Gospel Story Finder

Photograph by Leslie Nilsson
We were all excited for Agatha’s birth in 2015. She would be my parents’ first grandchild. Everything went well until the day she was born. She was a large baby, I suffered complications, and the doctor was late getting to the hospital. When he finally arrived, he had to use forceps to remove her. By then, she had suffered neonatal asphyxia.
When they put Agatha on my chest for a moment, I thought it was so I could say goodbye. Nurses then whisked her away for neonatal intensive care. I found out later that her Apgar score, used to assess a newborn’s overall condition, was only 2. A score of 7 to 10 is considered normal.
Scans showed a large white spot on Agatha’s brain, revealing significant damage from lack of oxygen. Doctors told us that if she lived, she would suffer serious cognitive and physical disabilities and likely have epilepsy.
When my family learned how gravely ill Agatha was, my parents and in-laws were given permission to enter the neonatal intensive care unit at different times to see Agatha and say goodbye. My father and father-in-law, unbeknownst to one another, each gave her a blessing. My husband also gave her a blessing. That Sunday we organized a family fast for her.
Agatha spent 11 days in the hospital before we could take her home. For several months, she underwent tests and procedures. She couldn’t swallow, she lacked reflexes, and she suffered convulsions. They told me she would never move her head, never walk, and never speak.
Over the next year, we continued to pray and fast for Agatha, and we took her to a physical therapist to help her learn to move. The left side of her body had been especially affected by her asphyxia. She could move her right hand but not her left hand. Doctors told us that progress would be slow. But after only a few sessions, she could move both sides of her body equally. The therapist said it was a miracle. Because she learned so quickly, he wondered why we had brought her in the first place.
Every small improvement brought us happiness. Soon Agatha began to move her head. Then she began to sit up. When she started to smile, we knew that our faith and prayers were being answered. And when she said “Mama” for the first time, I felt great joy.
We received our biggest miracle at her annual checkup. A magnetic resonance image (MRI) showed no white spot on her brain. Her doctor couldn’t believe it.
“This scan looks like it came from a different child,” he said, comparing the new image with the original image taken after she was born. He requested a second scan, asking, “What is going on here?”
Today, Agatha has no cognitive or physical disabilities, and she no longer takes medication for epilepsy. Her school knows her as an intellectually advanced child.
We attribute Agatha’s healing to what my father calls “a perfect triangle”: faith, fasting and prayer, and priesthood blessings from righteous men. We know that the Lord loves us, we know He has power, and we know He gives us His power to exercise here on earth. We are grateful that He healed Agatha.

A famous doctor once visited a dejected and despondent old woman. He found that she was alone and separated from the world but that she also had a beautiful greenhouse where she raised African violets. The doctor gave the woman a prescription. She was to subscribe to her church’s newsletter, and whenever there was a baptism, marriage, sickness, or death, she was to send an African violet. Following the doctor’s instructions, the old woman gave away hundreds of potted plants. At her death the newspaper headline read, “The Queen of African Violets Passes Away and Is Mourned by Thousands.” What turned this dejected old woman into someone loved by so many? It was giving to others, not keeping for herself.

“I have seen that promise fulfilled in my own life and in the lives of others. A friend of mine served as a mission president. He told me that at the end of every day while he was serving, he could barely make it upstairs to bed at night wondering if he would have the strength to face another day. Then in the morning, he would find his strength and his courage restored. You have seen it in the lives of aged prophets who seemed to be renewed each time they stood to testify of the Lord Jesus Christ and the restored gospel. That is a promise for those who go forward in faith in their priesthood service.”
President Henry B. Eyring, “Faith and the Oath and Covenant of the Priesthood,” Liahona, May 2008, 62.

In 1982, we moved to Hemel Hempstead (Hertfordshire). The meetings were now consolidated, and I stayed for the whole three hours. I was called as the elders quorum president. An elderly missionary couple were assigned to visit my home, and for the first time Rajinder said a prayer and felt the Spirit. I subsequently baptised her. We were later sealed in the London England Temple with our children.

