Gospel Story Finder

An account of an unnamed Scandinavian Latter-day Saint father whose young son died on the journey from New York to Utah in 1866:
“With the help of a friend the little grave was dug and the remains placed therein. The child dying from a contagious disease, there were no assembled mourners, no formal ceremony, no floral emblems, no spiritual song, no word of eulogy. But ere the bereaved father departed he uttered a brief dedicatory prayer in his native language (Danish) as follows: …
“‘Heavenly Father: Thou gavest me this little treasure—this darling boy, and now thou hast called him away. Wilt thou grant that his remains may lie here undisturbed until the resurrection morn. Thy will be done. Amen.’
“And rising from the ground his parting words were:
“‘Farewell, my dear little Hans—my beautiful boy.’ Then with drooping head and aching heart he stoutly bent his way to his camping ground.”1

Another couple recently served in a small village south of Santiago, Chile. They had no Spanish skills and were apprehensive about being in a different country so far from the comforts of home. But they plunged in with total dedication, loving and serving the people. Before long, the small branch grew from 12 to 75 members. When it came time for them to leave, the entire branch rented a bus so they could go to the airport, four hours away, and say good-bye to their special friends.

Pornography also inflicts mortal wounds on our most precious personal relationships. In his talk to men of the priesthood last October, President Hinckley quoted the letter of a woman who asked him to warn Church members that pornography “has the effect of damaging hearts and souls to their very depths, strangling the life out of relationships” (Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2004, 60).

At a recent stake conference a woman handed me a similar letter. Her husband had also served in important Church callings for many years while addicted to pornography. She told of great difficulty in getting priesthood leaders to take this problem of pornography seriously: “I got all kinds of responses—like I was overreacting or it was my fault. The bishop we have now has been great. And now after 15 years my husband is trying to deal with his addiction, but now it is 15 years harder to quit for him and the loss has been incalculable.”

The story is told of a man who became known as the town idler. He was unwilling to work, unwilling to seek employment. He simply lived off the efforts of others. Finally the townspeople had had enough. They decided to take him to the outskirts of town and banish him. As one of the townspeople escorted him in a wagon to the edge of town, the driver felt a wave of compassion sweep over him. Perhaps the derelict should be given one more chance. Accordingly, he asked, “Would you like a bushel of corn to get a new start?”
The derelict responded, “Is it husked?”1
Sometimes we find people on the scriptural dole—they want the scriptures husked before they partake. They want the gospel in a series of entertaining sound bites or video clips. They want the Sunday School teacher to prepare and spoon-feed them the lesson with little preparation or participation on their part.
In contrast, the Savior once invited His learners to go home because they could not understand His words. He commanded them to pray, ponder, and “prepare [their] minds for the morrow,” when He would “come unto [them] again” (see 3 Nephi 17:2–3).
The lesson was this: It is the responsibility not only of the teacher to come prepared but also of the learner. Just as the teacher has the responsibility to teach by the Spirit, so too the learner has the responsibility to learn by the Spirit (see D&C 50:13–21).
The Book of Mormon records: “The preacher was no better than the hearer, neither was the teacher any better than the learner; and thus they were all equal” (Alma 1:26; emphasis added).

I wasn’t sure what to do that afternoon in my 14th year. I was backed up against the outside wall of my school, and a bully was hitting me. Since I was surrounded by half a dozen of his friends, I decided to take the blows.
He punched me, then kicked me. Many times.
Finally he and his friends left. My bus came, and I climbed aboard. I didn’t raise my head until the bus pulled up to my stop. Even 50 years later, I still wonder if I acted out of cowardice or Christian forbearance.
This experience underscores some puzzling questions we face as Latter-day Saints. When our beliefs are attacked, do we fight, flee, or just take the blows?
The Savior’s words seem clear: “Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also” (Matthew 5:39). I’ve often wondered, Was Jesus simply using a metaphor to teach His followers not to respond to insults with bloody retaliation, as was the usual practice? Perhaps.
And yet, consider the counsel in the Doctrine and Covenants.
In 1833 the Church was facing intense persecution, especially in Missouri. In defense of their lives, Church members took up arms. At that point, the Lord revealed section 98. In it, He taught them to forbear—within limits. They had a right to defend themselves, but if they refrained, He would reward them. If the offenders sought forgiveness, the Saints were to forgive “seventy times seven” (verse 40). As for going to battle, they were to first sue for peace and engage only if the Lord commanded it.
Times have changed since those terrible days, but in some ways the Church remains under attack. Our doctrine is generally misunderstood. Uninformed assumptions, illogical accusations, and outright lies are passed around as truth.
What are we to do? As disciples who strive to “stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9), we must do something. We can’t run. So do we fight or just take the blows?
In such matters, we can look to the prophets. In recent general conferences, I’ve noted a number of talks explaining the Church’s position on controversial issues. The speakers don’t castigate, but neither do they capitulate. Often they seek common ground with those who disagree with us. They are respectful. They try to understand and be understood.1
There may be times when the only choice is to fight, flee, or take the blows. But often we have a better option. We can reach out in love, as Jesus and His Apostles do.

