Gospel Story Finder

On the morning of 6 April 1893, Wilford Woodruff entered the Salt Lake Temple through the southwest doors and proceeded to the fourth floor. At 10:00 A.M., with twenty-five hundred people in attendance, the first of a series of forty-one dedication services began. The dedication was the final step in a forty-year saga of sacrifice and labor surrounding the construction of the temple.
“The Heavenly Host were in attendance at the [first] dedication [service],” President Woodruff told the congregation in a subsequent dedicatory service. “If the eyes of the congregation could be opened they would [have] seen Joseph and Hyrum [Smith], Brigham Young, John Taylor and all the good men who had lived in this dispensation assembled with us, as also Esaias, Jeremiah, and all the Holy Prophets and Apostles who had prophesied of the latter day work. … They were rejoicing with us in this building which had been accepted of the Lord and [when] the [Hosanna] shout had reached the throne of the Almighty,” they too had joined in the joyous shout.

Kate walked into the kitchen and saw Mom rolling out dough.
“I’m making Easter rolls,” Mom said. “Want to help?”
“Yes!” said Kate. She wondered what Easter rolls would look like. Would they be shaped like bunnies? Or colored eggs? Kate ran to the counter and looked at the bowl of marshmallows Mom had set by the dough. Were they going to decorate the rolls with marshmallows?
Mom showed Kate how to wrap a square of dough around a marshmallow and dip the roll in butter and cinnamon sugar.
Kate picked up her own piece of dough and a marshmallow. It would probably taste delicious, but what did it have to do with Easter?
“Today is the Friday before Easter,” Mom said as she dipped a wrapped-up marshmallow in the melted butter. “Many people call it Good Friday.”
“Why?” Kate asked.
“Because it’s the day Jesus Christ showed how much He loves us. He suffered and died for our sins. Because of what He did, we can repent and be forgiven.”
Mom handed Kate a marshmallow to eat. “That’s why we can live with Heavenly Father again someday. So today really is a ‘good Friday,’ don’t you think?”
Kate nodded as she dipped her last roll in cinnamon sugar. “Done!”
“Now we have to let these rise,” Mom said. She put plastic wrap over the stuffed rolls and slid them into the fridge. “After Jesus died, His body was put in the tomb, and His spirit went to heaven. Do you know what happened then?”
“He visited people in the spirit world?” Kate asked.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Then, on Sunday morning after He died …”
“He came alive again!” said Kate.
“Yes!” said Mom. “It’s called the Resurrection. Women visited Jesus’s tomb and found it empty. Angels told them, ‘He is not here: for He is risen.’ Because of that, all of us will live again after we die.”
Kate helped Mom wipe sugar and flour from the counter. “Each of the rolls we made is like a little tomb,” Mom said. “And on Easter Sunday, we’ll bake them.”
Kate wondered how they would turn out. She could hardly wait to eat one!
On Sunday morning Kate woke up to the smell of cinnamon baking. She hurried to the kitchen just in time to see Mom pull a tray of rolls out of the oven.
“Remember how we filled these?” Mom asked as she handed Kate a warm roll. “Break it open and take a look!”
Kate broke open her roll and looked inside. “It’s empty!”
“Just like the tomb on Easter morning,” Mom said. “Always remember that Jesus lives. And He loves you.”
Kate took a big bite out of her roll. She was grateful for Mom and this tasty treat, grateful for Jesus, and grateful for Easter morning!

