Gospel Story Finder

“Along in the early fall, we used to find wild fruit such as choke cherries, service berries and little red berries called buffalo or squaw berries, all of which we enjoyed very much. One day I decided to have a reception that evening. So after we camped I asked some of the girls and boys to come and spend the evening at our camp fire after their chores were done. Verbal invitations and short notice never gave offense then. All were delighted to come, no regrets.
“In the meantime, I had asked mother to let me make some buffalo berry pies. Of course, she did. Pies were a great luxury and seldom seen on the plains. I wanted to surprise my guests with the sumptuousness of my refreshments. And I did. Well, I had hardly gotten the ox yokes and some other things artistically arranged before my company arrived, not so fashionably late as now. After we had chatted a while and sung some songs, I excused myself to go into the pantry (a box under the wagon) and brought out my pies. In passing the pie, I rather apologetically remarked that they might not be quite sweet enough. One gallant young man spoke up very quickly, saying, ‘Oh anything would be sweet made by those hands.’ And I believed him.
“After serving the company, I joined them with my piece of pie. Well, the first mouthful, oh my, it set my teeth on edge, and tasted as if it had been sweetened with citric acid! That ended my pie making on the plains. I often wondered how they could have eaten it, but etiquette demanded it. I don’t think there was enough sugar in the camp to have sweetened that pie.”

Although Elder Wilcox’s father had to work seven days a week, he still found time to do things with his family. “I remember well his taking us kids swimming. On the way back we’d always stop at a certain shop to get ice cream. He also took us fishing. Every summer he would drive us up to Cache Valley, where all four of our grandparents lived. We would stay for three or four weeks. My grandparents were very loving, and, as a result, we loved them very much.
“Before the big dam was built near Hyrum, there was an open place called ‘the holler.’ That’s where my Grandfather Wilson had his pastures. One of the grandchildren’s duties was to take the cows down to pasture every morning. Nearby was a stream where we fished and swam. The ‘holler’ was located between Hyrum and the town of Paradise. The holler was truly a paradise for us kids. We’d get together there with our cousins and swim, fish, hunt, and play all day long. Toward evening we would get the cows and lead them back home to be milked.”
A large irrigation canal flowed near Elder Wilcox’s home, and the children were forbidden to go near it. One day, disobeying this rule, Elder Wilcox was playing near the canal and fell in. Although he immediately grabbed some low-hanging branches, he still couldn’t get out because the banks of the canal were too steep. He was too far away for anyone to hear him yell, but his mother came to his rescue because she had heard a “voice,” the prompting of the Holy Ghost, telling her that her son Keith was in trouble and where he was.
“The thing I remember most about my mother when I was a youngster was that she was the Primary president.” Elder Wilcox also recalls that a favorite Primary teacher, Sister Jones, was a Ute Indian whose father was a tribal chief. “Every year my mother and her counselors planned a huge Primary production for the ward. As part of it one year the Trekker class did an Indian show, wearing authentic Indian clothing and feather headdresses. We had real tomahawks, and Sister Jones taught us how to do an Indian dance. I can still remember the Indian war song we sang as we danced.”
Elder Wilcox’s interest in art led him into the field of architecture. “Art must have been born in me,” he said. “My mother told me that even before I could walk or talk, I drew a picture of a house on her wallpaper. She was so proud of it that she didn’t wash it off.
“My parents provided great role models for us. They were kind and firm, and we knew what the rules were. Our parents were very understanding; they disciplined us with love.
“My message to young people is to never let a day go by without telling your father and mother that you love them. Sometimes it’s hard for children to go up to a brother or sister and say ‘I love you,’ but that’s important too.
“Also, be obedient. Accept direction from your parents. And remember to do only those things that will bring honor to your father and mother, just as we are commanded by the Lord. Remember that no one loves you more than your parents.”

I have seen the law of the harvest fulfilled in my own family.
Some years ago I was visiting family, when the bishop asked me to conclude the sacrament service. As I was coming down from the stand, a woman approached me with her seven children and introduced herself as Sister Rebecca Guzman.
She asked, “Elder Rasband, do you know Rulon and Verda Rasband?”
I beamed and replied, “They are my parents.”
You can see where this is going. With Rebecca’s permission, who is here with family in the Conference Center, I share her family’s story.
My parents, Elder Rulon and Sister Verda Rasband, were serving as a senior couple in the Florida Fort Lauderdale Mission. They were proselyting and by divine guidance knocked on the door of Rebecca’s home. She was just a teenager and loved listening to the music of the Osmonds, in particular our friend Donny—who is here with us today. She had listened to their media interviews and learned they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She felt there was something different about them, and thinking it might be their religion, Rebecca spent two years researching the Church’s beliefs in the school library. So, when a kindly-looking couple knocked on her family’s door and introduced themselves as Latter-day Saint missionaries, she was taken back.
“My mother told me to get rid of them,” Rebecca later wrote, “but my heart said, ‘No.’ I looked into their faces, and I felt so much warmth and love. The memory still brings tears to my eyes and deep emotion to my heart.”
Rebecca invited them in, and my missionary parents shared a message with her, her two younger sisters, and, despite her objections, her mother.
Rebecca described to me: “Both your parents were wonderful in explaining any questions we had. I can still see their faces as if there was light surrounding them. We always hugged your mother when she left, and she always made a point of helping my mother feel comfortable and respected. Your father always had a sparkle in his eyes as he was teaching us about Jesus Christ. He tried to include my father in discussions and eventually won him over. My father was a chef at a local country club and started cooking dinners for your parents, including making your father’s favorite, key lime pie.”
When Elder and Sister Rasband asked Rebecca and her family to read the Book of Mormon, Rebecca did so in five days. She wanted to be baptized immediately, but the other members of her family were not ready. After four months, Rebecca insisted she be baptized and join the true Church. She recalled, “Every fiber of my soul knew it was true.” On April 5, 1979, missionaries baptized 19-year-old Rebecca, her mother, and two sisters. My father was a witness at the baptism.
When I met Rebecca and her family at church, we took a photograph of her family with me. I took it home to my elderly mother, and she held it close to her heart. Then she said to me, “Ronnie, this is one of the happiest days of my life.”