An elder told of traveling from Vietnam and arriving at a Seattle, Washington, refugee camp. While he was trying to learn English so he could enter the United States, someone gave him a small card with a picture and address on it. He kept it for some reason, and when he was later asked where he wanted to live, he showed this card to the customs official. “I can’t send you there,” he was told “but I can send you to a place nearby.” He was sent to an LDS family in Salt Lake City. He learned about the Church. As he finished telling me this story, he reached into his wallet and showed the card. It was a picture of the MTC. “I am here, President,” he said. Like the others, he thought it was a privilege to go on a mission.

Hello! I’m Maggie from Joplin, Missouri. One night my mom saw storm warnings on the news, and we all went to the basement. The loud whistling wind scared me. I was worried about my friends and our animals. After the storm, I was grateful my family was safe and our house didn’t have much damage.
Lots of other homes and businesses were destroyed by the tornado that came through town. I felt sad for people who lost loved ones. My parents and older brother and sister decided to help clean up our town. It made me think of the scripture, “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).
I wanted to help clean too, but my mom said it wasn’t safe for a child. Then I felt the Holy Ghost share a great idea to make people feel happy. I made 20 thank-you notes to give to volunteers. I spent lots of time making each card special so that people could feel the Spirit and know they were very important to our town.
I learned that even if you can’t do certain things to serve, you can always think of other ways to serve. Heavenly Father will bless you for serving Him and your fellow man.

Young Women in the Park Ridge Ward, Brisbane Australia Stake, are not content to wait for service opportunities to present themselves. They go out and find them. For their service project a couple of years ago, the girls went to a nearby blind hostel and visited the people who were staying there.
“At first, everyone was a bit nervous, not knowing where to go or what to say. Gradually the barriers of age and sight were overcome and the young women were chatting and learning about their new friends’ lives,” says Sariah Wesener, a Laurel.
The girls made the project a monthly activity, and were soon performing concerts for their newfound friends. After travel became too difficult, the girls had to say good-bye to the residents of the blind hostel, but they have decided to find ways to serve others every month.
This year, each girl is donating a can of food per month to those in need.

Oftentimes we are like the young merchant from Boston, who in 1849, as the story goes, was caught up in the fervor of the California gold rush. He sold all of his possessions to seek his fortune in the California rivers, which he was told were filled with gold nuggets so big that one could hardly carry them.
Day after endless day, the young man dipped his pan into the river and came up empty. His only reward was a growing pile of rocks. Discouraged and broke, he was ready to quit until one day an old, experienced prospector said to him, “That’s quite a pile of rocks you are getting there, my boy.”
The young man replied, “There’s no gold here. I’m going back home.”
Walking over to the pile of rocks, the old prospector said, “Oh, there is gold all right. You just have to know where to find it.” He picked two rocks up in his hands and crashed them together. One of the rocks split open revealing several flecks of gold sparkling in the sunlight.
Noticing a bulging leather pouch fastened to the prospector’s waist, the young man said, “I’m looking for nuggets like the ones in your pouch, not just tiny flecks.” The old prospector extended his pouch toward the young man, who looked inside, expecting to see several large nuggets. He was stunned to see that the pouch was filled with thousands of flecks of gold.
The old prospector said, “Son, it seems to me you are so busy looking for large nuggets that you’re missing filling your pouch with these precious flecks of gold. The patient accumulation of these little flecks has brought me great wealth.”

My mother sent me out on my first job: shoveling the sidewalk of two elderly sisters who lived together. And that sidewalk was long. My mother was very smart. She said, “Do it anonymously so that they won’t know you did it.” I don’t know how many times my brothers and I went, but we did it without their knowing. We had to do it early in the morning so we wouldn’t be caught. I remember how good I felt. The next time it snowed, my mother didn’t have to tell me to go shovel their walk; the Holy Ghost prompted me to go back again.
My brothers and I kept shoveling their sidewalk, and one day they caught us. They became our friends. They even took us to see a semiprofessional baseball team in Idaho Falls. It wasn’t much of a trip, maybe 25 miles, but for us it was a big deal. We probably wouldn’t have been able to go to a ball game without them.
The Holy Ghost became real to me with that experience. It changed my life. My mother encouraged me to do one good thing, and then the Holy Ghost testified that it was good to keep doing it.

