Gospel Story Finder

Thanks to that memorable event, I was given the privilege to bear the Aaronic Priesthood, as have millions of young men in these latter days. Its true significance was taught me by my former stake president, the late Paul C. Child.

When I was approaching my eighteenth birthday and preparing to enter military service in World War II, I was recommended to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. Mine was the task of telephoning President Child for an appointment and interview. He was one who loved and understood the holy scriptures. It was his intent that all others should similarly love and understand them. Knowing from others of his rather detailed and searching interviews, our telephone conversation went something like this:

“Hello, President Child. This is Brother Monson. I have been asked by the bishop to seek an interview with you.”

“Fine, Brother Monson. When can you visit me?”

Knowing that his sacrament meeting time was six o’clock, and desiring minimum exposure of my scriptural knowledge to his review, I suggested, “How would five o’clock be?”

His response: “Oh, Brother Monson, that would not provide us sufficient time to peruse the scriptures. Could you please come at two o’clock, and bring with you your personally marked and referenced set of scriptures.”

Sunday finally arrived, and I visited President Child’s home on Indiana Avenue. I was greeted warmly, and then the interview began. He said: “Brother Monson, you hold the Aaronic Priesthood. Have you ever had angels minister to you?”

My reply was: “No, President Child.”

“Do you know,” said he, “that you are entitled to such?”

Again came my response: “No.”

Then he instructed, “Brother Monson, repeat from memory the thirteenth section of the Doctrine and Covenants.”

I began, “Upon you my fellow servants, in the name of Messiah I confer the Priesthood of Aaron, which holds the keys of the ministering of angels …” (D&C 13:1).

“Stop,” President Child directed. Then in a calm, kindly tone he counseled: “Brother Monson, never forget that as a holder of the Aaronic Priesthood you are entitled to the ministering of angels.” It was almost as though an angel were in the room that day. I have never forgotten the interview. I yet feel the spirit of that solemn occasion. I revere the priesthood of Almighty God. I have witnessed its power. I have seen its strength. I have marveled at the miracles it has wrought.

Age 18
First counselor in Young Men presidency, seminary teacher
We all face unanticipated problems in life. After my family returned from being sealed in the Hong Kong China Temple and just before one of my sisters was to leave on a full-time mission, my older brother and sister lost their jobs and my father’s salary was cut in half. It was a difficult time for the 11 of us in our small home, but we held to the promises made in the temple.
In that time the Holy Ghost reminded me of a scripture: “But before ye seek for riches, seek ye for the kingdom of God” (Jacob 2:18). It brought me hope. I trusted that God would bless me and my family.
My brother and sister have now found jobs that allow our family to eat, and I’ve had several promising interviews. It’s a miracle that has increased our faith in Christ. I know the Lord loves us and knows us. He knows our needs. If we’ll keep His commandments, we’ll prosper in the land (see Mosiah 2:22).

It was almost time for the town’s annual Easter egg hunt. Children lined up along the edge of the lawn, waiting for the signal to begin hunting for candy that had been scattered everywhere. This year there were other prizes too. Brightly colored plastic eggs had been hidden in the grass, and whoever found one could redeem it for a big candy bar.
Eight-year-old Justin saw one of those eggs lying not far away. As soon as the signal was given, he ran straight for it. He grabbed the egg, then noticed another one close by. Quickly, he retrieved it too. He gazed down at his hands, each now holding a plastic egg. He was so excited. He was not only going to get one, but two delicious, gigantic candy bars!
Then he looked up and saw a mother with her two sons. He could see that the boys were blind, and their mother was holding their hands trying to help them find some treats. As Justin watched them, he noticed that before the mother could lead her sons to candy, another child would spy it and promptly scoop it up. This happened again and again. The hunt was almost over and the boys’ hands were still empty.
Once more, Justin looked down at his hands and his treasured eggs. Then he quietly tiptoed over to the boys, bent down, and placed an egg on the ground by each of them. The mother, with a tear streaming down her cheek, mouthed the words, “Thank you.” She guided her sons’ hands downward and they discovered the precious eggs. Their faces lit up with excitement. Justin got a big grin on his face. He didn’t get any candy bars that day, but he still felt like a winner.

