Gospel Story Finder

My dad got sick when I was one year old. He prayed that he would stay alive long enough to baptize me, and he did. Two months after my baptism, he died. After my dad died, I was sad, so I prayed about it. I asked Heavenly Father to help me not be sad. Now I am not so sad anymore. I still think of my dad, and I think of how we are an eternal family. I think about how I will get to see Dad again.Tyler Miller, age 8Orchard Park, New York

by Terri Jensen
When selected chapels in your stake are only ten minutes from the Bull Run battlefield of Civil War fame, 20 minutes from George Washington’s Mount Vernon, and 30 minutes from Washington, D.C., it’s only natural that your stake roadshows would bear the theme, “What’s More American?”
And for the newly formed Fairfax Virginia Stake, they did.
On March 16 and 17, 176 youths paraded up aisles to open their first annual roadshows with just that question. They carried with them 176 possible answers in the form of corn flake boxes, toothpaste tubes, footballs, baseball gloves, Christmas tree decorations, American flags, rock albums, peanut butter jars, and an array of other paraphernalia.
“What’s More American?” was asked in song. It was answered at the song’s conclusion with a unanimous shout, “I am!”
Once it was established that there’s nothing more American than Americans, each decade of our 20th century was introduced with narration and slides made from authentic pictures of the period. Among the 76 slides shown were the Wright Brothers’ first flight, Henry Ford’s Model T, and Scarlett O’Hara’s Tara.
Each ward roadshow was developed around a decade and immediately followed its slide introduction. Wakefield Ward opened the century with Teddy Roosevelt frantically searching for his missing daughter, Alice. Even the Pinkertons were called in to assist. But it all ended happily with Alice’s lavish wedding to Mr. Longworth. Manassas Ward brought 1910–1920 alive with the suffragette movement.
The 1920s gave Fairfax Ward a story line that included everything from crashing airplanes to flappers and gangsters. Charlie McCarthy, Edgar Bergen, and Shirley Temple were among those who helped Americans through the “Hard-Time 30s.” Prince William Ward brought them all to life with lavish imagination and costumes.
Warrenton Branch introduced the ’40s with a wartime laboratory that was trying to split the atom but ended up inventing the milk shake. Stuffing phone booths, doodling, and viewing 3-D movies didn’t make much sense to “square” Freddie of the 1950s. Woodbridge Ward showed Freddie finally finding someplace where he could excel so he was no longer considered a square. Fancy Foot Freddie and Boogie Woogie Betty ended the decade with a swinging rendition of the jitterbug.
The curtain closed. The combo began playing. Once again the Fairfax Stake young people marched up the aisles and began singing, “What’s More American?”
To accompany their singing, slides of the most American thing around were flashed on two large walls: The young people themselves were featured. They were hiking, laughing, running, playing, working, singing, picnicking, camping, painting, practicing, listening, serving, learning, wondering, stretching, yelling, swimming, eating, dancing, and praying.
After it was all over, church members may have driven past Bull Run, Mount Vernon, and Washington, D.C., on their journeys home. But the most American things in this area were still at the Fairfax chapel removing make-up and costumes.

When Lisa Berkle of the Whittier Third Ward, Whittier California Stake, saw that her school newspaper was doing a series on cults, she decided to take advantage of an opportunity to show the truth about the gospel. As a member of the journalism staff, she got permission to do an article on the subject “Is Mormonism a cult?”
The article was a popular one, and Lisa learned a lot researching it. She is now at Ricks College, and is preparing to serve a mission.

I don’t really know where a young man begins to go wrong. I couldn’t have had a happier childhood. My father was a nature lover, and he had schooled us in the beauties and appreciation of the out-of-doors. My mother enriched our lives with her wit and her songs. And I grew up in the Church. I loved the gospel stories, and I looked forward to becoming a deacon. I remember my baptism day and the feeling that accompanied this ordinance.
But about the time I became a teacher, I began to sit with a crowd of boys in the back who were without a streak of reverence, I’m afraid. From this time on, I never really appreciated the gospel or made the effort to study the scriptures and gain a testimony, and any person without the gospel and spiritual motivation in his life will naturally turn to worldly things. It took a terrible accident and three years to do it, but I finally was able to see through the fads and falsities that had become a part of my life in the early years of high school and to realize just how plastic and superficial many of those values really are.

When my sister was married in the Salt Lake Temple, I went to see the movie Joseph Smith: The Prophet of the Restoration in the Joseph Smith Memorial Building nearby. I had seen this film before, but the Spirit had never come to me as strongly as it did then. It bore witness to me that Joseph Smith was called of God, that he translated the Book of Mormon by the power of God, and that through him Jesus Christ’s Church and the priesthood keys were restored to the earth. In that instant I knew without a doubt that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter?day Saints is the only true Church on this earth. Whenever I have had doubts of any kind, I remember this witness I have received, and I am strengthened so I can press forward and endure to the end.

Prophets have charge for the whole earth, not just for members of the Church. I can report from my own experience how personally and devotedly the First Presidency takes that charge. As needs grow, the First Presidency has charged us to increase our humanitarian outreach in a significant way. They are interested in the largest trends and the smallest details.
Recently, we brought to them one of the protective medical gowns that Beehive Clothing sewed for hospitals to use during the pandemic. As a medical doctor, President Russell M. Nelson was highly interested. He didn’t want to just see it. He wanted to try it on—check the cuffs and the length and the way it tied in the back. He told us later, with emotion in his voice, “When you meet with people on your assignments, thank them for their fasting, their offerings, and their ministering in the name of the Lord.”

