Gospel Story Finder

Years ago I read in a Church magazine the story of a girl who was living away from home and going to college. She was behind in her classes, her social life was not what she had hoped for, and she was generally unhappy. Finally one day she fell to her knees and cried out, “What can I do to improve my life?” The Holy Ghost whispered, “Get up and clean your room.” This prompting came as a complete surprise, but it was just the start she needed. After taking time to organize and put things in order, she felt the Spirit fill her room and lift her heart.

My mother and father were married in Canada before the Alberta Temple was built, and so they were not married in the temple. I was born about nine years before the temple was finished and dedicated, and as a child I had a great desire to go to the house of the Lord and be sealed to my parents. I understood very clearly that without the blessing of being sealed in the temple, I would not be with my family in the life after death.
When my parents made an appointment to take me and my brother to the temple immediately after it was dedicated, I was very excited. But the day before we were to go, I became ill and my mother decided that it might be best for our family to wait until I was well again. I can remember how hard I cried as I coaxed her not to put it off. Finally she consented, and we went to the temple.
Although I still remember how dizzy I was, I waited in the children’s room with my brother and many other children. Finally those in charge came and took my brother and me to the sealing room. There we knelt at the altar together, my brother and I clasping hands with my parents. A warm, peaceful feeling came into my heart as one having authority sealed me to my mother and father for time and all eternity. This was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life, for I knew that if I kept all of our Heavenly Father’s commandments, I would be with my family forever.
The morning after this beautiful experience in the temple, I was ill again. The doctor diagnosed my illness as scarlet fever. How worried we were about all the children I had been with in the temple the night before, but not one of them caught the disease from me. I am sure that because of the blessings of our Heavenly Father, this experience, which I wanted so much, was not postponed, and no one else suffered because of my illness.

Ben was angry. It was Saturday morning, and he had just come home from a violin rehearsal. He had a list of chores to do, a violin performance that afternoon, and now something more—his dad had just told him that it was his family’s turn to clean the church.
“I’m not going to have any time to play!” he declared as he threw his jacket on the floor.
Dad sat down with Ben at the kitchen table and said quietly, “I know this is a busy day. But it might be easier if you remember who your time really belongs to.”
Ben calmed down. He knew he was a child of God and that everything—even time—was a gift from Heavenly Father. He nodded slowly.
Dad smiled. “Go get a Book of Mormon, Ben. I want to show you something.”
Dad opened the scriptures to Mosiah 2. “You remember King Benjamin, don’t you?” Ben grinned. He liked to hear stories about the ancient prophet whose name he shared.
“King Benjamin wanted to teach his people how to be happy. He built a tower so people could hear him better, and the people gathered from all around. It was a lot like general conference. He stood on the tower and reminded the people that their homes, families, bodies, and even the air around them were gifts from a loving Heavenly Father.
“He also told his people that he had worked very hard his whole life serving them. He said, ‘And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.’”*
“You see, Ben,” Dad concluded, “when you are helping other people, you are helping Heavenly Father. If Jesus appeared to you this morning and asked you to serve Him all day, you would probably be pretty excited about it. If you think about it, Jesus has already asked us to serve Him every day.”
Ben was almost convinced, but he had a question. “I can see how working helps others, but how does playing my violin serve anyone?”
Dad smiled wisely. “Why don’t you wait and see?”
As Ben started doing his chores, he realized that the work needed to be done, so he might as well be cheerful in doing it. He soon noticed how happy it made his mom when he worked without complaining.
Later, when Ben went to the church to help clean, he had fun racing his brother as they vacuumed the cultural hall. He thought about how a spotless church shows respect to Heavenly Father. And cleaning didn’t seem to take as long as he thought it would.
The violin performance was at a home for older people. At first Ben felt nervous. Most of the people were in wheelchairs, and many of them looked like they were asleep. But as Ben began to play his violin, he noticed a white-haired lady in the front row. She was tapping her foot to the music. Ben tried to play his very best just for her. He played a fast fiddling song, and everyone began to clap their hands and stomp their feet. Soon everyone was laughing and smiling.
The last song was “I Am a Child of God.”** Ben played better than he ever had before. As the final notes sang out, a sweet and peaceful feeling settled over the room.
Ben understood now. Beautiful music brings people closer to Heavenly Father, and he was serving others by inviting the Spirit. As he sat down, Dad squeezed his shoulder. “When you play your violin, I can feel Heavenly Father’s love for me. You have a great gift and you need to keep sharing it.” Ben felt warm inside.
As they walked out of the rest home, Ben waved good-bye to his new friends.
“How do you feel now?” Dad asked.
“I feel so good, Dad. I thought today would be nothing but work. But when I thought about serving Heavenly Father instead of myself, everything seemed easier.”

