Gospel Story Finder

I remember one difficult year during graduate school. You can imagine starting a family while in a PhD program and living on a shoestring budget. I broke a pair of glasses and decided that I couldn’t afford a new pair. So I went for about six months before I finally went to the optometrist and got a new prescription and a new pair of glasses. When I came out of his office, I literally stood on the sidewalk disoriented as I attempted to focus. And I said to myself, “Boy, I forgot that blades of grass can actually be discerned.” In six months my eyes had changed tremendously.

When we worship together on Sunday; go to the temple; attend classes here at BYU in the sciences, humanities, mathematics, arts, religion, and all other fields; attend general conference; and receive blessings and counsel from our friends, part of the purpose in these endeavors is to get a better prescription—that is, to try to get a better pair of glasses and eliminate the artificial color and blurring of our vision. Changing our glasses can affect the way we see the world.

An example of such service was the missionary experience of Juliusz and Dorothy Fussek, who were called to fill a two-year mission in Poland. Brother Fussek was born in Poland. He spoke the language. He loved the people. Sister Fussek was English and knew little of Poland and its people.
Trusting in the Lord, they embarked on their assignment. The living conditions were primitive, the work lonely, their task immense. A mission had not at that time been established in Poland. The assignment given the Fusseks was to prepare the way, that a mission could be established so that other missionaries could be called to serve, people could be taught, converts could be baptized, branches could be established, and chapels could be erected.
Did Elder and Sister Fussek despair because of the enormity of their assignment? Not for a moment. They knew their calling was from God. They prayed for His divine help, and they devoted themselves wholeheartedly to their work. They remained in Poland not two years but five years. All of the foregoing objectives were realized.
Elders Russell M. Nelson, Hans B. Ringger, and I, accompanied by Elder Fussek, met with Minister Adam Wopatka of the Polish government, and we heard him say, “Your church is welcome here. You may build your buildings; you may send your missionaries. You are welcome in Poland. This man,” pointing to Juliusz Fussek, “has served your church well. You can be grateful for his example and his work.”
Like the Fusseks, let us do what we should do in the work of the Lord. Then we can, with Juliusz and Dorothy Fussek, echo the Psalm: “My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth … : he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.”

Becky West, 16, Murray 29th Ward, Murray Utah West Stake. Becky got her first job working at a local restaurant part-time busing tables. She wanted to earn money for college and for school clothes. Because she gets tips, Becky brings home cash every time she works. To make saving a little simpler, she decided to put her paychecks directly into savings in the bank. Her tips paid for everything else.

Estimate
Actual
Income
306.80
396.00
Expenses
tithing
30.68
39.60
savings
201.12
233.36
clothes
55.00
58.00
food, makeup, and entertainment
20.00
26.87
total
$306.80
$357.83

Becky did very well with her budget. She even had $36.17 left over that she could add to her savings or spend on other things. Becky learned one trick about not spending too much. “I only take my clothes money with me when I’m going clothes shopping. If I find something another time, then I have to come home, get my money, and go back.”

Recently, some members of my family determined it would be fun to bicycle from Bozeman, Montana, to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, in the United States. This 225-mile journey would take us three days, and we would cross the Continental Divide on three occasions. We determined that traveling through the mountain passes with good weather would be a wonderful experience that would help us appreciate God’s creations.

After careful planning and preparation, two of my sons and my only daughter and I set out on the first day to cycle to our overnight stop in Big Sky, Montana. The morning was perfect, and we expected a delightful journey. However, as we traveled along, dark clouds gathered and brought rain, which eventually became sleet and hail and made us extremely cold and wet and miserable. As we concluded day one of our journey and reached our overnight destination, I was reminded that life can be just like that day. Fortunately, we had prepared for all types of weather conditions; had we not done so, it would have been difficult to complete our journey that first day. At each stage of life’s journey, we should set out full of hope and optimism, but we should be prepared nonetheless to face opposition or hardship at some point.

On day two of our trip, we headed to West Yellowstone. Everything was as it should be—the bicycles were running smoothly, our legs rested, as we progressed toward our second destination. It was then that I realized if we are not careful when everything is going just right in life, there can be a temptation to forget our Heavenly Father and give credit to ourselves for our happy state. Don’t make that mistake.

On day three of our journey, I learned that even though we may have some uphill struggles in our lives, our attitude will determine how we face them. On that day we crossed the Continental Divide three times, rising from an elevation of 4,800 feet to 8,300 feet. Climbing steep mountain passes on a bike requires the right attitude to get to the right altitude. It’s the same with life. By setting worthwhile goals and keeping your eyes fixed on them, you will learn self-discipline and accomplish much. Yes, there were times when climbing the steep mountain grades was as much as I could bear, but I didn’t give up, because I was fixed in my purpose.