You will not always be young and handsome or young and beautiful. There will come a time in life when instead of growing taller you will begin to shrink. I recall recently sitting down at the dinner table with my wife. I looked across the table at her hands, once so beautiful, now gnarled and wrinkled. I found myself with tears in my eyes. Pictures of the days of her young womanhood flooded my memory. I saw her when the children were small and she was young and strong, taking them everywhere and looking after their every need. She cooked and sewed, she washed and kept house, she went to their performances, she read books and attended concerts, she served in the Church in a variety of positions, and she was so very bright and beautiful and happy.

We have now been married for more than 62 years. That is a long time. We have grown old and wrinkled. But our love and respect and loyalty one for another have remained undimmed. Our children have grown. We have grandchildren who are grown, and we have great-grandchildren who are well on their way. I could not wish for any of you more than I have had in my companionship with my beautiful wife.

The story of Helen Keller is something of a parable suggesting how divine love can transform a willing soul. Helen was born in the state of Alabama in the United States in 1880. When just 19 months old, she suffered an undiagnosed illness that left her both deaf and blind. She was extremely intelligent and became frustrated as she tried to understand and make sense of her surroundings. When Helen felt the moving lips of family members and realized that they used their mouths to speak, “she flew into a rage [because] she was unable to join in the conversation.” By the time Helen was six, her need to communicate and her frustration grew so intense that her “outbursts occurred daily, sometimes hourly.”

Helen’s parents hired a teacher for their daughter, a woman named Anne Sullivan. Just as we have in Jesus Christ one who understands our infirmities, Anne Sullivan had struggled with her own serious hardships and understood Helen’s infirmities. At age five, Anne had contracted a disease that caused painful scarring of the cornea and left her mostly blind. When Anne was eight, her mother died; her father abandoned her and her younger brother, Jimmie; and they were sent to a “poor house,” where conditions were so deplorable that Jimmie died after only three months. Through her own dogged persistence, Anne gained entry to the Perkins School for the Blind and vision impaired, where she succeeded brilliantly. A surgical operation gave her improved vision so that she was able to read print. When Helen Keller’s father contacted the Perkins School seeking someone to become a teacher for his daughter, Anne Sullivan was selected.

It was not a pleasant experience at the beginning. Helen “hit, pinched and kicked her teacher and knocked out one of her teeth. [Anne] finally gained control by moving with [Helen] into a small cottage on the Kellers’ property. Through patience and firm consistency, she finally won the child’s heart and trust.” Similarly, as we come to trust rather than resist our divine Teacher, He can work with us to enlighten and lift us to a new reality.

To help Helen learn words, Anne would spell the names of familiar objects with her finger on the palm of Helen’s hand. “[Helen] enjoyed this ‘finger play,’ but she didn’t understand until the famous moment when [Anne] spelled ‘w-a-t-e-r’ while pumping water over [Helen’s] hand. [Helen] later wrote:
“‘Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten … and somehow the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that “w-a-t-e-r” meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! … Everything had a name, and each name gave birth to a new thought. As we returned to the house[,] every object … I touched seemed to quiver with life.’”

As Helen Keller grew to adulthood, she became known for her love of language, her skill as a writer, and her eloquence as a public speaker.

In a movie depicting the life of Helen Keller, her parents are portrayed as satisfied with Anne Sullivan’s work once she has domesticated their wild daughter to the extent that Helen will sit politely at dinner, eat normally, and fold her napkin at the end of the meal. But Anne knew Helen was capable of much, much more and that she had significant contributions to make. Even so, we may be quite content with what we have done in our lives and that we simply are what we are, while our Savior comprehends a glorious potential that we perceive only “through a glass, darkly.” Each of us can experience the ecstasy of divine potential unfolding within us, much like the joy Helen Keller felt when words came to life, giving light to her soul and setting it free. Each of us can love and serve God and be empowered to bless our fellowman. “As it is written, Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.”

