at the faces staring back at him. His costume felt like it was glued to his skin. His throat ached, and he searched frantically in his pocket for Mary Beth’s lucky penny and rubbed it. But he needed more than luck.
The audience was still waiting for him to begin. He stared desperately at his family in the stands. Mom looked worried, but she managed a comforting smile. Dad looked nervous, but he held up his fingers in a victory sign. Mary Beth was making ugly faces at Theodore Buzby.
The tent grew hotter by the minute. Jerome’s throat was parched—too dry, maybe, to whistle anything. He spotted a grape Popsicle in the front row and watched as it dripped down the arm of the small girl holding it. One by one the cool drops plopped onto the dusty ground.
Suddenly, from somewhere, came a familiar little tune. Jerome couldn’t remember its name or where he had heard it, but it was sort of catchy. He took a deep breath and whistled softly into the microphone. He’d give it his best even if it wasn’t a blue-ribbon tune.
Soon Jerome noticed smiles throughout the audience. Everyone loved his tune! And more and more fairgoers were coming into the grandstand to listen. He whistled louder and faster. Children clapped their hands in time to the music. He whistled the mystery song better than he had ever whistled before, and when he had finished, the audience stood and applauded. Even Theodore Buzby.
The judges’ decision was unanimous. Jerome Mooney was the best seven-to-twelve-year-old whistler at the fair. The blue ribbon was his. Jerome gazed at it happily.
“I knew you could do it,” said Mary Beth, closing the van door. “Now can I have my penny back?”
“I’m proud of you, Jerome,” said Mom. “I didn’t know what you were going to do. What was that little song? I know I’ve heard it somewhere.”
“It certainly was popular with the crowd,” said Dad.
“Listen,” said Mary Beth, and in the distance Jerome’s blue-ribbon tune was playing softly. It got louder and louder as it came closer and closer. The catchy tune brought dozens of kids running to the curb as an ice-cream vendor turned the corner.
“Oh, no,” said Jerome. “I didn’t win at all. The ice-cream truck did.”
“You silly,” said Mary Beth. “The ice-cream truck wasn’t even at the fair. Besides, it was a blue-ribbon tune only because you were a blue-ribbon whistler. Now please hand over my penny.”
And Jerome did. Whistling happily, he could hardly wait to get home to call Grandpa.

The challenges that face us and our families as disciples of Christ are somewhat different than those of Joshua’s Israelites. Let me illustrate with an experience. Our family lived for many years in the state of Florida. Because Florida has a high concentration of sand, lawns there are planted with a large broadleaf grass we call Saint Augustine. A formidable enemy of a Florida lawn is a small, brown insect called a mole cricket.

One evening as my neighbor and I stood on the front steps, he noticed a little bug crossing my sidewalk. “You better spray your lawn,” he warned. “There goes a mole cricket.” I had sprayed the lawn with insecticide not too many weeks previously, and I hardly felt that I had the time or money to do it again so soon.

In the light of the next morning, I examined my lawn closely. It was lush and beautifully green. I looked down into the grass to see if I could see any of the little bugs. I could see none. I remember thinking, “Well, maybe that little mole cricket was just passing through my yard on the way to my neighbor’s yard.”

I watched my lawn for more than a week, looking for signs of invaders, but none was evident. I congratulated myself that I had not overreacted to my neighbor’s warning.

The story, however, has a sad ending. I came out the front door one morning, about 10 days after the conversation with my neighbor. Shockingly, as if it had happened overnight, brown spots covered my lawn. I ran to the garden store, bought the insecticide, and sprayed immediately, but it was too late. The lawn was ruined, and to return it to its former state required a new crop of sod, long hours of work, and large expense.

My neighbor’s warning was central to my lawn’s welfare. He saw things I could not see. He knew something I did not know. He knew that mole crickets live underground and are active only at night, making my daytime examinations ineffective. He knew that mole crickets did not eat the leaves of the grass but rather found nourishment in the roots. He knew that these little inch-long creatures could eat a lot of roots before I would ever see the effect above the ground. I paid a dear price for my smug independence.

The other day at recess I was playing football with some of my friends. A girl from our class came over and asked if she could play with us. Some of the boys told her no because she was a girl. They said girls can’t play football. She looked really sad and started to walk away.
I remembered when the older boys wouldn’t let me play with them because I was too little. It made me feel bad. I told her to come back and that I would play a different game with her. Then the other boys said it would be OK if she played. She was so happy, and she turned out to be a better player than a lot of the boys. Now she plays with us every day. I feel good inside knowing I helped her to be happy. It makes me happy when I help others.

