Gospel Story Finder

In my grade school studies we were learning about England. We had presentations about English traditions and culture, so my teacher decided we should have an English tea party. I was the only member of the Church in my class. The teacher said we were going to have real tea. I had a pit in my stomach because the Word of Wisdom has taught me not to drink “hot drinks” interpreted as tea and coffee (see D&C 89:9). When it was time for the tea party, my teacher laid out small cups of tea for each student and asked us to “at least taste a little.” I knew I couldn’t drink the tea. Despite the pressure I felt, I asked the teacher if I could have water instead. I am glad that I followed the Holy Ghost’s reminder to me to stand as a witness of God “at all times and in all things, and in all places” (see Mosiah 18:9), even though it was hard.

Linda of California, USA, shared how a friend’s visits helped her: “I remember those special people in my life—especially those who really listened and conveyed the Spirit’s sweet counsel. After being widowed at 30 years old with five young children, I felt my Heavenly Father’s and Savior’s love more deeply because of my good friend Karen. She was always in tune and had her ‘listening ears’ on. I never felt alone as she consistently reminded me of the beautiful bond I have as a daughter of God.”

Videos showing community or family projects can often demonstrate the blessings of the gospel in our lives. For example, when we lived in Houston, Texas, a member of our ward posted a short video about volunteering at the Church’s peanut butter canning project. He commented that one day each month all of the Church-produced peanut butter was donated to the Houston Food Bank.
One of his colleagues from work was looking for ways to volunteer. He saw the online video and realized he knew the ward member. So, he called him and asked if they could go together the next time there was an opportunity to volunteer. They volunteered together several times over the ensuing years, and each time they talked about Church programs and beliefs as they worked side by side.
During casual conversations, share how the gospel helps you.

It was July 1915, and the world was at war. But the struggles on the battlefield could not have been more emotion-shearing than the confrontation storming in our English home.
It had been a tempestuous session; my father had hurled malicious arguments at me since 9:00 in the evening, and it was now past midnight. I had dreaded the interview, but father was a mariner, and his ship was leaving soon. In those days no one knew exactly when a boat would return. Not only were schedules less exact and more subject to nature’s unpredictable furies, but now the waters swarmed with submarines. Torpedoes hunted merchants, soldiers, and passengers with equal vindictiveness.
All the missionaries in Europe were being called home on a ship departing on November 26. All emigrants had to leave that day, too, or wait until World War I ended. I wanted to be on that boat. I wanted to travel on that boat in the company and protection of the priesthood.
Knowing that father had been bitter against the Church for the last 15 years had given me a good idea that I would need divine help in obtaining his permission to separate myself from my family. Not sure when he would land in an English port again, I had known it would be necessary to speak to him before morning. Now for hours he had been bellowing reasons why he deemed my action irrational. But I had prayed long and hard for the Lord’s aid in softening my earthly father’s heart.
A tassel of his gray hair toppled over the furrows of his forehead. He had stopped his pacing before the fireplace, only momentarily, to announce his decision: “All right, you may go to America. But remember, I have seen much of that country, and I do not like it. I shall never live there. Your mother will stay with me, and you will never see either of us again.”
What I had thought would be a moment of relief filled my soul with agony. Those words, “You will never see your mother again,” had done what three hours of argumentation had failed to do. Every device had been used to make me change my mind, and now the final dagger stabbed deep, twisting in my heart. Leaving my mother would stretch my cord of faith into a fragile thread.
The bond was solid between Mother and me. Our mutual love of the gospel of Jesus Christ had drawn us close. But Father was the head of his home, and logic argued with him that his prediction would probably come true.
Then, somehow, words said years before fought their way into my mind, surmounting despair and reinforcing my faith. With a surge of courage I squared my shoulders and looked deep into my father’s eyes. “It may not be so, Father,” I said. “It was a few years ago, but the mission president told Mother that if she were faithful, she would gather to Zion. I believe that promise. All the obstacles will be removed.”
My father’s face registered astonishment, disbelief, and anger.
His hands clenched and unclenched. The outburst left me limp and numb.
I looked across the room at Mother. She was living every emotional vibration but knew better than to interfere. It was enough. I had my father’s word, and he would not break it.
I decided I had better go to bed and let things calm down until Dad left in the morning. There would be plenty of time to get ready for my journey after he had gone to sea.
Two weeks later my mother and I sat in a small compartment of a train headed to the docks. My married sister had come to bid me farewell. Looking at her for what I was sure would be the last time, I realized the love she had for me. Tears tumbled down her cheeks, though she had kept up her English reserve until then. We were not a demonstrative family, but now I thought, If I had known you loved me so much, it would have been even harder to leave.
My sister had arranged for the Baptist minister to talk to me in her home, and he warned of the sinking of the Lusitania in May of that year, which rushed 1,189 people into eternity. But I was filled with the spirit of gathering prevalent among the Saints in that day, and I had faith in the priesthood. My commitment had been made.
Mother and I reached Liverpool in the total darkness of a blackout. A guide escorted us through a maze of unlighted streets. Finally we could make out what seemed to be an immense wall in front of us. We were told it was the ship. Boarding procedure followed blackout restrictions, too, and we entered the ship in darkness.
The guide wanted to rush me in and Mother away. I turned to Mom, wrapping her in a tight hug with my arms, and said, “Don’t grieve. The Lord said it will be a land of Zion to us if we pay our tithing. And you know I pay my tithing.”
“Yes, my dear, I am sure of that,” she said. “God bless you.” She kissed me and disappeared into the shadows of the crowd.
February’s white snow piled powderpuffs on the fence posts and frosted the windows of homes in the Utah village in which I now resided. It had been seven months since I left Liverpool. Perhaps Lucifer had heard my parting words about tithing and decided to mock me. The lack of prospects for work dulled the beauty of the winter day. I was homesick, disappointed, and lonely.
The postman crunched up the sidewalk and slid an envelope through the slot in the door. It was a letter from my mother. She, too, was struggling. My brother stared death in the face every day in the trenches of France; Father’s location on the ocean was unknown, except perhaps to a periscope prowling icy waters. And she wasn’t worrying alone, she said. Neighbors worried, too. Everything was secret and suspense clouded the atmosphere.
My patriarchal blessing appointment was scheduled that afternoon, and I should have been busy preparing myself for it. But even through my fasting and prayer, my concerns about my family floated to the surface of my mind. I wished my family could join me to hear the patriarch’s words! I dropped the letter from my hands as I sobbed, releasing tears I had stored inside since the day I had last seen England.
I dropped to my knees by my bed and uttered the most sincere, heartrending prayer of my 19-year life. I told Heavenly Father I was sorry to be so weak, but that he knew how homesick I was, how disappointed to be out of work, how concerned about my family.
I said that if he could see fit to give me two promises in my patriarchal blessing, then I could be brave enough to endure anything the future held. I pleaded that my family and friends might someday come to this country and that I would someday be married in the temple.
I left the house and walked a block to the patriarch’s home. I spoke to no one and saw no one. But my Father knew of my prayer. That good patriarch came in from working in his fields and invited me to dinner. The food fortified me, and I was able to restrain my tears. We went to a private place, with his granddaughter along to act as scribe.
He described glorious promises, many of them. Then I heard, as it were, my own words, the ones I had spoken to my Father about one hour before: “Your loved ones from whom you have been parted—the Lord will bless and protect them, and many of them will follow you to the fold of the Good Shepherd and bask in the life-giving light of the gospel of their Redeemer. With them you will sing the songs of Zion and have much joy in their society. You shall have the privilege of going to the house of the Lord to receive a worthy helpmate and companion to be with you for time and all eternity.”
The patriarch continued outlining the blessings the Lord planned for me if I lived worthily. While he did, quiet tears trickled down my face. Heaven was in my heart.
When the patriarch had finished, I thanked him, tried to dry my face, and rushed home. I walked into my room, picked up my pen and wrote, “It’s all right now, Mother; Heavenly Father will protect George and Father. And you will come to Zion. Our Heavenly Father has said it. Be brave until we meet again. Much love, Mary.”
Many prayers in my life have been answered just as rapidly as the one concerning my patriarchal blessing, but time has not dimmed that miracle to me. I felt power, exultation, and gratitude; it seemed that my Father in heaven had come down and answered my requests in my own words through the patriarch. The promises all came true after many trials. Through the difficult times, the blessing fortified me. We are finer for the things we learn through the ups and downs of life, but the joy always outweighs the pain. Through my patriarchal blessing, I learned the happiness of compliance with the divine instruction given in Proverbs 3:5–6 [Prov. 3:5–6]:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”