The first event took place in Tonga during World War II.
It was nighttime, but the moon and the stars gave Finau a feeling of assurance as he carefully guided his canoe across the wide expanse of the gently undulating Pacific Ocean. He constantly studied the stars, so he knew he was going in the right direction. The moon was up, and its brightness was only obscured by occasional wisps of high clouds.
He had heard something about a “war” going on. Several of his friends had gone to the main island and traded their carved tikis and woven baskets to the American soldiers for money—more money than they had seen in all their 16 or so years of life. Finau had collected his very best baskets and carvings and was already anticipating what he would do with the money he was sure to get from the Americans.
The sky was starting to lighten a little, and he could see the waves breaking on the reef in the distance. He knew he was about there.
The sun had just come up as he paddled his canoe through the reef opening and into the quiet lagoon. He saw an American soldier with a gun standing on the shore and made his course towards him. He had heard of guns and of the war and of the American soldiers and of all the money they had and of all the things that money could buy. But now as he actually saw an American and observed his gun and realized he would have to talk to him, he became very nervous and uncertain of just what to do. Finau had learned a few words of English in his local school, but would it be enough? How much should he ask for his goods? He only knew pence and shillings and pounds, and he’d heard that the Americans used dimes and dollars. What were they worth? What would they buy? How should he begin?
Finau felt a little fear as he pulled his canoe up to the beach and the soldier came over. There was no one else on the beach. Would the soldier just take his goods? Would he shoot him? Uncertainty gripped his feelings as he climbed out of the canoe and pulled it onto the beach. He was here and he had traveled all night, so despite his fear he must go ahead.
“You buy?” he said to the soldier as he lifted a few baskets and tikis from the boat.
The young American soldier came over and looked at the items. “How much for this?” he asked, taking a beautifully carved tiki in his hand.
Finau almost panicked. He wasn’t sure of the meaning of the strange words, but he felt he wanted him to say a price, so he blurted out, “Very good. Number one tiki. You buy. One pound.”
The soldier looked quizzically at him, “You’re new at this, aren’t you? How about two dollars for the tiki and these three baskets?”
Finau wondered, “Is that enough? Maybe I should ask more and see what happens.”
“Number one tiki, number one basket. Two dollars tiki, two dollars basket.”
“Oh, you’re a little bargainer are you? I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a carton of cigarettes here. Cigarettes are worth more than money. I’ll give you this whole carton for everything you have here. I guarantee you it’s a good deal. They are good cigarettes. Here, I’ll show you.” The soldier lit one and took a puff and then offered it to Finau.
Up to now Finau had been uncertain of himself, but as he recognized the cigarettes and realized the intent of what was being said, he straightened up and firmly replied, “No!”
“Oh, come on. One sale and you’re all through. Think of the time you’ll save, and if you don’t want to smoke them all yourself you can trade them for other things—even money if you want. They’re rationed, you know. Who can tell their value under these circumstances and in this faraway place? Come on, let’s trade.”
“No,” retorted Finau.
“Come on, come on. What’s the matter? I’ll give them to you first, and you can unload your goods and leave them on the sand. You won’t get a better deal.” The soldier was noticeably irritated by this “stupid native’s” refusal. He looked down at him with all the superiority he felt and again said, “Go ahead. It’s okay. Cigarettes are valuable. Don’t be so stupid.”
Finau, groping for words, stood erect and said, “No, me no smoke. Me Mormon.”
It was as though he had shot the young American. The soldier jerked in startled surprise. He carefully studied Finau, then looked past him and stared longingly into space. He looked again into the lowly native’s eyes. Then he took the carton of cigarettes from under his arm, placed it in his right hand, crushed it, and heaved it far into the lagoon.
Finau wondered, “Why?” He looked at the carton with its bobbing packages scattered about. Then he looked again at the soldier as he turned to walk away from the shore and heard him say, “Yeah, I know. So am I.”

What the power of the Spirit can communicate beyond the meaning of words is clearly seen in an experience of Brother Peter Mourik, real estate director for the Church in Europe. He met with city officials, including the mayor, to negotiate the purchase of the former city hall. If it could be purchased, it was to be converted into a meetinghouse for the Church. The mayor of the neighboring German town was also present, inasmuch as a recent change in the boundaries involved both communities in the transaction.
The gentleman who introduced Brother Mourik to the mayors and officials did so in a spirit of levity. He said, “I want to introduce Mr. Mourik here, who represents this denomination … this sect … this group.” He finally got around to saying “This church.”
Then Brother Mourik raised his hand and said, “Mr. Mayor, I object.”
The mayor answered, “The meeting hasn’t even started. What are you objecting to?”
Brother Mourik replied, “Before we start, I’d like everybody to understand who and what it is I represent. I represent The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the only true church upon the face of the earth today!”
This statement incited laughter. Then the mayor said to the gentleman introducing Brother Mourik, “You’d better be careful what you say about this church!”
Brother Mourik thought that this had settled the preliminaries. But the mayor of the smaller town spoke up and said, “I would like to say something about this church. We have leased a schoolhouse to them for over two years. I have found them to be a very beautiful people. I go to the swimming pool on the school grounds quite often. One night I found a special gathering of their church members near the pool. They were holding a baptismal service. I sat quietly at the rear of the group and watched. They sang a hymn. I thought it was beautiful. Then someone prayed, and when he said ‘Amen,’ they all said ‘Amen.’ I was impressed with that. Then a teenage girl got up and spoke about what Christ and the Church meant to her. She was moved to tears. I, too, was deeply moved. I was further moved by the heartwarming sincerity, the oneness and spiritual unity of these people. When I went home, I said to my wife, ‘Let’s get more information about this church. We need to find out more about it.’”
When the mayor concluded, Brother Mourik said: “Mr. Mayor, you would make a good bishop in our church,” and they all laughed again.
But the feeling in the meeting had changed profoundly. The Spirit of the Lord was there and was speaking to the hearts of those present. So Brother Mourik was impressed to say, “Since the mayor has explained to you what our church is about, I’m sure now you understand why we need to purchase the building at the lowest possible price.”
The Church bought this choice piece of property at a very greatly reduced price. This was accomplished because Brother Mourik had the courage to bear his testimony. This testimony was accompanied by the power of the Spirit, which inspired the mayor to speak and which communicated a favorable conviction about the Church to the city officials. What the Spirit communicates to the hearts of men is beyond the power of words to portray!

