Gospel Story Finder

Elder Fyans recalled another story, related to him by his daughter, Kathy, regarding her son, Robbie: “Recently Robbie came home later than usual from school. The principal had called his mother to tell her that her son had been detained at school that day. She asked the principal what the problem was and was told that Robbie would tell her about it when he got home. When Robbie came home, he went straight to his room, and his mother decided to just wait for a while to see if he would come and talk to her. After some time, when Robbie still hadn’t come out of his room, she decided to see if he were all right. He said that he was.

“Later that evening Robbie admitted to his mother that he and a friend had thrown some wet paper towels at the ceiling of the rest room at school and they had stuck there. The custodian took the boys to see the principal, and that was why Robbie had been late.

“‘What do the letters CTR stand for on the ring you’re wearing?’ his mother asked Robbie. ‘Choose the Right,’ he told her. She then asked him if he thought that throwing wet towels on the ceiling had been a right choice. He said, ‘No.’ A discussion followed about what kind of punishment he should receive for his misbehavior, besides the fact that he had been kept late at school. Robbie thought it over for a while and then told her that he felt he should be grounded for a week. After thinking it over a little longer, he decided that maybe he should also pay for the towels that had been wasted. The sum of one dollar was decided upon as a fair amount. Robbie wondered if he should take the money out of his missionary bank. However, his mother explained to him that payment had to come out of his spending money to make it right.

“The next morning Robbie and his mother took his dollar and went to school together. Robbie apologized, not only to the principal, but also to the custodian. Even though it was difficult for him to do, Robbie made the decision to repent as fully as he could for what he had done. He was able to ‘choose the right’ and make it right.”

Another Latter-day Saint who has experienced extraordinary success in his career is Ramon Del Rosario, president of the Quezon City Philippines Stake in Metro Manila. President Del Rosario is a physician who doesn’t practice medicine—his gift is music. “Mon” Del Rosario is a well-known composer and singer who has written nearly 300 film scores. “If you tune in to the local cable channel in the Philippines,” he admits, “it would be safe to say I have three to five films shown every day.”
He didn’t plan on a career in music. He was going to be a doctor. But during his third year of medical school, he submitted one of his compositions to a national songwriting contest and won first prize. “I was actually supporting my medical schooling through music,” he says. But he never got around to practicing medicine. “When I got my diploma, I asked my dad, ‘Now can I do what I really like to do?’” His father said yes, and the rest is history.
Often creativity and deadlines are incompatible, but President Del Rosario says that when deadlines are coming and the inspiration is not, he tends to pray a great deal. “Sometimes,” he says, “I feel I’m running out of musical ideas, but then suddenly it comes—an idea for another song.”
President Del Rosario’s experience in the music industry has helped him in his Church callings. In singing, he says, even if you’re in tune and have a good voice, if your timing is off, the song doesn’t sound good. “I always remind myself that in leadership positions you may be using the right guideline or the right principle, but if you use it at the wrong time, it doesn’t work.” Regarding his calling as stake president, he says, “I look at a stake president as an orchestrator. You don’t play every instrument. You’re there as a leader to see that others work well together.”