It was a blind man who helped me see a principle of leadership in a way that I will never forget. It happened one day on the Eagle Gate corner in Salt Lake City. I had arrived at the intersection at the same time as a blind man (I later learned his name was Jim Ganski) with his Seeing Eye dog. As the signal changed, the dog hesitated because a bus at curbside was blocking his vision and he was not sure it was safe to cross. Desiring to be helpful, I grasped the blind man’s arm and started him across the street. As we walked, I explained the reason for the dog’s hesitation. By the time I completed my explanation, we had reached the middle of the street and the dog had already turned and looked at me several times and then inquiringly at his master. The twist of the dog’s harness no doubt signaled his concern to his master. It was then that the blind man thanked me courteously for the explanation and then said firmly, “Now, if you would please let go of my arm, my dog doesn’t like people taking over his job.”
What a great lesson! Once you have delegated a job, do not take it over again.

Elder Craig A. Cardon of the Seventy is one of thousands of Latter-day Saints who trace their ancestry back to Phillipe Cardon, a Waldensian convert who immigrated to Utah in 1854. Elder Cardon has witnessed the Lord’s work unfolding in the land of his ancestors, first as a missionary in the newly opened Italian Mission in the 1960s and then as president of the Italy Rome Mission in the 1980s.
When Elder Cardon was called to be a mission president in 1983, all but one of the chapels in Rome were rented buildings. In those days new Church buildings were paid for partly by donations from members in the area. Because funds were needed to construct several buildings, it looked impossible on paper for the members to be able to contribute so much. After the matter was given prayerful consideration, the Italian members were invited to take the money they would have spent on Christmas that year and donate it to the building fund. Instead of gifts, families would place a brick under their Christmas trees to represent their sacrifice.
“What happened on that occasion was miraculous,” says Elder Cardon. “The contributions exceeded the need. Because of this and the Saints’ continued tithing faithfulness, the Lord poured out a rich spiritual blessing upon the mission and upon the Saints throughout the area as they willingly responded to do all they could to establish the Church. I am convinced that their commitment was a central part of what allowed the Church to continue to grow to the point for a stake to be organized and now a temple constructed in Rome.”7

Early one summer morning in 1839, an eleven-year-old boy tiptoed quietly out of his house. The grass was still wet with dew as he hurried across the town square. He headed for the harbor, where he asked a man with a boat to row him out to the three-masted ship anchored nearby. The ship, the Coralie, was sailing that morning for the Indies, and young Jules Verne was running away to sea.
But Jules didn’t get very far. Before it reached the Atlantic Ocean, the Coralie put into the port of Piamboeuf, where Jules’s father caught up with the ship. In angry silence Pierre Verne took Jules home. At home the silence ended. While Jules’s mother cried, his father scolded. Jules was spanked, given bread and water for supper, and sent to bed.
The next morning Jules promised his family that in the future he would travel only in his imagination. It was a promise that would take him far. For in his imagination, Jules Verne traveled not only around the world, but to the center of the earth, to the bottom of the sea, to the moon, and far into the future. And through the many books he wrote, he shared his journeys with the rest of us. We, too, can go with Professor Aronnox and Captain Nemo aboard the submarine Nautilus in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, with Axel in his Journey to the Center of the Earth, and with Phileas Fogg in his hectic trip Around the World in Eighty Days.

I can think back to one Christmas in which our family budget was extremely tight. We were supporting one of my brothers on his mission to Chicago, and that required us to skimp on nonessential items. The only gift-wrapped item I got that year was a fleece blanket. Nothing extravagant, just a plain blanket. I tried to talk it up to my friends at school and make it seem like it was a really great gift, but there was no use. It couldn’t compare to a video game console.
Since then, that blanket has come to symbolize much more to me. That gift was one of warmth. Yes, it warmed me on those few cold Arizona nights, but it also warmed me with love. My parents gave me more: they gave me fun family traditions, a firm sense of belonging, and a knowledge that true gifts are ones of service, love, and sacrifice. My parents sacrificed their money for my brother’s mission, but they never sacrificed their love for me, our family, and everyone around them as they served that year.
I wish I could go back to the school cafeteria table when my friends asked, “What did you get for Christmas?” I wish I could have answered them proudly: “I got a blanket, a blanket that warms me with the true love of the most wonderful time of year.”

In various locations throughout the Church, I have observed members’ lives change as they become fully engaged in helping to establish the Church. Two such individuals are Carlos and Rosario Casariego.

I was serving a full-time mission in Uruguay when I first met Carlos and Rosario. They were teenagers at the time, and both were receptive to the gospel and eager to live by its principles.

Carlos was baptized in December 1970, and three months later he met Rosario when he was asked to speak at the baptismal service for her family. Following their baptisms, both Carlos and Rosario were called to serve with the youth, and soon they became the presidents of their respective groups. They were among the first students when the seminary and institute programs started in Uruguay. Additionally, Rosario served in the stake Primary presidency, and Carlos appeared on the Church’s weekly television program Nuestro Mundo (Our World).