In late spring this year, I met such a one in California whose faith and testimony stirred my soul. She was slight and soft-spoken and described herself as a boat person. She had learned English and qualified for scholarships to attend college after she arrived in the United States. In addition to her studies in chemical engineering, she married, joined the Church, and had four children. Her capacity to read was a significant tool in meeting her many challenges. She described her great effort to interpret her college texts in a language different from her native tongue. She told how her reading of the Book of Mormon had deepened her understanding not only of scriptural truths but also of her exacting studies of mathematics and chemistry.

Sometime after she graduated, her husband left her and their children without support, and she found it necessary to seek employment. She felt that she was hired at a laboratory because of the advantage of her minority status, but she had no experience and did not know the procedures that others there found routine. As she had only the Lord to turn to, she began to sequester herself at work to pray for help. She also discovered that while reading the Book of Mormon, her mind would become clear, and she found herself with effective ideas of how to implement her assignments. Her progress has been such that now when other lab workers are stymied with a project, they come to her for clarification and direction.

She testified of her sure knowledge of God’s reality and particularly of his love. Her struggles for her family require all of her physical and spiritual strength. Now, on Saturdays, she often takes her children to market to buy food which they prepare together and then take to a homeless shelter. She greatly desires that her children gain an understanding of what her life was like when she had nothing. She is teaching them to understand God’s love by helping them exercise charity.

Two parallel episodes related by his eternal companion, Ruth, are especially illustrative.
The first concerns his initial call in 1972 to be a General Authority: “We had a special family home evening, including the only grandchild back then. Jim went around the circle and told the children what was unique about them and how they were special individually. Then he told them about his call, stressing that if he were not a good father, he could not succeed as a General Authority, adding, ‘I am never going to be released from my calling as a father or a grandfather.’”
In the second episode, when he was called to be in the First Presidency, President Faust did the very same thing! In 1995 the teaching involved 22 grandchildren and ended with President Faust’s saying again how very important they all were to him and that he couldn’t succeed as a member of the First Presidency if he wasn’t a good father. Sister Faust further observed, “This is the kind of person he has been all of his life. Family and loved ones have come first!”

We turned down a road that led to a group of cottages on the shore of a slow-moving river. It was a clear, warm day in late fall. The leaves on the trees had turned bright yellow and gold colors. It was my first day of door contacting as a missionary.
“Your door,” Elder Higgins said, smiling.
It was a small cottage near the edge of the water. Water sports equipment leaned against the side of the house. I cleared my throat and knocked firmly.
“I’m Elder Roberts and this is Elder Higgins. We have a message about the Savior we’d like to share with you,” I rehearsed.
The inside door opened, and behind the screen door stood a very pretty girl, somewhere between 17 and 20 years old, with blue eyes, long golden hair, wearing a swimsuit. The words, the carefully practiced lines I’d repeated a thousand times on the plane, at the mission home, in our apartment, and on the three-mile walk to this cottage, completely left my mind.
“Awk,” was all that came out when I opened my mouth.
Elder Higgins looked at me grinning and then turned to the girl.
“We’re ministers in the area, and we have a message about Jesus Christ we’d like to share with you and your family.” He gave her a Christ in America pamphlet and made an appointment to meet her family.
Elder Higgins had studied musical theater in college before his mission. My first day in the area had been a preparation day and while we were washing our clothes, Elder Higgins sang popular songs to the ladies in the laundromat. They loved it. He made five appointments while our clothes were drying. He sometimes sang to people at doors. I was just a little more reserved with people—shy and scared describe my feelings more closely.
“I’ll take the next couple of doors,” Elder Higgins said dryly. He made two more appointments and serenaded another woman.
“Want to try again?” he asked as we approached a group of houses next to a church.
I knocked on the door and stood back waiting. A tall man wearing a clerical collar opened the door and smiled at us.
“What can I do for you boys?” he said with a very proper British accent. He obviously knew who we were.
I glanced at the postbox as I swallowed and stepped back. “The Reverend Richard Cutts, Ph. D.,” it said.
What could I say to this man? How could I challenge what he believed? I whispered a quick prayer. I could see Elder Higgins getting ready to jump in.
It’s funny how much can go through your mind in a few seconds. I thought of my first Primary teacher, Oma Santos, telling the story of Moses and the burning bush; my Sunday School teacher, Cloe Davis, explaining the importance of Joseph Smith’s first vision; Velda Dalton teaching about the Sermon on the Mount; and my Uncle Elton talking about the restoration of the priesthood in deacons class. I grew up in a small town in southern Utah. None of my teachers had Ph.D. behind their name. None of them read Greek or Latin as Reverend Cutts most likely did. But it didn’t matter. What they knew was much more important.
“I’m Elder Roberts,” I said feeling, for the first time, the strength and importance of what I’d been taught, what I was here to teach. “This is Elder Higgins, and we’d like to tell you about the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
The expression on Reverend Cutts’s face changed. He looked a little surprised. “Come in,” he said, smiling.