Please go talk with your bishop. He should be one of your best friends. He wants to help you in your life and help you return to our Father in Heaven.

I know because I kept delaying a visit to my bishop. I was scared that he would laugh at me and tell me that I was stupid for doing the things that I had done. To my surprise, as I told him what I had done, I could see a tear in his eye and I knew he was hurting for me. After telling him, he asked me a few questions and we talked for several hours.

My life changed—for two years I had felt ashamed, guilty, and unwanted. After talking with my bishop, I knew the Lord loved me and wanted me to do what is right.

Later, my bishop gave me a temple recommend and was at the temple the day that I was married for time and all eternity. Because of my Savior’s love, I was now worthy to enter our Father’s house and be married.

Your life will change if you talk with your bishop and have the strength to change it. It may not be easy because Satan will always be there telling you, “You’ve done it once—it won’t hurt to do it again.” But it does hurt.

Fast and pray. The Lord will help you.

Name withheld.

Some time ago I was in this same situation. My friend, who is not yet a member of the Church, went to a bar and brought back two bottles of beer. I said to him, “Don’t you know my Latter-day Saint principles?” He answered, “Excuse me, I had forgotten; so I have no friend to drink with.” Then he surprised me. He threw the two bottles in the garbage. He always goes out with me now, but he does not drink.
Our examples influence other people. We need to follow the example of Jesus Christ.