By 1975 Carlos and Rosario were planning their wedding. Then they attended a regional conference, and the course of their lives was changed. During the conference, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) told the youth that every qualified young man should seriously consider going on a full-time mission and that young women should be supportive of that goal.

Carlos and Rosario determined that they would follow the counsel of the prophet. Later that year, Carlos received a call to the Uruguay-Paraguay Mission. Rosario commenced a full-time mission to Argentina six months later. Due to Carlos’s and Rosario’s dedicated service, many good people and future leaders were baptized into the Church.

Since their marriage in July 1981, Carlos and Rosario have had four children and have served in numerous positions in the Church. They have done everything in their power to help establish the Church in their native Uruguay. Their dedication to the Lord has been a blessing not only to those with whom they have served, but in their own lives as well. They are examples of good people who have become fully engaged in helping to establish a strong, multigenerational church in their own country.

Included among those present with the Prophet that day in 1834 was the Apostle Parley P. Pratt. In late 1851, he embarked on an ambitious mission with his pregnant wife, Phoebe, and missionary companion, Rufus C. Allen. Driven by a desire to see the Prophet Joseph’s promise realized, the group landed in Valparaíso, Chile, to begin the preaching of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ in South America.
The complicated economic and political situation at the time, combined with not having the Book of Mormon translated into Spanish, made missionary work difficult. On top of this, the Pratts’ newborn son, Omner, born in Chile, passed away shortly after their arrival. After only a few months, Parley concluded that the moment was not right for the Church to take hold in South America. But he remained convinced that one day the Lord’s words would all be accomplished.

Several years ago, on a flight home from a Church assignment, Sister Sabin and I found ourselves seated directly behind a very large man who had a big, angry face tattooed on the back of his bald head as well as the number 439.
When we landed, I said, “Excuse me, sir. Do you mind if I ask the significance of the number tattooed on the back of your head?” I didn’t dare ask about the angry face.
He said, “That’s me. That’s who I am. I own that territory: 219!”
Four hundred and thirty-nine was the actual number on his head, so I was surprised he got it wrong since it was so important to him.
I thought how sad it was that this man’s identity and self-esteem were based on a number associated with a gang territory. I thought to myself: This tough-looking man was once someone’s little boy who still needed to feel valued and to belong. If only he knew who he really was and to whom he really belonged, for we have all been “bought with a price.”