It was Christmas Eve, and I did not want to be out caroling.
However, my mom thought it would be fun if the family piled into our old car and drove down icy neighborhood roads to sing carols to three widows in our ward, and my dad was happy to support her suggestion.
I felt awkward. Who would want to hear us? I would die of embarrassment if I saw anyone I knew. Grumbling and sulking, I crawled into the back seat with my brother and sister.
The drive to the first apartment was only a few blocks away. Nobody answered. We drove to the second stop. Again, no answer. My spirits began to rise.
As we pulled into the narrow driveway of our last stop, I thought, “Please let no one be home.”
It was now dark outside. As my mother knocked and waited, the front porch remained dark. Good. Soon we would be home, where I could escape into my bedroom.
Suddenly the porch light snapped on and the door opened. I was so embarrassed. I felt certain we had disturbed her.
“Come in, come in,” the small, wiry woman said. She pointed to her old upright piano.
“Do you play?” she asked my mother. “Let’s sing around the piano.”
Her warmth and enthusiasm softened my heart. Maybe she didn’t mind so much that we were there. We had sung a few songs when she offered us hot chocolate.
“Can you come help?” she asked me. As we entered the kitchen, I was stunned to see a beautiful table set that was delightfully decorated for Christmas. It was so festive! At each place setting was a small, carefully wrapped package.
“Who is this for?” I asked. I knew she lived alone.
“For my neighbors,” she explained. “Every Christmas I invite those like myself—those with no family nearby—over for Christmas breakfast and a little treat.”
The idea exploded in my 13-year-old brain. Admiration filled my stubborn heart. How beautiful this room was. How beautiful this petite older sister was. How beautiful was my mother to bring us here. At last I was happy.
At church the next month this sister thanked us again for visiting. She told us we were the only ones that year who had remembered her. A few months later she passed away unexpectedly.
I look back at that Christmas and feel thankful for wonderful parents and for this older sister, each of whom wanted to bring Christmas cheer to others.
Brooke K., Utah, USA