There it was, just lying on the sidewalk! I stopped and stared at it. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?” I looked up to see my new friend, Sally, standing beside me. “Look,” I said, “someone’s wallet.”
Sally had just moved to our neighborhood, and I was glad to finally have a member of the Church who was my own age around. “Let’s see if there’s any money in it,” she said, picking it up. “Wow! Have you ever seen so much money in your life!”
My eyes nearly popped out of my head. There must have been a thousand dollars in it. “See who it belongs to,” I said. But Sally was too busy counting the bills in the wallet to pay any attention to what I said. I tried again. “Stop that—it doesn’t belong to us.”
“It isn’t our fault somebody lost his wallet,” she said. “Besides, haven’t you ever heard of ‘finders, keepers—losers, weepers.’”
“But it isn’t ours,” I repeated.
“Don’t be such a baby!” Sally was getting angry. She made me promise not to tell anyone about the wallet.
“Come on,” she said, “we’re rich! Let’s go buy some candy.”
I didn’t want her to be mad at me, so I went along.
Later that night, when I was in my room, Mom came in. “Are you feeling OK?” she asked. “You hardly ate any supper.”
“Sure,” I mumbled.
“Are you worried about your talk next Sunday?”
I had completely forgotten about my talk. It was supposed to be on how the Holy Ghost can guide us.
After Mom left my room, I tried to work on it, but all I could think about was the wallet and whoever it belonged to.
A few days later my older sister, Beth, said she’d help me work on my talk. “What’s wrong with you, Shortstuff—you’re not paying attention.”
I started to cry. I’d promised not to talk about the wallet, but I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Sally and I found a wallet with tons and tons of money in it. We spent some, and now I feel just awful!” I blurted out as fast as I could. I felt better just having told her.
“No wonder you’re having so much trouble writing this talk, kiddo.” She smiled.
“Huh?”
“Your talk is on how the Holy Ghost can guide us, and you’re experiencing that firsthand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it—about what you’re feeling now about the wallet. Where do you think those feelings are coming from?” She looked at me, waiting for an answer.
“You mean it’s the Holy Ghost trying to guide me to do what’s right?”
“You’re a smart kid! Now I think you need to talk to Mom and Dad.”
I went to my dad and told him the whole miserable story. He called Sally’s dad, and they came over. I could tell that Sally was really upset with me. My dad had me replace the money I’d spent. Sally grudgingly promised to repay her dad for the money she had spent. Then my dad called the owner of the wallet, who came over right away. Dad told him the whole story.
The man shook our dads’ hands and smiled at us. “Thank you for returning my wallet,” he said. “I was worried about it. It must have been very hard to find that much money and give it back.”
I looked down at my feet and mumbled, “Yes.”
“Well, I’d like to give you a reward.” He reached into the wallet and took out a twenty-dollar bill.
“We can’t take that,” I said. “We should have returned the wallet to you right away.”
The man nodded, put the money back into his wallet, thanked us again, and left.
Sally wouldn’t even look at me, let alone talk to me. But I was glad that I’d told, even if it meant losing Sally as a friend. I felt good inside knowing that I’d followed the promptings of the Holy Ghost and finally made the right decision.
That Sunday I gave my talk on how the Holy Ghost can guide us, even when we don’t want to listen at first. Sally sat in the front row and smiled at me. I think she was as glad then as I was that we’d returned the wallet.
After church we walked home together and talked a lot. I hoped that we wouldn’t find anything else. But I knew that if we did, the Holy Ghost would guide us to do what we should.

Our son did this long ago on a family trip. We had traveled many miles to see a beautiful castle. By the time we finally arrived, one of our younger daughters was tired and cross. She refused to get out of the car to take the short hike to the site we had come so far to see. Most of us felt impatient with her. But with gentleness our 14-year-old son lifted her on his back and carried her to the castle. That tense moment was softened by his quiet expression of love. That now lives in each of our memories more than the view of the castle.

Not long ago I received a telephone call from a remarkable woman named Jean who asked if she and her daughter could visit me.
More than four decades ago, I had baptized Jean. As we discussed the gospel lessons in 1956, Jean’s four-year-old daughter, Sherrie, sat on her mother’s knee. Now, Sherrie is grown with five sons. All have served missions. Jean and Sherrie told me that at least 67 people have joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints because of Jean’s conversion.
I labored for 10 months in Decatur, Illinois, having five companions during that time. We were quite discouraged in 1956 when with all our efforts, only Jean’s baptism resulted. She joined the Church with this remark: “I have been waiting for many years to find the faith that explains how everyone who ever lived, or will live, can have the chance to be saved in God’s kingdom. No other church could do it. I know you have the true Church.”
“How grateful I am,” said her daughter, Sherrie, “that you stopped by and taught my mother the true gospel of Jesus Christ.”
Suddenly, all the doors I knocked on during my 10-month stay in Decatur were worth it.