One of the reasons Kristi liked working at Lake Susan each summer was because of the fantastic selection of green growing things there. That’s what she always did on her day off—go after more specimens for her collection.
This afternoon was no different at all. She was nudging her little trowel around the delicate roots of some Houstonia caerulea (or if you prefer, some bluets) when she noticed the pair of boots. Lifting her eyes she followed the boots until they joined the jeans, and the jeans joined the shirt, and the shirt opened into the most tooth-filled grin she’d seen. This was all crowned by a flop of sun-blonde hair that was being flipped back as the grin turned into a laugh.
“Hi there, Flora. What do you have there?”
“Flora? My name is Kristi; these are some Houston … some bluets. Who are you?” she added, as she suddenly realized she’d never seen him before.
“Yeah, Flora, like flora and fauna. My name is Nils. Hmmm, Kristi.” He speculated for a moment and then pronounced, “Flora fits better.”
By dark she had found out that he worked down at the marina giving water skiing lessons, that his whole name was Nils Frederick Cramer IV, and that he had a Piper Cub airplane he planned to take her flying in next week. He was also in law school and had an opening in his family’s firm when he finished his degree next spring.
They had a beautiful summer. He taught her to water ski and she taught him about her plants. For Kristi summer had always been a period of timelessness. She had never been able to relate anything that happened in the summer to the rest of her life. This year was even more a fairy tale. With Nils at her side she skimmed across the waters of Lake Susan. She soared above the mountains in his plane. Sometimes they went down to the village to attend a dance or a movie, and with him she never got too tired to run, laughing through the moonlight, back to the resort. Sometimes they just hiked around the silent forests by the lake, drinking in the verdant magnificence. It was perfect, almost.
One Sunday evening when she had just returned from sacrament meeting in the village, they were sitting on the dock, watching the fish play with the flies.
“Flora,” Nils began, “there’s one thing about you I’ll never understand. How can a girl of your intellect and awareness be such a religious fanatic?”
Kristi had been carefully avoiding the subject of the Church for most of the summer. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her membership, she just felt that it wasn’t something she could successfully discuss with Nils. It was odd, actually. She had always been an aggressive member-missionary. But Nils was one person whose life she didn’t want to start tampering with. Besides, she was going to enjoy this summer and not clutter it up with the Church. They would never see each other again after August, and so it didn’t matter. As long as she kept herself in tune, then what Nils believed was irrelevant. And she was doing a fairly good job of it, if she had to say so herself.
“Well, Nils, it’s just something I’ve always known to be true, and I can’t really explain it. I’ll never change because I can’t deny the truth.”
“But Flora, it’s so immature. It’s out of character for you to cling to such a silly little-girl thing as Sunday School. I used to go to a church when I was a kid too, but it’s all over now. I grew up. I don’t believe in Santa Claus anymore, either. So what?”
Kristi just changed the subject so she could think for a while. It never did occur to her to really try to explain the Church to him. She just kept thinking that things had been going so well until he brought up the Church; so she just arranged to keep it out of any conversations they had after that one. It was a strain trying to be a good member while still avoiding it, but she thought she was doing quite nicely. Besides, summer was ending fast, and when she got to school, she could forget Nils and really get back into things again. In the meantime she meant to enjoy the little paradise they had created.
Fall came with a jolt. They both knew it would eventually; but it was hard getting used to the idea that they had come to the end. Nils kept insisting that this wasn’t the end and that he’d write or call—he did want to see her again. Kristi silently figured she knew his type. Besides, it really couldn’t be continued once they left this setting. She couldn’t define it, but she knew it would never work.
School gathered her in with the familiar excitement of stepping into the new routine of different classes and different roommates. Carma and Gail, two old standbys from last year, were living next door in the dorm, and the three of them often did things together. One night they attended a movie that Kristi had seen with Nils that summer. It wasn’t even a very good one, but she became so moody that Carma insisted on being told the whole story. When Kristi finished, Carma said,
“Look, Kristi, you’re right. It couldn’t have lasted at all. I really think you should have taken him to church or maybe had the missionaries see him, though. But that’s all behind you now. We have to cure you and get your old cheery self back. What you need is a date with my cousin Del. Now I’ll call him up tomorrow and …” They walked home scheming, but Kristi was silent, thinking about how disappointing school was and how perfectly boring this winter was beginning to be.
She went through the motions of living and eventually decided that she was quite normal but that she had matured a little and was able to see how foolish all the enthusiasm she’d exhibited before was. When she came home from school one afternoon and saw the roses on her desk, she never even suspected Nils. The card read, “To my lovely Flora. Happy Anniversary, four months ago today. Love, Nils.”
He called that night, and she couldn’t believe that they had forty-five minutes worth of things to say to each other. He called her every week after that and sent her all sorts of ridiculous mail. Once she told him that he had to stop the phone calls because they must be costing him too much.
“Flora, my love, money doesn’t matter where you, my sweet, are involved.”
“Nils, be realistic. Your vocabulary is straight from the fourteenth century. You cannot possibly afford it.”
“But Flora, realistically, I can afford it, and besides, I think I love you, and how will I ever find out if I don’t talk to you?” And then, as usual, “When can you come and see me?”
And, also as usual, “Never; you have to stop calling; you have to stop writing; you have to stop missing me; you cannot love me. It won’t work, Nils; we’re too different. Please.”
He never believed her, though. She wondered what she’d have to do to convince him. After she hung up the phone, her roommate Jill offered to pray and fast with her for a solution. Kristi politely, but coldly, made some remark about being perfectly capable of solving her own problems. Once in a while she found herself thinking that it was rather comforting to know that somewhere out there someone cared that much about her. Someone as unique as Nils thought about her often.
One afternoon she decided to go next door and visit Carma and Gail. As she started around the corner, she heard Gail’s voice coming through the open door.
“I have noticed, Carma. I really have. She’s just different. You know how fervent Kristi always was about her testimony. It seems faded or something. We definitely need to help …” Kristi just slipped back into her own room, bitter thoughts filling her mind about fickle friends minding their own business.
Her birthday came on a Thursday. Nils hadn’t called for two weeks and no mail had come for nearly a month. To add to her depression, it had snowed all day. The only thing she wanted to do was to go back home where the sun shone and no one had even heard of snow. She was getting tired of reality. Summer seemed so far away, and she was so depressed by the way this winter was turning out. There seemed to be nothing in the world that could cheer her up that evening. She had just resigned herself to homework when the phone rang. A voice told her that she had a special delivery package at the dorm office and asked that she and several friends come down to claim it. The several friends and Kristi managed to get the 3-by-4-foot crate back to her room with much difficulty. They struggled with the cover, and when they finally pried it off, she couldn’t believe it. An orange tree, with tiny, greenish oranges on it, stood in a pot in the middle of her floor. Tied to one branch was a card that said:
“Happiness is: California for your birthday. I love you, Flora. Nils.”
At eight-thirty he called.
“Pack your bags, my dear. The flying ace is coming tomorrow to take you back for a wonderful weekend in the sun. And now for the big surprise. You know that television game show you like so well, ‘It’s Up to You’? Well, a friend of mine gave me two tickets for the Friday afternoon taping session. You’re sure to get on the show with these seats. What do you have to say?”
“Nils, you want me to spend the whole weekend with you? The whole weekend?”
“Good grief, you accuse me of living in the fourteenth century! So what? What could it hurt? Aren’t you just a little sick of the snow by now anyway?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts. This is a chance in a lifetime. I’ll never be able to get such good tickets again. I know how well you like that show. Come on. I’ll be up at eight-thirty in the morning. It only takes two hours to fly, so we’ll be back here in plenty of time to go have a nice little lunch somewhere and then be at the studio … Florie, are you still there?”
“Nils, stop and listen to me for a minute. I cannot come down to spend any time with you, especially not an entire weekend. Now will you just stop planning and—”
“Not another word. I’ve heard it all before, but this time I am going to win. Tomorrow at eight-thirty. You’ll love it. And I love you. See you!”
She stood there holding the silent phone in her hand and hearing in her mind, “It couldn’t hurt, it couldn’t hurt.” Placing the phone gently back onto its cradle and sitting down, she began to think. “Could it really be so bad just visiting him? It probably wouldn’t hurt. In fact, it will be a good time to clear this up once and for all.”
She puttered around the room, packing a bag and muttering to herself how sane and innocent her decision was, but she avoided looking up when Jill asked where she was going.
She got ready for bed, and it occurred to her how long it had been since she had really prayed. She didn’t pray that night either. It just seemed that there was nothing to say lately. She wasn’t all that interested in what He had to say to her, anyway. She assumed she already knew and she pretended not to care. The thought crossed her mind before she went to sleep, “I’m a big girl now, perfectly capable of making decisions without everyone’s interference and assistance …”
Jill was shaking her, “Kristi, Kristi, wake up, honey. What’s wrong? You were shouting. What happened?”
It was 2:30 A.M. Kristi sat up and shook her head. “I almost lost. I really almost lost everything! How could anyone be so stupid? Oh, Jill …” She sat crying for a few minutes while her roommate held her, and then Kristi, the former Flora, picked up the phone to call Nils.