A hot, dry wind blew through Maggie’s open window, bringing in dust and the smell of sagebrush. Summer weekends were lonely—Maggie’s father was seeing to business outside Rush Valley, and her older brothers were away rounding up the cattle and hauling ore for the mines nearby. Only Mother and Aunt Laura were there to keep her company in the big adobe house. And since it was the Sabbath, Maggie couldn’t play outside with her colt or her new kittens or run around the yard looking for tiny wildflowers.
Even worse, Mother was sick. She had hardly eaten for days, and worry hung over the house. Maggie wanted more than anything to see Mother well and happy. “Maybe I’ll go see if she’s well enough to eat today,” Maggie thought. She tiptoed across the hall to Mother’s room and peeked inside.
“Mother, you’re awake!” Maggie said, relieved, as she approached Mother’s big bed. “What would you like to eat?”
“Well, dear,” Mother answered, “I don’t have much choice. I’ll have to settle for what we have on hand.”
The nearest store was 10 miles away. With the boys away and Mother sick, no one had gone for groceries in weeks, and there was nothing in the cellar but canned tomatoes. Maggie hesitated to remind her mother of this—she knew Mother found the idea of eating more tomatoes even less appetizing than she did herself.
“Don’t worry, Maggie. I know there’s nothing but tomatoes.” Mother smiled. “If I could have what I really want most, it would be some good, cold peaches fresh from the cellar. But I guess I’ll just imagine the tomatoes are peaches instead!” She laughed, which made Maggie feel better.
Maggie started heading for the cellar, but stopped to kneel and say a quick prayer before going downstairs.
“Heavenly Father,” she said. “I can’t stand to see Mother so sick and sad. I want to bring her peaches for dinner. Please help me find some. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
When Maggie stood up, her heart felt lighter. She knew Heavenly Father had heard her prayer. She walked into the cool, dark cellar and lit a candle so she could see. Two identical cases of tomatoes were stacked one on top of the other. The top case was open. Maggie walked around the cellar with her candle, peering in the corners, but there were no peaches to be seen. Other than the tomatoes, the cellar was completely empty.
Maggie lifted up the heavy box of tomatoes and set it on the floor. She took a hammer from the table beside her and pried one board loose from the second case of tomatoes. Out came one can, which Maggie set down on the table. Then she lifted another can out from the bottom layer. That was the one! The picture label was of bright red tomatoes, but Maggie knew there was something else inside.
She ran as fast as she could back up to her mother’s room. “Mother!” she cried, “I’ve got your peaches!”
“Looks very much like tomatoes to me, Maggie,” Aunt Laura said.
“I don’t care what the label says,” Maggie insisted. “These are peaches.”
“Bless your heart,” Mother said kindly. “We’ll imagine they are peaches and eat them anyway.”
Maggie rushed to get the can opener from the kitchen, and ran back to the bedroom at top speed. As her mother jabbed the opener into the can, golden peach juice oozed out. Maggie dipped her finger in and tasted the sweet juice.
“Oh, Mother, the Lord heard my prayer!” Maggie exclaimed. “They are peaches!”
A few minutes later, Mother sat holding a big dish of beautiful orange peaches on a tray. Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, my Maggie,” she whispered, “how did you do it?” Maggie told her about her prayer and how she knew exactly where to look.
“Well,” Aunt Laura said, “They just made a mistake when they labeled the cans. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”
Mother looked at Aunt Laura. “All my life I’ve never found peaches in tomato cans, and yet there they were for Maggie when she prayed. I know the Lord answered her prayers and guided her hand to that one can, so don’t try to tell me it was just a coincidence.”
She kissed Maggie on the cheek. “Go along now, dear. I think I’ll get some good rest today.”
Maggie walked back to her room and knelt beside the bed to thank Heavenly Father for His guidance. She knew that answers to prayer were real, and she would never forget it.