As our family concluded the 225-mile bicycle journey, we learned that no matter how difficult things can become on this road we call life, great happiness is waiting for those who keep the commandments and endure to the end.

My story begins with a loss that shaped my destiny. My father, Mr. Kofi Donkor Adane, died just a week before I was born. My mother, deep in her grief, held me for the first time with tears streaming down her cheeks. In my culture, there is a belief that a mother’s profound sorrow can cause a newborn’s spirit to “go back”—to return to the spirit world. Fearful of this, my aunt, Mrs. Faustina Boahin, came for me. She persuaded my mother that it would be safer if I stayed with her. And so, as a tiny baby, I left my mother’s arms and went to live with my aunt and uncle, growing up believing they were my true parents and that my cousins were my siblings.
My aunt was a strict disciplinarian. While my uncle was kind, my aunt believed in corporal punishment to “put me in line.” I was kept indoors, often watching the neighborhood children play football from behind the louvers of our window, shouting instructions as if I were their coach but never allowed to join. This isolation made school my sanctuary, a place where I could finally engage with friends, join clubs for acrobatics and drama, and feel a sense of belonging. Coming home late from these precious hours of play always meant a beating, but to me the fleeting freedom was worth the price.
The foundation of my life was shattered when my cousin, Kwesi, revealed the truth. “Is Faustina really your mom?” he’d tease, until one day he stated plainly, “No, she’s not. Auntie Mina is your mother.” I was stunned. Auntie Mina was the woman who visited often, always bringing a special gift just for me—a donut, an orange, a sweet—a fact for which my aunt had often scolded her. The pieces began to fall into place. I noticed the differences in treatment: I had more chores, I was denied meat at meals, and the punishments were more severe. The truth, once seen, could not be unseen.
I eventually moved in with my biological mother, Fatima Wilhelmina, and entered a new world: a Muslim household. My mother had been raised Muslim by her father, and she had remarried a Muslim man. I embraced this new identity with the fervor of a child seeking belonging. I learned to pray in Arabic, fasted during Ramadan, and perfected the ablutions. I even joined a wazi team, Muslim evangelists who would set up in town. My role was to read from the Bible, drawing parallels to the Qur’an, while others demonstrated Islamic prayer. I didn’t see it as outreach then; it was simply the faith I was living. For a time, it was my entire world.

One day at school we were having a limbo contest. To do the limbo, you have to walk under a pole without touching it while bending over backwards.
If you touch the pole or the ground, you’re out of the game. When I went under the pole, my knee touched the ground. My teacher didn’t see what happened, so she asked me if I touched the ground. I knew that if I told the truth I would be out, but I told her that my knee touched the ground anyway. I was out of the game, but at the end I got the honesty award. My mom said that was better than first place any day.

In a recent message of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s Music and the Spoken Word, a story was told about an elderly man and woman who had been married for many decades. Because the wife was slowly losing her sight, she could no longer take care of herself the way she had done for so many years. Without being asked, the husband began to paint her fingernails for her.
“He knew that she could see her fingernails when she held them close to her eyes, at just the right angle, and they made her smile. He liked to see her happy, so he kept painting her nails for more than five years before she passed away.”14

