Gospel Story Finder

Shortly after the pioneers entered the Salt Lake Valley, a young man named David Cannon moved to southern Utah with his wife, Wilhelmina, to help start a settlement. Wilhelmina, or “Willie” as she was called, was not at all happy. She hated the hot, dry desert and cried constantly. She pleaded with her husband to move back East, where plants and trees grew more easily and the weather was more moderate.
“Everything is so ugly here,” she complained. “If you can show me just one beautiful thing in this place, I will make myself content and stop complaining.”
David went up into the mountains and returned with a white blossom tinged with purple. Willie admitted to both David and herself that it was indeed a thing of beauty. She never again complained. She went to work to make a productive farm and lovely home in the St. George area, where she and her husband lived for many years.*

Recently a good bishop in an area of the Church where our members are a small minority introduced me to one of his Aaronic Priesthood youth through a letter. He is one of those who has a purpose. May I in turn introduce him to you by quoting the bishop’s letter? I have changed the names to protect the privacy of those involved.
“The tithes we forwarded last Sunday to your office included, $800 from a young 16-year-old priest in our ward. The background of this contribution is such an outstanding example of dedication to the Church that this letter is written to share it with you.
“On Saturday I received a call from one of our ward members.
“‘Bishop, did you hear what happened to Roger Smith today?’
“‘No,’ I said.
“‘Well,’ the voice continued, ‘he received a call from a local radio station. They asked Roger a question, which he answered correctly. The station then informed him he had just won a 1975 Corvette Stingray.’ The caller hung up.
“My mind flashed back to when I was a youth and how a similar car would likely have influenced me. I started to worry. I could picture the results pulling Roger away from all we hold sacred.
“The next morning in priesthood meeting, one of our adults announced that something special had happened to Roger Smith and asked him to tell us about it. Roger arose and humbly said, ‘Yes, something special did happen to me. A week ago today I was ordained a priest.’ He sat down.
“During the week in our older seminary class, Ronald Green, a young convert of a little over a year, was giving the spiritual thought in devotional. He built his thought around the incident in priesthood meeting.
“‘Maybe Roger was somewhat embarrassed and didn’t want to mention the car. He may have been put on the spot. But he gave us a profound truth we should never forget. No worldly possession can in any way compare to the great honor and blessing of holding the priesthood of God.’
“These incidents thrilled me, but I was still worried about Roger—what would that car do to him?
“I next saw Roger at the church helping prepare for a party for activity night. I said, ‘Hi, Roger. I’ll bet you’re getting a lot of phone calls from the girls at school.’
“‘No, not so many,’ he responded, ‘but a lot from the boys.’
“‘What do they say?’ I asked.
“His reply, ‘They ask me when I am going to take them for a ride in my new car, and I tell them I’m not going to because I’m not going to take the car.’
“‘You’re not?’ I could hardly believe my ears. ‘How come?’
“Almost indignantly he said, ‘Because I’m going on a mission. They told me I could take $8,000 cash instead of the car. I’m going to pay my tithing on it and then put the rest away for my mission.’ What he was saying still didn’t quite sink in until he added, ‘Nearly all of the $8,000 is going to the Church.’
“I wiped a tear from my eyes and felt relief from worry and a strengthened pride in our youth. But I had yet another surprise. I called his mother and dad to tell them how proud I was of their son. The call gave me an opportunity to ask about his reaction when he first realized he had won a car. I had visions of him letting out a yell of worldly ecstasy. His mother said his first reaction was, ‘Now my mission is paid for, but how do you tithe a car?’
“In my calling, I am supposed to inspire our youth. But they are the ones who are constantly inspiring me. Why the Lord is so good as to bless such as I with the opportunity of working with these devoted young people, I’ll never know. Thank the Lord for our wonderful youth!”

When I was 12 years old, I took my new hatchet on a camping trip. I arrived after dark and volunteered to chop some firewood. I expected it to be easy since the hatchet’s blade was sharp and the handle was strong. But the hatchet didn’t work well at all. I had to chop hard and long to cut the logs. I finished the job feeling very frustrated.
Then I got closer to the campfire and saw the problem—I had left the hatchet cover on! In that moment, I learned that when things seem hard, it is important to look more carefully at what’s going on, instead of just getting frustrated.

In ninth grade, Tami had a friend who was good at everything. Tami’s friend, Sandy, was popular. She ran track and won. Tami joined the track team just to be like Sandy. But Tami never won a race. Usually she came in last. Sandy could tell a joke. And boys liked Sandy.
Just before Christmas, the school announced a writing contest. Tami decided to enter. She spent her evenings writing her poem instead of talking with Sandy on the phone as she usually did. She worried about entering the contest. It wasn’t the kind of thing Sandy would do. Tami didn’t even tell her friend she was doing it. Sandy might laugh, or maybe even make fun of her. But it was thrilling to find how much she liked writing. When the results were announced, Tami’s poem won second place.
Encouraging herself to try something on her own wasn’t easy. But Tami discovered something—deciding for herself what she wanted made her happier than trying to imitate her friends. It gave her strength to make more decisions on her own.
In the next few years, as some of her friends began making choices that were against Tami’s standards, it was easier to make her own choices, even when they were less popular.