Recently I was running a little late to church and hurried into the chapel during the opening hymn. When I walked into the chapel, I saw that it was fuller than normal. As I looked around at the numerous visitors, I realized two things: it was our ward’s Primary program, and my usual spot was taken.
I hurriedly took a seat on the first row of chairs in the overflow seating just in time to see a young mother arrive with her two-year-old son in tow and her six-month-old daughter in her arms. I noticed that her husband didn’t follow her in. When I glanced around the chapel, I saw that he was on the stand, sitting at the piano—he was the accompanist for the Primary.
Because I am single, I usually sit with a particular friend. But that day my friend was out of town. I thought it might be nice to sit with the young mother and her children instead, so I asked if I could join them. The mother agreed. Throughout the meeting I enjoyed helping with the young boy and listening to the Primary children.
At the end of sacrament meeting, the mother leaned over and said she had prayed for me that morning. I waited for her to elaborate. She said she had prayed that I would be at church and that I would sit with her and help her. She had thought she might not be able to make it through sacrament meeting by herself. I felt overwhelmed that I had answered her simple prayer, offered just that morning.
I know that the Lord loves us more deeply than we can truly comprehend. Witnessing an answer to a simple request taught me a powerful lesson, and I am sure the experience taught this mother as well. When I asked if I could sit with this sister, I wasn’t thinking about being the answer to a prayer—I was just doing what I would want someone to do for me if I were in her situation.
Truly Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers, even the seemingly small ones.

In a 1929 American football game held in Pasadena, California, a player named Roy Riegels recovered a fumble and ran almost the length of the field toward the wrong goal line. He was tackled and brought down by one of his own teammates, thus preventing a score for the other team. He had lost his sense of direction in a moment of stress. His mistake cost his team a victory. He was a great player, but ever afterward he was remembered as the man who ran the wrong way.

Such was Walter Stover of Salt Lake City. Born in Germany, Walter embraced the gospel message and came to America. He established his own business. He gave freely of his time and of his means.
Following World War II Walter Stover was called to return to his native land. He directed the Church in that nation and blessed the lives of all whom he met and with whom he served. With his own funds he constructed two chapels in Berlin—a beautiful city that had been so devastated by the conflict. He planned a gathering in Dresden for all the members of the Church from that nation and then chartered a train to bring them from all around the land so they could meet, partake of the sacrament, and bear witness of the goodness of God to them.
At the funeral services for Walter Stover, his son-in-law Thomas C. LeDuc said of him, “He had the ability to see Christ in every face he encountered, and he acted accordingly.”

In August of this year, there occurred a tragedy in Salt Lake County. It was reported in the local and national press. Five beautiful little girls—so young, so vibrant, so loving—hiding away, as children often do in their games of hide-and-seek, entered the trunk of a parent’s car. The trunk lid was pulled shut, they were unable to escape, and all perished from heat exhaustion.
The entire community was so kind, so thoughtful, so caring in the passing of Alisha, Ashley, McKell, Audrey, and Jaesha. Flowers, food, calls, visits, and prayers were shared.
On the Sunday after the devastating event occurred, long lines of automobiles filled with grieving occupants drove ever so slowly past the Smith home—the scene of the accident. Sister Monson and I wished to be among those who expressed condolences in this way. As we drove by, we felt we were on holy ground. We literally crept along at a snail’s pace along the street. It was as though we could visualize a traffic sign reading, “Please drive slowly; children at play.” Tears filled our eyes and compassion flowed from our hearts.
At the funeral, as well as the evening prior, thousands passed by the caskets and expressed support for the grieving parents and grandparents. In two of the three families, the deceased children were all the children they had.
Frequently death comes as an intruder. It is an enemy that suddenly appears in the midst of life’s feast, putting out its lights and gaiety. It visits the aged as they walk on faltering feet. Its summons is heard by those who have scarcely reached midway in life’s journey, and often it hushes the laughter of little children.
At the funeral services for the five little angels, I counseled: “There is one phrase which should be erased from your thinking and from the words you speak aloud. It is the phrase, ‘If only.’ It is counterproductive and is not conducive to the spirit of healing and of peace. Rather, recall the words of Proverbs: ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.’”
Before the closing of the caskets, I noted that each child held a favorite toy, a soft gift to cuddle. I reflected on the words of the poet Eugene Field:
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So toddling off to his trundle-bed
He dreamt of the pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue,—
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.
The little toy dog and the soldier fair may wonder, but God in His infinite mercy has not left grieving loved ones to wonder. He has provided truth. He will inspire an upward reach, and His outstretched arms will embrace you. Jesus promises to one and all who grieve, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.”

Though he joined none of the religious denominations that were competing so fiercely for converts, Joseph studied and pondered and investigated Christianity carefully. His inquiries led him to conclude that the New Testament church was no longer on the earth and that mankind “Had apostatized from the true and living faith.” (BYU Studies, 9:279.) While studying the scriptures one day, he read in the writings of James an inspired admonition to seek for divine wisdom through prayer. (See James 1:5.) Joseph concluded that unless he wanted to remain in uncertainty he should do as the ancient apostle suggested.