This element of our blueprint can be taught to children when they are yet young. When our oldest son was about three, he would kneel with his mother and me in our evening prayer. I was serving as the bishop of the ward at the time, and a lovely lady in the ward, Margaret Lister, lay perilously ill with cancer. Each night we would pray for Sister Lister. One evening our tiny son offered the prayer and confused the words of the prayer with a story from a nursery book. He began: “Heavenly Father, please bless Sister Lister, Henny Penny, Chicken Licken, Turkey Lurkey, and all the little folks.” We held back the smiles that evening. Later we were humbled as Margaret Lister sustained a complete recovery. We do not demean the prayer of a child. After all, our children have more recently been with our Heavenly Father than have we.

Seminary student Girly Mbuli explains how her faith and love of the scriptures saved her from a terrible situation.
“One day my friend Tiny Gugu and I had to go to Zondi to take some books to another girl. On our way back we saw a gang of boys. Gangs here rape girls, steal cars, do everything horrible. We started to run, but it was too late.
“The boys faced us. They had weapons. They made us go up on a hill and meant to do awful things to us. On the way up the hill, I was saying a prayer to my Heavenly Father. I don’t remember which scriptures I tried to say, but I kept thinking of them. I asked for help to be calm and not afraid. I felt peace come into my heart.
“When you are on top of that hill, you can see everything. The boys looked down and asked where I was staying. I pointed to Jabulane and something told me to say I was with my grandmother and my friend Lindiwe.
“The leader looked at me and said, ‘You are not afraid. Let them go!’ I later found out the brother of my friend Lindiwe is the boss of this gang, and he stays in the house of my grandmother. That is why they let us go free.
“When I tell this story to people, they refuse to believe we survived. But I know I did and I know why. It was because of my faith in Heavenly Father. I know that Isaiah 1:18 can be true for those guilty gang boys, if they will repent: “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.” [Isa. 1:18]

While I was on my mission in Taiwan, one Christmas I was feeling a little discouraged. I knew that Christmas should be about remembering the Savior and sharing the gospel, but I was looking forward to getting a package from home and going to the annual mission Christmas Eve celebration to help bring some Christmas cheer into my life. Although the other missionaries in my apartment had already received large packages, by Christmas Eve I still had not received anything.

I was feeling pretty miserable as my companion and I rode our bikes through pouring rain to the mission office to meet up for the celebration. I hoped that a package would be waiting for me, but when we arrived, not only were there no packages, but there were also no missionaries. We were late enough that the other missionaries had already left for the party. I don’t believe I’d ever felt so empty, so depressed, and so utterly alone. It did not feel like Christmas.

Sitting in the dark, all I could think about was how lonely and miserable I felt. Tears started to fall.

Then I heard the familiar sound of a motorcycle outside. It was the evening mail delivery. I looked out and saw the mailman carrying a package to the mission office.

To my surprise, the package was addressed to me. It was from the young women of my home ward. Inside I found the most wonderful, crushed, delicious, three-week-old chocolate chip cookies I’d ever tasted! They were like manna from heaven. My companion and I ate them together, with smiles on our faces and a little more of the Christmas spirit in our hearts.

The young women who put together that package probably had no idea how much it would lift the spirits of a discouraged missionary clear across the Pacific Ocean. The true meaning of Christmas focuses on our Savior, and the Christmas gift from those young women served as a gentle reminder to me that God is aware of our simple struggles. I have since learned even more that there’s much more to Christmas than merely receiving gifts. But to this day, that simple package has been one of the most meaningful Christmas gifts I have received, and it’s one I will never forget.

My first attempt at doing recreational activities with my siblings was rough, to say the least. But a turning point for me was a trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains. The leaves were every color, and the amusement park was fun, but moments of curt words, selfish actions, and teasing gone wrong often dampened the mood. Before we left, my sister and I hiked up a small hill and sat quietly as we listened to the nature around us. It was the first time in a while that we had sat without quarreling, quietly discussing the days ahead and our current struggles. The Spirit was present, bringing peace I had forgotten.
I started to try to go out of my way to talk to my siblings, ask them about their day, give them a hug—just be involved in their life. I helped my youngest, autistic brother with his homework. I helped my youngest sister make grammar flash cards and create silly rhymes to memorize the different parts of speech. On her next test she had improved by more than 20 points and received her highest test grade. The joy I felt from those moments was different and more profound than I had expected. Being in a family can be hard, but in times likes those it is all worth it. Those little moments lead to ones of fun, games, and laughter; and I have felt a new unity in my family.
Emily C., 17, North Carolina, USA