Mary Carmen said, “I first learned about the Church when two missionaries came tracting through our block. We were very active in another church, but we couldn’t feel the Spirit of the Lord the way we can feel it now. The day before the missionaries came, my mother had been praying that the gospel might enter our home more fully, but she certainly didn’t expect it to be delivered by two Mormon missionaries! I know that the Church is true. I have no doubts. I feel I am the happiest person in the world. I love every person here today because I know that you are all my brothers and sisters. I want the whole world to be happy.”

The clouds hung low and white over the small town of Liberty Bell that twenty-sixth day of December 1908. Sarah Moseley made her way from her family’s house at the end of the street toward the boardwalk, where her new dress would get a brief respite from mud-spraying wagon wheels.
Sarah’s family had been laboring under the stressful effects of no income in recent months, but her mother had managed to rummage up sufficient materials from an old attic chest to fashion a beautiful patchwork dress for Sarah. It was the only gift she had received for Christmas the day before, and she was fitly grateful for and proud of it.
As she continued along the street, she turned the collar of her frayed wrap up around her neck to ward off the biting chill of wind and lightly driven snow. Suddenly someone wearing a tattered sheepskin coat stepped out in front of her. He had a tangle of red hair, and a crooked scowl on his face. Toby Wilder! Last week he had asked Sarah for some answers to a test in Miss Cornaby’s class, and Sarah had refused. Now he looked ready for revenge. “I would have passed that test if you had given me those answers,” he growled.
“There’s a right and a wrong to everything, Toby Wilder,” Sarah said, swallowing hard, “and cheating is wrong.”
Toby glared at her, then pushed her back toward the edge of the boardwalk. “There’s a right and a wrong to everything, Toby Wilder,” he mimicked. “You think you know all there is to know about what is and what isn’t, don’t you little Miss High-and-Mighty.”
He glanced up and down the street through the haze of falling snow. No one was in sight. Shoving her roughly off the boardwalk, he laughed derisively and swaggered away as she pulled herself up from the street mire. Her eyes filled with tears as she wiped at the icy ooze on her new Christmas dress and headed for the store.
The bell above the door jangled as Sarah stepped into John Walton’s Mercantile Store. The man behind the counter looked at her with concern.
“What happened, Sarah?” he asked.
“Toby Wilder,” she sighed.
Mr. Walton nodded. “That’s not the first time he’s done something like that. Warm yourself by the stove there.” When Sarah hesitated, he added kindly, “Go on, child. There’s no sense in all that warmth going to waste, now, is there?”
“I guess not,” Sarah responded. “It’s just that you’ve given us so much these past few months, all our food and such, that I just don’t feel right about taking the only spot in front of your stove.”
“Sarah Moseley,” Mr. Walton declared, “since when did I keep anybody away from my potbellied stove?”
Sarah smiled in gratitude and stepped in front of the stove. Mr. Walton came out from behind the counter and pulled up a chair in front of Sarah. He sat down and spoke privately. “After that boxcar explosion at the depot last September, it’s a wonder your father is still alive. It’ll be a little while yet before he’s up and about.” He pushed a wisp of damp hair from Sarah’s eye. “Your father is a good man,” Mr. Walton continued. “He’ll pay me back when he’s able. Now give me that shopping list I know you have.” Sarah obliged him. “Besides,” he added as he stood with a little grunt, “it’s Christmas time, isn’t it?”
Sarah’s face wrinkled with curiosity. “What do you mean, Mr. Walton?”
“Christ gave His life for you and me, Sarah, not to mention for those that crucified Him. It seems the least I can do is give a can of beans and”—he checked Sarah’s list—“a box of baking soda and the like to people I love. Of course, that’s easy. The trick is giving to, or doing something for, someone you don’t like. Now there’s the real test. The problem is that I like everybody.” He laughed. “Well, almost everybody.”
Sarah watched Mr. Walton climb the ladder behind the counter. A ray of winter sun made his face radiant. “Why is it so important to be nice to people who are mean to you?” she asked.
Mr. Walton reached for a box of baking soda on a high shelf, then looked down at the girl below him. “Maybe because the Savior was. Maybe because it’s part of forgiving. It’s the same thing, wouldn’t you say?” He climbed down the ladder and began placing the few gathered items in a sack on the counter. He pushed the groceries across the counter to Sarah. “I have an idea that charity is what Christmas is all about. And forgiveness. What do you think, Sarah?”
“I guess you’re right, Mr. Walton,” Sarah answered, thoughtful.
It wasn’t until Sarah was outside again that she noticed something extra in her sack. A large candy stick. She puzzled over it a moment, then smiled at Mr. Walton’s kindness.
No sooner had Sarah started down the boardwalk in the direction of home than she spied Toby Wilder just ahead, leaning against a pole. His back was to her, and he was looking toward the sun as if he were aching for a little warmth on an otherwise bleak, unfriendly day.
Bracing herself, Sarah stepped up to him. “Toby?”
Toby whirled around. When he saw who it was, he growled, “What’s the matter, Sarah. Didn’t you get wet enough the first time?”
Sarah handed him the candy stick. “Merry Christmas,” she said.
Toby didn’t answer. He just stood there gaping.
Sarah glanced back in the direction of the mercantile store, where she could see Mr. Walton looking out the window, waving. She waved back, then turned and continued down the boardwalk toward home.