In the spring of 1820, Joseph Smith, then a boy not yet fifteen years of age, knelt to pray in a secluded grove of trees near his home. According to the accounts which he later gave of that important morning, he was concerned about his own salvation and about the welfare of mankind. More directly, he wanted to know which, if any, of the churches he should join. But as he began to pray, Joseph experienced a desperate struggle. As he tried to pray, he was seized by an evil power so strong that he could not speak. Distracting thoughts ran through his mind, he heard a noise like someone walking towards him, and soon he was enveloped in thick darkness which seemed about to overpower him.

Despite his alarm, young Joseph continued to pray inwardly for deliverance, and the evil presence disappeared, replaced by a bright pillar of light that descended around him in the grove. Within the intensely bright light two glorious beings appeared. One of them spoke to Joseph by name and pointed to the other saying, “This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him.” [JS—H 1:17]

As the solemn vision of the Father and the Son continued, Joseph’s questions were answered. The Savior told him his sins were forgiven, that none of the churches held all the correct doctrines or proper authority, and that the fulness of the gospel would be made known to him at some future time.

Joseph told the story of his sacred interview to his family and close friends. One with whom he shared the account of the vision was a minister, who treated his story lightly and challenged the reality of modern visions and revelations. Joseph was to find both believers and scoffers as he continued his preparation. Fortunately he would also find many, like himself, who were searching for God’s message of salvation. These were people turned toward religion, in part, because of the revivals of the early 1800s.

Forced by mob persecution to leave their homes in Nauvoo, Illinois, many members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints looked to the West to find a new Zion. The next year, 1847, under the direction of President Brigham Young, they migrated to the Great Salt Lake Valley. The first pioneer colony to arrive at the valley numbered one hundred forty-three men, three women, and two children. Among these first settlers was Green Flake, a former slave of a North Carolina planter, who had been converted earlier to the Church.
Born in Anson County, North Carolina, in 1825, Green was inherited by Madison Flake after his father’s death. As was the custom of the time, Green took the surname of his master. After Madison Flake joined the Church, he offered Green his freedom. However, Green chose to remain with Madison, and he moved to Nauvoo with the Flake family. In Nauvoo Green served for a short time as one of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s bodyguards.
Madison asked Green to go with the first wagon train of Saints to help prepare for the subsequent arrival of the Flake family. Life was hard for all of the pioneers. Green proved himself strong and reliable as the small band set up winter quarters in Nebraska; forged a trail along the Platte River to Ft. Laramie, Wyoming; in the spring, and conquered the Rocky Mountains.
President Young became ill with a fever when they arrived at Echo Canyon, which cut through the eastern slopes of the Wasatch Range fifty miles from the Great Salt Lake. He sent Orson Pratt ahead with a company of forty-two men, instructing them to build bridges and roads as they went. Green Flake was included in this group, which pushed on and reached the Great Salt Lake Valley on July 21, 1847. He rode in the first wagon to move through Emigration Canyon into the desert valley, later called by Brother Young a promised land.
Orson Pratt immediately dedicated the land to the Lord and blessed the seed that they had carried with them over a thousand miles. He then ordered the first crops to be planted. Green Flake plowed and sowed his seed before building a log house for the Flake family. He had chosen a site on the Amasa Survey in Cottonwood so that the Flakes could live near the Southern Saints who had come west with the Mississippi Company. It was they who established the first settlement in Utah outside of Salt Lake City.
When Madison Flake arrived a year later, he found a beautiful home ready for his family. At this time Green was only twenty-two years old. Shortly afterward Green married Martha Crosby, and they had two children. After his wife died in 1885, Green went to live near his son and daughter in Gray’s Lake, Idaho. He returned to Salt Lake City in 1897 to attend the Jubilee Pioneer Celebration and to receive a special certificate for being one of the first pioneers to enter the valley. He died six years later in Gray’s Lake at the age of seventy-eight.