And then Miriam finally agreed to go on a date with me. She was the best-looking girl in the ward (also in the stake; probably in the Church), and she had finally broken up with Alvin Hopper, which was no great loss to her and a tremendous gain to a college freshman like myself with excellent taste in girls. On my fourth try she agreed to go out with me. I shot the works. The LTD, complete with car wash, a $30 dinner in San Francisco, a drive through beautiful scenery on the way up, Bayshore Freeway on the way back, and charming, delightful conversation all the way. The conversation was the only thing free on the whole date.
And she was worth it. She could discuss at least 13 different topics intelligently and got a B- on all the others, which means she was more than just a pretty face. She let me open doors for her and took my arm without my even having to hint. She looked me right in the eye and never let her gaze linger for a moment on the slight complexion problem that had appeared mysteriously on my chin the day before. She was perfect.
On the way home, after we left the freeway, she asked, “You don’t happen to have a throat lozenge or anything like that? I have kind of a sore throat.”
“In the glove compartment,” I said. Mom kept the glove compartment like a medicine chest—aspirin, throat lozenges, cough drops, breath mints, Kleenex, eye drops, bandages, and disinfectant. She figured that if we all had the flu and got into a traffic accident, she could make everybody feel better in minutes. Miriam reached into the glove compartment, found the lozenges, and also found the pad of Automobile Record sheets.
“What’s this?” she asked.
So I told her. All about the lease agreement. How much it cost and everything. I was just about to tell her how terrible it all was when she interrupted me.
“That’s terrible,” she said. “I can’t believe parents doing anything like that! Who do they think they are?”
“Parents,” I said.
“Well, I’m glad my parents are more generous than that. It sounds like your father must be Ebenezer Scrooge and your mother must be Shylock.”
“Shylock was a man.”
“Stingy, anyway. How much do they charge you for lunch and dinner?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m surprised. Do they have a coin box and water meter on the shower? Do they make you pay for clean sheets?”
“Of course not,” I said.
“A car is a necessity of life,” she said. “Parents have a responsibility to provide them for their children.”
Now, you have to understand. I’m not an argumentative person. I’m quite easy to get along with. But she was talking about my parents, judging them just by the fact that they ran a rip-off car leasing business with a captive clientele. I couldn’t let her go unanswered. So I answered.
“Listen, Miriam, a car is different from showers and food and bedding. It’s a lot more expensive. And I eat three meals a day and sleep once a night and take a shower every morning. It’s regular and predictable and it doesn’t go up and down. But the car I use as often as I like, and we kids used to use the cars all the time. It cost the folks hundreds and hundreds of dollars every month. And so it was perfectly fair for them to decide we should help pay.”
“You can’t live in the modern world without a car. They might as well charge you for air.” She sounded upset.
“You can live without a car,” I said. “You can walk, for example. I’ve walked to school a lot the last few months.”
“I can imagine,” she said darkly.
“I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve discovered there are things you can’t see from a car.”
“Like bubble gum on a sidewalk,” she said, sounding rather snide.
“I think it’s a good idea for us to help our parents pay for the cars.”
“And I think anybody who thinks that is crazy.”
“You do?” I asked, and I think by now I also sounded upset.
“I do. If word of this gets around, other people’s parents will try it, too, and pretty soon an entire generation of young people will be trapped at home with their families night after night.”
It shows you how angry I was. I said, “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. And furthermore, I think that it’s perfectly possible for people to have a good time together without having a car at all. I think it would be a wonderful date just to walk over to a girl’s house and take her out walking and talking and maybe looking in store windows or maybe just seeing a little bit of the neighborhood and just getting to know each other without spending any money at all.”
“That sounds hideous.”
“Then,” I said, “I won’t ask you out on such a date.”
I took her home and neither of us said another word except for a perfunctory good-night-and-thanks-for-a-wonderful-evening at the door.
When I got home, after filling the gas tank, I wrote down the mileage on the odometer, figured out my total car costs for the evening, and went inside, got the money from my room, and went into Mom and Dad’s bedroom, where they were reading the Old Testament out loud to each other the way they do every night.
“Did you have a nice time?” asked Mother.
“Wonderful,” I said. “I want to settle up for tonight.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that until the first of the month,” Dad said.
“I want to do it now.” I showed them how much I owed them, counted out the money, and handed it to them. Then I carefully placed a five dollar bill on top of the rest.
“What’s that for?” asked Mother.
“It’s a tip,” I said. “For service above and beyond the call of duty.
“I think you’re wonderful. I’m glad you laid it on the line with us. I’m glad you shared the responsibility of paying for the entire U.S. automobile industry with us kids. It’s the most adult thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.”
Mother got tears in her eyes. Father said, “I think Jerry’s grown up, don’t you, Mother?”
“Yes,” Mother agreed.
“Well, you’re both wrong,” I said. “I’m just completely out of my mind.”
I kissed them both good-night and went straight to bed feeling pretty doggone good. Also pretty doggone poor, since I had about six bucks to last me through the rest of the month. But as my sister Anne pointed out, money isn’t everything. In fact, it’s hardly anything.