I married young, and while my marriage has always been a healthy and a happy one, it made me face my weaker traits. On top of that, my husband and I decided to have children right away, and my first pregnancy was the most harrowing experience I’d ever had. I faced physical challenges I never imagined. My mood was unstable, and depression became a very real and very new struggle.
I tried to be a good wife, good mother, and good student, but I never quite measured up to my own standards. In time, scolding myself became my first reaction.
I understood that the two great commandments say to “love the Lord thy God” and to “love thy neighbour as thyself” (Matthew 22:37, 39; emphasis added), which implies that we should love ourselves. But I felt unworthy of love.
I thought, “If I sin and love myself anyway, isn’t that giving myself permission to keep doing wrong? After all, we’re supposed to offer up a broken heart and a contrite spirit, so aren’t we supposed to be miserable until we’re better?”
At the time I would have answered “yes,” but the truth is a resounding “no.”
Elder S. Gifford Nielsen of the Seventy taught: “Our Heavenly Father wants us to love ourselves … to see ourselves as He sees us: we are His cherished children. When this truth sinks deep into our hearts, our love for God grows.”1 And when my love for God grows, I become better. When I love God, I recognize my Savior’s gift that makes it possible for me to be forgiven of my sins and to overcome my shortcomings. When I love God, it’s easier to love myself.
Berating others doesn’t help them progress; it only discourages them. Along with correction, they also need encouragement. So why was I any different? How could I offer myself the same compassion?
When I confided in my husband about this struggle, I felt pathetic. I was more comfortable continuing my habit of negative self-talk, so I had to be brave and vulnerable to admit my weaknesses out loud. But articulating my problem to another person helped me find more clarity and solutions.
I’ve educated myself with uplifting resources to understand my thought patterns and how to improve. I’ve also learned that regular exercise makes a huge difference. In the past I exercised because I hated my body and wanted to change it. Now I exercise because I love to feel good and have more energy.
My changes were more effective because I acknowledged the Savior was supporting me rather than condemning me. Before, my scripture study, prayer, and temple attendance had been full of shame and had limited my spiritual growth. Now my prayers are more genuine and honest because I’m not hiding myself from the Lord.
I also had to decide what mattered and who to listen to. Our world, our neighborhoods, and our social media platforms have so many expectations on how to act, look, parent, talk, and so on. It is simply impossible to achieve universal approval.
But you know who else faced disapproval? Jesus Christ. He was kind, compassionate, and perfect, but He didn’t win any popularity contests. In fact, choosing to show His love for certain people often cost Him the respect of others. I have had to accept that I cannot please everyone and should instead strive to please God.
The goal with self-love is never to justify omission, rationalize sin, or slip into complacency. I recognize that certain negative feelings can help me, such as godly sorrow—but I shouldn’t wallow in it, because that’s not progression.
Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said:
“Guilt has an important role as it awakens us to changes we need to make, but there are limits to how far guilt will help us.
“Guilt is like a battery in a gasoline-powered car. It can light up the car, start the engine, and power the headlights, but it will not provide the fuel for the long journey ahead. The battery, by itself, is not sufficient. And neither is guilt.”2 I must be intentional not to slip into negative thinking patterns and should instead focus on loving Christ and myself.
It’s been a process to lay this burden at my Savior’s feet, but it’s working. The small changes I have made, many of them inside my own head, are making a huge difference because of the Savior’s grace.
I’m grateful that the heart of the gospel revolves around love. The love of God, love of others, and love for myself.

He is a prophet who quietly builds up, delegates, and expects commitments that are unwavering. I recall telephoning President Benson while away on a stake assignment. A major situation and problem was evident. It was serious enough that I felt the need for his wise counsel and advice. When I finished explaining the facts and developments to him, he said in reassuring mildness and trust, “Do what needs to be done. You have my complete confidence and support.”