Have you ever been stuck, wondering whether you should move forward with your life or wait for the Lord to put things in place for you? If so, welcome to my world. But one experience helped me get unstuck as I trusted in the Lord.
During my first year of college, my professor mentioned a job opportunity for a copyediting position at the school. Having recently discovered my passion for editing, I wanted this job—badly. But I decided to wait and apply when I wasn’t taking classes.
When I went to apply that winter, I was disappointed to find that the team was no longer hiring for the position. I figured I had waited too long and missed my chance. Yet I still had this nagging feeling that I was supposed to have that job. I wondered why things hadn’t worked out when Heavenly Father seemed to be encouraging me toward it. Had I not acted soon enough?
As I pondered the ways Heavenly Father helps me receive revelation, I realized that not receiving this job could have been a blessing to allow me to become more than I was before. Perhaps I needed to learn more before I was ready.
I decided to work on developing my skills, and although I was worried about postponing my application for the next few semesters, the Spirit assured me it was the right decision.
As I waited for the job to open again, I learned more about what editors do and strengthened my understanding of the English language. I gained confidence in my editing abilities and even picked up some other skills. Turns out, I needed all these skills before I would be seriously considered for the job.
Looking back, I know the Lord directed me during this time to help me develop the skills I needed to become a better editor. If I hadn’t felt prompted to seek the job in the first place, I might not have put so much effort into becoming a better editor.
The Lord has multiplied me. When I applied for the job again, I presented an updated résumé noting all the new skills I had gained and was hired within the week. In the end, the Lord knew more than I did about when I would be ready for this job.
The Lord needed me to be in the right place at the right time with the right combination of skills and knowledge to bless me with what I desired. Elder J. Devn Cornish, an emeritus General Authority Seventy, taught: “He knows each of us individually, and He loves us, every one. He wants to bless us.”1
If I had known when I didn’t get the job in the first place that I just needed to “rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him” (Psalm 37:7), I might have noticed sooner that the Lord was helping me shape myself into a more competent editor.
Eventually the timing was right. And when I got the job, I absolutely loved it. I found new friends in my team members, and we grew to trust one another’s judgment and help one another both at work and in life in general. I was so grateful for the growth Heavenly Father encouraged me to experience beforehand. Without it, I wouldn’t have been ready for this job!