The ringing went on and on, and Jamie finally opened his eyes. He rolled over and shut off the noisy alarm. He wanted to stay in bed, but he knew that if he didn’t get up, his mother would come get him. He needed to clean his room this morning. He swung his legs out of bed and jumped on the floor.
“Ouch!” He had banged one of his big toes on a red racing car that was on the floor. He looked around at the clothes on the floor, his train and blocks by the door, and the books on the floor of his closet.
“It just isn’t fair,” Jamie thought. “My room is always messy.” He felt frustrated. “Why can’t I keep my room clean?”
He knew that his big sister, Jill, would ask him the same question. Jill was nine, and it seemed like her room was always clean, her clothes were never on the floor, and her toys were always neatly put away on her shelves and in her toy box. Jamie couldn’t figure out how she did it.
Last week in family home evening, Mom and Dad had talked to the family about goal-setting and asked each person to set some goals for the new year. Jamie decided that his goal would be to keep his room clean. Well, it was the first week of the new year, and already he was failing. He tried and tried to keep his room clean, but it got messed up every time he played in it.
After breakfast, Jamie went back to his bedroom to clean. He decided to drive the toy train around the room to help pick up some toys. He added some blocks and toy cars to the train’s load, then he stopped by the toy box and dumped them all off. Then he stacked up a few books to make a bridge for the train to cross. Before he knew it, he was busy creating new bridges and pathways for the train. By the time Mom called him for lunch, he still hadn’t finished cleaning his room. In fact, it looked worse than it had before! There were even more toys out, and his pajamas had joined the other clothes on the floor.
Jamie walked slowly into the kitchen, dragging his feet and sighing. Mom looked at him. “Jamie, is something bothering you?”
“Mom, I can’t keep my New Year’s goal,” Jamie admitted. “I can’t keep my room clean. I guess I am just too little.”
“Do you mean that your toys are too heavy for you to put away, or that your dresser drawers are too hard to open?” Mom asked.
“No,” Jamie answered, “I’m just too young to keep my room clean. I don’t know how Jill keeps hers clean. She must not play in it very much.”
“I don’t think that’s it.” Mom thought for a minute. “Jamie, I think you need to learn a little bit about how goals work.” She got out a box of graham crackers and a bunch of grapes, then sat down at the table next to him.
“Jamie, what things need to be done to have a clean room?”
He thought for a minute. “Well, my toys need to be put away, and my books should be on the bookshelf. My bed should be made, and my clothes should be in the closet.”
As Jamie named each item, his mom placed a graham cracker on the table. The crackers formed a line.
“And when all of these things are done, your room is clean. Right?”
“Right.” Jamie answered. Mom placed a grape at the top of the line of graham crackers. The graham crackers looked like a pathway leading to the grape.
“OK, Jamie, pretend that the grape is your goal—keeping your room clean—and the graham crackers are things you have to do to reach your goal.” She took one of the crackers away. “What happens if one of these things isn’t done?”
“The crackers don’t reach the grape anymore.” Jamie thought for a minute more. “And I can’t reach my goal.”
“That’s right. See, all it takes to reach a big goal is doing a bunch of little tasks all together. But it’s hard to accomplish your goal if you don’t know what little steps you have to take.” Mom picked up all of the graham crackers and handed them to Jamie. Then she helped him decide what he needed to do to keep his room clean.
“I can make my bed as soon as I get up in the morning,” Jamie said. He put down one cracker. “I can put my books away after I read them.” He put down another cracker. “I can put my toys away after I finish playing with them.” He added another cracker to the line. “And I can put my clothes away after I take them off.” The graham crackers now reached the grape.
“If I do each of these things, one at a time, soon I will reach my goal!” Jamie said excitedly. He grabbed the grape and tossed it into his mouth.
After lunch, Mom and Jamie made pictures of the things he had to do to keep his room clean. They hung the pictures on the back of his bedroom door to remind him. Then Mom helped Jamie clean his room.
The next day, the pictures helped Jamie remember to make his bed before breakfast and to put away his pajamas instead of leaving them on the floor. Jamie smiled. It was nice to have a clean room, but it was even better to know that he could keep it clean all by himself.

One of my favorite parts of being a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is making new friends. I love the opportunity to meet new people of my faith. I love going to seminary, but when I first started, I felt left out. I was the youngest student, and everyone else knew each other. They didn’t speak to me very often. I was secretly battling low self-esteem, but I prayed, and I really felt God’s love for me. I made a goal to get to know the other students better, and I actually came to know how much they cared about me. I know that God wants us to grow and have meaningful relationships. He has provided ways for us to do that through the programs of the Church.

Almost 100 years ago, on Christmas Day, another special gift was given to an entire continent. Most were unaware of this gift. It was given quietly, with no fanfare, no posts on social media, and no press conferences. Yet, what happened on this Christmas Day would help millions of people receive Heavenly Father’s ultimate gift of His Son.
Ninety-six years ago, in December 1925, three Church leaders arrived in Buenos Aires, Argentina. It took them 34 days to travel from Salt Lake City, Utah, to Buenos Aires, Argentina, by train and ship. At that time, there were only a few members in all of South America. But the Lord was preparing a way for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to have a bright future in South America.
Elder Melvin J. Ballard, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and two other Church leaders, Elders Rey L. Pratt and Rulon S. Wells, had been sent to Argentina on a special assignment. The prophet, President Heber J. Grant, sent them to dedicate the entire continent of South America for the preaching of the gospel.
On Christmas morning, Elder Ballard and his companions walked to a quiet willow grove in Buenos Aires. They sang hymns and read from the Book of Mormon. Then Elder Ballard offered a prayer. Under the direction of the President of the Church and through the apostolic authority he held, Elder Ballard said, “I turn the key, unlock, and open the door for the preaching of the gospel in all these South American nations.”1
Elder Ballard also asked for a blessing on the leaders of the nations in South America to be kind to the Church and allow the gospel to be preached in their countries so salvation may come to everyone.
After that Christmas morning, Elder Ballard and his companions spent the next eight months walking the streets of Buenos Aires and shared the message of the Restoration of the gospel. There were few teaching materials in Spanish at that time, but they tried their best and moved forward with faith. Their efforts resulted in only one conversion at that time.
Shortly before leaving Argentina, Elder Ballard said that the Church would grow gradually, “just as an oak grows slowly from an acorn.” But he promised that thousands would join the Church and that the day will come when the people in South America “will be a power in the Church.”2
It’s been almost 100 years since that day and Elder Ballard’s prayer has been answered—and will continue to be answered—in incredible ways.
Today the Church in South America has:
4,178,375 members
97 missions
21 temples (with 14 announced or under construction)
Elder Ballard promised that the day will come when the people in South America “will be a power in the Church.”
What a wonderful gift is the gospel of Jesus Christ! And like Elder Ballard and his companions, we have a responsibility and the opportunity to share this precious gift with others. This Christmas, remember this valuable gift, and try to share it. No matter where you are, there are plenty of opportunities to share the gospel with people around you. In doing so, you can do your part to help the gospel of Jesus Christ go to all the world.