In junior high school, pitching quarters was the game that dominated the perimeter of the schoolyard, always out of view of adults. However, our fetish with this game eventually found its way into the classroom. As soon as the teacher turned his or her back, our quarters would fly toward the wall, and the person with the quarter closest to the wall won, taking everyone else’s quarter. This game became very detrimental not only to our studies but also to our relationships. Friends were pitted against friends, and fights occasionally broke out. I remember people who lost several days’ lunch money in a matter of a minute. Five or six bad tosses and you were one broke eighth grader.
In high school, quarters became merely small change. Our attention was drawn to larger sums of money with bigger wagers, usually around big-ticket sporting events. Every week there seemed to be a big game, and betting circles were frequently established. Obviously, the more people there were contributing to a pot, the greater a winner’s takings would be. I remember one student who kept a notebook with the particular bets, the odds, and the individuals involved. Between and sometimes during classes he would approach you, asking if you would like to bet.
Unfortunately, the gambling scene pervaded other high school activities and went beyond school boundaries. While traveling with my baseball team, both on the bus and in the hotel rooms, card games took over much of our spare time. I recall watching a card game where two teammates had $120 on the line, with the luck of a particular card deciding the fate of the game. Someone won that day, but I don’t remember who. What I do remember is the chaos, the screaming and vulgar language, the laughing at someone else’s expense. Most importantly, I remember feeling void of the Spirit. It’s a dirty, ugly feeling.
Near my home was a hotel we often went to that had an arcade, a bowling alley, and a good restaurant. I spent many fun times bowling with my brothers and our friends. To get to the bowling alley, we had to go through the hotel’s casino. There is a distinct image in my mind to this day of the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke and the dropping of coins into the metal basins from the slot machines. The image of countless people sitting in the same place for hours playing cards or pulling levers on slot machines seems to be a constant reminder to me of the shallow habit of gambling.
One day a friend of mine, while leaving the bowling alley, tried his luck at a game of chance they called “Megabucks.” The winnings were well over a million dollars. You had to play several dollars at a time to have a chance at winning. Of course, he lost, and he kept on losing. Within five minutes he lost $60, and the only thing he had to show for it was his contribution to the grand total that would eventually go to someone else. My friend lost $60, yet I gained a greater distaste for the gambling habit and a greater resolve to keep the Lord’s commandments. Like other occasions in my life, this became a defining moment that strengthened my resolve to put my occasional past blemishes behind me and turn to the Lord with full purpose of heart.
Through a loving Heavenly Father and the guidance of exemplary parents who avoided the practice of gambling, I was able to put my lapses with games of chance behind me. Far too many friends and acquaintances didn’t stop at pitching quarters or playing cards. Gambling and the other bad habits it leads to are overtaking far too many of Heavenly Father’s children. With an unresolved determination to avoid it, you can become a victim very quickly. Gratefully, two years before I became “legal” in the eyes of the state of Nevada, I was “about my Father’s business” preaching the gospel in the Washington D.C. South Mission.
You may need courageous fortitude as the world thrusts the acquisition of riches and the madness of materialism upon you before you’ve even graduated from school. Understanding true doctrine and living by the principles taught in the scriptures and by living prophets will strengthen you. With this strength, you can refuse and conquer any behavior offensive to the Spirit.

Joseph, Sr., endured ridicule and persecution because of his prophet son’s experiences and claims. Yet he was unwavering in his loving support and defended his son.
He saw and handled the plates of gold from which the Book of Mormon was translated and testified throughout his life to the truthfulness of that sacred book. His name remained firmly affixed, with those of the other witnesses to the Book of Mormon, in the front pages of that second witness of Jesus Christ. On one occasion he was imprisoned and told he would be released if he would deny the Book of Mormon. Not only did he not deny it, but he converted two persons during his 30-day confinement.
At the time of his death, Joseph Smith, Sr., was described as “a man faithful to his God and to the Church in every situation and under all circumstances through which he was called to pass” (History of the Church, 4:192).

My daughter, Tifanny, and I were at a store one evening. As we left the store, I saw some unopened candy and a toy just outside the door. We couldn’t find the owner, so I told her she could have the candy and toy. She looked at me and said, “I would like to be honest.” She took the candy and toy into the store. She came out with the greatest feeling for being honest and choosing to do the right. She likes to choose the right.