“Here are all the sego lily bulbs I could find today,” Shaquana said, carefully untying a pouch to reveal seventeen of the small roots. “They’re getting mighty scarce.”
“You did fine, dear,” her mother replied. “I’ll take them inside and get supper started. You go on out and help your pa with the watering.”
As Shaquana turned to go, her mother stopped her. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Quana.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Shaquana said, walking toward the field. When she saw that her mother had gone inside, her steps slowed and her shoulders drooped in weariness. She was hungry. Her bare feet were cracked and bleeding. Her dress was so threadbare that it wouldn’t take another washing.
Haven’t we suffered enough, Heavenly Father? she prayed silently. We’ve been mobbed. We crossed the country in a wagon. Ma lost two babies. We’ve done all that was asked of us, and yet now we’re facing a drought and everyone is so hungry. Please help us!
Seeing her father, Shaquana straightened her shoulder and tried to look strong.
“There you are,” her father said. “What kept you?”
“I had to go much farther for segos today, Pa.” She took a dipperful of water from the barrel and gently poured it on one of the plants. Each one had to be watered by hand so that not a single drop of precious water would be wasted. No one knew how bad the drought would be this spring of 1848.
“If this keeps up, are we going to make it?” she asked.
“God will provide, Shaquana,” Pa said. “We must have faith.”
“You, Ma, and the Elders all keep saying that, but things just get worse.”
Shaquana’s father patted her shoulder. “Yes, it is hard right now. Everyone is hungry, and clothes are wearing thin. We all need to muster as much faith as we can. Heavenly Father loves each of us. We’ve obeyed His commandments, and He will take care of us.”
Shaquana had always loved these talks with her father. He had such solid faith, no matter what trials came their way. Lately Shaquana’s faith had clashed head-on with her hunger and exhaustion.
As she was watering the last plant, she looked toward the foothills. The darkest cloud she’d ever seen was coming their way. “Look, Pa, rain’s on its way!”
Her father’s face paled as he looked at the dark mass moving quickly toward them. “That’s not rain! Go get your mother and some gunnysacks. Hurry!”
As Shaquana began to run, crickets descended from the sky in droves. She felt them squish under her feet.
“Ma, come quick!” she yelled when she was near enough to be heard over the deafening sound of the crickets. Grabbing some gunnysacks and sticks, she followed her mother back to the field, where they tried to beat the crickets off the crops.
Hour after hour they flailed at the insects, praying all the while for deliverance from them.
“How can we win?” Shaquana cried. “We kill some, and more take their place! It’s hopeless.”
“You go get something to eat and some rest, Quana,” Pa said. “You’ve worked long into the night. We can fight them again in the morning.”
Shaquana nodded and obeyed. “Oh, Heavenly Father,” she prayed before falling into exhausted slumber, “why aren’t we getting any help?”
Each day was the same. They beat back the crickets and prayed. Shaquana was so tired that at night she’d sob herself to sleep. I wish we’d never left our nice home back east and come here, she thought constantly.
They heard from the Elders that the crickets were infesting the entire Salt Lake Valley.
Sunday morning Shaquana slowly got out of bed. She dressed and picked up her gunnysack.
“Not today,” said Pa, “It’s the Sabbath. We’re going to church and hear Brother Charles C. Rich speak.”
“Church? Oh, Pa, I just can’t go sit in church as if all is well. I’m sorry—I just can’t.” Shaquana ran to her bed, flung herself across it, and sobbed.
Pa sat on the edge of her bed and patted her back. “That’s it, Quana, let it out. Maybe you should stay home today and sleep. I like the family in church together, but this once you stay and rest.”
After her parents left, she lay on her bed and prayed aloud, “Heavenly Father, why hast Thou forsaken us? I don’t understand anymore. I’m so hungry and tired, I just don’t …” Before she could finish, she was sound asleep.
She awoke with a start. A strange new cry had joined the whir of the crickets. She ran to the door. Everywhere she looked, there were seagulls!
“Now what?” she cried. Grabbing a gunnysack, she went out to meet this new menace, then stopped in mid-stride and stared. The seagulls were eating the crickets! They weren’t hurting the crops at all.
She quickly dropped to her knees. “Thank you, Heavenly Father!” she said over and over.
When her parents came home, she yelled, “Pa, Ma, look what happened! Heavenly Father sent the seagulls to eat the crickets. They gorge themselves, fly away, then come back for more!”
With tears of gratitude, she confessed, “Oh, Pa, I was so close to losing my faith! I was angry. I thought God had forsaken us. Now I feel ashamed.”
“A lot of folks felt the same as you,” Pa said. “The same things were being said by some at church. And now this miracle! You should write down what you’ve been through. It will help you in other times of trial. Everyone gets discouraged now and again. Sometimes our faith isn’t as strong as we’d like. Remembering the crickets and seagulls may help you get through other rough times that will surely come.”
Shaquana threw herself into her father’s arms. “I’m so glad you understand, Pa!”
He hugged her tight. “And I’m glad you found your faith again. If you water and nurture it as carefully as you have these crops, it will grow strong.”
“I will, Pa. I will.”

It was such a blessing to attend the temple daily. As I did, I felt many changes in my spiritual thoughts, like I was receiving more knowledge and greater wisdom. I could hear the Holy Sprit’s voice both when I was awake and in my dreams. One night I could not sleep. I closed my eyes and saw my stake president talking with me about what I would do after attending the temple, that my children would serve missions and that we would work hard to accomplish good things.
My mind was filled with so many ideas as I listened to the Spirit. For example, while staying in the patron house, I felt very helpless because my children and I were hungry. I didn’t know where to buy food. It was a different country, with different people and a different language. I prayed to Heavenly Father for a friend to help me. I heard to a voice say “Go to the temple Kajal” so I went to the temple to attend a second session. After the session, I was changing my clothes when suddenly a senior missionary named Sister Edward asked, “Sister Mahana, how are you? What are you doing about food?” I cried because I was so hungry and I said, “Please help me. Just give me bread because we have no flour and no rice. There are six children with us and all the food is finished.” She gave me a warm hug and said, “Don’t worry. I will go to the market with you after the temple. You are my children so if you have any problem, you talk with me.” I was so happy and suddenly I felt like this country was my country. I thought, “I am not alone here.” Even though all the people there were Chinese, they were also my family. I really enjoyed the last two or three days in the temple and patron housing.
I am grateful for the opportunity I had to attend the temple and be sealed with my family. I learned many things both while preparing to go and while we were there. This experience taught me more patience, more wisdom and more spiritual things. I love my Father.