When Scott woke up in his grandfather’s den, he recognized the creaking noise even before he opened his eyes: Grandpa Max was hoisting his flag up the wooden flagpole in the front yard.
Today was the Fourth of July, but that wasn’t the reason that Grandpa Max was putting up the flag. He had hoisted “the old Stars and Stripes,” as he called it, to the top of that pole 365 days a year for as long as Scott could remember.
Two minutes later Grandpa was standing at the bottom of the stairs, hollering the familiar words, “Hey, buddy boy, get yourself down here. You’re on spud-peeling detail in five minutes.”
Scott groaned and rolled over. In a few hours about thirty-five relatives would spill onto the front yard for the big picnic that Grandpa Max hosted every year. This was Scott’s year to be cohost. His older cousin Jeff, who had held that title the year before, had told Scott that “cohost” translated into “free help,” and Scott believed it. His body ached from hours of washing windows, mowing the lawn, and carrying tables yesterday. And Grandpa evidently had much more in store for this morning.
“Well, it’s about time!” Grandpa Max grinned at Scott while sliding three slices of golden french toast onto a plate and passing the maple syrup to his grandson.
“I heard you out there with the flag, Grandpa,” Scott said between bites. “I guess it’s just another day for you.”
“Ooooh no, no, buddy boy. I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t ever say that.”
“Well, you do put the flag up every day. Why is that, Grandpa?”
Grandpa Max didn’t answer immediately. Instead he stood up and grabbed a ten-pound bag of potatoes off the counter. “Tell you what, Scott. You peel these; I’ll quarter ’em. You listen; I’ll explain.”
Scott shoveled in the rest of his breakfast and silently picked up the vegetable peeler. He knew that tone of voice, and it meant “Listen up.”
“First,” Grandpa began, “you have to imagine the place that I call ‘the old country,’ the place where I was born. My village wasn’t a town as you know it, but a small cluster of cottages and shops built along seldom-traveled dirt roads. Everywhere there were poor, shabbily dressed people. Why, they would’ve thought that I was a king if they could have seen me dressed like this.” And he snapped the strap of his bib overalls for emphasis.
“And speaking of kings, the leader of the old country taxed and imprisoned the people unfairly, sometimes forcing them to join his private army. Because of this, many people began to talk against him. They gathered at secret meetings where they talked of ways to overthrow him. The ruler knew that they hated him, so periodically he sent his soldiers throughout the country to show his strength and to question the people, hoping to discover his enemies.
“In my village every family, no matter how poor, had a flag because a flag was considered protection against the soldiers. If a house had a flag hanging from it, it was not as likely to be searched.
“I have a picture in my mind,” Grandpa Max continued, “of my last day in the old country. I was only four years old, but it was a day that I will never forget. My parents had been packing all night, loading our wagon with all our possessions. We were going to make our escape early in the morning.
“The next morning, of all days, the king’s soldiers rode into town to make one of their searches. Our closest neighbor came to warn us.
“Mother had us take off our traveling clothes and put on our everyday work clothes so that we wouldn’t look suspicious. Father pulled the wagon around to the back of the house and hid it in the trees. “Suddenly Mother remembered the flag. Nearly everything inside our small home had been packed into the wagon, and though we searched frantically, we couldn’t find the flag.
“I remember that that’s when I began to cry. Far down the road I could see all our neighbors’ houses draped with the hated flags. Hurriedly my father dumped a bundle of linens on the ground. Rummaging through it, he found the flag. He raced around to the front of the house and hung it up. That picture of my father hanging the flag is my last memory of the old country.”
Grandpa Max smiled at Scott. “A few months later I was living a very different life. My family had come to America, to New York City. We lived in an apartment building with more apartment buildings on both sides of us. On the bottom floor of most of the buildings were shops of all kinds. The street outside was always a busy place, filled with peddlers selling their wares, children playing noisily, and people doing their marketing. Women leaned out their windows and carried on loud conversations with each other.
“One hot, sticky morning I woke up to an unusual quiet. I knew that it was not the weekend, but the street was nearly empty. I heard no peddlers’ cries, no shouting or bargaining as on every other morning. The only sounds were those of a few children playing.
“As usual, I hurried through breakfast, anxious to go downstairs and join my friends. But when I bolted out the front door of our apartment building, I immediately stiffened, and my heart started to pound violently. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t open my mouth. I wanted to run back inside, but my feet wouldn’t move.
“Attached to every shop front, hanging from dozens of windows, stuck into window boxes, and tacked onto mailboxes were hundreds of flags. I stood trembling with fear, waiting for the soldiers to appear and search our homes.
“Laughing and chattering, several children asked me to join in a game, and I numbly followed along. Soon men and women joined the children outside. They sat on the steps of their apartment buildings, talking and joking. Aren’t any of the men going to work? I kept asking myself. Why is everyone so happy? I thought that perhaps they were all just pretending, trying to keep each other cheerful.
“All day long I felt as if I were in a nightmare. By afternoon I was too miserable to even join my friends in their games. I just sat on the curb and watched and waited. At suppertime the men set up long tables on the sidewalk, and the women covered them with tablecloths and began bringing platters and bowls of food to be shared by everyone. I couldn’t eat anything at all.
“Just before dark, Mother took me up to bed. While she was tucking me in, she told me that she was going back outside and that I could call her if I needed anything. I started to cry.
“‘No,’ I yelled, ‘you can’t leave me here alone!’ All day I had tried to be brave, but finally I just broke down and sobbed.
“My father raced up the stairs. ‘I heard you crying clear downstairs. Why are you sad after this wonderful day?’ he asked.
“‘How can you say it’s a wonderful day,’ I cried. ‘How can you pretend, when the soldiers will be here any minute?’
“‘Soldiers?’ he asked. ‘What soldiers?’
“‘The soldiers everybody put their flags up for,’ I sobbed. ‘They’ll be here soon, and we don’t even have a flag!’
“‘Oh, my poor frightened boy,’ my father said softly. He sat me on his lap. ‘First of all,’ he explained, ‘there are no soldiers coming to search our home today or any other day.’
“I stopped crying and looked up at him. Then he told me the story of America’s birthday and explained that all the flags were for the celebration.
“I went back outside with my parents and watched the fireworks to end the big birthday party and thought and thought about what my father had told me, trying to understand it all.
“I did understand one thing, though. My father said, ‘Someday we will be able to buy a flag, and I will be very proud to fly that flag. In fact, I will be so proud that when I am an American citizen, I will want to fly it every single day. And I hope you will, too, Max.’”
The potatoes were all peeled, quartered, and ready to boil, and Scott was still listening intently to his grandfather. “How come you never told me that story before, Grandpa?”
“Well, buddy boy, you never asked me before.”
“I think you should tell everyone today at the picnic, Grandpa,” I told him.
“Maybe I will, buddy boy. Maybe I will.”