That night, while most of the 122 Saints and elders of the San Francisco Branch slept, two former Utahns were at work in the San Francisco Chronicle office. Race Whitney and Wally Young, both reporters, worked through the night until daylight on an article about the visiting Metropolitan Opera Company. Exhausted, they were walking home at 5:13 A.M. when the world seemed to fall apart. The entire city suddenly began to jerk and sway. Timbers splintered and groaned, and walls collapsed with a roar.
“
“We were standing in front of the Auditorium Hotel when the crash came,” Race Whitney wrote to his father, Orson F. “Instinctively we started for the middle of the street, and where we [had] stood less than one second before there was a pile of bricks seven feet high.” With legs wide-spread to keep their balance, they outran the remaining four stories which likewise crashed to the street behind them. Wally stopped in the middle of the street beneath a dangerous mass of electric wires; Race yelled a warning, and Wally jumped aside just as “the wires came down, sputtering and tearing up everything they touched. That we were not both electrocuted was the second miracle of the morning.” Half in shock, they congratulated themselves on being the only reporters on the street to witness the spectacular earthquake, little dreaming that a few hours later every newspaper office in town would be smouldering in ruins, unable to print their stories of the catastrophe.
During those chaotic days the elders and Saints were not passive observers of the spreading disaster. Race Whitney camped in a cemetery Wednesday night and stayed there for three more days. He and others built a dugout for women in the homeless crowd, guarded the camp, and foraged for food. Elder A. T. McCarty, the mission secretary, worked a day and a half dispensing food to hungry thousands in the endless bread lines. Other elders cleared places in the ashes and helped erect temporary bakeries. One time the Pacific elders were stopped at bayonet point and ordered to clear rocks and bricks from a basement to search for buried bodies. They found none themselves but could see rescuers carrying out the dead all around them. While on an errand, Elder John Nelson likewise was commandeered by a soldier, given pick and shovel, and required to spend several hours clearing streets. Told where they could get food being given away, two other elders entered the wrong store by mistake and were shot at as looters. Elder J. R. Shepherd spent two nights on fire engine detail, part of an amateur team supervised by one veteran fireman. Other elders and members helped soldiers distribute rations and dig sanitary trenches or assisted Red Cross workers in removing the sick and injured.