Paul Cox had no idea the rain forest near the village where he and his family were living in Falealupo, Western Samoa, was about to be destroyed until he heard the roar of bulldozers one morning in 1987.
Villagers had reluctantly sold more than 12,000 hectares of forestland to raise money to build a new school. Building the school was required by the Samoan government; financing it was left up to the village. “The villagers didn’t want to allow the loggers into the forest,” explains Brother Cox, who is on leave from Brigham Young University while he serves concurrently as director of the National Tropical Botanical Garden in Hawaii and as a professor of environmental science in Uppsala, Sweden. “In fact, they had held off the loggers for 10 years. But they had no other way of getting funds for the school. They felt they had to choose between their children and their forest. It was a terrible, terrible decision for them.”1
Many people would feel powerless in such a situation, but in that difficult moment, Brother Cox made a decision. “I offered to raise the money to build the school if the villagers would protect the forest. … I had no idea how we’d get the money.”
But a more immediate challenge than finding the money was getting the villagers to accept his offer. Many of the village chiefs were suspicious of Brother Cox, but High Chief Fuiono Senio trusted him and persuaded the other chiefs to accept Brother Cox’s assistance.
The loggers had already begun clear-cutting the forest when the chiefs gave their agreement. Chief Senio ran several kilometers down the road, machete in hand, and chased the loggers away.
The next day, after talking with his wife and receiving her support, Brother Cox flew to Apia, Samoa’s capital, and signed a mortgage for the amount needed to build the school. Then, he remembers, “I came back to my wife with the good news and the bad news. The good news was that we’d helped save a 12,000-hectare rain forest; the bad news was that we’d have to sell our house and our car and we still might not have enough money.
“I guess it’s at a moment like this that you know your marriage is working because Barbara took my hand and said, ‘Paul, how often in our lifetime will we have a chance to do something so wonderful? What a great thing!’”
Brother and Sister Cox began preparing to sell their Utah home, but soon Brigham Young University students, family members, and community members heard about the cause and raised enough money that the Coxes did not actually have to sell their house and car.
Brother Cox worked out a covenant with the people of Falealupo that protects the forest for 50 years. Villagers can still use the forest as they always have: to gather food, medicinal plants, or materials to build homes and canoes. Loggers or other commercial developers, however, cannot harm the forest in any way.
Brother Cox did not stop after saving Falealupo’s rain forest. In 1997 the international community honored him and Chief Senio for their work in Falealupo with the Goldman Environmental Prize, which has been referred to as the Nobel Prize of environmentalism. Brother Cox used his portion of the prize money to set up a fund that will protect the Falealupo forest permanently, even after the original 50-year preservation covenant runs out.
By 1997 he had also established the Seacology foundation. Seacology works to “save the world one village at a time” by helping other Pacific island villages finance schools, water systems, health-care facilities, and other necessities without having to sell their forests.2
“They’re small projects that we’ve done in little villages,” Brother Cox says, “but they mean a lot to the people who live there. These projects are not changing the whole world, but they’re helping improve the lives of a few people in several villages, and that’s worth my time.
“I hope that when I leave the world, I can leave it just a little bit better than when I came. Let’s face it: the Falealupo forest is a small place. The country of Samoa is a small country, but at least I’ve made a difference there. And I think that’s what it comes down to—each one of us. We can all make a difference in our own way.”

Elizabeth married a Chinese farmer, but he was also lured away by the gold rush and left her to raise their eight children with only her housekeeping and sewing skills. Times were difficult.

Although illiterate, Elizabeth knew the value of education and found creative ways to learn. She was determined to give her children more opportunities to elevate themselves than she had received. For example, she had her young sons read the daily newspaper to her, and they became good readers by the time they started school.

In addition to his serious and studious nature, there was a lighter side to President Smith’s personality. He had a ready sense of humor that he exercised frequently and spontaneously.

For example, on one occasion President Smith returned from a conference assignment in California with his lunch sack filled with olives he had picked. Delighted with his treasure, and always eager to share, he asked one of his brethren if he had ever “tasted an olive right off the tree.” His unsuspecting victim had not, so he took a healthy bite into one of the fresh olives. This proved to be a rather bitter experience, and as the brother’s face puckered up, President Smith asked innocently, “What’s the matter? Did you get a bad one? Here, you had better try another one.”