I had always wanted a dog, a big dog that could be my friend and help me out when I needed it. Sometimes a kid like me needs some help because the other kids don’t always understand me. You see, they think I’m a little different because of my leg. I have one leg that’s shorter than the other one, and right now I have to wear a brace.
It’s real hard dragging a stiff old brace around with you all the time. Sometimes the kids call me Peg Leg or Hopalong. They think it sounds funny, but it sure doesn’t make me feel very good. And when we play at school, I’m always the last one chosen on a team—if I’m chosen at all. Sometimes I “get to be” the referee or the umpire, but that just means I’m supposed to stand around and watch the others play.
Dr. Monroe says I’ll get my brace off in a year or so after an operation and some therapy, but that doesn’t help me much right now.
Brother Lewis has a dog named Lady. Lady’s an Alaskan malamute, and she has five pups. Brother Lewis said that for fifteen dollars I could choose the pup I wanted.
Now, fifteen dollars might sound like a lot of money for a dog, but Lady’s pups aren’t just ordinary dogs. They all have pedigree papers, and Brother Lewis is going to sell the rest of them for a whole lot more than fifteen dollars.
When I first saw Lady’s pups, I knew which one I wanted. He was white and gray with lots of fur, and he was the biggest one. I decided I’d call him Major. I’d already saved over fifteen dollars, so I was just waiting for Major to grow a little bit so I could take him home with me.
I don’t have a lot of friends. That’s why I wanted Major. Pamela Roundy says she’s my friend, but she’s just a girl who lives down the street and is always hanging around. The thing that really bothers me about Pamela is her dog Lolo. Lolo’s just a mutt. Pamela doesn’t even know what kind of dog she is. She doesn’t have any papers, so she can’t be very special.
Lolo had pups a week before Lady did, and since Pamela knew I wanted a dog, she asked me if I wanted one of Lolo’s. She said I could have one free, so right away I figured that those pups weren’t any good.
On the day I was to pick up Major, I raced home from school as soon as the bell rang. Then I put my money in my pocket and went over to Brother Lewis’s house.
There was Major! He was bigger than his four sisters, and he sure was pretty. I paid Brother Lewis the money and started home. Major ran beside me for a while; then he took off and began sniffing at flowers, digging in the dirt, barking at everybody who passed, and chasing butterflies. He was fun to watch, but it made me sad that Major wanted to play with everything but me. I guess that’s what important dogs do.
When I got to Pamela’s place, she was out with Lolo and her four pups. They were as ugly as Lolo, and I told Pamela so, but she said looks didn’t matter. She said the thing that was really important was how good a friend your dog was.
Well, one of her ugly pups started following me and Major home. He wasn’t nearly as big and strong as Major, and I could tell by the way Major sniffed him and chewed his ear that he didn’t like that scrawny pup either. But that dumb dog of Lolo’s didn’t care; he just kept right on following us, flopping along and tripping over his own nose.
“Go home, dog!” I shouted at him, but he didn’t pay any attention to me. “Call your old dog back!” I yelled at Pamela. “I don’t want him hanging around me and Major. He’s probably got fleas, and he’ll teach Major bad habits.”
“There’s nothing wrong with him, Travis,” she said. She had a big grin on her face, and she thought it was pretty neat that that pup liked me.
“There sure is something wrong with him,” I called back. “He’s the ugliest dog in the world. And he doesn’t even have any papers.”
“I think he likes you, Travis.”
“I don’t want him to like me!” I shouted. “I have a dog—a good dog.” I picked that pup up and carried him back to Pamela and dropped him in her lap. “Here,” I said. “Keep him till we get home. I don’t want your mutt hanging around me.”
I could tell right away that Major was going to be a good dog. When he grew up and had big teeth, no one would bother me any more, even if I still had my brace on. And when the kids at school chose up teams, they’d have to pick me, or I’d get Major after them.
Every day after school I went home to play with Major and to teach him some tricks. But he didn’t want to play with me or learn tricks. In fact, a lot of times he wasn’t even home. He’d be off chasing around in the park or digging in Brother Bradley’s orchard. One day he dug up Mom’s petunias. Another time he chewed the finger off my baseball mitt. Mostly I had to just watch him. But he was still a good dog. He had papers to prove it.