I clenched my fists, bit my lip, and kicked the ball that was rolling toward me. Then I frowned as I watched it soar out of bounds instead of going into the goal.
A girl named Nan had been standing by the fence watching our game. She ran to pick up the ball, tripping in her excitement. Everyone laughed. No one thanked her as she threw the ball back to us.
I felt guilty. I knew Nan wanted to play, but I didn’t want to be the one to invite her.
Nan was quiet, with messy brown hair, thick glasses, and a squeaky voice. She didn’t have one friend in our whole class. It wasn’t that I didn’t like her. I had just never talked to her.
That afternoon our teacher announced that she was going to move our desks around. She would make a new seating chart.
The room buzzed with excitement. My best friend, LeAnna, and I smiled at each other.
Just then Caroline leaned toward me. “I heard Nan tell Mrs. Martin she wants to sit by you. Gross!”
I sat in shock. “Why me?” I wondered. I had never been mean to Nan, but I had never been nice to her either.
“Tell the teacher you don’t want to sit by her,” Caroline whispered. “Otherwise no one will want to sit by you.”
I looked at Nan. Her head was lowered. She must have known what everyone in the room was thinking.
Mrs. Martin called me up to her desk. I knew Nan was a child of God and that Jesus said to love everyone. But if I became friends with Nan, everyone would think I was weird.
“Who do you want to sit by?” Mrs. Martin asked me.
“LeAnna,” I said. That was easy.
Mrs. Martin smiled. “Would you be willing to sit by Nan too?”
I looked down at the floor and whispered, “I’d rather not.”
Mrs. Martin looked surprised. “Are you sure, Angie?”
“Yes,” I muttered.
The next day our desks were rearranged. I sat by LeAnna. Nan was across the room. The two girls sitting by her pushed their desks away from hers so it looked like she was sitting alone. She looked like she was going to cry.
A few weeks later Nan changed schools. A girl in my ward went to that school, and I asked her if she had met a new girl named Nan.
“I think so. What does she look like?” she asked.
“Well, she’s really quiet. Her hair is messy, and she wears thick glasses. No one in my class liked her.”
“Really? It must not be the same girl,” she said. “The new girl I know is really fun. Everyone likes her. She’s a great football player.”
I thought about the day Nan had watched us playing football. She only needed a chance and a friend. And I could have given her both.
That day I made a promise to myself to always be nice to everyone and never let a girl like Nan slip by me without trying to be her friend.

I was 26 when my husband and I lost our first child. Kennedy was diagnosed with a brain tumor when she was only 13 months old. After three surgeries, five rounds of chemotherapy, and many medications and treatments, she passed away in our arms at 20 months old.
I was devastated to lose my beautiful, curious, and energetic little girl. How could this happen? How could I move on? I had so many questions, but I didn’t have any answers. A couple of days after the funeral, my husband and I visited the gravesite, still covered with beautiful pink flowers and ribbons from the funeral.
As I thought about my daughter, I saw a tiny baby bird, too young to fly, hopping on the grass. This bird reminded me of Kennedy because she loved animals. The bird hopped over to the grave and played in the ribbons and flowers. I smiled, knowing this is exactly what Kennedy would have wanted. The bird then hopped toward me. I didn’t dare move a muscle. The little bird hopped right next to me, leaned against my leg, closed its eyes, and fell asleep.
I can hardly explain the feelings I had in that moment. I felt as if I was getting a hug from my Kennedy. I could not hold my daughter, but this little bird—a creation of our Father in Heaven—could come and rest its tiny head on me, reminding me that Heavenly Father understood my pain and would always be there to comfort me and help me through this trial.
I still didn’t have all the answers to my questions, but this tender mercy reassured me that Kennedy and I are both loved by our Heavenly Father and that through the atoning sacrifice of His Son, Jesus Christ, I have the hope that Kennedy, my husband, and I will one day be together again as a family.

Sam’s head felt hot. He had a runny nose. His sister Martha was sick too. Mom said Sam and Martha were too sick to go to church.
“Can we play with trucks?” Sam asked.
“Not right now,” Mom said. “We are going to have our own Primary!”
“How can I have Primary without my teacher?” Sam asked.
“Who will give a talk?” Martha asked.
“I have a plan.” Mom winked at them. “I can be the teacher. And I know someone very special who can give the talk.”
“Who?” Sam asked.
“You’ll see!” Mom said.
Sam and Martha went to Martha’s room. They set up three chairs.
“Welcome to our pretend Primary,” Mom said. Then they sang “I Am a Child of God” and said a prayer.
Martha chose more songs to sing. Mom told a story about Jesus. Sam and Martha colored pictures.
Sam liked their pretend Primary! But who was going to give the talk? There was nobody there except Sam, Martha, and Mom.
Finally Mom got her laptop. She put it on Martha’s bed.
“Now we have a special guest. President Thomas S. Monson is here to talk to us!” Mom clicked on a video on the computer screen. President Monson started telling them a story.
Sam smiled. He liked his special Primary with the prophet!