After shopping for groceries, we drove to the pharmacy in Eureka, California—our last stop before heading home to Willow Creek, about an hour away. The pharmacy, however, was closed for lunch. While we waited, my daughter Shae asked if we could drive to Humboldt Bay.
The four of us, including my daughter Tess and her husband, Patrick, grabbed lunch, drove to the nearby bay, and stopped in the parking lot that runs parallel to the bay. That January day in 2021 was overcast and chilly. From our four-door pickup we watched a bird feeding, diving toward the bay and then rising again.
We’d been there less than five minutes and had barely begun to eat when we heard the whining of a speeding car engine. I remember thinking, “Who in their right mind is driving so fast with people all around?”
The road to the bay ran by the parking lot as it turned north. I didn’t locate the source of the engine noise until I saw a gray pickup sailing through the air toward the water. The pickup had missed the turn, sped over a sidewalk, smashed a light pole, and launched into the air. I watched the pickup sail over the shoreline and clear an old pier as it flew toward the water. It was like a scene out of a movie or TV show.
Without speaking a word, we threw open our pickup truck doors and jumped out, groceries spilling onto the parking lot asphalt. Then we ran to the water’s edge just after the pickup splashed hard into the bay. We were close enough to see that the pickup’s driver was staring blankly through the windshield.
As I watched him, I thought, “He’s not moving! He’s not going to get out of that pickup! Something is horribly wrong!”
I had a feeling that I needed to help the man, that I needed to “go and do” (1 Nephi 3:7)—now! The windows of the pickup were rolled up, so Tess and I looked in vain for a rock big enough to break the driver’s side car window. Then she and Patrick called 911 while Shae gathered up our groceries.
Growing up in Willow Creek, I had driven the curvy roads along the Trinity River every day. I had often thought about how scary it would be to go off the road and into the river. What would I do? How would I get out? I would not want to die that way, and I could not let the man in the pickup die that way.
Under normal circumstances, I would never have gone into the bay. But my only thought was, “The driver needs help, and I’m supposed to help him!”
For some reason, I had no fear. The next thing I knew, I was wading in the chilly water, still wearing my pants, shoes, and a pink sweatshirt.
I’m a big girl, and when I waded into the water, I heard someone say, “She’s going to have a heart attack!” I ignored him. After taking 10 steps, I began swimming toward the pickup, about 30 yards (27 m) away. When I reached it, the engine compartment was sinking, but the water was still below the door handle. I tried but could not open the door.
“Open the door or roll down the window!” I called to the driver. “Are you ready to get out of there?”
No response. He just stared straight out the windshield.
I kept talking until he finally turned his head toward me. He gave me a confused smile as if to say, “What are you doing here? What’s going on?”
As the pickup slowly sank, the man continued to sit motionless. My mind raced as I wondered how to open the door or the window. Suddenly and miraculously, the driver’s side window lowered—by itself! I have no idea how it came down, just as I then had no idea how to get the man out of the pickup. I thought about waiting for help, but I heard a loud gurgling sound as water rushed into the cab. I knew I couldn’t wait for help.
I quickly pulled myself up on the door, got halfway into the pickup, reached across the driver, and unbuckled his seat belt. I grabbed him and pulled with all my strength. I got him out of the window and held him up as water sucked the pickup down.
God knew our hearts, and He knew we would go and do what we could to help one of His children.
I didn’t know how deep the water was, and I couldn’t see the sunken truck. But while treading water, I kicked the truck’s hood. I tried to stand on it but kept slipping off. On one of my unsuccessful attempts to stand, I found the truck’s antenna. I held on to it as I secured a foot against a windshield wiper.
Just then another swimmer arrived. A minute later, a boater who had seen the accident maneuvered his craft to us and threw us a rope. Pushing and pulling, the three of us got safely onto the boat. Later, when I took off my pink sweatshirt, Shae pointed out that I had somehow cut my arm from my elbow to my wrist.
I feel that my family was at Humboldt Bay that day to help that man. I don’t pretend to know God’s mind, but I believe that when bad things happen, He expects us to act. I also believe that God gives us experiences and puts us in positions to bless His children. I was raised by a mother who took us swimming and taught us about water currents. We learned to respect but not fear the water. Most important, we learned to help others in need.
We were where we were supposed to be that day—in the right place, at the right time. God knew our hearts, and He knew we would go and do what we could to help one of His children.
The author lives in California.
Editors’ note: Seven months after Hiedi helped rescue Eric Floyd, the driver of the pickup truck, he died of causes unrelated to the stroke he had suffered that day in January 2021. “I wept when I found out that he had died, but I was grateful that he had a little extra time after his accident to spend with his family,” said Sister Johnston, whom witnesses called the “Lady in Pink.” On March 7, 2021, Humboldt County supervisors presented her with the Carnegie Medal for her heroism.