Every day when I came home from school, that ugly pup of Pamela’s would be waiting for me. I’d cross to the other side of the street to miss him, but he’d come barking after me. He’d jump up on my leg and try to lick my hands. He ran circles around me and made a real nuisance of himself. Whenever I sat on my lawn to watch Major play, that old pup would be right there, nipping at my ears, jumping against my back, or pouncing on my fingers. Sometimes when I lay down, he’d poke his head under my shirt and try to crawl inside to get warm. Nothing I could do would keep him away. I yelled at him and pushed him aside, but that didn’t stop him. He just didn’t know when he wasn’t wanted.
After school one day I couldn’t find Major anywhere. I called him and looked behind the bushes where he liked to sleep. I even went over to Brother Bradley’s orchard, but he wasn’t there. I looked along the streets to see if he’d been run over, but I couldn’t find him anywhere.
That night when I said my prayers, I asked Heavenly Father to help me find him, because I needed a friend. I just didn’t know what I’d do without Major.
The next day was Saturday. All day long I looked for Major. Sister Miller, who lives two streets over from us, said that she saw a dog like Major running with another dog toward the Cherry Heights subdivision. I went there and looked, but I couldn’t find him.
I usually don’t cry. Even when Doctor Monroe took off the cast from my first operation, I didn’t cry. But when I couldn’t find Major, I didn’t know what to do, so I sat down behind the bushes where Major used to sleep, and I cried.
That’s when Pamela’s ugly pup came snooping around. “Get out of here, dog!” I yelled. “I sure don’t want you hanging around me.” I kicked at him, but he just thought I was playing, so he got real happy and started chewing on my shoe. I pushed him away, but that just made him friskier than ever. Finally, I crawled out of the bushes and went into the house. When I came outside a while later, that old dog was still there sitting on the step, waiting for me.
Every day for a week I came home from school and went out into the bushes and sat and thought and wished that I could get my brace taken off so I wouldn’t need a dog. And every day Lolo’s ugly pup came snooping around to see if I would play with him. Sometimes I did because I didn’t have anything better to do, but most of the time I just tried to get rid of him.
About two weeks after Major disappeared, I passed Pamela’s house, and she was sitting on the lawn, crying.
“What’s the matter?” I asked her.
She just sat there and sniffed for a while, and then she said, “Daddy said that when he comes home from work, he’s going to take Lolo’s pup to the vet and have him put to sleep. I can’t have two dogs because they eat too much. I gave all the others away, but no one took this one. Don’t you want him, Travis?”
Her eyes got real big, and she was excited all of a sudden. “He’s the one that really likes you, Travis, and you don’t have a dog now. Don’t you want him? Then he won’t have to be put to sleep.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want a dog like that. He’s just an old mutt.”
“But he’s a good friend.”
“But he’s sure ugly.”
“But he can be a real good friend. You don’t have to be pretty or have papers to be somebody’s friend. He can be a better friend than Major ever was.”
I shook my head again and started home. And guess who followed me—Pamela’s ugly pup. “Go home, dog!” I shouted. “I don’t want you hanging around. You aren’t good for anything.” He didn’t understand, though. He kept tagging along.
I went into the bushes to think, and that ugly pup came right into them behind me. He lay next to me and put his head in my lap. Then he looked up at me real sad-like. Usually he was happy, but this afternoon he must have known what Pamela’s dad was going to do to him. I tried not to look at his sad eyes, but I couldn’t help it. Finally I scratched his ears and said, “Nobody wants you hanging around, either, do they?” He thumped his tail on the ground a couple of times and licked my hand.
Just then Pamela started calling him, and I could tell by the way her voice was shaking that her dad had come home. I came out of the bushes, and the dog followed me. Pamela didn’t say anything to me. She just reached down for the pup. But he ran away from her and hid behind me.
“Is your dad here?” I asked. She nodded and wiped her eyes. “Is he still going to take the pup to the vet?” She swallowed and nodded. I reached down and picked up Lolo’s pup and held him close. I could tell he was my friend because he started to lick my neck and nibble on my ear. I wanted a friend real bad, and I’d asked Heavenly Father to help me find one. Now I knew He had.
“Pamela,” I said, “tell your dad that he doesn’t have to take him to the vet. I guess I’ll keep him.”
“You will?” she said with a grin. “He doesn’t have any papers, you know, and he’s just a mutt.”
I nodded my head without looking at her. “I know, but I don’t have any papers, either, and like you said, you don’t need papers to be friends. You just have to like each other. Well, he likes me and I guess I like him, so we’ll just stay together.”
And we did.