It was almost Christmas, and Troy’s Pet Shop was decorated with fancy red bows for the holiday. A tiny, yellow ball of fur was curled up in a corner of the big front window. It was a kitten only eight weeks old.
The other kittens in the big front window were much prettier. The yellow kitten’s eyes were the same color as its fur, and it didn’t have a tail. Manx cats don’t have tails, but this kitten was not a Manx. It was supposed to have a tail. The kitten, however, didn’t seem to know that she was different from other cats.
“Look at that cute white kitten, Mommy,” said a little girl, pointing to the cat next to the yellow one. “I want that one for Christmas.”
“All right, dear,” said her mother.
The white kitten contentedly licked its paws.
“I want that black cat,” said a little boy soon after. His father picked up the handsome black cat and paid Mr. Troy for it.
The calico cat, most of the puppies, the goldfish, and the birds were all chosen for pets. Even the hamsters, gerbils, and guinea pigs were bought and carried out by their new owners—but not the little yellow kitten.
“Look at that funny-looking cat,” cried one little boy. “Where’s its tail?”
Mr. Troy answered, “She doesn’t have one, but she’s a very nice cat.”
“What good is a cat without a tail?” retorted the little boy. “I want that gray kitten, Daddy, the one with the fluffy tail.”
Later the yellow kitten heard a noise and looked up. Mr. Troy was talking to her: “If you aren’t sold in the next few days, I don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t keep feeding a cat that isn’t sellable. This is a business, you know.” He shook his head sadly and walked away.
The yellow kitten liked Mr. Troy. He fed her and played nice music with words like angels, peace, good will, jingle bells, joy, sleigh rides, and Christmas. The kitten didn’t know what the words meant, but the music made her feel happy.
After Mr. Troy locked the pet shop door and started to clean up for the night, he heard a whimper coming from the front of the store. A little black puppy was snuffling around forlornly in his cage. Before the shop owner could decide what to do, the little yellow kitten sat next to the puppy’s cage and started to purr. And when the puppy curled up next to her, the kitten licked him through the bars of the cage. The puppy was soon asleep.
Relieved, because he wanted all his animals to be happy, Mr. Troy went home.
Before the shop opened the next day, a whole new shipment of puppies and kittens was delivered. Mr. Troy told the delivery man, “Business has been so good that I don’t think I’ll have any trouble selling them all before Christmas.”
Mr. Troy put the new kittens into the front window with the little yellow kitten. They ran round and round, making pitiful sounds because they were afraid. The yellow kitten went to each one and licked it on the nose. Soon the new kittens felt safe and began giving themselves baths. They purred in time to the Christmas music.
“Well, isn’t that something!” exclaimed Mr. Troy, who had been watching them. “I’ve never seen anything like that.” Just then his attention went to a small puppy that was yelping frantically. A much larger puppy was growling at it.
“Here, now. None of that,” said Mr. Troy. He took the small puppy out of the pen. The large puppy gave a final growl and lay down.
But the small puppy couldn’t stop shaking and whimpering, despite all that Mr. Troy tried to do. “I’m a busy man,” the shop owner explained placatingly, “and we’re opening soon. I can’t stand here holding you all day. What am I going to do?”
He looked around and saw the tiny, yellow kitten. As he looked at the puppy, then back at the kitten, he thought, Well, it’s worth a try, and he put the puppy right next to the little yellow kitten. In no time at all the two were playing contentedly with each other. Mr. Troy shook his head in wonder. “I think that that cat has something. She certainly calms the animals down.”
That day was the busiest day of the holiday season for Mr. Troy. People were in and out all day. The small puppy went to a kind old man. In fact, most of the new kittens and puppies were sold.
It was a busy day for the little yellow kitten, too, because whenever an animal became nervous or excited—and many of them did with all the hustle and bustle in the store—Mr. Troy put it in the front window with the yellow kitten. The little kitten licked and purred and played gently with the upset animal until it relaxed.
Mr. Troy was very tired but very happy as he closed up for the night and went home.
The next day was almost as busy for Mr. Troy and the little yellow kitten. Just before closing, the shop owner went to the front window and looked at the yellow kitten. “Well, tonight is Christmas Eve. You haven’t been sold, and I don’t think you ever will be. But it doesn’t matter. You’re something special. Tail or no tail, pretty or not, you are an exceptional cat. You bring peace to the other animals just as Christmas brings peace. I think I’ll call you my Christmas kitten.”
Suddenly the door opened. A man and his son ran in. “Are we too late?” the boy asked anxiously. “We need a kitten for my sister for tomorrow.” Looking in the front window, he added, “Let’s take that one with no tail. It’s different. OK, Dad?”
“It’s OK with me, Son. You’re the one who’s giving the present.”
Mr. Troy shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that one is not for sale. You may choose any of the others, though. You see, I need that yellow cat. You might say that she works for me.” He patted the yellow kitten on the head adding, “And after all, I am running a business.”