Some years back, Terry, a deacon, was at Tracy Wigwam on an overnight camp. That night a full moon hung overhead. The adviser took Terry by the arm and said, “Let’s go for a walk.” They went several hundred feet from the cabins. The adviser said, “Terry, let’s kneel here and have a prayer.” They knelt together and prayed. After the prayer Terry’s adviser said to him, “Terry, do you pray?” Terry answered that he did not. “Terry, will you commit to pray every day all the rest of your life?”
Terry said, “I never made a commitment unless I intended to keep it.” He thought about prayer and decided it was right. It was a good thing. He said to his adviser, “Yes, I will pray all the rest of my life.”
Terry, who went on to high school, then quarterbacked for the University of Utah where he was all-conference, and went on to play for the Pittsburgh Steelers, said, “I have kept that commitment, and I have prayed every morning and night since that day.” And Terry is here tonight.

Francine walked slowly through the deep green alfalfa field, the soft, cool plants brushing her bare legs pleasantly. The summer sun felt warm on her head and shoulders, and bees darted here and there among the blossoms. It had been only a month since Francine’s family loaded all their belongings onto the wagon behind her father’s workhorse and had moved up from town to this beautiful valley. She still liked to walk through the fields and just look at everything. But she would like it even better if she had a horse.
Looking out across the field, she saw a man riding a horse up the lane that separated her family’s fields from the neighbor’s fields. The man turned the horse into his alfalfa field and rode to the top of it where the irrigation ditch ran. Francine was startled to see him suddenly tumble off the horse into the alfalfa. Maybe he’s sick, she thought. She ran quickly to the fence, ducked under it, and raced across the field. She could see water splashing where the man had fallen and great drops flying into the air, catching the sunlight. He must have fallen into the ditch, Francine surmised. She ran as fast as she could over the rough ground.
“I’m coming!” she shouted, hoping he wouldn’t give up till she got there. At that moment the man raised his head and looked at her calmly. Francine stopped abruptly, her face hot from running and her breath coming in gasps. She could see that he was not in the ditch at all but beside it. He held the board for damming the ditch in his hands.
“What are you shouting about?” he asked gruffly. His streaked gray hair stood up wildly, and his blue eyes were piercing under his shaggy eyebrows.
“I thought you needed help,” she replied, “and that you had fallen into the ditch.” She suddenly felt awkward and embarrassed and looked at the ground. Only then did she see that the man had no legs. His pants were cut off at the middle of his thighs and pinned securely. Both his pants and flannel shirt were quite wet.
“I definitely don’t need help from a little girl,” he rasped. He turned away from her and began pushing the stopper board into the cement headgate, but it jammed in the slots. Then he pulled himself closer, oblivious of the water spilling around him.
“Could I help you get the board in?” Francine asked, moving closer.
He turned to her, his face red with exertion and anger. “Can’t a man do his irrigating without pesky little girls coming around?” he stormed. “Now go play!”
Francine turned away quickly and found herself face-to-face with the man’s horse. It was a rather short, strongly built horse with a gleaming reddish brown coat and a shiny black mane. Francine looked into the animal’s face and thought it had the kindest, most intelligent eyes she had ever seen. The horse lowered its head to her, sniffed briefly, and then stepped back as though to let her pass. How Francine would love a horse like that for her own.
“You have a beautiful horse,” she said, looking back again at the man. He was just pushing the board securely into its place when he glanced at Francine. She thought she saw the barest flicker of gentleness in his eyes before he said gruffly again, “Go and play, little girl.”
Francine walked past the horse and back across the field to the canal, where large shady cottonwoods grew along the bank. Sitting down in the cool, prickly grass, she watched the man from a distance. She wondered why she wasn’t more afraid of him. He’s been mean to me, she thought. Maybe its because of the odd way he had to get off the horse. She watched as he worked himself away from the ditch. The horse took a few steps toward him, then stood still and stiff, its head lowered while the man grasped the horse’s leg and pulled himself upright. Then he reached up and knotted his hand into its mane. In a quick motion he was on the horse’s back. He rode back through the field and down the lane as Francine watched, fascinated.
That night at dinner she told her family about the experience.
“I’ve heard about our neighbor, Mr. Lewis,” her father said. “He runs his whole farm without any help except from his wife.”
“He certainly didn’t want any help from me,” Francine said.
“They say he’s very proud,” her mother added as she passed the food around. “He won’t let anyone help him.”
“I’ve heard he’s very mean and grouchy,” her little brother, Stephen, put in, looking up from his potatoes.
“I don’t think he’s really mean, just grouchy,” Francine said, remembering how his eyes had softened a little when she mentioned the horse.
“Doesn’t he have a wheelchair or something?” Stephen asked.
“I don’t know, but I think he finds his horse the most help for getting around his farm,” his father said.
Francine’s eyes lit up. “His horse is wonderful, Daddy. You should have seen the way it stood so still while he climbed onto it. And it was beautiful, all shiny in the sun.”
Her father looked at her kindly. “You’d really like a horse, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, Yes!” Francine said. “And I have five dollars saved for one. How much is it going to take?”