Now I will give you one more. Down in Quitman, Georgia, while I was a mission president, I preached a sermon on the eternal duration of the marriage covenant and the family unit. I had a chart there that listed the churches and what their beliefs were on major things, and those were official statements from the leaders of those different churches. And not one of them believed that the family unit or the marriage covenant would endure beyond the grave. I stood at the door when the meeting was over and a man came up and introduced himself as a Baptist minister, and I said, “Did I misquote you here tonight?”
He said, “No, Mr. Richards, it’s just like you say. We don’t all believe all the things our churches teach.”
I said, “You don’t believe them either. Why don’t you go back and teach your people the truth? They will take it from you; they are not ready to take it from the Mormon elders yet.”
He said, “I’ll see you again.” That’s all I could get out of him that night!
Next time I went there, about four months later, he had read of my coming in the newspaper, and there he was standing outside that little church. As we shook hands I said, “I would certainly be happy to know what you thought of my last sermon here.”
He said, “Mr. Richards, I have been thinking about it ever since, and I believe every word you said, only I would like to have heard the rest.” (We never get talked out; that’s why I’ve asked Brother Benson to tap me on the leg when my time is up!)

Tina was pretending to be a queen. She had on a foil crown and a purple cape, and all her dolls and stuffed animals sat before her.
“Read me a story!” she commanded. “Sing me a song!”
“Tina,” her mother called, “where are you? I need you.”
Tina ran into the kitchen, where her mother was stirring something on the stove. It smelled delicious.
“Did you need me to taste something, Mother?” she asked.
Her mother smiled. “No, your Majesty. I need you to feed Joey, please, while I finish stirring this pudding.”
Tina sighed as she sat down next to the high chair. Joey smiled at her as he got some applesauce on his chin. This was too messy a job for a queen! “Off with his head!” Tina ordered, waving the spoon. Joey giggled and clapped his hands, so Tina waved the spoon some more. “Arrest that baby!” she demanded. Joey laughed with delight.
Mother wiped Joey’s chin with a napkin and set a small bowl of pudding in front of Tina.
“Thank you so much for being my helper, Tina,” she said. “It makes me happy, and it makes Joey happy too.”
“It was fun,” Tina admitted. “But I’m not supposed to be a helper today. I’m a queen.”
“You are always a queen,” her mother said. “You are the best kind of queen, a helper queen.”
Tina gave Joey a spoonful of her pudding. “I’ve never heard of a helper queen before.”
Her mother looked surprised. “Helper queens are the most beautiful ones. They are loved by their subjects, and they always live happily ever after.” Mother gave Tina a quick hug, then carried Joey upstairs for his nap.
Tina ate her pudding slowly and listened to the soft lullaby her mother sang. “Bring me more pudding,” Tina whispered to nobody when her bowl was empty. “I’m the queen, and I can have all the pudding I want.” She carried her bowl and spoon over to the sink.
Mother came downstairs and asked, “Tina, would you like to help me put the pudding in dessert glasses for dinner?”
“OK.” Tina nodded. “Can we put marshmallows on top to surprise everyone?”
“That’s a great idea.”
Mother got a phone call, so Tina arranged marshmallows on the pudding by herself. She put four marshmallows around the outside and one in the middle so that they looked like a little white flower. She knew that her family would like that.
When the puddings were ready, Tina had to wait for her mother to help her put them into the refrigerator. She sat down by the window and spoke to herself in a low voice. “Get me a pony! The queen wishes to ride!”
When her mother got off the phone, she said, “Mrs. Owens had her baby. I’m going to take her dinner tonight, and I wish I had something special to take to her daughter, Lara. It’s hard sometimes for big sisters when a new baby comes home.”
Tina’s eyes lit up. “She can have my new purse with the mirror and comb, Mother. We can wrap it up really pretty.”
“That would be wonderful,” her mother said with a smile.
Tina rushed to her room to find the purse. Her dolls and stuffed animals still sat there, waiting for her commands. “Don’t just sit there,” she said in a deep voice. “There’s work to be done. Find my new purse, and wrap it up really pretty!” Tina took the present into the kitchen and set it on the table.
“You did a fine job of wrapping,” her mother said. “Or did your servants do that?”
“I had to help them,” Tina admitted.
“I thought so.” Mother nodded. “It looks like a queenly job to me.”
Tina smiled. “Mother, may I go to the Owens’s with you and give Lara the present?”
Later, when she went to Tina’s room to tell her that it was time to go, Mother was surprised to see all of Tina’s dolls and animals covered with blankets. Tina was sitting on the floor, quietly reading them a story.
“Are they going down for naps?” Mother whispered.
“No.” Tina showed her the nurse’s cap tucked around her crown. “All my subjects are sick, and I’m helping them get better.”
Tina’s mother smiled. “I’m proud of you, Tina. You are truly the greatest helper queen ever!”