Stake conferences are usually pretty routine. A visiting General Authority can add excitement; but otherwise there’s just the established procedure of talks and music and (for me at least) trying to pay attention and not become distracted by crying children and my own daydreaming.
Daydreaming in stake conference can be dangerous, for Dad usually quizzes us about the talks on the way home. But this Sunday he seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful. Not until we were halfway to Newton did he speak up.
“Did any of you kids pay attention to President Betts’s talk?”
What kind of question was that? Ammon, Jennie, and I exchanged glances.
“He said a bunch of stuff about priorities and goals,” Ammon finally remarked.
“And, as usual, he talked about missionary work,” Jennie added with a flip of her blonde ponytail.
Somehow I didn’t think that was what Dad wanted to hear. I leaned back and let my mind replay the stake president’s talk.
“He mentioned that his health had been poor lately and apologized for any inconveniences it might cause.”
Dad nodded, looking rather somber. “And?”
Mom came to our rescue. “Poor Lester. He even managed a joke about not being able to get any gardening done this spring. He’s always loved gardening so much—it must be hard for him to let it go.” She sighed. “I’d hate to have to give up my gardening because of bad health.”
We were all very quiet, even Fred and Willy. I couldn’t get a visual image of President Betts out of my mind: tall, thin, gray haired, slightly stooped. He’d always looked that way, it seemed, in the years and years he’d been stake president. But lately, now that I thought about it, he appeared much thinner, much grayer, much more bent over, much older. I shivered a little. I couldn’t imagine a stake conference without him on the stand.
Mom frowned at our gloomy faces. “Now, now, it’s not that bad! He’s not in the best of health, but he’s not dying either!”
Dad, stopping for a light, glanced over his shoulder at us. “What could we all do to help President Betts?”
“Pray,” Fred said instantly.
“Yes, we can always do that,” Mom agreed cheerfully, rubbing Fred’s short brown hair. “What else?”
Ammon and Jennie lit up simultaneously. “Do his gardening for him!” Mom and Dad nodded, all smiles, and I silently groaned. I hate gardening. It’s the one family activity I automatically excuse myself from. Gardening makes my whole body sore and strains my eyes. Besides, I can’t tell a flower (or vegetable) from a weed, and I usually kill everything I touch.
“Let’s go over to his house tomorrow, for family night,” Ammon said excitedly.
How much homework did I have? Or maybe I could wangle an invitation from Ahna to watch a TV special, or a request from the Nickles to baby-sit.
“Should we tell President Betts first or just show up?” Jennie asked. She was really thrilled about this.
“Oh, let’s keep it a surprise,” Ammon quickly replied. “It will be twice as fun.”
“It’s all settled then,” Dad said, and, as if he could read my mind, continued in a rather stern voice, “right, Stephie?”
“Right,” I agreed weakly. But I had one last defense.
“What if President Betts doesn’t want anyone to do his gardening? Some people get kind of fussy about things like that, you know.”
Mom gave me a penetrating look. Could she read my mind too? “I don’t think you need to worry about that, dear,” she said in a no-nonsense manner.
I shut up. I obviously wasn’t going to get anywhere with my excuses. Secretly, I was a little relieved that I was being forced to participate. If I didn’t, I knew from prior experience that I’d have guilt feelings for weeks. But that didn’t mean I had to enjoy myself.
The next evening, after the usual quibbling and teasing, we finally managed to get all of us and all our gardening equipment (just in case President Betts had his tucked away) into the car and drove across town to his home. Perhaps I could be nice and chat to Sister Betts while everyone else was working.
Dad led us around the garage and into the garden while Mom rang the doorbell to explain what we were up to. Maybe, despite Mom’s reassurances, President Betts would be offended or upset and tell us to go away.
When President Betts came out onto the patio with Mom, he was beaming like a little kid. “You wonderful people! I never expected—” He broke off, his eyes damp.
Dad put his arm around the president’s shoulder. “We’re glad to help,” he said gently. “Just tell us what you want done.”
“That’s right,” Ammon said, pushing forward a lawn chair. “You can sit here and direct the troops.”
President Betts laughed. “If you insist—I’ll be delighted to take advantage of all these willing hands.”
He was so happy and pleased that I felt ashamed of my negative attitude. I followed Dad over to a stretch of yard.
“You’d better keep an eagle eye on me so I don’t ruin everything,” I warned.
Dad agreeably guided me through the various steps. With Ammon and Jennie on their own and Mom watching over Fred and Willy, we were soon busy at work, digging, planting and watering under President Betts’ direction.
After what seemed an eternity but was actually only 30 minutes, I straightened up and rubbed my back. Oh, how I hurt! My muscles were sore, my clothes were damp and dirty, my fingernails were black, and my glasses were dusty. I took them off and rubbed my eyes.
We had made a little progress. But there was so much left to do! We couldn’t possibly finish the whole yard in one night.
At that moment, voices—strangely familiar voices—sounded from the driveway. Feet tramped around the garage. We all waited curiously.
“Good heavens!” Brother Giberson stood stock still, his wife and children all holding gardening tools behind him, and stared at Dad. Dad stared back, and then he and Brother Giberson burst into laughter.
“Two minds with but a single thought,” Brother Giberson said jovially. He walked over to President Betts, who was open-mouthed with amazement, and shook his hand. “I’m surprised the whole stake isn’t here!”
The Gibersons set to work immediately, and between all 13 of us we were able to get the whole yard in shipshape order—and have fun while doing it! As Dale Giberson and I dug, he told me corny jokes culled from Boy’s Life. As Jana Giberson and I planted, we compared notes on school teachers and assignments. As Sister Giberson and I watered, she sang children’s songs and hymns with such verve that I couldn’t help joining in. The whole yard resounded with music as Mom, Lenna Giberson, and I tidied up and as Jennie, Ammon, and I set our gardening tools back in the car. When we finished with one last chorus of “I Am a Child of God,” the next-door neighbors leaned over the fence and applauded.
“What’s family night without a treat?” Sister Betts called as she set up a card table and brought out bowls, spoons, and several containers of ice cream.
“Mint chocolate chip, my favorite!” Tommy Giberson exclaimed. “Did you know we were coming?”
“No, but I guess it pays to stock up on certain foods,” Sister Betts said with a smile which faded a bit as she looked at our grubby hands. “Why don’t you use the bathroom first to clean up? Two at a time, one in the kitchen and one in the basement.”
Hot water and soap never felt so good. I not only scrubbed my hands, I washed my face and polished my glasses. Ah! At last I could see!
“Hurry up!” Willy called plaintively. “The ice cream’ll be all gone!” I let him in and boosted him up to the sink. He energetically splashed, soaped, and rinsed.
“This was fun, huh, Stephie?” he asked as he dried off. Without waiting for an answer, he dashed up the stairs.
Fun? I trudged, very slowly, up the stairs. I felt totally exhausted; my whole body complained with every step I took; my jeans would never be the same. I hated gardening even more passionately than I had the day before.
The patio was bustling with people talking, laughing, giggling, teasing. The feeling of caring and affection was so strong I could literally sense it. President Betts seemed vigorous and glowing, and the garden looked fantastic.
“Yeah,” I said to myself. “It was fun.”