Let me cite an example of the overuse and misuse of prescription drugs and other remedies commonly found in the home. This shows how substances many of us do not consider drugs can seriously interfere with the management of an illness. A hospitalized patient with Parkinson’s disease was carefully medicated with a relatively new drug for this disorder called Levodopa. He responded beautifully; his muscle rigidity was decreased, muscle movement improved, and even the tremors characteristic of this disease were minimal. After his drug dosage was carefully adjusted, he returned home. As the fall season approached, he decided he needed building up, so he purchased a multiple vitamin product from the local drug store. Shortly thereafter the muscle rigidity worsened, muscle movement was more limited, and the tremors returned; he was taken back to the hospital. What happened? The multiple vitamin product he had purchased contained vitamin B6 (pyridoxine), which had increased the metabolism of the Levodopa and reduced its concentration in the blood below that required to control the symptoms of his disease. Consequently he had a relapse and the symptoms of the disease returned. This illustrates how somewhat innocently one can disrupt a carefully planned treatment regimen by the use of another drug.

Just two weeks after the group’s arrival, Joseph heard Church President Brigham Young issue a call for volunteers to go out and help the 600 members of the Martin Handcart Company still in the mountains in deep snow.
Joseph left that day with the other volunteers.
In the mountains the snow was almost three meters deep, and the wagons couldn’t get through. The volunteers had to carry the supplies on their backs to the handcart company. With the others, Joseph helped set up a camp to prepare the members of the company for the final effort to reach Salt Lake City.
Finally, all the handcart pioneers were safely gathered to Zion, where they went about the business of starting new lives.