In my home ward growing up, Brother Smith (not his real name) was the choir director for as long as I can remember. It was not until years later that I learned that Brother Smith had a Word of Wisdom problem that he never completely overcame. I am grateful to the members of our ward who made room for Brother Smith in the inn. I am also grateful to Brother Smith, who came to church and served despite his weakness. We, like the members of my home ward, should do our best to welcome all of God’s children at the inn. Most importantly, we should see ourselves as always welcome at the inn.

As you return to Temple Square, walking downhill south on Main Street, you pass the once magnificent McCune home (14). The story is told that the wife of the original owner was serving as a guide on Temple Square when a haughty visitor asked her about the living conditions of the typical, uncouth Mormon. She assured him that she was an ordinary native and invited him to her “typical” home, with its marble floors, gold doorknobs, carved balustrades, and third-floor ballroom. The visitor was much astonished that this was the way Mormons lived!

Grandma was also incredibly patient. Many of the General Authorities were her friends and would visit her in our home. I remember when President J. Reuben Clark, Jr., would come to visit her. Because of health problems, he was not able to climb the stairs to visit Grandma, and she couldn’t come down. So she would sit in a chair at the top of the stairs while he sat at the bottom, and they would talk. While they were conversing, Rich and I would climb the stairs and slide down the banister. They never scolded us, and we had a great time.

We are also blessed by temple covenants and ordinances, where “the power of godliness is manifest.” I visited a woman who had lost a teenage daughter in a terrible accident, then later her husband to cancer. I asked how she could endure such loss and suffering. She replied that strength came from spiritual reassurances of an eternal family, received during regular temple worship. As promised, the ordinances of the Lord’s house had armed her with God’s power.

“Let’s get off the train here and walk home, Katja,” Michaela suggested. She put away her knitting, zipped her coat, and stood up. “We can be home before the train even starts for the next station.”
“Sure. Why not?” Katja said. She pulled on her warm knitted cap and followed Michaela off the train. The two girls had often walked from this station to their family’s small apartment in Switzerland. They went down the stairs to the walkway under the tracks. As they got to the bottom and turned toward the exit, they both stopped.
“We have to go back,” Michaela whispered.
“I know,” Katja said, nodding solemnly. “We have to get back on the train.”
Together, they climbed the stairs, got back on the train, and waited. They were quiet, each thinking about what had happened. At last, the train started, and they rode to the station near their home. They walked home in silence.
“Girls, what happened?” Mom asked, seeing the serious look on their faces.
“Mom, the Holy Ghost prompted us not to walk home,” Michaela said.
“Yes. We had to stop,” Katja said. “It seemed like there was a wall blocking the exit, but it wasn’t a wall we could see.”
“We both knew immediately that we had to get back on the train.” Michaela shook her head. “I never knew the Spirit could be so strong.”
“Oh, my girls!” Mom cried. She gathered them into a big hug. “I’m so glad you are in tune with the Spirit so He can prompt you and keep you safe.”
“But what would have hurt us?” Katja asked. “We’ve walked home from that station lots of times.”
“We’ll never know,” Mom said. She smiled. “I’m so grateful you are all right!”
As they knelt to give thanks for their protection, Michaela said, “I will never forget how it feels to listen to the Spirit and do exactly what He says.”

In faraway Bucharest, Romania, Dr. Lynn Oborn, volunteering at an orphanage, was attempting to teach little Raymond, who had never walked, how to use his legs. Raymond had been born with severe clubfeet and was completely blind. Surgery had corrected the clubfeet, but Raymond was still unable to use his legs. Dr. Oborn knew that a child-size walker would enable Raymond to get on his feet, but such a walker was not available anywhere in Romania.
Let us turn now to Provo, Utah. The Richard Headlee family, learning of the suffering and pitiful conditions in Romania, joined with others to assemble a 40? (12.2 m) container filled with 40,000 pounds (19,000 kg) of needed supplies. The deadline arrived, and the container had to be shipped. No one involved with the project knew of the need for a child-size walker. However, at the last possible moment, a family brought forth a walker and placed it in the container.
When the anxiously awaited container arrived at the orphanage in Bucharest, Dr. Oborn said, “Oh, I hope you brought me a child’s walker for Raymond!”
One of the Headlee family members said, “I can vaguely remember a walker, but I don’t know its size.” Another family member crawled among the bales of clothes and boxes of food, searching for the walker. When he found it, he cried out, “It’s a little one!” Cheers erupted—which quickly turned to tears, for they all knew that they had been part of a modern-day miracle.
There may be some who say, “We don’t have miracles today.” But the doctor whose prayers were answered would respond, “Oh, yes we do, and Raymond is walking!” She who was inspired to give the walker would surely agree.
Who was the angel of mercy? Her name is Kristin Bestor. She was born with spina bifida, as was her younger sister, Erika.
Kristin’s father said to me at a celebration one evening, “President Monson, meet Kristin. She is the one who felt impressed to send her walker to Romania, hoping that some child there would be benefitted.”
I spoke to Kristin as she sat in her wheelchair: “Thank you for listening to the Spirit of the Lord.”
Later, as I walked out of that celebration, I looked upward toward the heavens and offered my own thank-you to God for children, for families, for miracles in our time.