Kate looked at the kitchen table covered with dirty supper dishes, trying to decide where to start. “It’s hard to believe that summer’s almost over,” she sighed as she started to stack the plates.
“I know what you mean,” Becky said. “It’s our last week of summer vacation, and we still haven’t gone to the new water park. Do you think Mom will take us there if we ask?”
“Maybe,” Kate said as she carried the plates to the sink. “But I know that Mom’s really busy this week. And we did a lot of fun things this summer. We just didn’t go to the water park.”
Becky followed Kate back into the dining room. She leaned against the table while her sister gathered up the glasses and utensils. “Yes—if you call driving all day to get to a family reunion fun,” she muttered.
“It was fun,” said Kate. “You’re just being ornery.” She picked up four glasses and headed back to the kitchen. Becky followed.
“It was all right,” Becky agreed, “but I’ll bet we’re the only two kids in our whole school who haven’t gone to the water park.”
Losing patience, Kate turned to Becky. “Will you please stop complaining and help me with the dishes?”
Rolling her eyes, Becky opened the dishwasher and was starting to load the dirty dishes, when their mom came in.
“Thank you for doing the dishes,” Mom said. “I appreciate all the work the two of you do.”
“No problem, Mom.” Kate smiled.
“Yeah,” Becky agreed. “We were just saying that it’s too bad that the summer’s almost over and we never made it to the new water park.”
“That is a shame,” Mom said. She thought for a moment, then said, “I’ll make you a deal. I have some errands to run tomorrow morning. If you two will clean the garage while I’m gone, I’ll stop and buy tickets to the water park, and we can go when I get home.”
“That would be great!” Becky exclaimed.
“It’s a deal,” Kate said.
“Cleaning the garage is a big job. Do you think you can do it without me?”
“No problem,” Becky said.
The next morning Kate jumped out of bed and ran downstairs. Mom had already left. “Good morning,” Kate greeted her grandmother.
“Good morning, dear. Are you ready for your breakfast?”
Kate nodded and followed her grandmother into the kitchen. “Becky and I are going to clean the garage. Then Mom is going to take us to the new water park.”
“That’s what your mother told me,” said Grandma. “Would you please go wake Becky.”
“Sure.”
“What’s the big hurry?” Becky grumped when Kate tried to talk her into getting up.
“We need to eat breakfast and start cleaning the garage.”
“No, we don’t. You heard what Mom said. She’s picking up the tickets while she’s out. She’s not going to tell us that we can’t go after she’s already bought the tickets.”
Kate frowned. “But we made a deal.”
“If you’re so worried, you go clean the garage. Tell Grandma that I’ll have breakfast later. Right now I need to figure out which swimming suit I want to wear.”
Kate trudged back down the stairs.
“What’s wrong?” Grandma asked.
“Becky says she’s not going to help. She thinks Mom will let us go even if we don’t clean the garage.”
“What do you think?” Grandma asked.
“We said we would clean the garage,” said Kate, “so that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Well,” said Grandma, “you’ve made your decision, and you’ll have to let Becky make hers. Sometimes we want to make other people’s decisions for them, but we can’t.”
After breakfast, Kate marched out to the garage and looked around, trying to figure out where to start. She decided to start by moving everything she needed to so that she could sweep out the leaves that had collected around the edges. At first she was angry at Becky for not helping, but soon her thoughts turned to the job that she was doing.
When Mom arrived home, Kate was organizing cans of food storage on a shelf.
“Where’s your sister?” Mom asked.
“In the house,” Kate answered.
“Isn’t she helping?”
Kate shook her head.
Just then Becky appeared in the doorway. “Hi, Mom,” she said cheerfully. “Did you get the tickets?”
“Yes I did,” said Mom. “Did you help clean the garage?”
“I was just coming to help.”
Mom shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.”
Becky looked over at Kate and smiled an I-told-you-so smile. Her smile disappeared fast when Mom added, “You can finish cleaning it while Kate and I are at the water park.”
Becky’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t keep your end of the bargain, so you may not come with us.”
Becky couldn’t believe her ears. “But didn’t you already buy me a ticket?”
“I bought tickets for the girls who kept their promises and cleaned the garage. Did you keep your promise?”
Becky hung her head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I thought that you’d let me go anyway.”
“You made a choice. You’ll have to live with the consequences.”
Tears streamed down Becky’s face. “That’s not fair.”
Mom put her arms around Becky. “I know it isn’t what you want,” Mom said, “but it is fair.”
Becky watched out the living room window as the car pulled away from the house. “I blew it, Grandma,” she said.
Grandma nodded. “You made a bad choice. What you need to do now is learn from your mistake. If your mom had taken you to the water park, you would have thought that it’s all right to make promises that you don’t intend to keep. And it isn’t. Does that make sense?”
“I guess so.”
“Now, I have a deal for you, if you are interested.”
Becky looked up. “What is it?”
“If you’ll go finish up the garage, when you’re done, we’ll bake some cookies for the family.”
“Chocolate chip?”
Grandma smiled. “Chocolate chip.”
“It’s a deal,” Becky said, heading toward the garage. “And this time I mean it.”