“Mom! It’s so cold!”
Jacob, one of my seven-year-old twins, stood with river water lapping at his ankles.
My three other kids were having a similar reaction. With my husband away on a hunting trip, I’d joined my extended family for what I hoped would be a fun trip to some hot springs. So far, the “hot” springs were not living up to their name.
Steam rose from a little pond above the river. I moved closer and felt its warmth. “This must be a hot spring,” I thought.
“Can we swim in this?” I asked my aunt, whose children were also in the river.
“I don’t know.”
We looked for a sign that might indicate what the pond was for, but we couldn’t find anything. One by one, our shivering kids moved from the cold river to the pond. My aunt and I stood on the shore, watching and talking as they played.
An older boy appeared near the edge of the pond. “I’m letting the pool out!” he hollered. He cranked a big wheel, and water poured into the pond.
The kids shouted with excitement as the surge of water entered the pond. I was grateful I’d insisted they wear their life vests. I smiled as the rising current carried them toward the left side of the pond.
Jacob broke away from them, fighting the currents to swim to the right side of the pond. He stopped, and a look of serious surprise crossed his face. “Mom, I’m stuck!”
Without another thought, I jumped in and caught his arm to pull him to safety. He wouldn’t budge. Was he stuck on something? I kept pulling, but I couldn’t get him free. The water level continued to rise.
“You guys, he’s stuck! Someone, help me!” But I knew they were too far away.
A splash sounded, and my uncle appeared out of nowhere. He grabbed Jacob, tugging and pulling.
The water was almost over Jacob’s head. Was the life vest hooked on something? I grabbed a strap with shaking hands. By the time I got one buckle undone, the water covered Jacob’s head. “Oh, help!” I prayed.
My uncle yanked backward with all his might. Jacob popped free, and my uncle moved him to the bank.
I scrambled beside Jacob and gathered him in my arms.
“There’s a culvert,” my uncle said, pointing to a 24-inch pipe that we hadn’t noticed. Water was forcefully pushing through it into the river. Jacob’s life vest was most likely all that stopped him from being dragged through it.
With alarm, my uncle and I turned toward the rest of our family. “Everyone, get out!”
As the kids climbed out, I took off Jacob’s life vest and looked him over. He hadn’t swallowed too much water and didn’t have any scrapes or bruises.
“You were being so brave, buddy. Were you scared?”
“No, I just kept holding my breath,” he said. Suddenly I was so grateful for all the time he’d spent practicing holding his breath in the swimming pool.
“How did you know to come?” I asked my uncle as he joined us on the rocks.
“I felt a prompting to come see what everyone was doing,” my uncle said. “So, I came.”
When the others joined us, we looked at the edges of the pond again, and this time, we saw a fallen warning sign that blended in with the rocks and dirt at the side of the pond.
Everyone was shaken up, so I took the kids back to the camping trailer. “Let’s thank Heavenly Father for helping us,” I said. As my kids joined me in prayer, the reality of what had happened hit me.
I knew there were others in similar circumstances who faced a very different, devastating outcome. I didn’t know why Jacob had been saved, but I knew it was a miracle. As I drew my children closer, I was grateful for the time I had with them and the blessing of our eternal family. I knew Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were aware of us and that They had sent a miracle when we missed the warning signs of danger.

Since recently returning from a three-year Church assignment in Africa and becoming reacquainted with our twenty-three grandchildren, Sister Lindsay and I have often been requested on such visits to tell these grandchildren a bedtime story that is, first, true; second, exciting; and third, one they have never heard before. All you grandpas here tonight can understand the challenge which such a request represents. One such true story did come to my mind, however, as we visited recently in the home of a son and his wife who live in a midwestern city with their five children, including three bearers of the Aaronic Priesthood—a priest, a teacher, and a deacon. This story concerned their own father when he was a six-year-old boy.
I grew up in rural Salt Lake County when it was an economic necessity to care for a variety of barnyard animals. My favorite animals were sheep—prompted perhaps by the fact that sheep do not require being milked twice a day, seven days a week.
I wanted our own sons to have the blessing of being shepherds to such farm animals. Our older sons were each provided with a ewe to teach them the responsibility of caring for these sheep and the lambs that would hopefully follow.
Our second son, newly turned six years of age, called me excitedly at my office one cold March morning on the phone and said, “Daddy, guess what? Esther [Esther was his mother ewe]—Esther has just had two baby lambs. Please come home and help me take care of them.” I instructed Gordon to watch the lambs carefully and make sure they received the mother’s milk and they would be fine.
I was interrupted by a second phone call later in the morning with the same little voice on the other end saying, “Daddy, these lambs aren’t doing very well. They haven’t been able to get milk from the mother, and they are very cold. Please come home.” My response likely reflected some of the distress I felt by being distracted from my busy work schedule. I responded, “Gordon, the lambs will be all right. You just watch them, and when Daddy comes home we will make sure they get mother’s milk and everything will be fine.”
Again, later in the afternoon I received a third, more urgent call. Now the voice on the other end was pleading. “Daddy, you’ve got to come home now. Those lambs are lying down, and one of them looks very cold.” Despite work pressures, I now felt some real concern and tried to reassure the six-year-old owner of the mother sheep by saying, “Gordon, bring the lambs into the house. Rub them with a gunnysack to make them warm. When Daddy comes home in a little while, we will milk the mother, feed the lambs, and they will be fine.”
Two hours later I drove into the driveway of our home and was met by a boy with tear-stained eyes, carrying a dead lamb in his arms. His grief was overwhelming. Now I tried to make amends by quickly milking the mother sheep and trying to force the milk from a bottle down the throat of the now weak, surviving lamb. At this point, Gordon walked out of the room and came back with a hopeful look in his eyes. He said, “Daddy, I’ve prayed that we will be able to save this lamb, and I feel it will be all right.”
The sad note to this story, brethren, is that within a few minutes the second lamb was dead. Then with a look that I will remember forever, this little six-year-old boy who had lost both of his lambs looked up into his father’s face and with tears running down his cheeks said, “Daddy, if you had come home when I first called you, we could have saved them both.”