On a Sunday in August 2014, as I sat in the compound of our residence reading a book, I noticed a group of people of my age group being led by someone older in white shirt and ties approaching me. There were about seven of them, and I felt uneasy. The men who stood in front of me were the young men of my ward being led by the president of the quorum.
All I wondered was what they were doing there. They were very happy to see me. They told me they had missed me and that the Lord needed me in His fellowship. They spoke to me about passing the sacrament and other youth activities. They then encouraged me to come to church.
I had not been active in the Church for about two years since my baptism in 2011, and I felt I had lost my path in the things of the Lord. Throughout all those times I felt like there was nowhere to look for help, that there was no one to come to my aid and that there was no turning back for me. I always had the desire to return to the Lord but often felt it was too late. When I arrived at church for sacrament meeting the following Sunday, I felt both shy and ashamed, but everyone greeted me lovingly with smiles. It was then I realized that the Lord had just used the selfless hearts of my fellow young men in a reactivation effort, as a wake-­up call to return one of His lost sheep to His fold.
I am filled with gratitude for the noble and selfless men out there, like the young men quorum members who visited me on that day, who are also putting in all their efforts to call upon other members who have fallen away from the faith. Indeed, Heavenly Father remembers His children, wherever they may be. Today I am at the point of completing my mission, having been used as an instrument in the Lord’s hands to bring many to the light of the gospel. It has been such a wonderful experience for me.

The fourth miracle was found in the power of prayer.
Ray wasn’t feeling well on the day Elder Gamble picked him up for his own endowment. His medication was making him dizzy and weak in the knees. They had to stop and rest several times between the hotel room and the car.
After a fervent prayer for Ray’s health and ability to proceed with his journey, Ray got out of the car and walked into the temple to receive his endowment. He had no further issues that day.

Jacob’s heart pounded as he bent into position. He shifted his weight back and forth at the starting line. The starter pointed his gun straight in the air and everything went silent.
“Bam!”
Jacob dashed into the water and began kicking his legs and churning his arms as fast as he could. This was Jacob’s first triathlon, and he wanted to do his best. He had been training hard. He was on the neighborhood swim team, and he had competed in a lot of running races. He knew he had a good chance of doing well.
Jacob finished the 50-meter swim in second place and ran to his bike. He dried off, threw on his shirt and shoes, fastened his helmet, and pedaled out of the transition area.
Jacob was supposed to ride about two miles (3.2 km) on his bike, but he wasn’t sure how long it would take. He came to an orange cone, but there wasn’t anyone to direct him. It looked like another boy had turned around at the cone, so he did too. He pedaled back to the transition area and got ready to run.
Jacob ran the last part of the course so hard he thought his lungs would burst, but he felt good when he crossed the finish line. He felt even better when he realized he was in first place!
He found Mom in the crowd, but she wasn’t smiling. “Jacob, are you sure you did the bike part of the race right?” she asked.
“I think so,” Jacob said.
“Your time is so fast,” Mom said. “I think you missed part of the course.”
“Let’s go walk through the bike course,” Dad said. “You can tell me where you rode your bike.”
Jacob and Dad started walking along the course, with Dad holding the course map. When they got to the orange cone, Jacob saw other bikers going past the cone—not turning around. Dad checked the map. The cone wasn’t the turn-around point. Jacob had accidentally missed a third of the course.
Jacob held back tears. He knew he had to tell the race officials he had made a mistake, but he didn’t want to. That meant he would be disqualified and that he wouldn’t get the first-place trophy.
Jacob walked up to a race official. “Excuse me,” Jacob said. “I wanted to tell you that I made a mistake. I missed a part of the bike course, so my time probably shouldn’t count.”
“It took a lot of courage to tell us that,” the official said. “Thanks.”
Jacob nodded, but his eyes filled with tears. Mom gave him a hug.
“I want to go home,” Jacob said. He felt tired and defeated.
But then he heard the race official on the microphone.
“It’s been quite a race!” he said. “And we saw a great example of good sportsmanship today. We had a boy who would have won first place, but he was honest enough to admit that he made a mistake on the bike course. I want everybody to give him a big cheer.”
A cheer went up from the crowd. It took Jacob a second to realize what was happening. They were cheering for him! Not because he had won, but because he had done the right thing.
On the way home, Dad told Jacob stories about other athletes who had made mistakes. He learned that everybody makes mistakes. He also learned that sometimes being honest gets you the biggest cheer of all.