Jonathan Wright could see a square piece of world from his bedroom window. He had seen the same square piece every day for the last year and a half. That’s how long he had been bedridden. The doctor had said that he had a rare blood disease and that he would die from it.
Jonathan had decided to take each day, each hour, each moment as special. And sacred. He also decided, after talks with his parents and his Heavenly Father, that since life and death, and life beyond death, are all a part of one great whole, it would be best to look for things to be happy about and to fill whatever time he had remaining with meaningful memories to keep him company in his lonely hours. Like memories of the smile his father gave him each day when he came home from the mill. And of the hugs his mother gave him, which soothed his very soul.
Reading the scriptures helped calm his occasional fears and strengthen his faith.
His little brother Spencer’s practical jokes—like putting his pet garden snake beneath the lid of the serving tray when his mother brought him supper—helped him to laugh. He was cheered, too, by all the little kindnesses that his family and others did for him. Spencer, for instance, saved all year to buy him a stereoscope so he could see three-dimensional pictures of faraway places.
Jonathan’s thoughts were distracted by the grinding of Mr. Walpole’s ice wagon. He always made deliveries on Tuesday. So, Jonathan thought, it must be Tuesday. And he would make it a grand Tuesday! The morning sun burnt gold off the Henry Mountains behind the small town, its misted rays stretching all the way to Jonathan’s street, Murphy Lane. It also shone on the sandlot next to Murphy’s Wagon and Automobile Garage, where each afternoon most of the children on Maple Street gathered to play ball. And it shone in Jonathan’s window—the best way for a day to start.
Jonathan wished he could help others the way he saw his father and Spencer helping Mrs. Beaufort across the street. His father was mending her picket fence. The week before, Arnold McKillop’s Model-T had crashed through it when Arnold swerved to keep from hitting Elias Stone’s three-legged dog, Tuff. Tuff had lost his leg from an infection, and Mr. Stone had yelled, “You’d like to see my dog trying to drag his leftovers around on two legs, wouldn’t you, McKillop!”
Jonathan had seen it all from his window. He looked now at Mr. Stone’s run-down house on the corner. His weed-filled yard matched the house—and Elias Stone himself, somehow. But maybe Mr. Stone has cause to look that way, Jonathan thought one day as he watched the tall, bearded man walk down the crookedy path to his mailbox. Elias jerked open the box to find nothing but blackness inside, as he always did. Then he shuffled back into his grim, paint-chipped house, the screen door whining shut behind him.
One day, Jonathan watched as Elias shooed away a child who was fetching a ball from the old man’s yard.
“Get out of my yard, you little snippety-snap!” the man bellowed. “The next time you throw your ball over here, I’ll feed it to my dog and that will be that!”
“Why is Mr. Stone so grumpy, Dad?” Jonathan had asked.
“From what I hear, Mr. Stone was the first one to move into the area,” Jonathan’s father explained. “His wife and child died when some epidemic came through town, and it changed him. As people moved in, he started shutting them out. He just sort of gave up on life and most everything else.
“Many have tried to be friendly, including your mom and me. Your mom baked bread especially for him more than once, but he refused it each time. I went over to see if I could help fix a wheel on his wagon about a year ago, and he told me to mind my own business. It’s sad, but one can only do so much. No one can force someone to change, Son. All a body can do is try.”
I haven’t tried yet, Jonathan thought. But what can I do?
The next day Jonathan saw Mr. Stone again trudge from his house to his rusty mailbox by the road and gaze into its usual black emptiness. He closed it slowly, turned up his collar against a little blast of wind that rolled a wave of autumn leaves up the street, and was about to start toward the house but then turned to regard the sight. He stared at the tumbling leaves as if they were scattered pages from a sad book, discarded, coming back to haunt him.
Suddenly the screen door was banging shut and Mr. Stone was gone again. Jonathan gazed at the shabby mailbox. “That’s what I can do,” Jonathan said out loud to himself. “I can write Mr. Stone a letter. No one else ever seems to.”
So Jonathan did. He wrote a letter introducing himself as the boy in the window. He wrote about his going to die and about how he didn’t have any time to feel bad about his circumstances, because the people he loved kept him busy feeling good about himself. He wrote that maybe if Mr. Stone let others into his heart, he could be happy too.
He ended with an invitation: “If you ever want someone to talk to, you could come and talk to me. Bring your dog if you want to. I’m always here. And if you don’t like to talk, I have lots of puzzles. One has two cowboys trying to rope a bear in the woods. Another one has a clown wiping tears from a child’s face. I live across the street in the green house. You can’t miss it.” Jonathan signed his name, folded and slipped the letter into an envelope, and asked Spencer to stamp it and take it to the post office right away.
The next day when Elias went to the mailbox, he opened it as usual and was about to close it as usual, then paused and reached inside, withdrawing an envelope. He opened it and read the letter. Then he looked across the street. Jonathan waved a tentative little wave. Elias narrowed an eye, grunted, and went back inside, the screen door closing with its customary bang!
Jonathan sighed and leaned back against the stack of pillows. Maybe writing a letter wasn’t such a good idea, after all. But mustering fresh courage, he opened his tablet and began another. Maybe, Jonathan thought, like one little match can’t melt an iceberg, one letter can’t get past all the pain of Mr. Stone’s misfortunes. But maybe two, or three, or four will.
In his second, third, and fourth letters, Jonathan wrote about how he knew that beyond the grave families could be rejoined, that if each of us tries daily to live God’s commandments the best we can and extend ourselves to others, the Lord will also help us now.
Each day Jonathan watched Elias Stone take his letter from the mailbox and read it. And each day he saw the tall man’s look softening.
One day a knock came at the door of the boy’s house. Through her surprise, Jonathan’s mother smiled pleasantly at Elias, who stood there holding up a handful of letters. Tuff sat at his feet.
“Your boy has been writing me letters!”
“I see. And you want him to stop, is that it, Mr. Stone?”
“What I want, Mrs. Wright,” he faltered, his eyes lifting slowly toward hers, “is to talk to him … if I may.”
Jonathan’s mother studied the bearded man for an uncertain moment; then, moved by a tear he quickly blinked away, she nodded and smiled again. “You may.”
“Can his dog come in, too, Mama?” Spencer, who was standing close beside her, begged.
“Of course.”
“Don’t play too rough with Tuff, boy,” Elias cautioned bluntly but not unkindly. “He can’t afford to lose another leg.”
Jonathan’s mother tapped on his bedroom door. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“OK, Mama.”
The door opened and Elias Stone edged into the little room.
“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Jonathan’s mother said respectfully. Elias nodded appreciatively, and she was gone.
Jonathan swallowed hard and greeted his visitor. “Mr. Stone.”
“Mr. Wright.” Elias held up a handful of letters. “I lost my wife and child many years ago,” he blurted out with a kind of embarrassed desperation.
“Yes, I know.”
“You do, do you?” Elias seemed surprised. A burning need drove out more words almost on top of one another. “You also said that you know there’s a uniting of loved ones after death. How can you say you know that, boy?”
Jonathan picked up his Bible and Book of Mormon from his bedside stand. “The scriptures tell me so, Mr. Stone,” he replied.
Late that night a light was still shining from beneath Jonathan’s door. Elias Stone had gone in at five o’clock and had not come out. When the door did open, Jonathan’s family beheld a man whose eyes were red from the scouring effect of tears working upon loosed bitterness, eyes now filled with peace. His mouth trembled with a ragged smile and these stumbling words: “Sorry to have kept your boy up so late, good people.”
Jonathan’s father struggled past his amazement. “Are you all right, Mr. Stone?”
“For the first time in years.”
After Elias Stone left with his three-legged companion, Jonathan’s family hurried, wondering, into his room. Jonathan was at the window, watching Elias’s dim form moving across the dusky street with Tuff at his side. Elias’s step seemed lighter.
“Tell us what happened, honey,” Jonathan’s mother said.
Jonathan looked back to his family, then tapped the scriptures lying open beside him on the bed. “A kind of miracle, Mama … a kind of miracle. …”

As a child matures and starts working for money, whether for his parents or his neighbors, he will deal honestly and give honest labor for the returns he gets. Often the earliest employment for a young man is as a newsboy. Countless numbers of our successful businessmen today got their start in this occupation. They learned to be prompt and dependable. I knew a newsboy who always had his papers delivered on time regardless of the weather, and he handled his collections in a pleasant, courteous, and businesslike manner. He had many satisfied customers and had no difficulty in getting new subscriptions. This early training helped him to become a most successful businessman.