Let me share with you one of my favorite and true love stories. I learned about the story very late in its development. One night I went with my husband to a company dinner party. I sat next to an older man who was there with his wife. She had suffered a stroke, so he would lean over to cut her meat and help her with her food. His manner was very tender and caring. As he finished the meal, I said to him, “You are so good to your wife.”

His reply: “Why shouldn’t I be? I love her.” Then he told me about their courtship and their life together. “The first time I saw her,” he said, “was at a party in Canada. She was giving a reading. She had long golden curls and wore a beautiful white eyelet dress with a pretty blue satin sash. I was so impressed by her that I told my mother that that was the woman I was going to marry. Mother laughingly indulged me. I went on my mission, and when I came home she was engaged to another. I was asked to take a special assignment by the bishop, and when I protested he told me that if I would always put the work of the Lord first I would find that the Lord would always take care of me. I made the long trek to Salt Lake City. When I came home, she had broken her engagement. We started to date, and then we married.”

His wife rarely accompanied him in public after that dinner. It wasn’t long until her condition worsened, and she was completely bedridden and virtually unable to speak. He was a General Authority and went out on his regular conference assignments to visit and counsel the Saints. He would always come home and tell her all about the conference. One day as he finished, he teased, “If you are not going to speak back to me, then I am not going to tell about my experiences. You must not love me anymore.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and with great effort she found enough strength to form the words, “I do love you.” It was difficult and extremely slow, but with great effort she got the words out. He decided he would never again treat their love lightly, for their love went beyond even her crippling physical impairment.

At the funeral of this special woman, Zina Card Brown, every speaker commented on her love both for her sweetheart, President Hugh B. Brown. President Marion G. Romney said, “Wherever she was she was a loving lady.” President N. Eldon Tanner declared that President Brown was so successful because of her love. President Kimball said that the love of President and Sister Brown was such that they would soon be together again everlastingly. Her love pulled them toward immortality—a beginning of eternity.