Sweat trickled down Jake’s brow; he wiped it off with his hand. “Wow! A guy sure gets hot playing pirates!” “Yeah,” agreed Zack as he laid his homemade sword on the ground. “Hey! Let’s go get ice-cream bars down at the market! We have some money left from the aluminum cans that we turned in.”
The store’s freezer felt cool and soothing to the boys as they leaned against it to view the tasty confections through the glass. While Zack was deciding which flavor he wanted, he glanced at a display of Super Squirt Guns. His squirt gun wasn’t a very good one, and he always lost the shoot-out when he and Jake played cowboys. Maybe with a Super Squirt Gun he could beat Jake next time.
As Zack looked back at the mouth-watering ice-cream bars, he remembered how hot he was. He looked at the squirt guns again, knowing that he had only enough money for one or the other. Then he had an idea. I’ll buy the squirt gun and slip the ice-cream bar into my sock. No one will ever know. I’ll pay for it the next time I come here for Mom.
Jake opened the freezer and removed a frozen fudge bar. “What flavor do you want?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know yet. I’ll meet you at the counter,” Zack replied.
“OK,” Jake said as he walked toward the checkout counter.
As Zack watched Jake go, he didn’t see his Primary teacher, Brother Griffin, stacking shelves at the other end of the aisle.
Brother Griffin watched Zack take a fudge bar, slip it into his sock, close the freezer, grab a Super Squirt Gun from the rack, then hurry to join Jake at the counter. Sighing with disappointment, the grocer went to the counter to ring up the boys’ purchases. He was concerned for his young friend. He had never thought that Zack would be a shoplifter. How can I help Zack understand that stealing even a small item isn’t what Heavenly Father wants us to do? As he stepped up to the cash register, he noticed the boys’ swords, and they gave him an idea. “Good afternoon, boys. Why, you look like two fearsome pirates!”
“Hot ones, too,” Jake declared, digging his money out of his pocket.
As Zack placed the squirt gun on the counter, chocolate ice cream trickled into his shoe. He wished that Brother Griffin would hurry and ring up his purchase, but the grocer picked up Jake’s sword for a closer look, instead.
With admiration in his voice, he asked, “Did you boys make these fine swords yourself?”
“Yes,” Jake replied as he started to lick his ice cream.
Zack’s mouth watered as he watched Jake. Then his attention switched to his foot. It was getting stickier every minute that they stood there!
But Brother Griffin started talking to him. “You know, Zack, when I was a boy, I used to play pirates, too, and my friends and I made hats out of newspaper.” He fumbled under the counter. “Hey! I have some newspapers right here! Would you like me to show you how to make one?”
“Well, we really need to be going,” Zack said.
Jake shook his head. “No we don’t!” he countered, taking a bite of his ice cream. “That’d be neat, Brother Griffin.”
Zack wriggled his toes, and melted ice cream oozed between them. He looked at the squirt gun, still sitting on the counter, and rubbed the coins in his pocket with his fingers. Then he looked up at Brother Griffin happily folding a pirate hat out of newspaper for them. Zack didn’t feel good inside. In fact, he felt like his foot, cold and icky.
“There!” Brother Griffin announced as he completed the hat and placed it on Zack’s head.
“Can I try making my own?” asked Jake, finishing the last of his ice cream.
“Sure,” Brother Griffin responded. “Zack, too, if he wants to make another one.”
Zack shook his head, knowing what he had to do, instead. While Brother Griffin coached Jake on how to make his pirate hat, Zack put the squirt gun back on the rack. Returning to the counter, he took a deep breath and blurted, “Brother Griffin, I’d like to pay for my ice cream too.”
“But you didn’t get any ice cream,” Jake said.
“Yes I did—it’s in my sock,” Zack removed the dripping ice-cream wrapper from his soggy stocking, placed his coins on the counter for payment, and added, “I’m sorry that I was going to take the ice cream without paying for it. I was going to pay you later, but that still doesn’t make it right.”
“I’m glad that you chose to be honest, Zack,” Brother Griffin said as he rang up the sale. “You’re a fine young man.”

Later, in 2018, President Jameson shared this emotional experience:
“We were called as the Kinshasa temple president and matron. We came early for the express purpose of conducting recommend interviews so as many as possible would be ready to enter the temple. We asked for volunteers to serve as workers in the temple. There were immediately 250 volunteers and every single one of them had a valid temple recommend! They were just waiting for the day! Most had only attended the temple once for their endowments—many were bishops and stake presidents—but they had not had the opportunity to attend again. The day had come for regular temple attendance!”