Years later my husband told me that when he was a child, Brother Joseph went to their home and asked if he could borrow one of his mother’s twin babies. He explained that his wife Emma had been sad and lonely since her own baby had died, and he thought it would comfort her to take care of one of the girls. The Prophet picked up the baby in the morning and brought her back each night.

One evening when the baby was not home at the usual time, Mother Burgess went to see what was the matter. There was the Prophet rocking the little baby by the fire. He had her wrapped in a silk quilt, and he was singing to get her quiet.
—Margaret M. Burgess

Back in November of 2003, I was attending a professional conference in Philadelphia. Between sessions, I took a walk to revisit some of the places I knew from my childhood. During my walk, I was surprised to witness the completion of the Philadelphia Marathon that was being held that day. I was drawn to the final mile or so of the marathon route where I witnessed thousands and thousands of spectators lined up on both sides of the street loudly cheering every runner that went by. It takes a long time to finish up a marathon. From the time the first place runner finishes to the time the last place runner comes in can be many hours. I spent a little more than an hour observing what was going on during that final mile or so. During that time, I saw thousands of people festively cheering as every runner struggled down the last few blocks gasping for breath. Every runner was made to feel that he or she was a hero, a man or woman of worth, accomplishment, and value. And I am sure that hardly anybody knew anybody. They just cheered unconditionally.

Sometimes I think that we worry too much about questions concerning others that no one should worry about at all, or at the very worst, should only be addressed by their good bishop, stake president or in other sacred situations. You see, as the runners in the marathon were passing by, nobody in the cheering crowd asked if they were worthy enough to be appreciated.
Nobody asked if on their missions they were Assistants to the President.
Nobody inquired if they came from a large family or a small one.
Nobody asked if they bought their clothes at The Gap or at D. I.
Nobody worried if they came from an active family or an inactive one.
Nobody asked if they got their Eagle or their Young Woman’s Medallion.
Nobody posed any questions concerning the political affiliations of their parents.
Nobody inquired if they could have gotten into BYU-Provo or what their ACT was.
Nobody asked if they had been in the popular group in high school. Nobody asked. . . . Yet the cheering went on and on.

Those people were celebrated for one simple reason. They were celebrated because they are our fellow human beings, our brothers and sisters here on this earth. Like the rest of us, they struggle, they worry, they do good deeds and bad ones. They ponder, plead and pray. And right then as they were finishing the marathon, right then they were successful in at least one thing, at least one very difficult endeavor. At least one success in the midst of their many failures and insecurities. At least one. That’s why they were celebrated.

When Ruby and I knelt in the Salt Lake Temple at the altar on September 4, 1930, holding hands and looking at one another, little did we ever realize what would lie ahead for us. We were two young people. I had come out of the country in southern Idaho, and Ruby had come out of Sanpete County, Utah. Our fathers were dead, but we had two wonderful widowed mothers, and they were with us in the temple. As we knelt and made covenants and promises, I knew that that was for real.
Now, after we have been married 70 years, I can say to all of you that it gets better, that it gets better year after year, with the preciousness and the tenderness and the realization of some of the eternal blessings that lie ahead for us. And so to all of you I would say, and Ruby would join with me if she could be standing here, that life can be wonderful and so meaningful, but we have to live it in a simple way. We must live the principles of the gospel. For it is the gospel in our lives that makes the difference as we wend our way through life.