While deaths at any time are heartbreaking, the timings of deaths during the crisis of 1918-1920 were sometimes tragic in themselves. In February 1919, John Diston, a native of Sunderland, was faithfully discharged from the British Royal Navy and rushed home to be with his young wife, Beatrice, in Portsmouth. The couple had only been married six months and many of the family were sick with influenza and pneumonia. John finally made it home to Beatrice’s bedside, but he only had five hours with her before she passed away. As they prepared for the funeral, other family members continued to struggle with illness. On the day of Beatrice’s funeral, her adopted brother, George, also passed away. The double tragedy was hard to bear. Of Beatrice’s seven siblings, only one survived to old age.17

Sometimes cities and nations bear special labels of identity. Such was a cold and very old city in eastern Canada. The missionaries called it “Stony Kingston.” There had been but one convert to the Church in six years, even though missionaries had been continuously assigned there during the entire interval. No one baptized in Kingston. Just ask any missionary who labored there. Time in Kingston was marked on the calendar like days in prison. A missionary transfer to another place—any place—would be uppermost in thoughts, even in dreams.
While I was praying about and pondering this sad dilemma, for my responsibility then as a mission president required that I pray and ponder about such things, my wife called to my attention an excerpt from the book A Child’s Story of the Prophet Brigham Young. She read aloud that Brigham Young (1801–77) entered Kingston, Ontario, on a cold and snow-filled day. He labored there about 30 days and baptized 45 souls.9 Here was the answer. If the missionary Brigham Young could accomplish this harvest, so could the missionaries of today.
Without providing an explanation, I withdrew the missionaries from Kingston, that the cycle of defeat might be broken. Then the carefully circulated word: “Soon a new city will be opened for missionary work, even the city where Brigham Young proselyted and baptized 45 persons in 30 days.” The missionaries speculated as to the location. Their weekly letters pleaded for the assignment to this Shangri-la. More time passed. Then four carefully selected missionaries—two of them new, two of them experienced—were chosen for this high adventure. The members of the small branch pledged their support. The missionaries pledged their lives. The Lord honored both.
In the space of three months, Kingston became the most productive city of the Canadian Mission. The grey limestone buildings still stood; the city had not altered its appearance; the population remained constant. The change was one of attitude. The label of doubt yielded to the label of faith.