Decisions, when made in earnest, when made with one's whole heart, are extremely influential in our lives. I decided to be married to Shauna Sizemore in the Salt Lake Temple in 1971. I decided that I would love her, cherish her, pray for her, pray for us, provide for her, be a good example for her, and be attentive to her needs and deepest desires. Only she could say how well I have done that (and I have no plans to give out either my phone number or e-mail address!), but I have really tried to make her happy and secure. All of that because of a decision.

I decided when I was very young that I would observe the Word of Wisdom all my days, that I would abstain from alcohol, tobacco, coffee, tea, and habit-forming drugs. My wife and I made a decision, before we were married, that our marriage would indeed best be visualized as a triangle representing Shauna, Bob, and the Lord. Our individual lives and our marriage would belong to him. We decided that we would welcome children into our home, pay a full tithing, be active and involved in the Church and accept and magnify callings. We have been married now for a little less than forty years and, despite the challenges and pain and vicissitudes of life that inevitably come to every marriage, ours has been a happy union. We have had our differences, our disagreements, our diverse views on things, but the idea of throwing in the towel and choosing to divorce has never been an option. We feel the influence of that Holy Spirit of Promise, to whom it is given to bind and seal couples and families for eternity. We made an eternal decision. We have stuck with it. And that has made all the difference.

I want to talk to you young men about this priesthood and tell you a story or two from our family experience. Several years ago our sons would spend their time during the summer on their grandfather’s ranch. Twelve years ago one of our sons had a horse. It had been given to him when it was born. It had been running with a wild herd of horses on the ranch. It was now two years old, time that it could be broken to ride. Early one summer we went to the ranch. It took all day to get the horses into the corral. Finally we had my son’s horse in a chute and put a heavy halter on it. We put a big rope on it and tied it to a big post. “Now the horse must stay there for two or three days,” I told him, “until it quits fighting the rope, until it becomes calm.” We worked with it during the morning, and then we went in to eat. He hurried with his meal and then went out to his horse. He was 14. He loved that horse.
Just as we finished the meal, I heard a noise, and I heard him shout. I knew what had happened. He had untied the horse. I had told him not to, but he was going to work with it. In order to hold the horse, he had wrapped the rope around his wrist. As I came out the door, I saw that horse run by. My son was running after it with great big steps, pulled by the horse; and then he fell. If the horse had turned right, it would have gone out the gate into the mountains. It turned left and was cornered by two fences. While it was trying to find its way out, I got the rope off my boy’s wrist and the end of the rope around the post. He was bruised but not badly hurt.
In a little while we had the horse tied up again, and we sat down for a father and son lesson. I said to him this: “My boy, if you are ever going to control that horse, you will have to use something besides your muscles. The horse is bigger than you are; it is stronger than you are. Someday you can ride that horse, but it will have to be trained. You cannot train it with your muscles. It is bigger than you are; it is stronger than you are; and it is wild.”
Two years later we went to the ranch in the spring. This horse had been running all winter with the herd. We went to find it. We found the herd of horses down by the river. I knew if we went too close, they would run. So this boy and his sister took a bucket with some oats and walked quietly to the edge of the meadow. The horses began to move away slowly. Then he whistled, and his horse came out of the herd and trotted up to my boy. We had learned a great lesson. Much had happened in those two years. He had used more than his muscles.
After the experience when he had untied his horse, he was frightened. He had disobeyed, and he said, “Dad, what should we do?” And I said, “This is the way we will do it. And one day that horse will run up to you.” He had been prepared and had learned a great lesson.
The Aaronic Priesthood is the preparatory priesthood. It is the lesser priesthood. Preparatory for what? It is to prepare young men to hold the Melchizedek Priesthood. It is to prepare young men for life. It is to train them to be leaders. It is to train them in obedience. It is to train them to get control of things that are bigger than they are. It is to show them how to use more than their muscles.
Now, when you are ordained a deacon at age twelve, you join a quorum. Oh, what a marvelous blessing it is to belong to a quorum! All of your life you will belong to a quorum: the deacons quorum with twelve members, the teachers with twenty-four members, the priests quorum with forty-eight members. Then if you are faithful and worthy, you will be ordained to the Melchizedek Priesthood or the higher priesthood. But we are talking to the boys of the Aaronic Priesthood. The Aaronic Priesthood is to prepare us for the Melchizedek Priesthood. We are to learn how to do things in the same way we will do them when we hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.
Let me tell you about this boy again. Now he is married. He has graduated with a degree in engineering, and he has left to go away to a big city. He and his wife were nervous—a new job, a new home, away from the family.
He told me these two experiences. He worked in a large room with a lot of engineers. After he had been there for two months, he was getting things ready so that he could leave his work on time. We had taught him to arrive at work a little early and to stay a little after time, to do a little extra. But this day he wanted to get away right on time. One of the other engineers asked him where he was going.
“What are you in such a hurry for?”
“Well, we are going to a dinner tonight.”
“What kind of a dinner?”
“It’s a quorum dinner. We are taking our wives to a special dinner and social.”
The other engineer shook his head. “I don’t understand you. I’ve been here two years; I don’t know anybody yet. My wife and I are still just by ourselves. You’ve been here for two months. Already you’ve been invited to dinner.”
The next experience. One day one of the engineers asked if my son would help him move. “We found a better apartment. Saturday we are going to move. I need some help. Will you help me?” Our son said, “Yes, I’ll be glad to.” And then his wife made some bread for them and prepared a meal. He helped them move. Then he said this: “Dad, I’ve been thinking about that. He hardly knows me. I hardly knew who he was.” And he said, “If I’m the one who was the closest to him, the one he would dare to ask help him move, he doesn’t have anybody.” And he said, “Look what I have.”
When he and his wife arrived in the new city, they went to Church. He went to his quorum; he belonged the day he walked in. A quorum—to sustain one another, to help one another. A quorum of the priesthood. You boys of the Aaronic Priesthood can begin to prepare now. You’ve trained to help others—to gather the fast offerings; to take care of other assignments, the sacrament, home teaching; to get you trained to help others. Why? You belong to a quorum. A quorum. The word quorum is a marvelous word. In the Church, the worth of quorums has never yet fully been realized.