William hopped into the car next to Jeremy and buckled his seat belt.
Is everybody ready for preschool?
Yes!
Yes!
Jeremy’s mom started driving down the road, and William opened his lunch box. He pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took a big bite.
Jeremy looked at William’s sandwich. It looked yummy. Jeremy was hungry.
Mom, I’m hungry. Do you have something for me to eat?
Sorry, Jeremy. We ate before we left. I don’t have anything else.
OK.
Jeremy was sad. He wanted a sandwich too.
William saw that Jeremy was sad. He pulled off a piece of his sandwich and handed it to Jeremy.
Here you go!
Thanks, William. You’re nice.
No problem. That’s what friends are for!

Words fail to express the deep feelings of gratitude for the Lord and the missionaries He sent to our home. The Lord blessed me with the knowledge of the restored gospel, and I felt an urgency to share this knowledge with others. I wanted to be a missionary.
Within months, my sister Dina and I were called as local missionaries in San Salvador. This calling gave us the opportunity to go door to door to share the glad news of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and bring many people to the waters of baptism. In due time, we both served full-time missions in the Central America Mission.
My mission had a great impact on my life. I learned to rely more on the Lord, to seek the guidance of the Spirit, and to feel an overwhelming love for God’s children. My knowledge of the scriptures and my understanding of the doctrines increased. So did my desire to be obedient and to keep the commandments with exactness. My testimony of the Savior and His infinite Atonement was strengthened. My missionary experiences became part of who and what I am. Missionary work became my passion. It has impacted my life and that of my family more than anything else.

Lucas L., age 9, Argentina
The booklet Faith in God has helped me progress in keeping the commandments of Heavenly Father. I encourage all children to complete the booklet and develop their talents by serving in the Church. I set a goal and played the violin in a duet with my brother at church. I have a brother who is serving a mission—he is a great example for me, as are all the members of my family!

Let me give you my own experience. While serving as president of the Calgary Stake in Alberta, Canada, I was attending the general conference in Salt Lake City in October, 1960. On Friday evening I received a call at my hotel advising me that President McKay wanted to see me Saturday morning—the next morning. Naturally, not knowing what he wanted, I slept very little that night. I met him in his office at the appointed hour. As I sat in a chair facing him, he looked me in the eye, put his hand on my knee, and said, “President Tanner, the Lord would like you to accept a call as a General Authority, as an Assistant to the Twelve.” Then he asked how I felt about it.

I do not know exactly what I said. I tried to assure him that I felt highly honored and very inadequate, but ready and willing to accept a call and to give my whole time and effort in the service of the Lord.

That morning my name was read, along with the names of Elders Franklin D. Richards and Theodore M. Burton, to be sustained as Assistants to the Twelve, with the other general officers of the Church. We were approved by the conference. Officers throughout the Church are selected in much the same way at their particular level.