The Hofmanns: Early First-Generation Members. In 1937 a German immigrant couple named Hofmann accepted the gospel and were baptized. Their son, Carlos Guillermo Hofmann, born a few months later, grew up as a Latter-day Saint. “We met in a small branch in those days,” he recalls. “I was raised with the beliefs of the Church. We always stayed on the pathway.”

Staying active in those days entailed meeting in homes and being the only Latter-day Saint in school, and then, as an adult, carrying heavy leadership responsibilities almost single-handedly.

After marrying, Carlos and his wife, Irma Scholz, made the needed sacrifices to raise their children in the Church. “I am grateful to my wife, who carried the responsibility while I was working and serving in Church callings,” Brother Hofmann says. “It seemed I was often away from the family, but the children never lacked. We were diligent in holding family home evening.” Today his children and grandchildren are strong and active in the Church.

Eric sat down on the couch next to his mom and wondered why she looked sad.
“We need to talk,” Mom said.
“Let me guess. It’s something about the move, right?” Eric asked. It seemed to Eric like almost everything had to do with the move.
“Well, yes,” Mom said. “It’s about Muffie.”
“What about Muffie?” Worry crept into Eric’s voice.
Mom sighed. “We can’t have pets in the new apartment.”
“But she’s my dog!” Eric patted Muffie’s head as she lay beside him. “She goes with me wherever I go.”
“I’m sorry, Eric. We can’t take her with us, but …”
Eric didn’t hear any more. He ran to his room and flung himself on the bed as Muffie followed. Eric buried his face in the quilt Grandma had made him. He didn’t want Muffie to see him cry. Muffie whined softly and wiggled her small honey-colored body next to Eric. She did that whenever he was confused or upset.
Eric thought about the first day Muffie wandered into his yard. She had bounded up to him, her stub of a tail wagging like she knew him. He and his mom tried to find the dog’s owner, but they couldn’t. Mom let Eric keep Muffie. Now, everything seemed so unfair. Eric wondered why this was happening.
Eric didn’t sleep well that night. In the morning, Mom asked, “Would you like to talk about it?”
Eric swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m too sad.”
“I don’t blame you for being sad or even angry.” Mom put her arm around him. “When I was little, my dog Pancho ran away. I never knew if he found a good home. It’s different with Muffie. We’ll find her a place to live.”
“Muffie’s home is with me,” Eric said. “Why can’t we get a place where we can keep her?”
“I can’t find an apartment that will allow pets,” Mom said. “Besides, Muffie wouldn’t be happy in a crowded place where she can’t run around.”
“If I were Muffie, I wouldn’t like that either,” he admitted. “But I’ll miss her.”
Mom spoke gently. “I have an idea. When you pray tonight, ask Heavenly Father to help you feel better and to help us find a good home for Muffie. After all, He loves Muffie too.”
After his prayer that evening, Eric was filled with warmth and peace. He felt that Heavenly Father would help take care of Muffie.
Mom put an ad in the paper, but days passed and no one called. In the meantime, Eric spent every spare moment with Muffie.
The move was only a week away, and Muffie still didn’t have a new home. Eric prayed harder than ever. He hoped that Heavenly Father would not forget about Muffie.
The day before the movers came, Mom said, “I don’t know what else to do except take Muffie to the animal shelter.”
Eric’s stomach tightened.
“Don’t worry,” Mom said. “Someone will adopt her, and she’ll find a good place to live.”
Eric wasn’t listening. He couldn’t understand why—after so many prayers—he still had to take Muffie to the animal shelter.
The next morning, Mom and Eric rode in silence to the shelter. When they arrived, Eric slowly tugged Muffie on her leash toward the shelter. Muffie jerked back as Eric tried to move her through the door.
“Come on, girl. It’ll be OK,” Eric said, but he wasn’t convinced.
While Eric’s mom signed papers, Muffie squirmed and barked. Afterward, Eric knelt and held Muffie close to him, then ran out of the room. He couldn’t bear to say good-bye. It was bad enough hearing her yelps.
Eric threw himself into the car. As they drove away, Mom offered comfort, but Eric remained quiet. He felt numb inside. “Why is this happening?” he wondered.
Suddenly, he noticed the toy dog bone still in his pocket. It was the good-luck bone he had wanted to give Muffie.
“We have to go back, Mom. I forgot to give Muffie the bone.”
At the shelter, Mom waited in the car while Eric went inside. A worker was trying to put tags on Muffie’s collar. Her barks of protest changed to a yip of glee when she saw Eric. She jumped into his arms. Eric wished he could stop the tightness in his throat.
Behind him, the door opened, and a little boy and a woman walked in. The boy pointed at Muffie and said, “Look, Mom, it’s Fluff!”
“After all this time? I don’t know, Tommy,” his mom said.
Eric watched with big eyes. Tommy edged forward. “Fluff. Here, girl,” he coaxed.
Muffie hesitated only a moment before she leapt toward Tommy. Eric stared at his own empty arms, then looked at his dog and Tommy together. It reminded Eric of his own first meeting with Muffie.
“Wait, Tommy.” His mother turned to Eric. “Is she yours?”
“Well, she, I …” Eric stammered.
“She can’t be yours. I lost my Fluff months ago, and now she’s back.” Tommy patted Muffie, and she nuzzled his cheek.
“Could she really be Tommy’s lost dog?” Eric asked himself. Eric was still sad, but the look in Tommy’s eyes made it not hurt so much anymore to let Muffie go. “Bye, girl,” he whispered.
When Eric told his mom what had happened, she hugged him tightly. “It’s all right, Mom,” Eric said. “Muffie is OK because Heavenly Father really does love her too.”