Then it was time for another zone conference. It was a rainy April day as they got on the interstate to travel to the conference.

Scott was driving. As he rounded a curve, he saw a car pulled over to the side of the road. A young mother wrestled with a tire jack while two small children peered out the back of the station wagon at their dripping mother.

Scott slowed down.

“We’ll be late if we stop,” his companion warned.

“I know.”

“If we help, we’ll get wet.”

“I know,” he said, pulling off the road.

“Then why are you stopping?”

“She needs some help.”

“Maybe it’s a trap. How do you know there’s not a couple of guys hiding, ready to take our money?”

“We don’t have any money,” Scott smiled.

Scott stepped outside into the pouring rain. “Can I help?”

“I can’t figure out how to work the jack.”

“Why don’t you get out of the rain? No use both of us getting wet.”

He worked quickly changing the tire. As he worked, he realized that he was singing. He looked up once and saw the faces of the two children pressed against the back window of the station wagon. He winked at them and made a silly face. They both giggled.

When he was finished, he opened the back door of the station wagon and put the flat tire and jack in the back.

The woman got out to thank him. “Can I pay you something?”

“No, but there is something you can do,” he said, running back to his car. He picked up a copy of the Book of Mormon and ran it back to her.

“Read this,” he said, thrusting it into her hand.

Then he turned and ran back to the car.

He had never felt so happy in his life.

“You look like a drowned rat,” his companion complained as they continued down the road.

“At least my hair isn’t wet,” he answered, smiling.

“I suppose you know that we’re going to be late for the meeting.”

“I’m sorry for making you late. It couldn’t be helped.”

“Yes it could. You could’ve passed her by. Someone else would have come along.”

“Will that lady ever have a better reason for reading the Book of Mormon?” Scott asked with a wide grin.

“She doesn’t even live in our area. Even if she’s baptized, someone else will get the credit.”

Scott found himself humming.

“Why are you so happy?”

“Because I’ve just done something that the Savior would have done.”

“Wherever I go, it’s the children that concern me. I remember a little six- or seven-year-old girl that I met in Ethiopia. She was collecting water from an irrigation ditch. It was full of silt and mud, but it was the only water available. She went down a very steep bank with a basin and a cutoff plastic bottle which she used as a dipper, and filled the basin with the black water. Then she carried it home on her head. God bless those dear little ones. How He must love them. And how heavy are the burdens that they have to carry. It tears at my heart.

My best friend, Aniyah, isn’t a member of the Church. Aniyah’s brother Khali is best friends with my brother Nathaniel. We wanted to share the gospel with their family. Aniyah and Khali’s mother recently had a baby. My mom wanted to let Aniyah’s mom have time with the new baby. We took Aniyah and Khali to our pioneer picnic, the ward beach party, and later to the ward Halloween party.
We found out that their mom had never been given a baby shower [party] even though this was her third child. My mom insisted on giving her one. I helped my mom get the house ready and prepare the lunch. I had so much fun, and her family really appreciated the party.
Nathaniel was recently baptized, and Aniyah’s whole family came. They were touched by the service, and I know they felt the Lord’s Spirit there. I learned that by serving others we can share the gospel.