By Samantha Anderson
In high school I never even thought about going on a mission. But after some spiritual experiences, I began to seriously think about serving. Each time I started my papers, though, something would happen to keep me from going. I was frustrated and confused. It felt like I was getting mixed signals.
The first time I started my mission papers, my bishop and I counseled together and decided I wasn’t mentally healthy enough to go. I was depressed because one of my best friends had suddenly passed away. Later, when I felt like I was ready, my bishop helped me start my papers again. But very quickly I felt sad and upset. I felt like I didn’t want to serve a mission. That made me feel like a terrible person.
I didn’t want to move forward with my papers without having a true desire to serve, so I kept going to school and living my life. During that time I prayed, studied the scriptures, and went to church. I learned a lot about myself and about God’s will for me. Because of this, I was eventually able to feel a desire to serve again.
Besides feeling pressure from everyone around me to serve a mission, I doubted myself for not wanting to go. Did it mean I didn’t have a testimony? Was my testimony not strong enough? Was I lazy? Was I not recognizing spiritual promptings? I second-guessed the strength of my testimony and my relationship with Heavenly Father.
I knew that I couldn’t serve a mission with those negative feelings, so I decided to focus on my studies and try to stay close to the Lord—going to Church meetings, praying, reading my scriptures. Eventually, I reached a point where I was OK with my decision, and I felt that Heavenly Father was OK with it too.
One morning I was reading my scriptures, and out of nowhere came this huge desire to serve a mission! It didn’t come from any pressure, it didn’t come from wanting to impress anybody, it didn’t come from anywhere but inside myself. I prayed about it, and the feeling didn’t go away—my desire didn’t go away. So I decided to start my papers again.
After all the ups and downs I’d had so far, I was super worried that I was misreading my feelings. So I started reading Preach My Gospel, I watched The District, I talked to my mom, I started my papers. And throughout all that, I got more and more excited to go. That’s when I knew that this time, the timing was right. I knew that Heavenly Father was pleased with my decision, and yet I also knew that if I did not have the desire to serve, Heavenly Father would have supported that decision as well. In the end, it was my decision, nobody else’s.
Peace was such a huge part of it for me. Knowing that the timing was right and that it was my decision created this huge feeling of peace in my heart. That was what ultimately allowed me to serve. If I had been anxious about it, I couldn’t have done it. But that’s what the Spirit does for us: He gives us peace.

On a beautiful September afternoon, my husband and I were in the temple awaiting the opportunity to participate in temple ordinances. Chris, a friend of ours, entered the room. It was great to see this young man, who had recently returned from a mission to Russia.

As the session was about to begin, a lovely young woman sat next to me. She was radiant, smiling, and filled with light. I wanted to know her, so I quietly introduced myself. She whispered her name, Kate, and I recognized her last name as a family that had lived in Michigan, where my family once lived. Kate was their grown-up daughter, who five weeks earlier had returned from her mission to Germany.

During the session the thought kept entering my mind: “Introduce Kate to Chris.” I put this prompting aside, thinking, “When, where, how?” As we were preparing to leave, Chris came over to tell us good-bye and I seized the opportunity. I pulled Kate over and whispered, “You are two virtuous young people who need to know each other.” I left the temple satisfied that I had acted upon my prompting.

Kate was seeking a holy place the night I met her in the temple. Desiring to weave tightly the eternal relationships that come through temple service, she followed the pattern set by her parents of regular temple attendance.

Not much happened the night I introduced Kate to Chris, but in seeking another holy place the following Sunday, Kate saw Chris amid hundreds of young single adults at an institute devotional. There they found out more about each other. A few weeks later, Chris invited her to watch general conference with him. They continued seeking places that invited the Spirit throughout their courtship and were eventually sealed in the temple, the holy place where they were introduced. Both are now fulfilling the sacred responsibility of parenthood, weaving their testimonies of the plan of salvation into the lives of three little boys, showing them the way on the covenant path.

Seminary students in the combined early-morning classes of the Gilmer First, Second, and Third wards, Gilmer Texas Stake, accepted the challenge to think, speak, dress, and act like a missionary every day for a week.
The challenge was issued by the full-time missionaries. And the students were challenged to mark and place a Book of Mormon with one of their friends during the week. Commitment sheets were distributed and signed. At first, some of the students were hesitant to commit themselves for fear of the reaction of nonmember friends. Instead, their friends ended up encouraging them.
One student reported about the experience, “I felt at first that I would be embarrassed, but after I started, I found I really didn’t mind.”
Another student, an athlete who at first was concerned about his image at school, wrote, “I first thought this was nonsense, but listening to the missionaries changed my mind. I wanted to aid them in the work of the Lord.”
One of the seminary instructors said, “For the first time, many of them realized the influence they can exert on their friends. It did them good to see they can be positive influences if they want to be.”
The project did not go unnoticed by school faculty. Other students began dressing up when the LDS youth did.
The feelings were best summarized by Samantha Bowers. She said, “The feeling of love and togetherness I have had for everyone this week has been so special. It is a feeling and experience I will never forget.”

During their years in Rexburg, Eyring family members grew closer to each other. By then Hal and Kathleen had four sons: Henry J., Stuart, Matthew, and John. Later they would be blessed with two daughters: Elizabeth and Mary Kathleen. But even in a small, rural farm town, Hal and Kathleen had to be vigilant. One of their concerns was the amount and quality of television programming that their sons watched. Henry J., the oldest son, recalls an experience that made a significant difference in the spirit of the Eyring home.
“My brother and I were in front of the TV one Saturday night around midnight,” says Henry J. “A tawdry comedy show that we shouldn’t have been watching was on. The basement room was dark except for the light from the television. Without warning, Mother walked in. She was wearing a white, flowing nightgown and carrying a pair of shears. Making no sound, she reached behind the set, grabbed the cord, and gathered it into a loop. She then inserted the shears and cut the cord with a single stroke. Sparks flew and the set went dead, but not before Mother had turned and glided out of the room.”
Unnerved, Henry J. headed to bed. His innovative brother, however, cut a cord from a broken vacuum and connected it to the television. Soon the boys had plopped back down in front of the television, hardly missing any of their show.
“Mother, however, got the last laugh,” Henry J. says. “When we came home from school the next Monday, we found the television set in the middle of the floor with a huge crack through the thick glass screen. We immediately suspected Mother. When confronted, she responded with a perfectly straight face: ‘I was dusting under the TV, and it slipped.’ ”
President Eyring honored his wife’s wishes, the children honored their mother’s desires, and that was the end of television in the Eyring home. “For the most part, Mother leads through quiet example,” Henry J. observes. “However, she is also inspired and fearless. Mother’s assertiveness has been a great blessing to her children and grandchildren. Both in pivotal moments and in daily routines, she has forever changed the course of our lives.”