My faith impacted my work life as well. One time, a supplier of goods to my employer walked into my office and told me he had brought a “small gift” for me in appreciation for the purchases his company had received that year. I was then in charge of the purchasing department for all consumable supplies. I asked him if any of my staff had solicited the “small gift” from him. He said no one had done so but it was standard practice in other companies he dealt with. I asked him to convert the value of his “small gift” into additional goods and deliver them free of charge to the company store the following day. He was visibly shocked by this response but went away and complied.

Two years later the Prophet came out of Liberty Jail and planned a winter trip to Washington, D.C. to seek federal help for the Latter-day Saints who had lost their homes and property in Missouri. Not far from the nation’s capital, the stagecoach team ran uncontrolled downhill without a driver for three miles. Joseph decisively assured the other passengers, then carefully opened the door of the careening coach, pulled himself up over the side to the driver’s seat, where he “got the lines, and stopped the horses, and also saved the life of a lady and child” (History of the Church, 4:23, 42). An anonymous letter of appreciation appeared in a Philadelphia paper at the time, with full confirmation of the above events.

Many years ago, President David O. McKay told of a beautiful experience he had while sailing on a boat toward Samoa. After falling asleep, he “beheld in vision something infinitely sublime. In the distance,” he said, “I beheld a beautiful white city. … Trees with luscious fruit … and flowers in perfect bloom abounded everywhere. … A great concourse of people [was] approaching the city. Each one wore a white flowing robe. … Instantly my attention … centered upon their leader, and though I could see only the profile of his features … , I recognized him at once as my Savior! The … radiance of his countenance [was] glorious. … [The] peace about him … was divine!”
President McKay continues, “The city … was his … the City Eternal; and the people following him were to abide there in peace and eternal happiness.”
President McKay wondered, “Who [are] they? [Who are these people?]”
He explains what happened next:
“As if the Savior read my thoughts, he answered by pointing to [words in] a semicircle that … appeared above [the people], … written in gold … :
“‘These Are They Who Have Overcome the World—
“Who Have Truly Been Born Again!’”1

My friend Kaj and I have played soccer together for three years. Last season we decided to try out for the all-star team. We tried our hardest during tryouts. The coach contacted our parents to ask if we could play on Sundays. We told the coach that Sunday was our Sabbath and we needed to keep it holy. It was hard giving up our spots on the team, but we knew keeping the Sabbath day holy was the right thing to do.
Landon B., age 11, Virginia, USA