Martin Pratt was a talented professor, but he had one strange notion—he believed that religion was only for weak-minded men and silly women. Martin’s wife, Nell, loved him, for he was a fine husband. His hobby was growing beautiful flowers.
In the Pratt’s neighborhood lived a young boy named LeRoy, who delivered newspapers to them and sometimes stopped to visit. Mrs. Pratt reminded him of his grandmother, who had died just the year before.
“Dad,” LeRoy asked one day, “what’s an atheist? Martin Pratt says he’s one.”
“I doubt that a real atheist even exists, son,” his dad replied.
“But what is an atheist?” LeRoy persisted.
“An atheist is a person who denies the existence of God.”
“Mr. Pratt says our universe is like a big automatic clock that was wound up long, long ago and that we don’t need a Heavenly Father to look after it.”
“Actually, LeRoy, nothing could be further from the truth. Perhaps one day Martin will change his mind. At least we can hope.”
But something happened to Martin Pratt before he had a chance to change his mind. One morning when he heard that a hailstorm was coming, he rushed out into his garden to pick his dahlias and was stricken with a fatal heart attack.
The day after the funeral LeRoy delivered the newspaper to Mrs. Pratt and saw her rocking in her chair, looking very lonely. LeRoy got off his bike and went up on the porch and sat down next to her. “Don’t feel bad, Mrs. Pratt. Someday you’ll see Mr. Pratt again. He’s gone to live with Heavenly Father now—just like my grandma.”
Mrs. Pratt shook her head sadly. “No, LeRoy,” she said, “I will never see him again. Martin was a very wise man, and he always told me there is no such thing as a Heavenly Father. So when a person dies, that is the end.”
“But do you believe that, Mrs. Pratt?”
“Yes. If Martin said it was so, it must be true.”
LeRoy finally went home, wondering what he could do to cheer her up. Each day after that when he delivered the newspaper to Mrs. Pratt, he hoped to see her smile again but her eyes were always red. When she took the paper, she just mumbled, “Thank you.”
One afternoon when LeRoy’s mother gathered her last chrysanthemums, LeRoy spied a little tree cricket perched on one of them.
“Mother, can I take this flower to Mrs. Pratt?” he asked.
“Of course! Why don’t we fix her a bouquet.”
With eyes shining, LeRoy knocked on Mrs. Pratt’s door. When she saw him holding the beautiful flowers, she invited him in.
“I brought you some company, see!” LeRoy pointed to the little cricket. “He’ll sing for you in the night and make you happy.”
“Oh, LeRoy, you’ve been so kind to me. But I don’t think I’ll ever feel happy again.”
“Yes, you will,” he quickly replied. “Heavenly Father made lots of things to make you happy, like this little cricket.”
As she turned her gaze on the pale green insect, LeRoy eased toward the door. “Good-bye,” he said softly and closed the door behind him.
The little cricket sang, but Mrs. Pratt refused to be happy. When morning came, she walked out into the yard and saw the pigeons flying high in the sky. She wondered if she could ever feel that carefree again. A bird hopped among the crisp fallen leaves, chirping, “Cheer up!” But she didn’t cheer up. Instead, she went inside and closed the drapes to shut out the sun. She encased herself in such a pall of gloom that one day when LeRoy knocked on her door, she felt like not answering it. But finally she opened the door and looked mournfully at LeRoy.
“Hi!” he greeted her.
Weakly she said, “I’m too busy to talk to you today.”
“That’s all right,” he said, trying to understand her unhappiness.
“Wait,” said Mrs. Pratt. “Maybe we could have a little visit—but for only a few minutes.”
Once inside, the boy noticed that all of Mr. Pratt’s flowers were wilted.
“I bet Mr. Pratt would feel sad to see his flowers looking like that.”
“How could Martin feel sad now that he’s gone forever?” she asked gloomily.
“But he isn’t really gone,” the boy told her. “Dad said Mr. Pratt must have been terribly surprised when he found that out.” LeRoy paused a moment. “I know he’d want his flowers watered if he could see them all wilted now. Can I help you water them?”
“Thanks, LeRoy,” she said, “but I’ll take care of them.” After he left, Mrs. Pratt looked thoughtfully at the pitiful plants. Slowly she opened the drapes and then went for a pitcher of water.
At Christmastime LeRoy arrived at Mrs. Pratt’s door, holding a small flowerpot in one hand. The other hand he kept hidden behind him.
“I made this Christmas tree for you in school today,” he announced. “It’s a peach twig trimmed with gumdrops.”
“Come in,” she said as she set the pot in the center of the table.
Shyly, he handed her another package.
Removing the ribbon and paper, she was startled to see a gold-framed picture of Jesus, finished in soft brown tones.
“It will look pretty by your reading lamp,” he suggested.
As she placed it there, she felt strangely moved. “Thank you,” she said softly.
As springtime approached, LeRoy shared with her the first apricot blossom. Then just before Easter he asked, “Can you go on an Easter walk with me next Saturday? There are things down by the creek I’d like to show you.”
Mrs. Pratt hesitated. Then she said, “I suppose so.”
Saturday morning as they walked down the grassy slope together, they saw buttercups and wild larkspurs and watched the burnished metallic-green tiger beetles scurry through the grass. Meadowlark songs rippled on the sun-sparkled air.
Later they sat in the shade of the cottonwoods to eat their lunch at the creek’s edge. They dropped colored Easter eggshells into the water and watched them float like little boats. Mrs. Pratt gave the boy a chocolate rabbit.
“Thank you,” he said. Then he added, “I like Easter eggs and bunnies, but most of all I like the real Easter on Sunday when we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. My dad says that because of what He did for us, everyone will be resurrected, including my grandma and Mr. Pratt. And we will never die again.”
“I want to believe you, LeRoy, but I can’t believe that what your father tells you is true.”
“You can find out if it’s true, if you want to.”
“How?”
“Well, you can pray, and then you’ll know for sure.”
“How can I pray when I don’t know how or to whom I would be praying? That would be pretty foolish, wouldn’t it?”
“Then I’ll pray for you, Mrs. Pratt. We can kneel here on the grass together. The trees and bushes are thick, and no one can see us.”
He patted a soft place in the grass for her. She waited for a moment then knelt beside him.
“I’ll pray first so you’ll know how,” he said. “Praying is just talking to Heavenly Father.” Slipping his hand into hers, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Dear Heavenly Father, Mrs. Pratt is so lonely. Please let her know You are there, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” LeRoy raised his head slightly. “Now it’s your turn,” he said. “Just ask Heavenly Father what you want to know.”
The hand that held his was trembling. Her eyes were closed, but tears were beginning to form on her lashes. “Oh, please, Father in heaven—if there is a Father in heaven—touch my heart that I may know. Is there truly a resurrection? Will I see Martin again?”
Suddenly Mrs. Pratt was crying, and her tears wet LeRoy’s hair. She held him so tightly he could hardly breathe. When he began to sniffle his own tears, he fumbled for a paper napkin beside him.
Releasing him, she said, “Heavenly Father has spoken to my heart. Oh, LeRoy, what you have said is true. I will really and truly see Martin again. I know it.”
Once more she bowed her head, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, she whispered, “Heavenly Father, thank you. Thank you so much!”
Softly she arose, and taking LeRoy by the hand, they silently climbed the grassy slope together.

When I got the call that I would be evacuated from my mission, I was upset and confused.
Several months before I was supposed to be released, the First Presidency decided to send me and several other missionaries home based on what I thought were only rumors of a possible international conflict. There wasn’t any evidence that anything was going to happen.
I didn’t think there was anything to worry about.
I had always wanted to serve a mission and had worked so hard to accomplish that goal. Money was tight, but I found a job that helped me earn enough to pay for my mission. When I opened my call, it felt so right, and I knew it came from God.
Then, because of the COVID-19 pandemic, I was reassigned to a mission in Utah for nine months before I made it overseas to my original assignment. I was relieved and overjoyed to finally be where God had originally called me to be.
Then, after just a few months of being there, I was suddenly whisked away from the people and country that I loved. I felt like everything was being taken away from me.
I felt betrayed. I sincerely questioned whether this was an inspired choice.
Begrudgingly, I flew home to Texas. My evacuation was so unexpected that my dad and siblings weren’t even at the airport to welcome me home.
Just a few days after I left my mission, I was shocked when a dangerous conflict broke out close to where I had been serving. In that moment, I realized that following the prophet had kept me safe in a very real way. I was overcome with gratitude for the prophet and his inspiration.
I made a promise to myself that I would always heed what the prophet said, even if it didn’t make sense in the moment.