“I don’t know,” her father replied. “It depends on what you’re willing to settle for. You might find an old retired workhorse for ten dollars or so. It would give you something to ride around on.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I want a good horse … like Mr. Lewis’s.”
“Then you’ll have to wait quite a while, because we don’t have the money for it,” her father said.
“I know that, and I’ll wait.” Francine ate her potatoes resolutely, seeing in her mind Mr. Lewis’s shining red horse standing still and strong in the sunlight.
The next afternoon Francine wandered through the fields again. She came to the top of the small hill that looked down on the Lewis farm. Their house was white and neat, with roses in front and various sheds and coops sprawled out behind it. Francine hesitated and then walked down the hill, skirted around the house, and slipped quietly into the barnyard. She walked past the chicken coops where white hens cackled and pecked behind the wire, and then she saw the horse standing outside a cinder-block milking barn. He was not tied but stood quietly waiting, the reins over his mane. Francine approached very slowly and silently. The horse turned its head and regarded her calmly, so she put out her hand and stroked its neck. The warm coat twitched deliciously under her hand.
She could hear the clanging of milk pails in the barn. The double doors stood open, and she could see the backsides of the large holstein cows, their tails switching and flicking at the files. After petting the horse and talking to it for a few minutes, she stepped quietly through the door so as not to startle the cows.
Mr. Lewis sat on a small wooden platform mounted on what looked to Francine like roller skate wheels. He leaned his head against the cow’s flank as the milk squirted rhythmically into the bucket. When the bucket was full, he put it beside him on the cart and took two thick rubber rings from his pockets with which he pushed himself so that his hands did not touch the floor. As he approached the milk can, he saw Francine standing in the doorway.
“You again,” he said. He raised the bucket of milk above his head and poured it into the can.
“I came to see your horse,” she said.
He peered at her from under his shaggy eyebrows as he placed the empty bucket beside him. “Her name is Pilar,” he said.
“I’m saving my money to buy a horse,” she said. “I have five dollars.”
“That won’t buy much of a horse,” Mr. Lewis snorted.
“I know,” Francine said, a little hurt that he would think her so stupid about what a horse cost. “I’ll have to save a lot more before I can get one.”
“Well, Missy …”
“My name is Francine.”
“Well, Francine, as you can see, I have work to do, so you’d better run along.”
“I could help you,” Francine said. “I could curry Pilar for you.”
Mr. Lewis sighed. “All right,” he said. “The currycomb is there on the wall.” He turned back toward his cows.
Francine got the currycomb quickly. She curried the horse until her coat glistened in the late afternoon sunlight. At first Pilar looked suspiciously at the girl, but then she appeared to relax and enjoy the brushing. Through the open door Francine saw Mr. Lewis return several times to the milk can and lift the bucket to pour the warm milk in.
When she had finished with Pilar, she went back into the dim barn and watched him. “I could do that for you,” she said as he returned again to the milk can. “It would save you a lot of time.”
“Look,” he said impatiently, “I have managed quite well here for five years without your help.” He turned away from her and said gruffly over his shoulder. “You’re a busybody.”
Francine felt crushed. She knew she should go home, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She liked Mr. Lewis somehow, and she liked Pilar even more.
When he came back again, she said, “How about if you paid me so I could save for my horse—say five cents a night? I’d empty all the milk buckets, too, and help you clean up the barn.”
Mr. Lewis looked up at her, and the warmth she had seen before crept into his eyes.
“Francine,” he said, “we have very little cash. We just barely make it on this farm. I don’t think I could afford to pay you even that small amount.”
“I’d really be glad to do it without pay if I could see Pilar … maybe even ride her sometime.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not,” he said.
Francine turned and went outside. She stopped by Pilar and stroked the horse’s neck again and then started through the barnyard.
“Francine!”
She turned and saw Mr. Lewis framed in the doorway of the barn.
“Come back here a second.” When she reached him he looked at her a minute. “I do get pretty tired emptying those buckets.” He smiled slightly. “Pilar is going to foal in a couple of months. If you turned out to be worth anything as a worker, I might consider her colt as payment.”
Francine’s heart leaped at the thought! “I’d come for morning milking too,” she said.
“You’ll have to ask your folks,” Mr. Lewis said. “And I’ll expect you to go on working after the colt is born.”
“Oh, I will!” Francine promised.
“Well, don’t just stand around, girl,” he directed. “Get the bucket emptied.” Then his face creased into a big smile as Francine rushed past him into the barn.

A few years ago, my wife and I stood at the trailhead of Japan’s highest mountain, Mount Fuji. As we began our ascent we looked up to the far-distant summit and wondered if we could get there.
As we progressed, fatigue, sore muscles, and the effects of altitude set in. Mentally, it became important for us to focus on just the next step. We would say, “I may not soon make it to the top, but I can do this next step right now.” Over time the daunting task ultimately became achievable—step by step.
Now a brief word of caution. The commandment to be like Him is not intended to make you feel guilty, unworthy, or unloved. Our entire mortal experience is about progression, trying, failing, and succeeding. As much as my wife and I may have wished that we could close our eyes and magically transport ourselves to the summit, that is not what life is about.