A double eagle would be a golfer’s fantasy, but it was the Koford family’s dream come true, as brothers, Adam and Timothy, received Scouting’s Eagle Award on the same night.
Adam, 17, for his Eagle project supervised the construction of 30 picnic tables to be used in the local park system. Timothy, 16, who plays the tuba in his high school’s marching band, supervised Scouts as they dug trenches and laid sprinkler pipe for a cemetery.
Both are members of the Victoria Ward, Riverside California Stake.

Recently I dedicated a beautiful little chapel, and at that time I was told that in order to pay the balance of the ward’s share of the construction cost ($5,000), the bishop had asked all members to limit Christmas presents to small children and to donate the amount thus saved to the building fund. The members responded beautifully, considering this an opportunity to receive a blessing rather than as a sacrifice, and at the dedicatory service many bore witness to this effect.

Jenny rested her head against the school bus window. This was the first time she had ridden the bus to school, and she felt strange—sort of lonely, despite the greetings by the other children.
When the bus stopped at the corner of Cedar and Oak, she noticed an old man with white hair standing by the curb. He looked at the bus and waited. Just as the bus began to move again, he quickly raised his arm and gave a friendly wave.
“He waved to us,” Jenny blurted out to Billy who had sat down next to her. “Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know. He just does. He’s just some old man.”
One morning before Halloween, Jenny said, “Look, Billy. There’s a cardboard pumpkin on the old man’s door.” When the old man waved, Jenny smiled and waved back. She felt good inside.
By late November, the days grew colder. One morning, as a bitter chill frosted up the windows, Jenny said, “I wonder if the old man will be there today?” She crooked her neck to look up ahead. She saw him tacking up a colorful turkey decoration. “Hurray!” she exclaimed.
In the days that followed, Jenny didn’t wonder anymore if the old man would be there. She knew that he would be. It was as simple as that.
Time drew near for school to let out for the December holidays. Every morning Jenny anxiously glanced at the old man’s door. On a cold and dismal morning just before school let out, Jenny spotted a snowman decoration on the old man’s door. In spite of the cold, she felt sunshine inside when the old man smiled and waved.
A light snow was falling when school started again in January. Bundled up snugly, Jenny bounded up the steps of the bus. It sputtered and shuddered as it neared Cedar and Oak. When everyone began to cheer and shout, Jenny knew that the old man was there.
And then one morning, as a February drizzle fell in a gray and dreary mist, Jenny thought, Valentine Day is almost here. I wonder what the old man will put on his door. Her eyes searched for him. He wasn’t at the curb, or on the sidewalk, or on his porch. As the bus rolled by, she pressed her hands against the window, peered at his house through the streaks of dribbling rain, and felt sad. Where’s the old man? she wondered. She turned to Billy. “Do you know his name?”
“Mr. Brown. He’ll probably be back tomorrow.”
But the next morning he wasn’t there, either. Nor the next morning. Nor the next.
Finally Jenny said, “We have to call and find out where he is.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “There are hundreds of Browns.”
“But we know his address—717 Cedar.”
At lunchtime Jenny and Billy found a telephone book in the office. “Just look at the Browns one at a time,” Jenny said. “Not the name, just the address.”
“OK, but this could take days,” Billy moaned.
Jenny lowered her head. “Just start looking,” she said firmly.
With a steady rain beating against the windows, they read through the listings on the first page, then the next. Just as Billy licked his finger to turn the page, Jenny shouted, “Here it is—717 Cedar! Brown, Quincy. Let’s call.”
“Not me. Maybe he’s not there anymore.”
“But maybe he is.” Jenny picked up the phone and dialed the number.
After two rings, a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”
Jenny gulped. “Mrs. Brown?”
“Yes?”
“This is Jenny. A friend of Mr. Brown. Is he there?”
“A friend of his?”
“Sort of. I used to see him from the school bus every morning.”
“Oh, the school bus. He’s been worried about that.”
“Worried? That’s great! I mean, I’m glad to know he still lives on Cedar.”
“Oh, yes, but he’s been in bed with the flu. He’s over the worst of it, but until he gets his strength back, he has to stay inside. Unless the sun is out. Sunshine would do him a world of good.”
Jenny thanked Mrs. Brown and hung up. Sunshine, she thought. She raised an eyebrow and looked at Billy. “You’re thinking,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m thinking about sunshine. We have a few more days before Valentine Day. And I know just what we can do.”
When Valentine Day finally arrived, the sky was cloudy as they rode to school.
“All set?” Jenny asked.
“All set,” Billy said. “But the sun isn’t out.”
“The bus driver said it will be OK. He checked with Mrs. Brown. She’ll be there if Mr. Brown can’t be.”
As the bus rumbled along, Jenny could hardly breathe. But even though she wished as hard as she could, the sun did not come out.
“It’s not going to work,” Billy said. “Maybe we should wait.”
“We can’t,” Jenny said with a sigh. “Valentine Day is today. I guess we’ll have to give them to Mrs. Brown.”
The brakes whined as the bus slowed to a stop. When Mrs. Brown came outside, Billy and the others rifled through their backpacks and found the valentines they had made, and Jenny reached under the seat and pulled out the huge red heart trimmed in white that they had all signed. They watched silently as the bus driver collected them and gave them with a grin to Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Brown smiled at everyone on the bus, then hurried back to the house.
“We didn’t even get to see him,” Jenny mumbled.
That afternoon as the closing school bell rang, bright rays of sunshine streamed in through the classroom window. “Great!” Jenny grumped as she frowned at the clear blue sky. “Where were you this morning?”
She slumped in her seat as they rode the bus back home. Even though the sun was shining now, inside she felt as if the clouds had not gone away.
When they reached the corner of Cedar and Oak, Billy poked her with his elbow. “Look!”
Jenny turned her head and peered out the window. “Wow! There it is,” she said. “The heart we made is on Mr. Brown’s door.” She bounced up and down and clapped her hands. “And look at that.”
A roar went up, and everyone clambered for the windows on that side of the bus. Valentines filled Mr. Brown’s yard. Red hearts on long skinny sticks poked up all over the place. As they got closer, Jenny squinted her eyes. “They’re ours,” she squealed. “The ones we made for him.”
“Look over there, Jenny,” Billy said, as another cheer came from the bus.
There, standing in the sunshine and waving from the curb, was the old man at Cedar and Oak. Jenny beamed as she waved back.
“Well,” Billy said, “the old man is back, and things are just the way they were.”
Jenny’s eyes sparkled. She felt warm and snug inside. “No,” she said with a smile. “Mr. Brown is back, and things will never be the same old way again.”