An old Swedish couple, Brother and Sister Palm, worked in the shoe shop of the Co-op Store in our town. Brother Palm’s hand was intriguing to watch as he mended the shoes. Jimmie and I would go to the shop just to watch him work his stiff fingers and see the hole that ran through the center of his palm.
Brother Palm didn’t like children chewing pine gum, so he’d always give us cobbler’s wax when we went to the shop.
One day when Jimmie and I were there we saw a dime in one of his tack cups and we both began to think about what that dime could buy.
“Brother Palm would never miss a dime,” I whispered to Jimmie.
“I’ll get Brother Palm to show me something in the rear of his shop while you take the money and run away,” Jimmie suggested.
The plan worked perfectly, and we each bought a bottle of soda water at Joe Coslett’s Novelty Store.
It took a long, long time for me to get over the guilty feeling I had about that dime. Every time I saw Brother Palm, I remembered I had stolen from him.
Each winter the ward sent the boys out on Saturdays to chop wood for the widows, the aged, and the disabled. I worked harder at the Palm home than anywhere else to try and work that dime off my conscience.
After I grew up I saw very little of Brother Palm. But, when I did, he would always put his crippled hand in mine, and then I’d remember the dime I took from his tack cup. I wanted to tell him about it and give him a dollar to quiet my conscience, but I lacked the courage to confess my dishonesty.
Later, I was hired as a clerk in the old Co-op Store where Brother Palm did all his business. When he traded with me, I always put ten cents’ worth more of goods in his sack than I charged him for. Then when he left, I’d put one of my own dimes in the cashbox and mark it “paid” on the store’s ledger.
Soon the old man learned that his money bought more from me, and he would not trade with any other clerk. When someone else offered to serve him he would say, “Thank you. I will wait for Brother Palmer.”
After a while I began to realize that I wasn’t clearing my conscience of that long-ago theft. The only way for me to stop feeling guilty about that stolen dime was to confess what I had done and ask his forgiveness.
The next time Brother Palm came to trade, I gave him his order as usual and asked him to come into the office for a little talk. I opened my ledger account and showed him how I had charged myself—“sugar to Palm 10¢,” “oatmeal to Palm,” “rice to Palm,” and so on, totaling $3.70. He was amazed and asked, “What does all this mean? Has Louisa been buying things and forgetting to pay for them?”
I answered, “No, it was not Sister Palm. You bought them yourself.”
He turned to me with a puzzled and challenging look and said, “There must be a mistake! I never buy ten cents’ worth of sugar, I buy a half dollar’s worth, and I always buy a quarter’s worth of rice or mush.”
Then I told him about the dime I had stolen long ago from his shop and how I was reminded of it each time I saw the hole in his hand. I explained that I had been trying all this time to square my debt by putting ten cents’ worth more of goods in his sacks than he paid for. “I paid the extra amount and then marked it paid in the ledger,” I continued.
Pointing to the list of figures I said, “You see, Brother Palm, I’ve paid my debt many times over, but I’ve found that I can’t clear my conscience that way, so I am telling you the whole story and asking for your forgiveness.”
The old man smiled and said, “Oh, Brother Palmer, I do forgive you. I’m only sorry you didn’t tell me sooner.”
Then he stood up and put out his hand for me to shake. My finger slid into the hole in his palm and at last the guilty feeling left me.