“A parade up and down the blocks to see what was beneath each tree was an annual Christmas tradition for the children in our neighborhood. How parents permitted such a desecration of the day, such a trial-by-comparison trauma, I can’t understand. But year after year the parade persisted.
“The gifts beneath the trees in the homes of my friends were as different as the income and situation, as the taste and concern for the celebration would allow. And in the difference there was always pain for somebody.
“There was a friend in that pitiful parade whose father gave her a pair of shoes every year. Period. Shoes. Every year he would choose them himself without her counsel, and every year they’d be sturdy enough to last forever, ugly enough to ruin a girl’s chances at life. She hated them of course, and we hated him for what it did to her. Christmas after Christmas. Each year I told her they were okay, cute, neat, or great (whatever was the appropriate vernacular of that year), hoping against hope it would help.
“Then there was a girl who didn’t even get a gift as grand as shoes. Except for maybe an apron her aunt made, she seldom received anything at all. As we neared her house, she’d begin talking grandly about how she had all her gifts put away already. There was no point in even going to her house, she’d insist. But everybody else persisted just the same.
“‘Let’s go to your house last,’ I’d suggest, hoping we’d all have to go home by then. And sometimes it worked.
“I loved this friend with a protective passion and gave her the best gift on my list. And each year I told her that all I wanted was a bottle of her mom’s applesauce. And that’s what she gave me, ribbon tied.
“I think of that each canning season now, wondering why my own applesauce never tastes like the memory.”