Surprisingly, my mother had some fond memories of being “in camp.” My mom shared how she learned to ice-skate “in camp.” I found it weird for someone to learn ice-skating “in camp,” thinking she was referring to just your average yearly summer camp. It wasn’t until I learned about WWII and the internment camps that I understood what she meant by “in camp.”
As I was growing up, she openly shared what she remembered from her camp years, and several times she mentioned the love and kindness of her “Mormon schoolteacher,” Mrs. Westover. I later learned that Mrs. Maurine Westover went above and beyond to love and serve her students. She gave them gifts during the holidays and planned parties with the understanding that all her students were of different faiths, including Buddhism.
June Takiuchi’s fourth-grade class at the Topaz internment camp. June’s teacher, Maurine Westover (far right), was a member of the Church. (You can watch a video in which Sister Westover shares her memories of the camp at westoverfamilyhistory.org/the-spirit-of-receiving.)
My mom and her parents endured a difficult three years, but whenever they spoke of camp, they always spoke with praise and gratitude for the members of the Church who worked in the camp, and of the compassion and empathy that they had for the Japanese people.

I want to begin with a couple of stories.
When I was about nine or ten years old, my parents decided that I was going to take piano lessons. I had already tried to learn how to play the violin, and it was clear that I did not have a talent for it.
In fact, many years later, one of my grandmas told me that one of the happiest days of her life was when I quit taking violin lessons. I don’t have a great ear for music, so it can be hard for me to stay in tune, and since I don’t have any rhythm, I struggle to follow a beat. Naturally, I wasn’t thrilled about taking piano lessons.
Practicing the piano was drudgery. I wasn’t efficient when I practiced, and as I recall, I let most people know how unhappy I was that I had to play the piano.
At some point during the years that I took piano lessons, I read a biography about John Philip Sousa, the great American composer and band leader from the early twentieth century. This got me motivated to practice for a few weeks, but it didn’t last.
Finally, after two and a half years of misery, my piano teacher told my mom that she should let me quit, and so I did. That was another happy day, even more for me than for grandma.
Now contrast this with my second story. My first year of university studies I tried taking Mandarin Chinese. I wanted to learn Mandarin because I figured that knowing Mandarin would be very useful in whatever career I chose.
Unfortunately, even though I was giving it my best effort and wanted to learn Chinese, I really struggled in the class.
Eventually my professor sent me for some testing to see why it was so difficult for me. The testing revealed that I couldn’t hear certain tones or accents (I’ve since wondered if this had something to do with my lack of natural talent with music). This is a real problem for learning Mandarin Chinese since in Mandarin words have different tones that give them completely different meanings.
For example, the word ma, spelled m-a in its anglicized form, with a different tone or accent can mean “horse,” “to scold,” “numb,” “mom,” or it could indicate that one is asking a question.
With these results, the university allowed me to take the class on a pass/fail basis. Fortunately, the professor wouldn’t give anyone less than a fifty-percent grade on the final exam. With that fifty percent, I passed the class with the equivalent of a D minus. Thankfully, it showed on my transcript as a “pass.”
At the end of my first year of university studies, I sent in my papers to go on a mission. When I was asked in the missionary application what my interest level was in learning a language, I put “low.”
However, when I received my call, I had been assigned to Peru to preach the gospel in the Spanish language. I was a little worried about trying again to learn a language, but I chose to believe that since the Lord had called me, He would also help me learn Spanish.
Before I entered the Missionary Training Center in Provo, my stake president blessed me that I would be able to learn Spanish. I’d like to tell you that it was easy after that. It wasn’t. I was by far the worst Spanish student in my MTC district. But I tried hard. I even played Spanish tapes at night so that I could get used to hearing the language.
When I finally got to Peru, I think I could only say “¿Dónde está el baño?” and “Tengo hambre.” My Peruvian trainer actually learned a little bit of English just so that he could communicate with me.
Eventually, I did learn Spanish. It took a long time. The most effective thing that I did was read the Book of Mormon out loud in Spanish while following along in my English scriptures.
But today, I speak Spanish fairly well. I can express myself in nearly every situation and on most topics, and people understand me. In fact, once or twice a year, when on assignment, I do a broadcast to tens of thousands of Spanish-speaking members of the Church. What’s more, I can now largely hear accents.
In fact, several years ago, I was in France attending church. As I listened to a non-native speaker give his talk, I turned to the French woman who was translating for me and said, “He has a really heavy accent doesn’t he?”
She looked at me with a quizzical look on her face and said, “His accent is terrible. I can barely understand him. But it is unusual for a non-French speaker to be able to hear that.”