When I completed my graduate studies in May of 1982, I accepted a job offer from a Honolulu law firm after graduation, and spent evenings Monday through Friday, and all day Saturday, at a licensing preparation class. I spent mornings working at the law firm and every afternoon preparing for the class. I saw very little of my wife and 3 year old daughter in those days, and Sister Durrett was pregnant with our second child.

While in the midst of what seemed to be an extremely arduous schedule at the time, I received late one evening a telephone call from my only brother, whom I had not had regular contact with for over two years. He was seeking information about the Church. He had been working as a professional rock and roll musician in Waikiki, and because of his schedule, our paths seldom crossed. It seems that his girlfriend had expressed a feeling of emptiness in her life, and she was resigned to seeking out and attending a church in the upcoming week with or without him. My brother told her that before they sought out a church, they should "check out" my brother's church. He was calling to receive information about the Church—an answer to prayers I had offered since I was baptized some ten years earlier and a literal fulfillment of my Patriarchal Blessing "that some members of my family would join the Church." Of course, the call had to come in the middle of my preparation for the Hawaii state bar examination. But the Spirit made clear that this opportunity would not present itself again, and that it could not be passed up.

I arranged for the fulltime missionaries to meet my brother and his girlfriend on Sunday evening, the only night I was not in class, and we commenced to share the missionary lessons with them every Sunday thereafter.

To make a very sweet story succinct, they shortly embraced the Gospel, and I was able to baptize my only brother and his future wife at Nu'uanu Ward, as soon as we could arrange the wedding which we did in less than a month with the help of Sister Durrett. Several years later I was able to lay my hands upon his head in the circle where he was set apart as a Bishop of the Ewa Beach Ward. Remember, service of lasting value in the Kingdom will rarely be convenient.