Let me tell you about a time when our family needed the Lord to stretch forth his hand, dispel the darkness, and touch our lives with light.
Late one February afternoon in New Zealand, just as I was going into a Primary conference, my husband and I received a phone call from our son Paul in Arizona. He told us of the birth of their third child, Amy, but he said that she had some serious problems. Her lungs were very congested, and when the doctor inserted a tube into her throat, he discovered there was not a passageway from her mouth to her stomach. The baby would be flown by helicopter to a newborn intensive care unit in another city.
When Amy was just one day old, surgery was necessary. This little family was in a stressful situation. Our daughter-in-law, Kathryn, was still recuperating in the hospital in Mesa; the new baby was at another hospital. The two other children, ages two and three and a half, needed constant care. Kathryn’s parents were serving as missionaries in the Bahamas. We were on the other side of the world.
The first surgery was to repair the esophagus (the tube which extends from the mouth to the stomach). But even after that operation, Amy developed pneumonia. After weeks of intensive care, the doctors determined that another surgery was critical for Amy’s survival. A test showed that when Amy slept, she stopped breathing.
These were difficult weeks for Paul and Kathryn. Kathryn’s days at the hospital were full of discouragement and loneliness as she watched the little infant struggle for life and wondered if this were the last time she would hold Amy’s small hand. Each day she and Paul would meet briefly at the hospital as he came from work to spend the night with Amy and she went home to care for the other two children.
We had many prayers and special fasts. The family was sustained by loving, compassionate ward members who cared for the two children for more than three months. At regular intervals, the young women in the ward cleaned their home. The visiting teachers made arrangements for meals to be brought in every day. They also did the washing and the ironing.
Interestingly enough, one visiting teacher told Kathryn that it was the happiest time in her life because she had had an opportunity to serve.
What carried the family through this anguish? We never lost hope. Paul had given Amy a blessing as soon as she was born. He felt that all would not be well immediately and that they would have to put their trust in the Lord. We all knew that if we did all we could, we would have the courage to face whatever would come.
That is the nature of hope. We do all we can, and then the Lord stretches forth his hand and touches our lives with light and courage and, most of all, hope.
What happened to Amy? Well, after more than three months of hospital rooms, intensive care, respirators, and close calls, the doctors announced that they must take her off the respirator. They had little hope that she would breathe on her own.
All of the family members had a special fast. The morning the respirator was removed, the doctor stood by, ready to perform yet another surgery. But because of the faith, hope, and prayers in her behalf, Amy began to breathe. Almost immediately her color returned. She was on the road to recovery.
Amy is now three years old—normal and happy. And what if there hadn’t been such a blessed outcome? Could we still go on with hope? Yes, because hope is knowing that whatever comes, the Lord can whisper peace. Our hope in Christ gives us an unchanging reason to rejoice.

Raymond and Gwen Petersen of Wyoming, USA, have served four missions. Their leaving on their second mission—to Samoa for the second time—was initially a challenge for their children, who didn’t understand why their parents needed to serve another mission.
The family quickly realized what great blessings came from their service. “They had all prospered!” says Sister Petersen. “One couple who had been unable to have children were blessed with a baby boy, another had a miraculous healing from cancer, another with a struggling child saw great progress, and others had their best year in business.”
Their hard work has left a trail of faith through their family line. “We have four grandsons on missions right now who tell us we were their inspiration to go,” says Sister Petersen. “What could be more rewarding than that?”

Ernest Sibanda met two Mormon missionaries on bicycles—Elder Black and Elder Kaelin—in December 1978. They left a Book of Mormon with him. Before their visit, Ernest had already spent many years studying religion. In fact, he had been a teacher for his church for nine years and a pastor for three years.
The night Ernest received his copy of the Book of Mormon he stayed up until 2:00 in the morning reading enthusiastically. He couldn’t wait to meet the missionaries the following day. Ernest told them that he had learned more from Joseph Smith about Jesus Christ than all the ministers he had ever met. Ernest was baptized shortly thereafter, followed by his wife and children a few weeks later.
Of his baptism day, he wrote, “I felt very free. I felt released from every evil. I found there was love in me for my family. I found there was love within me for the Church.”2
Ernest Sibanda proved to be a great strength to the Church. He served as Sunday School president, branch clerk, and second counselor in a branch presidency. He also fulfilled an assignment from the South Africa mission president to translate hymns from English to Shona.