At Rock Creek Hollow, on property the Church now owns, is the common grave of 13 who perished in one night. Among them was a nine-year-old girl from Denmark who was traveling alone with another family. Her name was Bodil Mortensen.
In October of 1856, wind-driven heavy snow was already two feet deep as those of the James G. Willie Company tried to find some shelter from the terrible storm. Bodil went out and gathered brush with which to make a fire. Returning, she reached her cart with the brush in her arm. There she died, frozen to death. Starvation and bitter cold drained from her emaciated body the life she had fought for.

Recently, while driving in a city unknown to us, I inadvertently took a wrong turn, which led my wife and me onto an express highway for endless miles without being able to turn around again. We had received a kind invitation to a friend’s home and worried that we would now arrive much later than we were expected to.
While on this highway and desperately looking for a way out again, I blamed myself for not paying better attention to the navigation system. This experience caused me to think about how in our lives we sometimes make wrong decisions and how we must live with the consequences humbly and patiently until we are able to change our course again.

Suppose the bishop called you into his office after sacrament meeting and said, “I have a very important calling for you in the ward. I would like you to be songbook coordinator for the ward choir.” What would you do? You might think to yourself, “But Bishop, that’s such a little job. Couldn’t you give me something important to do, something difficult that I could really get involved in, like Young Men’s president or Relief Society president—a position where I can really be of service?” But, having been taught never to refuse a calling, you smile and say, “Yes, I would love to be songbook coordinator.”
On your first day as songbook coordinator for the ward choir, you arrive half an hour early and carefully place the songbooks; after the practice you hurry to collect and return them to the proper closet. No one, you observe, puts an arm around you and tells you what a fine job you did. The next week you arrived a bit later and rush through your responsibilities. Again, no one notices your efforts.
The third week comes, and you don’t even go. After all, it’s such a little job.
It may be true that songbook coordinator is not necessarily the most difficult job in the Church. The most difficult job in the Church is the one that begins with the words “I am only.” I am only a home teacher; I am only a visiting teacher; I am only an usher; I am only a deacon. The most important job in the Church, on the other hand, is the one in which service is willingly, and faithfully rendered.
I’ve determined that there are three types of people holding positions in the Church. One is the worker who says, “Yes, I’ll do the job,” but then doesn’t fulfill his responsibility. Another is the person who does the job, but does no more than the minimum expected (and he really doesn’t enjoy it). The third type of individual is one who not only does the job, but finds joy in doing more than just what is expected.
You might ask, “But how can a ward choir songbook coordinator do more than is expected?” Let’s think about that. He might notice that several books have broken bindings, and he takes the time to repair them. Perhaps some of the books have missing pages; so he photocopies those pages from other books and inserts them into the books where they are needed. He might even build a container to carry the books so that he will not drop them as he is distributing or collecting them. There are many ways to enhance one’s service.
Let me tell you about some church workers I have known who went the extra mile. President A. Harold Goodman, of the Provo Temple presidency, once lived in Tucson, Arizona. While there, he was called to be home teacher to a man that no one had been able to visit. After attempting several times without success to find him at home, he went to the neighbors and found out that the man was working two jobs and left home every morning at 5:30 A.M. So the next morning at 5 A.M. Brother Goodman was sitting on the front porch; when the lights went on in that house, he jumped to his feet and knocked on the door. The man answered the door, and Brother Goodman said, “Good morning, I’m your home teacher.” The man was surprised to see someone so interested in him, and a warm relationship developed.
I have an aunt living in Ogden, Utah, who says that as a young girl she had a memorable Sunday School teacher. When he was called, he said, “A Sunday School teacher is the most important calling in the Church,” and he was the best Sunday School teacher she ever had. His name was David O. McKay.
I believe that the most important job in the Church is the one we hold right now. Maybe you don’t even hold a specific position. I remember being in a ward where there were just not enough ward positions for everyone to have one, so the bishop called certain people into his office and asked them to be celestial members—to set a good example for others; to fellowship those in need; and to be one-hundred-percent participators. That was an important calling—as is any calling we now or in the future will hold in the kingdom of God. For it is through righteously serving others that we bless our own lives, enrich the lives of our neighbors, and further the work of the Lord.

Once I visited some Primary children in Jamaica. I asked them to draw a picture of something they could do that week to show Heavenly Father that they love Him. Two girls were sitting near each other.

The younger girl had just a teeny, little pencil with no eraser. She was struggling to draw her picture. The older girl noticed the younger girl needed help. She handed her own pencil to her. The younger girl smiled, took the pencil, and started drawing.

I watched the older girl wait patiently while the younger girl finished her drawing. Then the younger girl handed the pencil back. They took turns using the pencil without saying any words. The older girl was willing to help, and the younger girl was just so grateful and accepting of that help. They knew they could depend on each other.

When everyone finished their drawings, I told the older girl that I saw her share her pencil. I asked, “Why did you do that?”

She said, “I just saw she needed help.”

Then I asked the younger girl, “How did you feel when she helped you?”

She said, “I was so grateful!” It was very sweet.

Computers have always held a fascination for Frank, who learned the PAF system quickly. He’s also an old hand at family history. “My dad is a genealogist and for the last four summers I’ve worked for my grandparents and other people doing family history.”

“It’s interesting,” he says. One year while looking through land records, Frank came across deeds that belonged to George Washington. Another year he found a name his father had searched 15 years for. “I traced that line way back to about 1160,” says Frank.

After finding names and submitting them for ordinance work, there is often the opportunity to perform vicarious baptisms for the dead. “I got to go to the temple for baptisms, and it felt really great,” says Hap.

Knowing that you can help someone progress eternally is a great blessing. It is the kind of reward many young people are finding through doing their family history. And whether the research involves using a personal computer, working out of the Family History Library, or working at home, the rewards are the same.