“Mary, what do you see?” Mary’s stepmother spoke softly from her sickbed.
“The fighting seems to be getting closer,” said Mary, looking out the window. The American Civil War was being fought just a few miles away. The sound of gunshots had filled the air since morning. Mary turned to her stepmother. “I’m so sorry. I don’t think we can leave the house to get the doctor.”
“Come closer.” Mary sat next to the bed and took her stepmother’s hand. “I know your father is still not well,” Mary’s stepmother said quietly, “but you need to take the family to Zion—your brother, your sister, and the twins. Don’t give your father any peace until he goes to the Rocky Mountains! Promise me!”
Mary knew how much her family wanted to go to Salt Lake City. After they heard the gospel and were baptized, they had left England to join the Saints in Zion. But would it even be possible? She glanced at her father, who sat silently in his chair. Three years ago, Father had suffered a terrible stroke that had paralyzed his left side.
Mary took a deep breath. “I promise,” she whispered.
Soon Mary’s stepmother closed her eyes for the last time.
One morning soon after, Mary decided it was time to tell her father about her promise. “I know I’m just 14,” she said, “but I must take our family to Zion.” She heard the twins waking. “I need to go get breakfast started,” she said. “But just think about it, please.”
A few days later, Father called Mary over. “It’s all arranged,” he said. His speech was still slurred from the stroke. “I’ve sold our land and the coal mine so we can buy a wagon, some oxen, cows, and a few supplies. A wagon company is leaving soon for the West. They’re not Latter-day Saints, but we can travel with them as far as Iowa. When we get there, we can join a party of Saints going to the Salt Lake Valley.”
Mary threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Father.” Soon they would go to Zion!
The days passed quickly as Mary helped get the family ready for their travels. “Everything is going to be all right,” she told herself. “Soon we’ll be in Zion.”
But then Father fell ill. From the way his mouth drooped on one side, Mary feared it was another stroke.
“He’s too sick to travel,” she told the leader of the wagon company. “We just need a few days for him to recover.”
“We can’t wait,” the man said briskly. Seeing Mary’s face, he softened his tone. “You can stay here until he’s ready to travel, and then you can catch up with us.” With no other choice, Mary agreed.
A week later, Mary got her family ready to travel again. “The twins and Sarah can ride on the oxen,” she told Jackson, her nine-year-old brother. “Father can ride in the wagon, and you can help me drive the oxen.”
“I’m scared,” Sarah said in a small voice. She was only six, and she looked tiny on the ox’s broad back. The four-year-old twins looked at Mary with wide eyes.
“We’ll just make good time and catch up with our group!” Mary said with forced cheerfulness.
On and on the Wanlass family traveled, for miles, and then for days. Finally, even Mary had to admit the truth.
The wagon party had not waited for them. Mary and her family would have to travel to Zion alone.
To be continued …

After joining the Church, my great-grandfather, Ole Hansen, emigrated from Norway and settled in Menan, Idaho. In 1925, he obtained employment hauling sand from the Menan Little Butte quarry. As work progressed, workers would drive trucks or teams under a rock overhang to get a new load.
One morning, Grandpa Ole received a strong spiritual prompting: “This hill is going to tip over today.” His first thought was the hill could not possibly collapse, but he eventually investigated the top of the rock ledge. He was alarmed to discover a large crack along the ridge and knew he had to act. Though other workers were skeptical, Grandpa Ole finally convinced all to evacuate. Less than five minutes later, several tons of sand and rock fell where the evacuated men had just been working. Grandpa Ole’s ability to receive and respond to spiritual promptings saved more than 25 men that day.

At the funeral services for a remarkable daughter of God, someone shared that this sister, as stake Relief Society president, worked with others in her stake to contribute quilts to give warmth to suffering people in Kosovo during the 1990s. And like the good Samaritan, she went out of her way to do more as she and her daughter drove a truck filled with those quilts from London to Kosovo. On her journey home she received an unmistakable spiritual impression that sank deep into her heart. The impression was this: “What you have done is a very good thing. Now go home, walk across the street, and serve your neighbor!”
The funeral was filled with additional inspiring accounts of how this faithful woman recognized and responded to the extraordinary and pressing calls—and also the ordinary occasions—of those within her sphere of influence. For example, she opened her home and her heart to help struggling young people at any hour—day or night.

Dad leaned back in his chair. “Do you remember a few years ago, when our family went backpacking in the mountains?”
“I think so.”
“You were very little then, but you wanted to carry your own pack. I’m afraid that it got pretty heavy long before we reached our campsite.”
“I remember now.” Katie’s face brightened. “I was tired, so we sat down to rest beside a stream. And then, when we started out again, you walked right beside me. The pack seemed much lighter then, and I was able to carry it all the way to camp.”
“Did you know that I was helping you?” Dad asked quietly.
“You mean by walking beside me and singing with me?”
“Yes. And also as we walked side by side, I was reaching out my hand and lifting the pack up off your back.”
“You were?” Katie looked at him in surprise. “And I didn’t even know it. No wonder my pack felt lighter—it was!”