I am an eyewitness of that truth. Over a lifetime, my wife has spoken for the Lord and served people for Him. As I’ve mentioned before, one of our bishops once said to me: “I’m amazed. Every time I hear of a person in the ward who is in trouble, I hurry to help. Yet by the time I arrive, it seems that your wife has always already been there.” That has been true in all the places we have lived for 56 years.
Now she can speak only a few words a day. She is visited by people she loved for the Lord. Every night and morning I sing hymns with her and we pray. I have to be voice in the prayers and in the songs. Sometimes I can see her mouthing the words of the hymns. She prefers children’s songs. The sentiment she seems to like best is summarized in the song “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.”
The other day, after singing the words of the chorus: “Love one another as Jesus loves you. Try to show kindness in all that you do,” she said softly, but clearly, “Try, try, try.” I think that she will find, when she sees Him, that our Savior has put His name into her heart and that she has become like Him. He is carrying her through her troubles now, as He will carry you through yours.

I was living away from home for the first time when my parents separated. It was only my first month of college, and as my family life shifted, I struggled to understand the meaning of the word home. When my parents divorced and my family moved out of the home I had lived in for the last 18 years, I was especially confused. I knew I wasn’t homeless, but I certainly felt that way.
I have often heard the Church described as a “refuge from the storm” (D&C 115:6). Institute became that refuge for me as I battled this new storm in my life. I enrolled in institute, and while I don’t recall the exact words spoken in the lessons, I will never forget the feelings of peace and comfort that came to me as I listened. I began to discover the love my Heavenly Father has for me, and I became much more closely acquainted with the best counselor I have ever found: Jesus Christ.
I have to pay for my college education, yet I learn the most valuable lessons from institute classes, which are available to me for free. I see now that the definition of home isn’t necessarily the house in which you grow up but a place where life’s lessons are taught and love abounds. Because of what I learned and the Spirit I felt, institute has become a new home for me. It is wonderful having a place where I feel loved and welcome.

2 Joseph F. never forgot one happy occasion when he sat on the knee of the Prophet Joseph Smith, brother of Hyrum. Joseph F. was only five years old and was playing on the bank of the Mississippi River when his father and his Uncle Joseph crossed the river on their way home to prepare to go to Carthage.
3 When they landed, little Joseph F. took his father’s hand, and they went with the Prophet to Hyrum’s house. There, while Hyrum was shaving, the Prophet took Joseph F. on his knee and said to his brother, “Hyrum, what’s the matter with Joseph; he seems so white?”
“Oh,” answered Hyrum, joking about the poverty of the family, “he lives on skim milk.”
4 Joseph F. always remembered the anguish he felt the last time he saw his father. He wrote, “Without getting off his horse, Father leaned over in his saddle and picked me up off the ground. He kissed me good-bye and put me down again, and I saw him ride away.” Several days passed before five-year-old Joseph F. and his mother, Mary Fielding Smith, had any news of Hyrum.
5 Then the tragic night came. Joseph F. later wrote, “I remember the night of the murder … when one of the brethren came from Carthage and knocked on Mother’s window after dark and, with a trembling voice, called to my mother, ‘Sister Smith, your husband has been killed.’”
6 Joseph F. always remembered the fear he felt that night as he lay in his bed listening to his mother crying.
7 Soon after Hyrum’s death, the family began making preparations to go west. With his father gone, Joseph F. assumed responsibility for helping his mother all he could. Not yet ten years of age, Joseph F. drove the oxen the entire distance from Winter Quarters to the Salt Lake Valley—over a thousand miles—in the summer of 1848.
8 This journey proved to be an extra hardship because the captain of their group was against Mary Fielding Smith and her family going on the arduous journey without a father to take care of their needs. He told Mary that she and her children would be a burden to the rest of the company. But Mary told the captain that she would ask no special favors, would make the trip without his help, and would even beat him to the valley! She kept her word, with much help from her young son, Joseph F., the future prophet.