As the time for the Festa Del Grillo drew near in Florence, Romano was ready. He had been saving his money and knew the cricket he wanted to buy.
The coins jingled in his pocket as he hurried to the cricket shop.
“If my cricket is judged the best singer in the Festa Del Grillo,” Romano murmured, “it could bring happiness back to my family. A singing cricket always brings good luck.”
Romano remembered the smiles of his mother and father and the singing in their home before his little brother became terribly ill. Now that his brother was gone, there was no singing and only a rare smile. Maybe the cricket will help, he hoped. Romano knew he must choose his cricket well to get a singer.
A tiny bell rang as the boy opened the door to the shop. Many people bought crickets at this time of the year, and there were many from which to choose.
“Buon giorno (good morning),” he said to the shopkeeper. “I want to buy a cricket that is a good singer. See the cage I have made for him.”
“It is a fine cage,” said the shopkeeper. “And I have a fine cricket for it. Look closely, now, Romano. There is only a tiny stripe on this one, but it marks him for a good singer.”
“I shall take him then,” said Romano. He spread out his money for the shopkeeper to see. “This is all I have,” he said.
The shopkeeper gathered up several of the coins. “This is just right,” he said. “Just what I must have for that fine cricket.”
Romano put the cricket inside the cage and fastened the tiny door. “I hope he sings well,” said the boy. “My family needs some good luck.”
“As we all do,” said the shopkeeper, nodding. “With so many crickets, I cannot be certain which ones are singing the loudest. All I can tell you is that there is a lot of singing here in my shop. And he has the yellow stripe. He looks like he’ll be a singer.”
Several times on his way home, Romano stopped and put the cage up to his ear, but he heard nothing. Suppose after I spent my money the cricket won’t sing! he worried. But it must! The boy looked again for the tiny yellow stripe. Seeing it, he was reassured.
“See what a fine cricket I have,” he said to his parents when he had returned home. “He will bring us good luck when he begins to sing.”
His father looked up from his paper and nodded.
“Has he sung for you already?” asked his mother.
“Not yet,” replied Romano.
“Perhaps he is hungry,” said his mother. “It is hard to sing when your stomach or your heart is hurting with emptiness.”
“That’s true,” said Romano. “I’ll go to the garden and get him a lettuce leaf. Then he’s sure to sing!”
The cricket began at once to make uneven scallops all along the edge of the ruffled leaf. But then it stopped. And still it did not sing.
That night it was quiet in the small apartment. Romano remembered when they had lived in the little country house and he and his brother had laughed together while his parents played music and sang. But tonight not even the cricket sang. His parents did not smile, nor did Romano.
On the morning of the Festa Del Grillo, Romano scrubbed himself until his face and his hair were as shiny as his dark eyes. He put on his best trousers and his bright red shirt and walked along beside his parents, carrying the cage. His mother’s blue flowered skirt softly swished as she walked, but that was about the only sound Romano heard. The cricket in the cage remained silent.
At the festival there was music, and friends greeted each other. There were also many things to buy and crickets that sang. The judges came by his cricket several times. Romano waited by the cage and listened and hoped. But his cricket did not sing.
Romano’s heart was heavy as he returned to the apartment. He had the same feeling that he had known before, one of being almost smothered by the high buildings. He longed for soft grass under his feet instead of the hard sidewalks and for the open country where he could sing without feeling closed in.
My cricket’s closed in! Could that be the reason it doesn’t sing? he wondered. He must give it one more chance. If only it would sing, just once, it might bring good luck to their home for a whole year. And so the boy waited. But no sound came.
At dusk he took the cage and left the apartment. He carried the cricket out to a hill beyond the city. There he stopped and opened the cage. And as the cricket took flight, the sound came that he had been waiting for. Yes! It was singing!
But it’s too late, thought Romano as he turned toward home. His cricket did not win at the Festa Del Grillo. Neither did it sing to bring good luck to their home. But in his sadness there was a tiny glow of happiness as he thought of his cricket flying free. Somewhere, at this very moment, it would still be singing.
As he neared his home he could see a light in the window. His parents were there in its glow, waiting for him. He held up the cage.
“The cricket!” exclaimed his father. “It is gone?”
“Yes,” said Romano. “He did not like the cage.”
His mother nodded. “That is good,” she said.
Romano shook his head. “But now there will be no good luck. We would have had it for a whole year if only he had sung in our home.”
His father arose and put an arm around the shoulders of the boy. “To turn the cricket free when the festival is over is a great kindness,” he said. “And even now, we have good luck. We have a son who wants happiness for a small cricket.”
Romano looked at his parents. On their faces he saw the smiles he had been longing for. He thought of his cricket, flying far and free. A good feeling crept over him, and in his heart, he, too, was singing.

At a young age, I had many responsibilities on our farm. When I was nine years old, one of my summer jobs was to keep a herd of 12 cows and 12 calves in the pasture. Unfortunately, they loved to push over our fence and gorge on the sweet alfalfa in an adjoining field. On one of their escapes, they got into an empty canal some four to five meters deep. I knew the canal would soon fill with water, drowning the trapped cattle.

I couldn’t move 24 cattle up the canal’s steep banks, and I didn’t know how else to save them, so I knelt and prayed for help. I was impressed to drive the cattle down the canal to another man’s property. I questioned the wisdom of this, because I didn’t know the property or its owner and I didn’t want to get stuck between even steeper banks. I obeyed the Spirit, however, and soon found a section of the canal where the cattle could climb out easily. And our neighbor didn’t mind. When I told my mother, she said I had been inspired by Heavenly Father.

Last conference I wrote down some questions I had about things happening in my life and prayed to receive answers during general conference. During conference I took notes, and when I reviewed my questions, I realized that all my questions had been answered. Some were simply reminders of what I already knew, and some were answered in unlikely ways. General conference is a blessing in so many ways.
Grace H., 18, Taiwan