When I studied experiences in Church history, I realized that I might not be the only one who has felt this way. I found hope in the story of William W. Phelps, who was an author, missionary, and leader of the early Restoration. He was a good man. He preached the gospel wherever he traveled and became a trusted member of the Missouri High Council. William was also a close friend of Joseph Smith.
Which is why his betrayal of Joseph was particularly painful.
In 1838, mobs and militiamen attacked and pillaged the Saints in Missouri, destroying homes and beating resisters. In the aftermath, Joseph Smith and other Church leaders were arrested for baseless crimes. Afraid of being prosecuted alongside them, William W. Phelps and several others made a deal with the prosecutor: testify against Joseph Smith and go free.
Under oath, William joined others in bearing false testimony against the Prophet. After the trial, Joseph and other Church leaders were incarcerated in Liberty Jail. While William left the courthouse a free man, he felt the weight of his actions on his shoulders. Several years later, Joseph Smith received a letter from William asking Joseph for forgiveness.
“I am as the prodigal son,” wrote William. “I have been greatly abased and humbled.”
The Prophet wrote back, “Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal.”
Joseph Smith was filled with compassion for William. Just as the father celebrated the return of the prodigal in the scriptures (see Luke 15:11–32), so too did the Saints receive William Phelps back into the fold.
Repentance and forgiveness for William—which likely seemed impossible to him—was now a reality. And it can be a reality for us too!
Joseph Smith acknowledged the pain that William had caused: “We have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough for mortals to drink, was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us.”
But Joseph continued, “However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done.”
Joseph recognized that William’s sins had been paid for and that there was no need for William to suffer any longer. William’s repentance to Heavenly Father could free him from guilt.

Toby curled himself around his mother’s feet on the kitchen floor and began to purr. “Look, Mommy! I’m a kitty,” he said.
Mommy stirred sugar and salt into a big bowl of hot milk on the table and smiled. “Oh, you’re a kitty, are you?” She bent over and patted his head. Toby gave a contented meow. The yeast in a cup with warm water had risen to the top in a bubbly foam. Mommy tested the milk to make sure that it was cool enough, then poured the yeast and a small amount of oil into the bowl.
When Mommy pulled her feet out from under Toby and went to the cupboard for the sifter, Toby slithered up onto a kitchen chair. “Look, Mommy! I’m a snake,” he hissed. He weaved and bobbed as he watched her mix the fine brown flour into the liquid in the bowl. When the dough became stiff enough to handle, Mommy dumped it onto the clean, flour-dusted table and began to knead it with her hands. Toby loved to watch this part, and he flicked his tongue and rattled his tail as he watched.
Next, Mommy put the dough back into the bowl and covered it with a red-checkered cloth. “Time to feed the baby, Mr. Snake,” she told Toby, and they went into the baby’s room. Mommy sat in the rocking chair and softly hummed as she fed Toby’s baby sister.
Toby sat on the floor and practiced wiggling his nose. “Look, Mommy! I’m a mouse,” he squeaked, and the big rocking chair creaked back at him.
“Can you be a very quiet mouse so the baby can go to sleep?” Mommy asked.
Toby nodded and decided to become a mouse statue. He held very still and tried not to squeak or wiggle as Mommy gently laid the baby in the crib and tucked the soft blankets around her. Toby and Mommy tiptoed out of the room and quietly closed the door.
“Look, Mommy! I’m a bunny,” Toby said with a little hop. As he hopped into the kitchen, he noticed that the dough had rounded up over the top of the bowl and was peeking out from under the cloth. Mommy tipped the dough out onto the table and punched it down, working it between her hands and the table. Toby’s bunny ears pricked up, and he giggled as the bubbles in the dough popped and burped at him.
When the dough was smooth and round, Mommy cut it into four parts and shaped each part into a loaf. She put them into pans and set them on the stove to rise again.
Toby hopped into his bedroom, and when he came out again, he had his white blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “Look, Mommy! I’m an angel,” he said, pulling his angel robe more tightly around himself.
“It’s naptime for all sleepy little angels,” Mommy said. Toby reverently floated into his room and onto his bed. Mommy kissed his cheek and tucked his angel robe up under his chin. Toby laid his head on a fluffy cloud pillow and drifted off to sleep.
When he woke up, a wonderful smell was tickling his nose. He jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen. Four golden brown loaves of bread were sitting on racks on the kitchen table. Toby watched as Mommy sliced a big piece off the end of one loaf. She spread butter and honey over the warm slice of bread and handed it to Toby.
“Look, Mommy! I’m a little boy, now,” Toby said as he took a big bite. “I’m glad Heavenly Father sent you to be my little boy,” Mommy said.
Toby licked the melted honey and butter that ran down his fingers. “Me, too!” he said happily.