We all need to know what it means to be honest. Honesty is more than not lying. It is truth telling, truth speaking, truth living, and truth loving. Another example of honesty comes from a nine-year-old Swiss pioneer child named John, who crossed the plains in one of the handcart companies.
His father put a chunk of buffalo meat in the handcart and said it was to be saved for Sunday dinner. John said, “I was so very hungry and the meat smelled so good to me while pushing at the handcart that I could not resist. I had a little pocket knife. … Although I expected a severe whipping when father found it out, I cut off little pieces each day. I would chew them so long that they got white and perfectly tasteless. When father came to get the meat he asked me if I had been cutting off some of it. I said ‘Yes. I was so hungry I could not let it alone.’ Instead of giving me a scolding or whipping, father turned away and wiped tears from his eyes” (in LeRoy R. Hafen and Ann W. Hafen, Handcarts to Zion, 1960, 189–90).

It felt like just a regular morning as I walked to school. But this seemingly unremarkable day in my 13-year-old life turned into something quite different once I got there.
“Did you hear the news?” my friend asked.
“No,” I replied. “What’s going on?”
When we walked into our first class, the teacher had a TV on. That’s when I saw news about the terrible events of the morning of September 11, 2001, in the United States. Hijacked airplanes had been flown into the World Trade Center in New York City and the Pentagon near Washington, D.C. Another plane had crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. Thousands were killed or injured. It was a frightening and tragic day.
At this time, my dad was a fighter pilot aboard an aircraft carrier on a routine six-month deployment for the United States Navy. In the days that followed, I continued to see news about the attacks. I also heard classmates express fear and anger. All this made me anxious about the future and what might happen to my dad.
Hal Murdock, Captain, United States Navy, in the cockpit of an F/A-18F Super Hornet at Naval Air Station in 2008.
General conference was held three weeks later. As I listened, the prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008), said that we lived in perilous times, but “the God in whom I believe … is a God of mercy. He is a God of love. He is a God of peace and reassurance, and I look to Him in times such as this as a comfort and a source of strength.”1
In the last session, President Hinckley closed his address with a prayer. He prayed for blessings of faith, love, charity, and “a spirit of perseverance to root out the terrible evils that are in this world.” He prayed that God would give “protection and guidance to those who are engaged actively in carrying forth the things of battle. Bless them; preserve their lives; save them from harm and evil. Hear the prayers of their loved ones for their safety.” He also prayed for God to “spare us and help us to walk with faith ever in Thee and ever in Thy Beloved Son.”2
President Gordon B. Hinckley offering a prayer during the October 2001 general conference.
I had often heard the prophet say that he prays for many things, but this was a unique experience. I had never heard the prophet say an actual prayer in general conference. Hearing the prophet pray brought me comfort I had not felt in weeks. He prayed about my concerns. I felt that he had prayed for my family. While his prayer was for the world, I was amazed that a prophet’s prayer could also be for me.
Several months later, our family received a letter from my dad. He wrote that on the day of President Hinckley’s prayer, he and everyone aboard the aircraft carrier had begun a mission to stop further attacks from those who had attacked America.
“As I have reflected on the prayer offered by the prophet,” my dad wrote, “I have realized several remarkable things. We suffered no injuries or losses during the entire operation. At times, my fellow pilots and I found ourselves many miles away from the carrier, flying over hostile territory on 12-hour missions. When we would return to the aircraft carrier to land our fighter jets at night, the seas and weather remained calm long past the time the weather normally turns poor in that part of the world. To bring everyone home is a miraculous blessing. I know from personal experience that the prayer offered by the prophet in our behalf was answered.”
When I read my dad’s witness of an answer to the prophet’s prayer, the Spirit filled my heart and these words came to my mind: “Look to the prophet, and you will be OK.”
Commander Murdock and his family the day he safely returned home from deployment.