The clock radio woke him up at five-thirty. He jumped out of bed and turned off the alarm, then sat down to wait for the rest of his body to face up to the fact that it was morning.
He went into the bathroom and shaved. Before taking his shower, he weighed himself. One hundred and sixty pounds, he thought. I need to remember that.
He could hear his mother in the kitchen fixing breakfast. He knew his father would have been up for at least an hour already, seeing to the chores that needed doing on the family farm before they left for the airport.
After he was dressed, he packed his pajamas and shaving kit, then checked to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He read a few pages in the Book of Mormon. At one point he glanced up at the picture of MacKenzie on his bookcase. In the picture she wore a white blouse and seemed to be looking just over his shoulder. The picture was too big to pack. He reminded himself to ask her for a smaller picture.
I wonder if she’ll wake up in time to come see me off, he thought. She doesn’t like to get up this early. Of course nobody likes to get up this early except Dad.
A minute later his father knocked on his door.
“Come in.”
His father, still in his winter coat and a cap with strange looking ear flaps for the cold, poked his head into the room. “I see you made it up. Are you all ready?”
“Almost.”
“I wish we were taking you to the MTC.”
“The trip would’ve been too hard on Mom. And I know it’s hard for you to get away. I’ll be fine.” He stood up. “I guess I’m ready.”
“Your mom has breakfast all fixed. By the way, she got up early to make you blueberry muffins so you be sure and make a fuss about ’em.”
“Sure, Dad.”
They walked into the kitchen of the old farmhouse.
“Here’s your missionary son,” his dad proudly announced.
He hugged his mother. “Mom, everything smells great. You didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”
“What trouble? It’s just a little breakfast.”
“Let’s have family prayer,” his father said.
“I think this morning we should kneel,” his mother said. Because of his mother’s arthritis they had long ago quit kneeling for family prayer.
“Heavenly Father doesn’t expect you to kneel,” he said.
“I know, but this is one morning when I think we should.”
“I’ll go get a cushion from the living room couch,” he said.
“You don’t have to go to so much trouble,” she said, but it was too late. He set the cushion on the kitchen floor and he and his dad helped her down.
His father offered the prayer. His voice nearly broke when he asked Heavenly Father to bless his son and keep him safe on his mission and to give him a closeness to the Spirit. And then, almost as an afterthought, he asked for a blessing on the food.
They helped his mother up, and then they all sat down at the table. The table looked like his mother had wanted to give him enough food to last him for two years.
“Mom, thanks for making blueberry muffins. You know how much I love them. And nobody can make them like you can.”
“Oh, there’s nothing to it. I just follow the recipe.” She passed him a plate. “You can either have bacon or sausage with your eggs.”
“Or have both if you want,” his dad added.
“I think I’ll have a little bacon,” he said.
“Now you should start out with half a grapefruit. It has your vitamin C. That’s very important. Try to have an orange or grapefruit once a day if you can.”
He hated grapefruit, he always had, and he was nearly certain that he always would. But because this was his last day with them for two years, he dutifully ate his half a grapefruit.
Like a leaky tire that kept needing to be pumped up, the conversation kept drifting into silence—not because they didn’t have anything to say, but because they had too much to say. They knew that this day would bring a profound change in their lives. Because they could not talk easily about the big things, they settled for the small.
“Do you remember what I told you about your white shirts?” his mother asked.
“Don’t wash them in hot water.”
“That’s right. Do you want to take a little bottle of spot remover? You could use it for your suits.”
“I don’t think I’ll need it.”
“Well, you never know.”
“If I need it, I could buy it there.”
“Maybe so, but it’s better to be prepared. Let me show you what I’m talking about.” She went to the cupboard and got a small bottle of spot remover. “This is how you use it,” she said, going over the directions. “Can you remember that?”
“Are there directions on the label?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll just read them then if I need to use it.”
“Do you have room in your suitcase for it?”
“I really don’t think I’ll need it.”
“Well it can’t hurt to be prepared. Why don’t you just put it in?”
He looked at her and realized how much he loved her. “Sure, Mom, I’ll put it in my suitcase. I bet it’ll really be useful.”
They began to eat.
“I wonder if MacKenzie is up,” he said.
“She’ll be up. She wouldn’t miss this for the world,” his mother said.
“I know, but she worked late last night. I just hope she didn’t turn off her alarm. She does that sometimes you know. Like that time I was going to take her fishing. She was still asleep when I showed up to get her. The only one up was her father.”
“Fathers never sleep,” his dad said. And then he looked at the kitchen clock. “We’d better leave soon.”
“I’ll leave the dishes until afterwards,” his mother said.
A minute later they put his two suitcases in the trunk of the family car.
“Now do you have your plane ticket?” his mother asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you have your wallet?”
“Yes, it’s right here.”
“Do you have your temple recommend?”
“It’s in my wallet.”
“And you have the checks for housing and food and books for the MTC?”
“Yes.”
“Did you remember the bottle of spot remover?” his mother asked.
“Nope. I forgot. It’s on my bed. I’ll go get it.”
He ran in the house, grabbed the small bottle, and hurried back to the car. He packed the bottle in one of his suitcases.
They drove cautiously through the snow-packed roads to the airport. His father always liked to be on the safe side. The travel agent suggested they arrive at least half an hour before departure; they arrived forty-five minutes early.
After checking in they walked to the gate. Looking out the frost-stained windows at the plane which had spent the night there on the ground, he found it impossible to believe that something that heavy could ever get up in the air. This would be his first flight in an airplane.
They sat down to wait.
Do you remember what I told you about how to sew on buttons?” his mother asked.
“Sure, no problem.”
“Now you’re not going to use safety pins like you did that one time, are you?”
“No, Mom, I’ll sew them on just the way you showed me.”
“And have some hot cereal once in a while,” she added. “It’s very good for you.”
He hated hot cereal. “Sure, once in a while.”
The man who worked for the airline went to a microphone and announced they would now begin general boarding.
“You’d better get in line so you’ll get a good seat,” his father said.
“They told me my seat was assigned already.”
“Is it by a window?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well if it isn’t by a window maybe you can switch.”
He heard the sound of someone running. He looked around and saw MacKenzie. He wanted to run to her and throw his arms around her, but he decided he’d better not because he’d been set apart as a missionary on Sunday and his stake president told him that from now on it was arm’s length.
She came up to them. “Sorry,” she said. “I had trouble with my car.”
“What was the problem?” his dad asked.
“I don’t know. It wouldn’t start. I ended up having to use my dad’s pickup.”
“I’m glad you made it,” he said. The only thing he could do now was shake her hand, so that’s what he did. She, understanding his predicament, fought back a smile and said, “Well, Elder, I guess this is it. Your dream of serving a mission has now come true.”
He was still holding her hand. “You won’t forget to write, will you?”
“No chance of that happening.”
“Please send me a picture of you I can put in my wallet.” He paused. “I love you.”
“I know that. I love you too. Be a good missionary, okay?”
“Okay. Send lots of chocolate chip cookies.”
“A lot of people have already gotten on the plane,” his father said.
“I suppose it’s time then,” he said.
Just before he made it to the ticket agent, a small girl on the way to the plane brushed up against him with a wet sticky chocolate candy bar. A stain appeared on his suit.
“The spot remover will get that off,” his mother said triumphantly.
He gave the ticket to the man. His father leaned over and asked, “Could my son have a seat by the window? It’s his first flight.”
The man nodded his head and turned to him. “The plane’s not full. You can pretty much sit anywhere you want.”
He turned around to look at his mother and dad. There were so many things left unsaid, but he didn’t think he could say any of them now. They knew he loved them. That was the most important thing of all.
“Have a safe trip,” his father said as they hugged each other. “And write us.”
“I will. Thanks for everything, Dad.” He turned to his mother. “Thanks for the wonderful breakfast, Mom.”
She, with tears running down her face, could only nod her head.
“Son, it’s time you boarded,” the ticket agent said.
“MacKenzie, thanks for getting up so early to come see me off.”
She had tears in her eyes. He held her hand for just a second and then turned and walked quickly down the jetway to the plane.
His mission had begun.