At one point, Graydon and Donna, who had been bringing up the rear with their father, stepped into some quicksand—more accurately, water-saturated sand. Graydon quickly leaped free, but Donna struggled too hard and was soon in the bog up to her waist. Graydon and his father couldn’t pull her out, and the others were too far ahead. But Chris Jones, who had arrived later in the day and started the hike with a friend, caught up to them from behind like the Cavalry. Between the four men, a branch, and stepping stones that kept sinking in the mud, she was extricated, a little shaken after the half-hour ordeal. “Guess I don’t have to find those scissors to cut your legs off,” Chris laughed, trying to cheer her up.

Earlier this year I was on assignment visiting a stake in the western United States. It was a normal Sunday, a normal meeting, with normal members of the Church. I watched as people entered the chapel and reverently moved to available seats. Last-second, whispered conversations echoed throughout the hall. Mothers and fathers tried—sometimes in vain—to quiet energetic children. Normal.

But then, before the meeting began, words inspired of the Spirit came into my mind.
These members had not come just to fulfill a duty or listen to speakers.
They had come for a deeper and far more significant reason.
They had come to worship.

As the meeting progressed, I observed various members in the congregation. They had an almost heavenly expression, an attitude of reverence and peace. Something about them warmed my heart. The experience they were having that Sunday was something quite extraordinary.
They were worshipping.
They were experiencing heaven.
I could see it in their countenances.
And I rejoiced and worshipped with them. And as I did so, the Spirit spoke to my heart. And on that day, I learned something about myself, about God, and about the role of true worship in our lives.

When I reflect back on what began as a normal Sunday morning, in that normal meetinghouse, in that normal stake, even today I am moved by that extraordinary spiritual experience that will forever bless my life.
I learned that even if we are exceptional managers of our time, callings, and assignments—even if we check all the boxes on our list of the “perfect” individual, family, or leader—if we fail to worship our merciful Deliverer, heavenly King, and glorious God, we are missing much of the joy and peace of the gospel.

Mar. 3, 1853 Says he, “If your father had stayed here, him and me would have owned all Kirtland now. I own the temple,” says he. It began to get dark. Says he to his wife and daughter, “Mother and Lilly, you did not ask Joseph if he had been to dinner.” Says he, “Where did you eat last?” Says I, “At Brother Nelson’s in Racine, Wisconsin.” Says he, “Three days ago? Why didn’t you tell us when you first came in?” Says I, “I had been without eating so long I forgot that I was hungry.”

He visited the temple, sorrowfully noting its deterioration from lack of care, and looked out over the city, where many homes that had been wrecked by a tornado were being left to decay. The town seemed to him to have declined much since the Saints had left.

Our eight-year-old granddaughter was busy at work recently making cookies. She was following a recipe given to her by her mother but was stymied by one ingredient that was to be added to the recipe. It called for two teaspoons of soda. She asked her parents, “Does it matter if it’s root beer or 7-Up soda?” When the cookies were baked, they tasted awful. Her mother concluded that the recipe had failed because her daughter had misinterpreted a half teaspoon of salt to be a half cup of salt.