My dad looked like an angry mud monster. Our van and our moving truck were both stuck in the mud on a deserted road. Dad and Mom were trying to move them, but the mud was deep. Each time they tried to drive, the wheels spun and mud flew everywhere. Dad was getting more and more frustrated.
My brother and sisters and I stood away from the truck and van.
“Why is Daddy getting dirty?” my little sister Karen asked.
“He’s trying to get us out of the mud,” I said.
Mom tried driving the van again. The wheels spun, showering Dad with more mud. Splat!
“That’s enough. You can stop!” Dad yelled. Then he grumbled to himself.
It bothered me to see Dad upset. I could tell it was worrying Karen too.
“We’re really stuck, aren’t we?” Karen asked.
“Yes, we are,” I said.
Karen suddenly walked toward Dad. “Daddy, I have an idea,” she said.
“Not right now, honey,” he said. “Please stay out of the way.”
Mom walked past carrying a muddy blanket.
“Mom, I have an idea for Daddy,” Karen said.
“Daddy’s really busy right now,” Mom said as she shook the blanket to get the mud off of it.
“I have an idea of how we can get out of the mud,” Karen said.
“Oh, really?” I could tell Mom was only half listening.
Karen raised her voice to get Mom’s attention. “We can say a prayer.”
Mom looked at Karen. Then she said, “That’s a really good idea.”
Mom led Karen to where Dad was working in the mud. “Karen has a good idea,” she told him.
Dad looked frustrated but stood up. “OK,” he said. “What?”
“Why don’t we pray and ask Heavenly Father to help us get out of this mud?” Karen said.
Dad still looked grumpy, but he said, “All right, you can say a prayer for us.”
Mom gathered our family together, and we all bowed our heads.
“Heavenly Father, we are stuck,” Karen said. “Please bless Daddy to find a way to get us out of this mud. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I felt comforted by Karen’s prayer.
Then Dad got an idea. He climbed into the truck, grabbed a broomstick, and put it under the wheel of the van. Mom started the engine and drove the van right out of the mud! Then Dad put the broomstick under the wheel of the truck. Mom drove the truck right out of the mud too!
As everyone got ready to go, Dad changed into clean clothes. He looked a lot less like a mud monster, and he looked a lot happier too! Dad hugged Karen and said, “Thank you for your prayer.” Then he called to the rest of us. “Everyone, we need to thank Heavenly Father for getting us out of that mud. And this time I’d like to say the prayer.”

I used to be guilty of judging by appearance back in the days when I could see, before I lost my sight because of diabetes. I remember in particular my girls’ chorus teacher in junior high school. She was about as plain as a person could be, and she wore drab clothing. Even in conducting the choir she seemed to be a shy, backward person with about as much personality as a soda cracker. I am ashamed to admit that we girls made many rude remarks and cruel jokes about her behind her back.
One day at the end of the school year, some friends of mine thought it would be funny to leave an anonymous note on her desk telling her what we really thought of her. I was elected to do the dirty work. But as I went into the empty room to leave the note, I couldn’t do it. Instead, overcome by what I now suspect was the Spirit, I quickly wrote a note thanking her for her efforts in leading the chorus and telling her I had enjoyed singing.
As I was leaving the note on her desk, she entered the room. I was frozen to the spot as she walked to the desk, picked up the note, and read it. As I watched, I was astonished to see tears come to her eyes and flood down her cheeks. She clutched the note to her heart and in her mild way said, “Thank you.”
As I looked into her eyes at that moment, I believe I saw her clearly for the first time. I felt like I saw straight into her soul and sensed at once her loneliness, her pain, and her gentle goodness. At that moment, I loved her with a love that was far more powerful than anything I had ever felt for my favorite teachers. The Lord permitted me to see her heart as he sees it.