My decision to become a Latter-day Saint was difficult for my family to accept. As I announced that I would be serving a full-time mission without pay, not everyone understood how or even why I would want to. My parents wanted to share my enthusiasm, but they had difficulty seeing me “give up” the religion they had raised me in.
When I received my call to the Honduras Tegucigalpa Mission, included in the envelope was a checklist of things I needed to bring. My mom noticed that one of the items on my list was a laundry bag. Now that was something she could understand! She quickly purchased some heavy blue denim and handcrafted a simple, functional laundry bag made with love. It was a gift that would keep on giving.
That laundry bag accompanied me to the missionary training center and then to Honduras. It traveled with me from one small village to another, little by little aging from dark blue to light blue, in the way a pair of jeans becomes a favorite and perfect-fitting pair of pants. At the end of my mission, I gave away most of my clothes to a special family I had grown to love, but I held on to the laundry bag. My mom had made it just for me even though she did not understand the significance of a mission.
Nearly 30 years later, our oldest son received his call to the California Carlsbad Mission, along with a checklist of items he would need. We read it together, and when we came to “laundry bag,” we retrieved the bag my mom had made for me. Though it was even more faded by then, off it went to California.
A few years later, my daughter was called to serve in the Ohio Cleveland Mission, and the laundry bag accompanied her there. When she returned, she brought it home a bit more aged but still without significant wear and tear.
The bag reminds me that some things, like the lessons learned from serving a mission and from showing love for others—as my mother did for me—can bless us over and over again. It has become part of a family tradition of missionary service that I hope never wears out.