6. Dr. Emmanuel Kissi—“He Raised the Woman Up,” by Jesse Bushnell
In 1983 a poverty-stricken woman with a severely malnourished child came to Latter-day Saint doctor Emmanuel Kissi for help. Dr. Kissi had food items sent to him by the Church to treat those with malnutrition. At no charge, he gave her rice, corn, beans, and cooking oil. The woman fell down in gratitude before the doctor. Dr. Kissi raised the woman up by the hand and said, “This food has been sent to you from God. You must give all your thanks to Him.”

There was scarcely a dry eye in that packed audience as President Kimball spoke. He not only blessed and inspired the large congregation, and the brother on the stepladder, but also a sister in a wheelchair, as well. Sister Margarete Hellmann had suffered an ailment of the hip since youth. As the years came and went, the affliction brought her an ever-increasing burden of pain. Finally, she could walk only with the aid of a pair of crutches. To facilitate her travel from place to place, and to alleviate the terrible pain she keenly felt with every single step, some of the Saints contributed money and bought her a wheelchair. But this relief was short-lived. Soon, even sitting in her wheelchair was accompanied by almost unbearable pain. Then an inflammation of the nerves on the left side of her face further intensified her suffering. One day she heard the heartening news: the prophet of the Lord was to be in Dresden. She had one all-consuming desire—to attend the conference and touch the prophet.
She had faith and the absolute conviction that the prophet would not even have to take the time to lay his hands upon her head and give her a blessing. She felt assured that it would be with her as it was with a certain woman who, according to St. Mark, had suffered for twelve years and still grew worse. And “when she had heard of Jesus, … she said, If I may touch but his clothes, I shall be whole.” This she did, and Jesus “said unto her, Daughter, thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace.” (See Mark 5:25–34.)
Sister Hellmann had asked her grandson, Frank, to bring her to the service at an early hour and position her wheelchair near the aisle where the prophet was to pass. This statement from her letter tells the rest of the story in her tender words: “When our prophet came close to me,” she wrote, “he warmly shook my hand and looked at me in the spirit of love, as did those who were with him. After that, I did not feel any more pain—not then, nor any to this day. That is the greatest testimony of my life!”