We had a similar experience when we called another man to be the president of our stake mission. Through some discouraging experiences in Church service, he thought himself halfway on the road to apostasy and not at all sure of his testimony. He resisted his appointment vigorously, saying that it would deprive him of time to do some of the most enjoyable things in life. We explained to him how once again we had sought the direction from the Lord about who should preside over the mission. We told him that he was not being forced to accept the call, but that he should ask his Heavenly Father whether or not it was right for him to serve. The Lord gave him a powerful assurance that he was called to the work. The following year he, with his missionaries, baptized nearly ten percent of all the nonmembers in our stake. Later on, he was called to be a bishop.

Another pair of siblings, Bich Thuy and her brother Tuan, were literally launched on their new life by their mother. Eight years after South Vietnam’s surrender, the family decided the two youngest children must leave and attempt to join the older children who had left earlier. Their LDS father was still in a “reeducation camp,” and their mother was unwilling to leave without him. For her children, however, she knew a better life was possible. She took her two children to the ocean, put them on a small fishing boat loaded with others also seeking a better life, and like the mother of Moses who set her baby adrift in a basket, committed her children into the currents and prayed that God would watch over them.
Prior to her departure, Bich Thuy, now 20, had been an accomplished pianist trained in the finest Saigon music schools. Her delicate hands have since known many hardships. As those same hands were raised to bid farewell, she wondered if she would ever see her mother’s face again. She wonders still.
For Bich Thuy and her brother, Tuan, who last saw their mother two years ago when she bade them farewell, life in America, although fulfilling in many ways, nevertheless holds a certain emptiness. Bich Thuy is attending a community college in Los Angeles while also working at a music store. Tuan is in high school. Five older brothers and sisters who preceded them in coming to America are also in California. But the emptiness lingers because their father, until recently, was being held in a work camp while their mother struggled to maintain their home. These parents would like to join their children in America, but their hopes are dim. In the meantime, the children they sent to America send them back what money and supplies they can. They are one of about 16 known LDS families in similar circumstances still in Vietnam.

President Ezra Taft Benson had a similar experience while serving as a missionary in South Shields, England, in 1923. He states:
“We fasted and prayed sincerely that we would say only those things that would touch the hearts of the investigators, then went to the sacrament meeting. My companion had planned to talk on the first principles of the gospel. I had prepared to talk on the apostasy.
“The hall was filled, and there was a wonderful spirit in the meeting. My companion spoke first and gave an inspirational message. I followed and talked with a freedom I had never experienced before in my life. When I sat down, I realized that I had not mentioned the apostasy. I had talked on the Prophet Joseph Smith and borne my witness of his divine mission and of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. After the meeting ended, several nonmembers came forward and said, ‘Tonight we received a witness that your church is true. We are ready for baptism’” (Ensign, July 1987, pages 8–9).

The first cornerstone of my testimony was laid a long time ago. One of my early recollections was having a frightening nightmare as a small child. I still remember it vividly. I must have screamed in fright during the night. My grandmother woke me up. I was crying, and she took me in her arms, hugged me, and comforted me. She got a bowl of some of my favorite rice pudding that was left over from dinner, and I sat on her lap as she spoon-fed me. She told me that we were safe in our house because Jesus was watching over us. I felt it was true then, and I still believe it now. I was comforted in both body and soul and went peacefully back to bed, assured of the divine reality that Jesus does watch over us (Ensign, Nov. 2000, 53).

Based on folktales and dances of west Africa, the storyline of the celebration followed Kwaku Anansi, who searched for all the good things in the world to keep for himself. Each stake and district sang and danced and gave him something good, like courage, love, or family. But when Anansi saw the Accra Ghana Temple, its beauty convinced him that he should share all the good things he had collected.

I have often pondered what it means to have a “broken” heart. When I was a boy, my uncle allowed me to help him break wild horses. We roped them, placed a strong leather halter on their heads, and attached a heavy rope to it. Then we cinched the rope around a solid wooden post sunk deep in the earth. The young colts hated the rope and would fight it for days, setting their legs defiantly in the ground and straining with all their might against it. But they hurt only themselves. In time they learned to accept the rope, and then gradually we could approach them and teach them to be led. When my uncle could lay the rope loosely over his open palm, turn his back, and walk away with the horse following him, he would say, “This horse is broken.”