Several years ago, my wife and I served as mission leaders in Tokyo, Japan. During a visit to our mission by then-Elder Russell M. Nelson, one of the missionaries asked him how best to respond when a person tells them that they are too busy to listen to them. With little hesitation, Elder Nelson said, “I would ask if they were too busy to eat lunch that day and then teach them that they have both a body and a spirit, and just as their body will die if not nourished, so will their spirit if not nourished by the good word of God.”
It is interesting to note that the Japanese word for “busy,” isogashii, is made up of a character with two symbols (?). The one on the left means “heart” or “spirit,” and the one on the right means “death”—suggesting perhaps, as President Nelson taught, that being too busy to nourish our spirits can lead us to die spiritually.
The Lord knew—in this fast-paced world full of distractions and in commotion—that making quality time for Him would be one of the major challenges of our day. Speaking through the prophet Isaiah, He provided these words of counsel and caution, which can be likened unto the tumultuous days in which we live:
“In returning and rest shall ye be saved; in quietness and in confidence shall be your strength: and ye would not.
“But ye said, No; for we will flee upon horses; therefore shall ye flee: and, We will ride upon the swift; therefore shall they that pursue you be swift.”
In other words, even though our salvation depends on returning to Him often and resting from the cares of the world, we do not. And even though our confidence will come from a strength developed in quiet times sitting with the Lord in meditation and reflection, we do not. Why not? Because we say, “No, we are busy with other things”—fleeing upon our horses, so to speak. Therefore, we will get further and further away from God; we will insist on going faster and faster; and the faster we go, the swifter Satan will follow in pursuit.
Perhaps this is why President Nelson has repeatedly pled with us to make time for the Lord in our lives—“each and every day.” He reminds us that “quiet time is sacred time—time that will facilitate personal revelation and instill peace.” But to hear the still voice of the Lord, he counseled, “you too must be still.”
Being still, however, requires more than just making time for the Lord—it requires letting go of our doubtful and fearful thoughts and focusing our hearts and minds on Him. Elder David A. Bednar taught, “The Lord’s admonition to ‘be still’ entails much more than simply not talking or not moving.” To be still, he suggested, “may be a way of reminding us to focus upon the Savior unfailingly.”
Being still is an act of faith and requires effort. Lectures on Faith states, “When a man works by faith he works by mental exertion.” President Nelson declared: “Our focus must be riveted on the Savior and His gospel. It is mentally rigorous to strive to look unto Him in every thought. But when we do, our doubts and fears flee.” Speaking of this need to focus our minds, President David O. McKay said: “I think we pay too little attention to the value of meditation, a principle of devotion. … Meditation is one of the … most sacred doors through which we pass into the presence of the Lord.”
There is a word in Japanese, mui, that, for me, captures this more faith-filled, contemplative sense of what it means to be still. It is comprised of two characters (??). The one on the left means “nothing” or “nothingness,” and the one on the right means “to do.” Together they mean “non-doing.” Taken literally, the word could be misinterpreted to mean “to do nothing” in the same way “to be still” can be misinterpreted as “not talking or moving.” However, like the phrase “to be still,” it has a higher meaning; for me it is a reminder to slow down and to live with greater spiritual awareness.
While serving in the Asia North Area Presidency with Elder Takashi Wada, I learned that his wife, Sister Naomi Wada, is an accomplished Japanese calligrapher. I asked Sister Wada if she would draw for me the Japanese characters for the word mui. I wanted to hang the calligraphy on my wall as a reminder to be still and to focus on the Savior. I was surprised when she did not readily agree to this seemingly simple request.
The next day, knowing that I had likely misunderstood her hesitance, Elder Wada explained that writing those characters would require a significant effort. She would need to ponder and meditate on the concept and the characters until she understood the meaning deeply in her soul and could give expression to these heartfelt impressions with each stroke of her brush. I was embarrassed that I had so casually asked her to do something so demanding. I asked him to convey my apologies to her for my ignorance and to let her know that I was withdrawing my request.
You can imagine my surprise and gratitude when upon my leaving Japan, Sister Wada, unsolicited, gifted to me this beautiful piece of calligraphy featuring the Japanese characters for the word mui. It now hangs prominently on the wall of my office, reminding me to be still and to seek the Lord every day with all my heart, might, mind, and strength. She had captured, in this selfless act, the meaning of mui, or stillness, better than any words could. Rather than mindlessly and dutifully drawing the characters, she approached her calligraphy with full purpose of heart and real intent.
Likewise, God desires that we approach our time with Him with the same kind of heartfelt devotion. When we do so, our worship becomes an expression of our love for Him.
He yearns for us to commune with Him. On one occasion, after I gave the invocation in a meeting with the First Presidency, President Nelson turned to me and said, “While you were praying, I thought how much God must appreciate when we take time from our busy schedules to acknowledge Him.” It was a simple yet powerful reminder of how much it must mean to Heavenly Father when we pause to commune with Him.

Sister Bingham told the story of a girl who saw a home with shining golden windows. Her own home seemed shabby in comparison. One day, the girl rode her bike across the valley to visit the house. When she got closer, she saw it was abandoned and falling apart. When she turned around, she was surprised to see a house with golden windows across the valley. It was her own house! The sun on the windows made the difference. When we count our blessings instead of comparing ourselves with others, we’ll see the goodness of God in our lives.

We envision your families gathered around the television or online to watch the proceedings of general conference at home. An alert mother and father sent me a copy of a picture they took at conference time. They observed the reaction of their then 18-month-old son, who recognized the features and voice of the speaker. The child started to throw kisses toward the TV. He wanted to come closer. So his thoughtful older sister quickly hoisted her little brother on her shoulders and brought him closer. Here is that photograph.
Yes, the image on the TV is mine, and those children are our grandchildren. In a few years this boy will be an elder endowed in the temple and ready for his mission. Later he will be sealed to an eternal companion of his choice. Can you see him one day as a husband and father, with children of his own? And one day he will say farewell to his grandfathers, with a sure knowledge that death is part of life.