A priesthood quorum that is looking for ways to give service can combine the right plan with the right place and really make a difference.
Adapt to conditions.
Sam Welsh, 14, of the Wellington Ward, West Palm Beach Florida Stake, had his teachers quorum organized in a food drive for the homeless. Then things blew apart—literally. Hurricane Andrew hit southern Florida with a fury that tore homes apart, uprooted trees, and displaced thousands of people. The service project suddenly became a way for Sam’s quorum to give relief to hurricane victims.
“Our quorum or any other teenage groups weren’t allowed into the hurricane area to work,” said Sam. “We only got to go work with our parents.” But one way teens could help was working for organizations funneling supplies into the area. Sam’s food drive expanded beyond his quorum and ward to include the entire stake, other Scout troops, and his performing arts school. The school officials asked that students donate money instead of goods. Sam used the money to purchase items the food bank had run short of, such as baby formula and bottles, diapers and wipes. The quorum helped collect donations and deliver them to a central collection point. Because the quorum had experience working together, they were able to keep the drive organized and on schedule.
Adapt to needs.
But chances for service don’t always come on such a large scale. Paul Brown, 16, of the Fort Pierce Ward, West Palm Beach Florida Stake, was severely injured in an automobile accident. His recovery will be long and slow. Mark Settle, a friend and member of the same priests quorum, explained what the quorum did after hearing about Paul. “We wanted to go see him, but we weren’t allowed in intensive care, so we had a group prayer. And we remembered Paul in our personal prayers and in our family prayers.”
“Every Sunday,” Mark said, “we have our priests quorum meeting at his house so Paul can be with us. He’s a good person to be around.”
And they have plans for Paul’s return. “When he feels good enough to go to Church, we’re going to get a microphone so he can bless the sacrament even if he can’t break the bread yet.”

“No fair!” Rachel yelled. “I don’t want to watch your show!” She grabbed for the remote control.
But her big sister Brianna was faster. She held the remote above her head.
“I just sat through your cartoon,” she said. “Now it’s my turn to watch my show.”
Rachel scowled and jumped off the couch. “You’re being mean!”
“I am not!” Brianna said. “It’s my turn!”
After more arguing, Rachel heard Dad’s footsteps coming down the hall. Uh oh. Dad always had the same solution when it came to fighting over the TV.
“Time to turn it off,” he said. He pushed the power button on the remote. The screen went black.
“But, Dad!” Brianna said. “I didn’t get to watch my favorite show.”
Before Dad could say anything, Rachel heard herself blurting out, “That’s because it’s boring!”
“No, it’s not!” Brianna said.
Rachel put her hands on her hips. Her insides felt hot and bubbly, like a volcano. “It’s the most boring-est show in the universe.” She would rather watch weeds grow than watch Brianna’s show. Her sister liked the weirdest things.
Dad stepped between them. “All right, cool it. Maybe you two need some space from each other.”
Brianna gave Rachel a mean look that made Rachel’s stomach twist. Brianna hadn’t ever looked at her like that before.
“Fine!” Brianna snapped. “I’ll be in my room. Away from her.”
Dad put a hand on Brianna’s shoulder. “You know,” he said, looking at both of them, “I wish you two would be nicer to each other. You could be best friends.”
Brianna stomped to her room, and Rachel heard her slam her bedroom door. The twisty feeling in her stomach got worse.
Rachel went outside to ride her scooter. Maybe it would help her forget the way Brianna had looked at her.
The sky was warm and sunny. But no matter how hard Rachel tried, she couldn’t stop worrying about the argument with Brianna.
Her favorite show really is boring, she thought. It’s boring-er than dirt. But … maybe I should have let her watch it anyway. She kept riding her scooter in circles. Then she noticed someone walk toward her. It was Brianna!
“Hey,” Brianna said. She looked happy.
Rachel stopped her scooter. Why was Brianna smiling? “Um, hi,” she said back.
“So, I thought we could use a sister date,” Brianna said. “My treat. How does the Fun Center sound?”
That was Rachel’s favorite place! “Really?” she answered. “That sounds awesome! Let’s go!”
And it was awesome. The two of them skated around and around the rink. Brianna even brought money for the arcade games. They won tickets and traded them for goofy glasses with fake mustaches.
Rachel giggled while Brianna made funny faces with her mustache. Then she remembered the fight they had earlier.
“I’m sorry I didn’t let you watch your TV show,” Rachel said. “I wasn’t being very nice.”
Brianna put her arm around her. “Neither was I. I’m sorry too. Besides, this is the kind of stuff I’d rather do with you anyway.”
Rachel smiled her biggest smile. “Me too! Because we’re best friends, right?”
Brianna gave her a big-sister hug. “Best friends,” she agreed.