It was twilight on a cold and rainy October day in 1968, and I was riding my bicycle home from work in Copenhagen, Denmark. My husband was in Canada on an assignment at that time, and I was alone with two children, a boy ten and a girl seven years old.
On my way home I had to cross a very busy four-lane road with a bicycle lane. For safety, I had made it a habit to get off my bike and walk it across the intersection. On this particular day I got halfway across the street and stopped in the middle to let the cars go by. A small car stopped in the lane to my right, and the driver signaled for me to cross. A big truck stopped in the lane beside the small car, and the truck driver also signaled to me, so I continued across the street. Just as I passed the truck I saw a Volkswagen coming toward me, illegally in the bicycle lane, at full speed. There was no time for me to escape, either backward or forward.
In that split second, countless thoughts of my children, my husband, my widowed mother, and my job flashed through my mind, and I prayed more fervently than ever before: “Please, dear Lord, whatever happens—spare my life.”
The car hit the bicycle, slamming the handlebars into the left side of my body. As I lay helpless in the road, I could barely breathe because of the pain, but I didn’t lose consciousness. When I turned my head, I saw the Volkswagen’s tire only an inch away. I looked at my bicycle, which had been thrown several feet by the collision. It now looked half its original size.
I was certain that I had experienced a miracle. The tire couldn’t have been any closer, yet it had not crushed my head. I felt that an invisible hand had stopped it right there. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I thanked Heavenly Father for saving my life.
I lay in the road waiting for the ambulance. What would the children think when I didn’t come for them? Would I be in time to call the day-care center from the emergency room before it closed? Who could I contact? I hardly knew my neighbors because of a busy schedule, and members of my ward were some distance away.
At the busy emergency room, the staff wouldn’t let me use the telephone before they had taken an X-ray. The nurses were too busy to make the call for me. It was four hours before the police officers came to make a written report of the accident.
For the five longest hours of my life I was kept in the hospital with a number of people helping me. Still, I felt that only Heavenly Father was able to give me the help I really needed. For the first time in my life I found myself unceasingly praying about my only concern—two small and lonely children.
“Please tell them I’m all right,” I prayed. “Let them have peace of mind so that they won’t panic, and give them patience. Please tell them what to do.” I felt the presence of the Holy Ghost, and an all-embracing peace filled my mind—the same feeling I prayed my children would receive.
Finally, the doctor told me that except for my painfully bruised ribs, I was as good as new, and he let me go. The two policemen offered me a ride home, and we arrived at my apartment building at 10:15 that night.
Two small, tired children walked hand in hand in the dark toward the police car. “Mom, where have you been? What happened to you? How come it’s so late? Why did the police drive you home?” they asked, as soon as we were safely in the apartment.
I explained, and asked, “How did you get home?”
My son said, “We couldn’t understand why you didn’t come to pick us up, but we thought you might be late from work, so we walked home. It started to get dark, but we couldn’t get in because we haven’t got a key.
“I didn’t know what to do, but all of a sudden I thought we should pray about it. So we knelt on the doormat while I said a prayer. We sat without talking for a little while after the prayer, as you taught us to do, and then a nice thing happened to me.
“I felt a big, warm hand touching the top of my head, and I heard a friendly voice saying, ‘Your mother is well, she has been taken care of. It will be a while before she comes home, and it will be all dark outside, but just stay calm. Take your little sister by the hand and stay near the apartment and play peacefully. If you do, the time will go by quickly until your mother is with you again.’
“When I looked up to see who was talking to me, I couldn’t see anybody, and no more was said. I felt calm.”
Over the years I have seen my son have occasional struggles as he has grown into adulthood. It’s sometimes easy during difficult times to doubt there is a living God.
Each time he was struggling, I would ask, “Do you remember what happened to you the night of my accident?”
His features would clear, and he would say, “Mother, it’s true, and I will never be able to deny it.”
I am grateful that my son is able to carry an experience like this with him. I have also learned how important it is for us to teach our children to pray and to remember the words in Psalms 94:9 [Ps. 94:9]: “He that planted the ear, shall he not hear? he that formed the eye, shall he not see ?”

I recently resumed my university studies. When the impression came to return to school, I worried about how I could provide for my family. Two days a week I would be in the classroom, not at work. How was my family going to make it?
Again, my wife and I made this challenge a matter of prayer, and the Lord responded. I began receiving permanent contracts, which have made it easier for me to make up workdays I miss while at school.

Though we lived in Pocatello, Idaho, one of the best piano teachers around taught at Utah State University in Logan, Utah. A series of unusual happenings landed me a tryout with him, and he agreed to take me on as a student. So every other Friday for the next two years, one of my parents would pick me up after school, we would drive 90 miles to my lesson, spend one hour in my lesson, grab a bite to eat, and drive the 90 miles back (usually in time to get me to the high school dance).
Throughout the trip we would talk and listen to either rock or classical music. My parents were understanding enough of my teenage interests to tolerate a good share of my tunes. It was usually my mom who suggested equal time for classical music. When classical time arrived, I automatically reached for the light classic “Rhapsody in Blue.” It became a tradition to listen to it at least once during the trip.
I can’t really say what made the difference that February day, but Gershwin’s “Rhapsody” captivated me as it never had before. Driving down that familiar two-lane highway with Mom, listening to Gershwin for the umpteenth time, I became totally absorbed in the music. My faculties became heightened, and my senses became more acute. I breathed deeply, immersed in the exhilarating thrill of the music. That day I realized that good music would always be a source of peace and enjoyment, even ecstasy, to me.
I glanced over at my mom, and things began to get blurry. I realized one day I would be a parent, trying to instill in my children similar feelings about music, hoping they would respond as I was responding. But more than that I hoped my children would love me like I loved my mom.
The tape ended as we pulled into the parking lot. I gave my mom a quick kiss, jumped out of the car, and walked toward the building. I looked back at her one more time before I went through the double doors.
I’ve looked back many times since.