When he looked for a milk jar, there wasn’t one, so he looked in the refrigerator. All three jars were there with milk in them. What do I do now? he wondered. He leaned on the edge of the open refrigerator door and thought awhile. Finally he straightened, told himself out loud, “You think for yourself,” and took out the oldest jar.
He found a cream jar and the skimming ladle, carefully skimmed the cream off the milk, and set the jar of yellow cream in the refrigerator. Then he poured the milk into an old bucket to take to the pigs and chickens and washed the milk jar.
He set the strainer in the milk jar, picked up the milk pail and bucket of skimmed milk, and headed out into the clear evening air.
It looks like I’m going to be doing a lot of thinking for myself the rest of the summer, he reflected. After irrigating, it will be time to cut hay. Then there’ll be more irrigating. Sometime we’re—correction, I’m—probably going to have to move the other cows again.
Right now I mustn’t forget to gather the eggs and close the chicken coop door. And I should look at Ginger’s legs again while the horses are eating.
Boy! Will I have a story to tell when the teacher asks for essays on “What I Did This Summer.” I’ll call mine “The Summer I Grew Up.”
And I thought that all the challenges ended with the pioneers’ trek across the plains!

President Wilford Woodruff learned why people on the other side are so busy through a vision he received of the spirit world in which he spoke with the Prophet Joseph Smith.
I saw him at the door of the temple in heaven. He came and spoke to me. He said he could not stop to talk with me because he was in a hurry. The next man I met was Father Smith [Joseph Sr.]; he could not talk with me because he was in a hurry. I met half a dozen brethren who had held high positions on earth, and none of them could stop to talk with me because they were in a hurry. I was much astonished. By and by I saw the Prophet again, and I got the privilege to ask him a question. “Now,” said I, “I want to know why you are in a hurry. I have been in a hurry all through my life; but I expected my hurry would be over when I got into the kingdom of heaven, if I ever did.” Joseph said: “I will tell you, Brother Woodruff. Every dispensation that has had the Priesthood on the earth and has gone into the celestial kingdom, has had a certain amount of work to do to prepare to go to the earth with the Savior when He goes to reign on the earth. Each dispensation has had ample time to do this work. We have not. We are the last dispensation, and so much work has to be done, and we need to be in a hurry in order to accomplish it.” [“Discourse Delivered at the Weber Stake Conference, Ogden, Monday, October 19th, 1896,” Deseret Weekly, 7 November 1896, 642–43; also The Discourses of Wilford Woodruff, sel. G. Homer Durham (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1946), 288–89]
Hurry is the operative word. Urgency would describe the work on the other side of the veil. We know what that work is in which the righteous spirits are so busily engaged. It is the preaching of the gospel of Jesus Christ—proclaiming, as Isaiah described it, “liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound” (Isaiah 61:1).

It was the year 1975, and I was serving in the Uruguay-Paraguay Mission as a young missionary. During my first month in the mission, the zone leaders held an activity to demonstrate a gospel principle. Each missionary in the zone was blindfolded, and we were told that we were to follow a path leading to the cultural hall. We were to follow the voice of one particular leader, a voice we heard before starting to walk. However, we were warned that during the journey, we would hear several voices that would try to confuse us and get us to stray from the path.
After some minutes of hearing noises, talking, and?—in the midst of it all?—a voice that said, “Follow me,” I felt confident I was following the right voice. When we arrived at the cultural hall of the chapel, we were asked to take off our blindfolds. When I did so, I realized that there were two groups and that I was in the group that had followed the wrong voice. “It sounded so much like the right one,” I said to myself.
That experience of 39 years ago had a lasting effect on me. I told myself, “Never, ever again follow the wrong voice.” Then I told myself, “Yes, Lord, I will follow Thee.”