“Okay, class, we have just about five minutes left for journal writing,” says Mr. Haupt, our sophomore English teacher. “And since Christmas is next week, I want you to write about the one thing you want more than anything else. I’m not terribly concerned about structure at the moment. I do, however, want details. Lots and lots of concrete details. As I’ve said before, well-chosen details make the difference between lifeless writing and writing that …” Mr. Haupt startles us all by taking in a sudden rush of air through his nostrils, “… that breathes.”
Writing that breathes. Only an English teacher, even if he is good-looking in a ’70s kind of way, could say something so truly undecipherable.
I can hear the rustle of paper all around me as kids fish for their class journals. “I hate it when he makes us write in these dumb things,” grumbles the girl behind me.
Usually I feel the same. Only today I know exactly what I’m going to write about. In fact, I can practically feel the words surging through my pen, getting ready to
“Wanted: a guy for Christmas. Should be very tall and slim like Jed Campbell. Should have green eyes like Jed Campbell and also light brown hair with streaks of sun like Jed Campbell. Should look really great in a pair of stone-washed jeans like Jed Campbell. Should adore pizza and Hires root beer like Jed Campbell. Should walk and talk like Jed Campbell. Should, in fact, be Jed Campbell.”
As you may have guessed by now, I have a major crush on Jed Campbell, who happens to sit on the back row of English class. My three older sisters (one’s married, one’s on a mission, one’s away at college) always tease me about my crushes, saying that I fall in and out of love more often than some people (namely me) clean up their bedrooms. But it’s different this time. This is it. The real thing. I’ve felt this way since November.
Here’s the best part. I think maybe he likes me too. Sometimes he waits for me after class, and he always smiles at me in the hall. Yesterday at lunch he and his friend even sat down by me and my friends. I think that’s a good sign.
The bell rings. I slam my journal shut and stuff it in my backpack, then get up to leave.
“Cynthia?”
Did you just hear that loud pounding noise? Well, it’s my heart.
“Oh, hi, Jed.”
He falls into step next to me as we walk out of the classroom and into the hall.
“Hey,” he says, “I was wondering if you wanted to do something tonight. Maybe we could go to a movie.” Jed smiles, and I can’t help but notice what white teeth he has. That would be another good detail to add to my paragraph.
“A movie would be great,” I say.
“So I’ll pick you up around 6:00. Okay?”
“That would also be great.”
“Great.”
We both laugh before splitting up and going to our separate classes. I practically float through the door. Sometimes life is just so fine, don’t you know.
When I get home from school, I can hardly wait to tell Mom my big news about Jed. She’s tending my five-year-old nephew, Travis, on the couch next to our Christmas tree, reading The Cat in the Hat. Travis is the son of my big sister Emily and her husband, Gary.
“Cynthia! Thank goodness you’re home!” Mom looks pretty frazzled. I’m dying to tell her about tonight, but I can tell she’s really stressed, so I do the mature thing and ask her what’s going on in her life first.
“What isn’t ‘going on in my life?’” Mom replies, standing up and brushing back a strand of hair. “Your father is still out of town. I’m supposed to be at a meeting as we speak, both Gary and Emily have to work late tonight, and Travis’s baby-sitter canceled on them at the last minute. I’ve been staying with him until you could get home.” She looks at me, expectantly.
“Oh, no. Not tonight. I definitely have plans.”
“Cynthia, honey, please. This is an emergency.”
I have to admit she does look like someone getting ready to appear on an episode of Rescue 911.
“But, Mom …”
“But, Cynthia …”
I fold my arms across my chest and tap my foot. “Okay, fine.” I really hope she can tell how happy I am not.
Mom puts an arm around my shoulder. “You’re the best, Cynthia. You have no idea how much this helps.”
Then she turns to Travis, who is still sitting on the couch pretending to read. He’s doing his Cat in the Hat voice right now: “Give me all your hats, you guys, or I’m gonna bite your legs off.”
“Travis, Cynthia will take care of you for the next little while. Okay?”
He looks up for a second and flashes me a smile. Then Mom unloads the rest of the bad news. “Gary gets off at 9:00, and Emily doesn’t finish closing out until 10:00. I’m not sure when I’ll be home, but I have a feeling it will be late.”
Of course. Naturally. I didn’t have something else I really wanted to do tonight. Sometimes life is just so not fine.
Mom flies out the door, pulling her coat on as she goes, and I go to the telephone to call Jed. I’m both relieved and disappointed when I get the answering machine.
“Jed, it’s me, Cynthia. Hey, things are kind of desperate here. It turns out I have to baby-sit my nephew, Travis, so I can’t go out tonight. I’m really sorry.” I pause, “So anyway, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
There. I’ve just ruined my one and only chance for true happiness in this life and possibly in the next.
“Hey, Cynthia,” says Travis, joining me. “Wanna play G.I. Joes with me?”
I sigh. “Sure, Travis. Go get your guys.”
Before I know it, he’s got everything set up in the middle of the living room floor. He gets to be the good guys. I get to be the bad guys.
“Heh, heh, heh,” I say, using my best bad guy voice, “Let’s go wipe out the Joes.”
Travis gives me a withering look. “That’s not how they talk, Cynthia.”
Don’t you just love it when a five-year-old starts giving you instructions? He tells me what I have to say and where I get to move my guys. In other words, I’m just the furniture mover.
Travis and I play G.I. Joes for about half an hour, which I think is pretty nice of me. Enough, however, is definitely enough.
“Hey, Travis, I’m getting tired. Why don’t you watch cartoons for a little while?” Actually, I want some time to think about not going out with Jed tonight. I’m in the mood to suffer.
Travis grumbles, but in the end he trudges into the family room by himself where he flips on the television. Naturally he leaves his stuff all over the floor for me to pick up, which I do. Then I collapse in a chair by the living room window and watch the snow fall. It’s five o’clock. Just another hour from now I might have been going to a movie.
“Cynthia?”
It’s Travis already.
“Will you play Old Maid with me?” he asks.
What I want to say is, Thanks to you, Travis, I am an old maid. But instead I give him a weak smile and say, “Maybe later.”
It’s not that I don’t think Travis is a real cute kid. He’s got a killer grin and these huge brown eyes that usually knock my socks off. I don’t even mind baby-sitting him most of the time. But tonight, I have to be honest, Travis is getting on my nerves in a big way.
“Go get your coloring book and color for a little while,” I tell him.
“Will you color with me, Cynthia?”
“Not right now.”
“Please. Pl-e-e-e-e-a-a-a-s-e.”
“No!” I snap. “I want to be alone right now, Travis. Okay?”
He doesn’t say a thing, just looks at me for a long time, then turns around and walks back to the family room.
So what do you think? Don’t you agree that I’m entitled to have a little time to myself, especially after my big sacrifice and everything?
Then why do I feel like such an incredible jerk?
I try to shake off the feeling by watching the snow some more. It’s really coming down hard, and the flakes are so huge they almost look like those old-fashioned doilies you see draped on the backs of overstuffed chairs. When I was a kid, I absolutely loved storms like this. I’d bundle up and run outside and try to catch snowflakes on the tip of my tongue. Maybe you did the same thing too.
Something pricks at me. My conscience maybe? Sometimes I really hate my conscience. I heave a sigh and walk into the family room where Travis is busy pretending to be a ninja.
“Hey there, Travis.”
He totally ignores me and gives the air a deadly kick.
“Do you want to go outside and play in the snow with me?” I ask.
Travis drops the ninja routine and turns with a full-court smile. “YES!”
So the two of us stuff ourselves like sausages into winter clothes and run outside where we make angels and throw snow into each other’s face. Pretty soon the neighbor’s big black Newfoundland dog, Rudy, joins us, his tail swishing behind him like a flag. I know from past experience that this dog definitely has a special talent.
“Hey, watch this, Travis.” I lightly pack a snowball and throw it in Rudy’s general direction. He bellows out a bark and lunges, catching up the snowball in his mouth.
Travis laughs, then throws Rudy another snowball. Sure enough, Rudy snags that one too, just like he’s playing shortstop for the Yankees.
We keep this up until our arms are tired.
“No more, Rudy,” I say. Rudy, who looks pretty disappointed for a dog, lumbers back to his front porch and resumes residence.
Travis drops backwards in the snow and makes another angel, but this time, instead of getting up, he just stares at the night sky, full of stars. “I wonder if that star is still up there somewhere.”
“Which star?”
“You know, Cynthia. The one over the barn where Baby Jesus was born.”
“The Star of Bethlehem,” I say, smiling. “I don’t know where it is now.”
“I know what!” Travis springs to his feet. “Let’s go find it!”
I start laughing until I realize I’ve made Travis feel stupid. I used to hate it when grown-ups did that to me, even though I realize now they didn’t mean to.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go look for it.”
So Travis and I start walking around the block, looking for the Star of Bethlehem. When he’s not throwing his head back to search the sky, Travis is running ahead, singing Christmas carols at the top of his lungs. He doesn’t know most of the words, but that’s okay. He’d rather make up his own. All I know is that I suddenly love the sound of his high-pitched voice ringing across the evening snow.
And then the most amazing thing happens.
Travis stands beneath a street lamp and looks up to the sky again, but this time his whole face is shining, filled with light. The forgotten words of an old Primary “Jesus once was a little child, a little child like me.”
I almost stop breathing, and it’s suddenly as though the winter air around me is warm and full of the smell of the sea and the sound of gulls laughing and that the boy in front of me is another little boy from long ago, standing on the shore, his hair and face blazing with sun.
The moment passes, and it’s just me and Travis again, looking for stars. We finish our trip around the block, Travis still blasting through a billion songs and kicking snow with his feet, me bringing up the rear more slowly.
“Who’s that on the porch, Cynthia?” Travis wants to know as we round the corner. I squint to see through the night.
You’re really not going to believe this. It’s Jed.
“Hey, you guys,” he says, walking toward us with that loping step I just love. In fact, he looks so adorable right now I could just faint dead in the snow. “I wanted to know if you want to go to 7-Eleven and buy some hot chocolate with me.”
Travis whoops, and I smile. Sometimes life is just so fine.
Later when I’m in bed, I’m still thinking about how fine life can be but also about how it can take you so totally by surprise. Let me give you an example of what I mean, since Mr. Haupt, our English teacher, always says that specific examples make your writing stronger.
I got the guy I wanted for Christmas all right, and he’s even more wonderful than I imagined he would be. It just turns out there was something I wanted even more, only I didn’t even know it.
What I really wanted was to feel the presence of the Savior in my life, and thanks to a five-year-old kid, I did.
So, Travis, even though I know you’re home asleep right now, surrounded by the zoo of stuffed animals you take to bed with you every night even though it drives your mother crazy because there’s no room left for you, I have something I want to say.
I love you, Travis. Merry Christmas.