I trudged up the cement steps of my grandparents’ white frame home. What a way to spend a summer afternoon, I thought with dismay. Without knocking, I reluctantly entered through the screen door into the cool of the shaded living room.
“Karen,” boomed a voice from the kitchen, “is that you?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“I’m ready,” said my grandfather as he entered the room and smiled a greeting to me.
My Grandpa Larsen was a big man, at least six foot two. At five feet, seven inches, I was considered tall for a girl but still felt small beside this man. When I was little, I thought of Grandpa as a gentle giant, someone who bounced us on his knee, sang silly songs, and gave us whisker shaves as we squealed our delight.
At 16 I was too old for a whisker shave, but Grandpa’s eyes twinkled with mischief when he asked, “Aren’t I a lucky fellow today, going for a drive with a pretty young lady?”
I simply nodded to him in agreement and felt my first pangs of guilt wash over me. I had not wanted to drive to my grandfather’s. What I really wanted to do was spend the afternoon with my friend Margaret Ann. In a few weeks our junior year in high school would begin, and we always had lots to visit and dream about.
However, my mother had been determined in her decision to have me pick up my grandfather. Mother had other obligations to fill, and she didn’t consider my afternoon with Margaret Ann nearly so important as my taking Grandpa to visit his only surviving brother, Amos, who was dying.
The thoughts of visiting an old and dying man whom I hardly knew seemed to me grim and depressing at best. But I loved my grandpa and knew this afternoon’s excursion held real importance for him. He tried to mask his emotions with light conversation and a little teasing, but I still felt the reality of his concern as we climbed into our family car.
After the first few minutes of travel, Grandpa fell silent and stared out the car window at the passing landscape. Once or twice, I looked over at him, but he remained unchanged and his expression seemed fixed on other days and other doings.
Watching Grandpa, I couldn’t help but smile. He sat beside me dressed in a clean shirt, his best pair of bib overalls, and a sport coat that he added as if on impulse as we left his home. At 78, Grandpa still sat tall in the seat. His hair had thinned over the years and his shoulders rounded a little.
Grandpa’s hands were what I liked best, and I stole a glance at them now as they lay relaxed and unmoving in his lap. Usually, those big, bony hands were constantly busy; and their bent fingers and calloused palms showed years of hard labor. His were massive hands made for work and for doing. They were hands that still held strength, strength of endurance and love.
We were through the town now, nearing the turn that would take us by the temple and up to Sunshine Terrace. “Grandpa,” I said softly, “we’re almost there.” He nodded silently, and I knew he had heard me.
I hadn’t wanted to accompany Grandpa into the rest home. I was young and full of life and always felt that the old people occupying its rooms were in some way a personal affront to my youth and vitality, a sharp reminder of my own mortality.
After parking the car in front of the Terrace, I waited for Grandpa to open the door, get out of the car, and go inside. He didn’t. Instead, he turned and looked at me. In that momentary glance I easily read his unspoken request that I accompany him in to see his brother. I opened my door, and we walked together into the rest home.
Even though my grandpa was old, he was independent; and I knew that though he needed me with him, he would never have asked. But I felt his hand give my shoulder an extra squeeze of thanks as he said, “This is Amos’s room.”
We stopped, and I followed Grandpa inside. Amos seemed small and fragile and gray as he lay beneath his bed sheets. For just a moment panic seized my girlish heart, and I wondered if we were too late. But then my grandpa walked across the room, drew a chair close to his brother’s bed, and bent his head down to Amos’s ear. On the other side of the room, I couldn’t hear what it was my grandpa said, but I watched as Amos’s eyes opened and he smiled.
I stayed on my chair across the room, and I never really heard any of the words exchanged by these brothers, brothers who had grown old with life’s living, brothers whose bodies were bent and gray, but brothers who remembered earlier days and better times together.
We spent nearly an hour with Uncle Amos. During that short time, I witnessed a revelation unlike any I had experienced in my young life. I watched two elderly men transcend the years to become again the boys they once were as they reminisced together for the last time.
As we left, I felt privileged to have viewed a special reunion, a gentle communion, and a touching but temporary good-bye between the kindred spirits of two good men. As we walked down the hall, I reached across the space between us and grasped my grandpa’s hand.

World War II had just ended, and most people in Germany had very little food or money. My birthday was coming up just a few weeks before Christmas. I did not expect to receive any Christmas or birthday presents, knowing quite well—even as a young girl—that our parents were struggling to meet our basic needs. In our big city, hunger was always present. It was a sad and dark time.
On the day of my birthday, to my surprise and delight, a wonderful present—just for me—was placed on the kitchen table. It was the most beautiful present I could have imagined: a tiny little Weihnachtsbaum, a Christmas tree, just one foot (30 cm) tall, covered with delicate handmade ornaments of tinfoil. The tinfoil reflected the light of our living room in an enchanting way. As I inspected the tinfoil ornaments, I realized with amazement that they were filled with small pieces of caramelized sugar. It was like a miracle. Where did my mother get the tiny evergreen tree, the tinfoil, and the rarity of sugar?
To this day, I do not know how she made this miracle happen at a time when none of those precious things was available. It remains in my heart as a symbol of my parents’ deep love for me, as a symbol of hope, love, and the true meaning of Christmas.
During the Christmas season, we still have in our home a Christmas tree, now decorated with electrical lights and ornaments of every variety. When we are together with our children and grandchildren, the beauty of the tree and the sparkling of the lights warm my heart and bring back sweet memories of a happy family moment that came from a tiny tree with shiny tinfoil ornaments.