Jacob Hamblin was a brave pioneer who showed his courage by always telling the truth. The Indians knew that he was fair and honest, that they could trust his word. On one occasion Jacob was confronted by twenty-four Indian warriors who believed that the Saints were responsible for the deaths of three Indians. They wanted to take Jacob’s life, but he told them that his people had not betrayed them. After eleven hours of debate, the Indians decided to settle the matter peacefully because they knew that Jacob Hamblin had never lied to them. (See Valiant B Manual, page 140.)

One son bought a small home in a distant state. He showed me bricks on a corner of the foundation that were eroding away. He asked what should he do.
I did not know, but I asked, “Is there an older couple that lives close to you?”
“Yes,” he said, “across the street and down a few houses is a retired couple.”
“Why don’t you ask him to come over and look at that. He knows your climate.”
That was done, and he got the advice of an older man who had seen problems like that and many others. That is what adopted grandpas can do.

She did not falter. Her last moment of hesitation had come on the very brink of her baptism when she looked down into the dark river water at midnight, 4 December 1851, and “felt as though I could not possibly go in it, But a Voice seemed to say ‘There is no other way.’” In faith, she took that step. “It seemed after that everything had changed. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and the gospel plan was glorious, and I covenanted with My Heavenly Father that however dark the clouds may be, if friends turned to be foes that by His help I would serve Him. And I have tried in my faltering way to do so. I have often made mistakes, and said and done things I have been sorry for, but I have never doubted the truthfulness of this gospel or hindered others.”

First, be sure that prayer is a daily part of your life. When I was in Manti, I milked one or two cows each day in our old barn, which had a big hayloft. In addition to my bedside, that barn was a good place to go for secret prayer. Before I decided to go on a mission, and before I found the scriptures that helped me to do right, I had some very sincere sessions of prayer in that hayloft. I came away from those sessions with a sure knowledge that I needed to put my life in order so I could serve the Lord.

Born on 6 July 1926 in Salt Lake City, Utah, Neal Ash Maxwell was the oldest of six children. He grew up in a loving family with five uncles determined to make their first nephew into an all-state basketball player. Hoping to play on the famous Granite High School team, Neal worked very hard practicing his basketball skills. Unfortunately, he stopped growing at a critical time and would not reach his adult height until after high school. As he described later, not making the team was his “first real disappointment in life.”1

A true story from the USA.
Matt kicked a rock as he walked home. He couldn’t figure it out. Why did he feel so awful?
He had been hanging out with his friend Joseph. But Joseph had seemed really bored, and Matt had ended up going home earlier than he had planned.
Maybe I’m imagining it, thought Matt. Maybe Joseph is just having an off day.
The next day when Matt got to school, he saw Joseph talking to a group of friends. Matt called to him and waved. Joseph looked in Matt’s direction, but he didn’t wave back. He turned back to his friends.
Joseph just didn’t see me, Matt told himself.
During class when it was time for group work, Matt walked over to Joseph. “Do you want to be partners?” Matt asked.
It was like Joseph didn’t even hear him. “Come on, Mike,” Joseph said to the boy sitting next to him. “Let’s go work over there.”
The two boys walked away. Matt’s stomach felt heavy. Something was obviously bothering Joseph. But what?
Matt couldn’t think of anything he had done to make Joseph mad at him. Sure, sometimes they were on opposite teams playing baseball at recess. But they always gave each other a high five after. Why did it feel like Joseph was choosing to be on the opposite team in everything?
At least I can talk with Joseph at recess, Matt thought.
At recess, Matt ran to join the other kids on the field.
“Hey, Joseph!” called Matt. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“The game’s about to start,” said Joseph.
“OK, I’ll come play outfield by you and we can talk,” said Matt.
“You’re too late. There isn’t room on my side,” said Joseph as he ran to join his team.
Matt watched as everyone started to play. Having too many people had never bothered Joseph before. Everyone had always been welcome.
But Matt sure didn’t feel welcomed by Joseph. Why was Joseph acting this way? Why was he not including him? Matt hadn’t done anything wrong!
“Joseph is the one who’s doing something wrong,” said Matt to his parents at dinner. “He won’t even talk with me and tell me what he’s mad about!”
“That does seem hard,” Mom said.
Matt felt hot tears in his eyes. “It feels like he just stopped being my friend, and I don’t know why.”
“I’m proud of you for trying to talk to him about it,” Dad said. “Maybe you could try telling him how you feel and that you want to help.”
Matt shrugged. The way Joseph had been acting, Matt wasn’t sure Joseph would even listen to him.
Mom squeezed Matt’s hand. “We’ll also pray for you, and for Joseph.”
That night as Matt got ready for bed, he thought about what Mom and Dad had said. He had prayed for his friends before when they were sad or having a hard time. But this was different, right? Joseph was the one being mean to him.
So why were Matt’s parents praying for Joseph? Should he pray for Joseph too?
Matt knelt by his bed. “Heavenly Father, it’s hard not to be angry at Joseph,” Matt prayed. “I can tell he’s mad, but he hasn’t told me what’s bothering him.”
Matt paused. “I want to talk with him, but I’m not sure he’ll tell me what’s wrong. Please help him with whatever’s bothering him. And whatever happens, please help me still be kind to him.”
As Matt prayed, he started to feel peaceful inside. He knew Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were his best friends. They could help him love Joseph, no matter what Joseph chose to do. And They would be there for him even if Joseph didn’t stay his friend.
Matt smiled. Praying for Joseph had been a good idea after all.
Illustrations by Mark Robison