The T’ang dynasty lasted from A.D. 618 to 907. And during this important period in Chinese history, block printing was invented, Buddhism became very strong, and certain areas of the surrounding territory were conquered. The rulers were very rich, especially during the early years of the dynasty, when the T’ang emperor, T’ai-tsung, sat on the throne.
The time came when the emperor wished to find a worthy husband for his daughter, Wen-ch’en, who was a very beautiful, intelligent, and elegant young woman. When the emperor’s wishes became known to the ruler of a kingdom adjoining the T’ang empire, he sent his most trusted official, Prime Minister Lu, to ask on his behalf for Wen-ch’en’s hand in marriage. When the prime minister arrived, he found the representatives of four other rulers there ahead of him.
After some thought, the emperor decided to pose five puzzles for the visiting emissaries to solve. “The ruler whose official shows the greatest wisdom will marry my daughter,” he declared. “After all, he must be very wise if he has chosen such a clever official to serve him. Therefore, he should make a suitable husband for Wen-ch’en.”
The emperor assembled the five emissaries, and ordered one of his courtiers to bring in a length of thread and a large ivory bead, with a hole on either side of it. “Here is the first of five puzzles I shall ask you to solve,” Emperor T’ai-tsung explained. “These holes are connected by a zigzag path. Whoever can thread the bead will solve the first puzzle.”
Each emissary took a turn twisting the thread and trying to string the bead. The first four coaxed it gently, then they tried to force it, and at last they gave up. When Prime Minister Lu’s turn came, he lifted up a tiny ant, looped the thread around its body and placed it at one of the openings in the bead. He blew as hard as he could on the ant and it sped swiftly through the zigzag passageway to the other end.
Emperor T’ai-tsung was impressed. “You are a very clever man. Now, if all of you will follow me, we shall see who can find the answer to the second puzzle.”
Out in the courtyard they found a large pile of cut logs. The emperor said, “There are about a hundred logs here. Can one of you tell me which end of each grew closest to the tree’s roots?”
Four of the emissaries frowned and thought hard, but they could not guess the answer.
Prime Minister Lu asked respectfully, “Your Imperial Highness, am I permitted to have these logs placed in the pond of your courtyard?”
“I have no objection,” the emperor graciously replied.
When the logs had been put into the water, one end of each log sank slightly below the surface while the other bobbed on top of the water.
Prime Minister Lu declared, “The ends beneath the surface are heavier and denser because they are nearer the tree roots and the lighter ends are closer to the tops of the trees.”
“You have solved the first two puzzles very cleverly indeed,” the emperor complimented, “but I wonder whether you will figure out the third.” He smiled and led the five men out to the stables. There he pointed out one hundred mares and one hundred foals. “Your next puzzle requires you to pair each young horse with its mother.”
The five officials walked around looking perplexed at the mares and foals.
It cannot be the size or color, thought Prime Minister Lu. The next day when the emperor asked the officials to match the mares and foals, each of the first four replied that the task was impossible.
Prime Minister Lu confidently said, “Let all the mares be taken from the stables and the foals kept inside. The foals may eat as much hay as they like all day long but they may not be given a single drop of water to drink.”
The next day Prime Minster Lu asked that the foals be let out of the stables. Each foal ran to its mother to drink.
T’ai-tsung was delighted at Prime Minister Lu’s ingenuity. He praised him highly and then told the five that there would be no more puzzles to solve that day. Four of the officials spent the day resting, but Prime Minister Lu wandered in the courtyard, speaking kindly to the courtiers and servants he met and inquiring about the life of the court.
That night as all the officials lay sleeping in the guesthouse, they were suddenly awakened by a tremendous noise of gongs and drums. A courtier suddenly appeared and bowed low. “You are summoned to the presence of his Imperial Highness,” he told them. Then he vanished.
Prime Minister Lu was thoughtful, It is strange indeed that we must find our way to the emperor ourselves. I wonder if this is another puzzle. It will be quite easy to reach the imperial quarters by following the noise of the gongs and drums, but it will be quite difficult to return here in the darkness. Trailing behind the other four officials, he carefully made a small mark at every corner so that he could find his way back.
As soon as the emperor had greeted the five emissaries, he dismissed them with instructions to return at once to their guest quarters.
“The first one to find his way back to the guesthouse will have solved the fourth puzzle,” he announced.
The first four officials stumbled and fumbled in the dark and soon were hopelessly lost in the confusion of the many passages. Treading softly, Prime Minister Lu felt for the marks he had notched at each turn and returned quickly to the guesthouse.
“Prime Minister Lu has won again!” the emperor declared. “But there is one final puzzle to solve tomorrow. It is the most important of all.”
When the five officials gathered the next day, they were faced with a long line of beautiful young girls in silken robes. T’ai-tsung announced, “My daughter, Wen-ch’en, is one of these girls. Which one is she?”
The first four emissaries, eager to make up for failing to solve the other puzzles, quickly chose one of the girls and said, “Your Imperial Highness, this is your daughter.”
But Prime Minister Lu had listened to the talk of the courtiers and the servants while the other officials had spent their time resting. He remembered that one courtier had spoken of Wen-ch’en’s long, glossy black hair while another talked of her pearl white skin. Yet someone else admired her graceful figure and the proud way she held her head high. But of most importance, Wen-ch’en’s little maid servant had told the prime minister that her mistress had a tiny mole on her left wrist so he looked for that.
Prime Minister Lu selected one of the girls and said, “Your Imperial Highness, this girl, most beautiful of all, is your daughter.”
“You have performed the task given you by your ruler perfectly,” the emperor said. “This is indeed my daughter, Wen-ch’en. I give her in marriage to your ruler. He is an extremely wise man to have placed you in his service.”