On Friday morning in this historic tabernacle, and in the homes of Church members viewing or listening to the conference session, hands were raised to sustain a prophet, a seer, and a revelator—even the President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Our upraised hands were an outward expression of our inward feelings. As we raised our hands, we pledged our hearts. Could I for a moment mention the hands of that prophet, even President Harold B. Lee? I do so humbly and with his permission.
Some years ago, President Lee, directed by inspiration and revelation, called Dewitt J. Paul to serve as patriarch in one of the eastern stakes of the Church. The call humbled beyond words both Brother and Sister Paul. They wondered. They worried. They prayed for assurance and heavenly confirmation. Such did not come suddenly.
The vote of the people demonstrated their supporting approval. Then came the time for ordination. In a basement room situated two floors beneath the meeting hall in which the conference was held, Dewitt Paul nervously sat on a chair and, with a silent prayer in his heart, awaited his ordination. President Harold B. Lee then placed his hands upon the head of the newly called patriarch and began to speak. Peace replaced turmoil. Faith overcame doubt. Seated next to Sister Paul was a lifelong friend to whom Sister Paul had confided her concern. During the pronouncement of the blessing and ordination, she opened her eyes. As she did so she saw a ray of light shining upon President Lee as he placed his hands upon the head of Brother Paul. At the conclusion of the blessing, she hastened to tell Brother Lee of this confirmation of a call. She recounted how she saw the sunshine form the ray of light and how it brought a bright glow to the hands of President Lee. “Indeed, this is to you a confirmation of a sacred call,” said President Lee, “for as you look about this basement room, there is no window through which the sun might beam its rays.” Precious are the hands of a prophet.