“I joined a Christian Facebook group and posted about feeling God’s love,” Sister Ashton Petty said. “Within 24 hours I had about 200 comments. One comment in particular stood out to me. I messaged him individually, and he told me he didn’t deserve to feel God’s love. I told him about the infinite Atonement of Jesus Christ. Eventually he was baptized. On your social media accounts, testify of God’s love, because you never know who needs to hear it.”

A poignant experience with a former patient shows how gratitude for generosity and compassion can transform us. In 1987, I became acquainted with Thomas Nielson, a remarkable man who needed a heart transplant. He was 63 years old and lived in Logan, Utah, in the United States. Following military service during World War II, he married Donna Wilkes in the Logan Utah Temple. He became an energetic and successful brick mason. In later years he especially enjoyed working with his oldest grandchild, Jonathan, during school vacations. The two developed a special bond, in part because Tom saw much of himself in Jonathan.
Tom found waiting for a donor heart frustrating. He was not a particularly patient man. He had always been able to set and achieve goals through hard work and sheer determination. Struggling with heart failure, with his life on hold, Tom sometimes asked me what I was doing to speed up the process. Jokingly, he suggested avenues I could pursue that would make a donor heart available to him sooner.
One joyous yet dreadful day, an ideal donor heart became available for Tom. The size and blood type were a match, and the donor was young, just 16 years old. The donor heart belonged to Jonathan, Tom’s beloved grandson. Earlier that day, Jonathan had been fatally injured when the car in which he was riding was struck by a passing train.
When I visited Tom and Donna in the hospital, they were distraught. It is hard to imagine what they were going through, knowing that Tom’s life could be extended by using their grandson’s heart. At first, they refused to consider the proffered heart from Jonathan’s grieving parents, their daughter and son-in-law. Tom and Donna knew, though, that Jonathan was brain dead, and came to understand that their prayers for a donor heart for Tom had not caused Jonathan’s accident. No, Jonathan’s heart was a gift that could bless Tom in his time of need. They recognized that something good might come out of this tragedy and decided to proceed.
The transplant procedures went well. Afterward, Tom was a different man. The change went beyond improved health or even gratitude. He told me that he reflected every morning on Jonathan, on his daughter and son-in-law, on the gift he had received, and on what that gift had entailed. Even though his innate good humor and grit were still readily apparent, I observed that Tom was more solemn, thoughtful, and kindhearted.
Tom lived an additional 13 years after the transplant, years he otherwise would not have had. His obituary stated that these years allowed him to touch the lives of his family and others with generosity and love. He was a private benefactor and an example of optimism and determination.