When Len Hope was about seventeen years old, he spent two weeks attending a Baptist revival near his home in Alabama, in the southern United States. At night, the young African American man would come home from the revival, lie down in the cotton fields, and look up at the heavens. He would beg God for religion, but in the morning the only thing he had to show for his effort was clothing wet with dew.
One year later, Len decided to be baptized in a local church. Soon after, though, he dreamed that he needed to be baptized again. Confused, he started reading the Bible—so much so that he worried his friends. “If you don’t stop reading so much, you will go crazy,” they said. “Already the asylum is full of preachers.”
Len did not stop reading. One day, he learned that the Holy Ghost could lead him to truth. At the advice of a preacher, he retreated to the woods to pray in an old empty house hidden in a tangle of bushes. There he wept for hours, pleading with God for the Holy Ghost.
A short time later, as Len waited for an answer to his many prayers, a Latter-day Saint missionary gave his sister a tract about God’s plan of salvation. Len read it and believed its message. He also learned that Latter-day Saint missionaries had authority to confer the gift of the Holy Ghost on those who accepted baptism.
Seeking out the elders, Len asked if they would baptize him.
“Yes, gladly,” said one of the missionaries, “but if I were you, I would read a little more.”
Len got copies of the Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, Pearl of Great Price, and other Church books—and soon read them all. But before he could be baptized, he was drafted to fight in the world war. The army shipped him overseas, where he served bravely at the front. Then, after returning home to Alabama, he was baptized by a local Church member on June 22, 1919, and finally received the gift of the Holy Ghost.1

War on the European front had ended in May 1945. But months later, even though Christmas was approaching, the dreary nightmare of years of hate and destruction still stretched a shadowy hand over much of Europe. Austria’s city on the Danube, Vienna the beautiful, lay largely in ruin.
Prized public monuments like Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, the Opera, and the Burgtheater were virtually destroyed. In the city where the Strausses played their waltzes, where Mozart and Beethoven performed The Magic Flute and the Eroica Symphony, where the Fine Arts Museum housed the Hapsburg collection of paintings by the old masters, it was a time for starting over.
It was also a time of want. Food and clothing were scarce, water purity uncertain. Nearly 270,000 Viennese were homeless. Bombed out buildings hovered like specters over potholed streets. And Vienna was a city divided, with Allied forces each patrolling the areas under their jurisdiction. People didn’t venture out at night; there was still a lot of fear in the air.
A number of Latter-day Saints were stationed in the American sector. Local Church members made contact with us and invited us to attend services they were organizing, which we did with joy. We were happy to see them and glad for the fellowship. As Christmas approached, we Americans wrote home to our families and suggested they send us food and other presents we could share with our fellow members of the Church.
A plan was laid out so that all of the Austrian members would have servicemen visit them to celebrate Christ’s birth. Captain Gibson and I were assigned to spend an evening with the branch president’s family, over in the Russian sector.
Captain Gibson had been there before, but I had not. As we crossed the bridge over the Danube, I was impressed that the damage on the eastern side of the city, which included much of the port area, was particularly heavy. Vacant ruins gave no indication of street names or house numbers. There were no street lights to help us find directions.
After several minutes, however, Captain Gibson said, “Stop here. Pull over to the side,” and I did.
He leaned out of the jeep, cupped his hands around his mouth, and clearly, firmly whistled the Primary song, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.”
We waited. The dark, empty street was terrifying. I had misgivings about being in the wrong location. I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if we’d ever get back.
Then, across the street and three floors up, shutters on a window opened. In soft, clear notes that sweet little tune was whistled again, and when I heard it my fears evaporated. It was the response we’d arranged ahead of time. We were to whistle a Church song and the members were to whistle a response if everything was okay.
A minute later we heard footsteps, then saw the branch president’s daughter running across the cobblestones, accompanied by a trusted neighbor. They opened a gate to an inner courtyard, and we pulled the jeep in off the street. They closed the gate behind us and locked it.
The daughter’s excitement was apparent. She nearly danced up the three flights of stairs, where we met her parents and another daughter. We looked around the meagerly furnished apartment. Though the family was in dire circumstances, it was, after all, Christmas Eve, and the table was set for dinner.
It seems strange to say we feasted on salmon loaf and artificial orange drink, but feast we did. And more than food, we feasted on love and companionship. We feasted on the knowledge that God’s son was born into a weary world to bring it hope and light. We feasted on the firm belief that with war’s end the gospel would again be preached in Europe and that the Saints would again be free to gather and worship.
We sang the songs the Saints all sing, hymns and Christmas carols. The family gave us each a handmade Christmas card. We gave them some food and clothing. Together we knelt in a prayer of thanks, and then Captain Gibson and I returned to our quarters, enriched and strengthened.
That was 40 years ago, and the horrors of postwar Europe seem long past and far away. Vienna is once again the beautiful city on the Danube, where Saint Stephen’s, the Opera, and the Burgtheater, all rebuilt, stand as monuments to man’s commitment to overcome the bombs and flames of war.
Even now, though, whenever I hear “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam”—especially when it’s almost Christmas—my mind floods with memories of a dark street where a gentle whistle reminded me that wherever the Saints gather, there is always faith, rejoicing, fellowship, and hope.