I believe if we respond to our responsibilities, our rights will take care of themselves—for male or female. As I was supporting my husband through his studies for his degree at Yale University, our neighbor who was doing his residency in psychiatry commented one day that I was showing overt signs of weariness. Jeff was then not only a busy student trying to complete a four-year degree in three years but was in a stake presidency and, to help earn some extra money, taught two Institute classes at Yale and one at Amherst College, necessitating a 145 kilometers drive each way once a week. I was at home with two small babies trying to stretch the meager budget of young married students. I was also serving eagerly in the Church as a young Relief Society president. This particular neighbor, out of concern and intended helpfulness, said, “Pat, why don’t you demand your rights and forget about all this?” At that time I knew through prayer that my rights, whatever they were, had to be put in the perspective of my obligation to pursue long-range goals. I certainly never thought Jeff’s degree was only for his future. And he never thought the children belonged only to me. We were in all of this together and we didn’t waste any energy shouting about rights. That time was intense and difficult, but it lasted only three years. As a direct consequence of my supportive role then, I now have time, means, and wonderful opportunities to pursue many of my interests and talents in addition to being a wife and mother. Furthermore, I know—and love knowing—that my ultimate role and mission will always include the particular joys of providing loving and wise support to others as they fulfill their own assignments.

Several years ago Elder Christensen set a date of January 31. Early January came, and despite having initiated conversations with dozens and dozens of people and inviting several of them to meet the missionaries, he failed to find anyone who was interested. He was scheduled to travel to Honolulu, Hawaii, for an academic conference on January 20, and the way his schedule looked, it seemed clear that he had to meet the person he could introduce to the missionaries on his flight to or from Hawaii. There was no other time. He pleaded in daily prayer that God would cause a person to sit next to him on the plane who would accept his invitation.
After all that effort, he couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw his seatmate—a man named Vinnie who was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to his sternum, sporting three gold chains on his hairy chest. Vinnie explained that he worked 11 months every year to save enough to escape to Hawaii for a month in winter to chase women. Clayton was so disappointed. He had tried and prayed so hard to find someone—and instead he got stuck next to a man who didn’t seem to have a religious bone in his body. Discouraged, Clayton turned to some reading.
When the flight attendant brought lunch, Clayton put his reading down and made small talk with his seatmate. Vinnie asked Clayton if he had been to Hawaii before, and Clayton responded that he had attended a language training school in Laie en route to a mission he had served for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Korea. Surprisingly, Vinnie put his fork down and said, “So you’re a Mormon? The funniest thing has happened to me over the past year. I’ve never had any interest in religion, but I’ve had this growing curiosity to know more about Mormons. I don’t know why. Could you tell me a little about your church?”
For the next three hours, enveloped by a wonderful spirit, they discussed the gospel of Jesus Christ, article of faith by article of faith. Several times on the remainder of the flight, Vinnie interrupted to say thanks for telling him about the Church. As the plane landed, Clayton told Vinnie there were missionaries in his hometown and asked if they could visit him when he returned. Vinnie asked if there were missionaries in Honolulu. Clayton received this golden answer to his prayers by using a “Mormon” phrase to open the door to a conversation and by suspending his judgment of what might be in Vinnie’s heart.

What is it really like to be handicapped? What problems do the handicapped face every day? Helen Lesley Chick, 17, of the Hobart Australia Stake found out. She won regional, state, and national awards for her investigation of the problems of paraplegics.

For her first-hand investigation, Helen spent a week in a wheelchair (which she borrowed from her grandmother). Her week-long experience was a time of aching arms and shoulders as well as clashes with walls and people. Of her self-imposed confinement to a wheelchair, Helen says, “On the first day I wanted to give it up. It was so hard pushing along on the carpet.”

Sponsored by the Junior Chamber of Commerce, the award was presented to Helen in Canberra by the Governor-General of Australia, Sir Zelman Cowan.

Helen is the Laurel class president in her ward and her seminary class president. She is studying to be a math and science teacher. In her spare time, she enjoys playing hockey, bushwalking, and cycling.