Gospel Story Finder

While President Faust has spent so much of his life serving others in group situations, yet he has also known what it is like to be alone. His loyalty and integrity were operative then, too. Though the only Church member on a transport ship in the South Pacific in World War II (which for 83 long days towed a larger vessel to port), he nevertheless worshipped alone on Sundays. Searching out places where he could sing alone from a pocket-sized hymnal, he would read the scriptures, meditate, and pray in private. Often this meant going up to the front of the ship, where the waves would drown out his singing. Such steady, spiritual discipline reflects, of course, special training by his parents, George A. and Amy Finlinson Faust.

On Saturday mornings Mama and I get up early, put on our clothes, and eat a quick breakfast. Then Mama half-fills a tall glass with water, and we walk real fast to Tony’s flower stand.
“Hello, Mrs. Nelson. Hi, Emily,” he says and sells us a dozen of his brightest daisies.
Mama puts the daisies into the glass, and we walk even faster to catch the bus. Mama lets me sit by the window. It’s a very long ride.
When we get off the bus, we’re in a small town instead of the big city. As Mama and I walk along, we see people working in their yards and boys and girls riding their bikes. One time we saw three silly chickens running in circles and squawking.
Finally we reach Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Grandma kisses us and hugs us as though we haven’t seen each other for a year. Next she exclaims, “Daisies! They’re Papa’s favorites! You go upstairs and see him while I put them in a vase.”
We climb the high, wide stairs, make a half turn on the landing, and open the door at the top. Grandpa is the same as he was last week. He lies on his back. Sometimes his eyes are open; sometimes they are shut. Sometimes he breathes normally; other times he makes poof noises. He never moves.
Mama kisses him and says, “Hello, Papa.”
I say, “Hi, Grandpa,” and kiss him too.
It used to be that when we came to visit Grandpa he would be all over the house and the yard. He’d untie Grandma’s apron, then chuckle when she pretended to scold him. Sometimes he’d lift me onto his shoulders and prance through the house, and he always remembered to duck when we went through the doorways. He’d give me rides in the wheelbarrow, or he’d push me in the rope swing as high as the leaves in the old tree. Then we’d sit on the steps while he told me stories about long, long ago when he visited his grandpa. Sometimes we’d go downtown for ice cream or some other treat for Grandma.
That was how it used to be. Now Grandpa’s hands don’t move, and his feet don’t move.
Today Mama sits on the chair by his bed and picks up the thick history book from Grandpa’s table. Finding the right place, she begins to read aloud. Grandpa loves history.
Mama turns the page and smiles at me, and I know that it’s all right to go play, so I do. Downstairs, I talk to Grandma while she makes cookies. Then I go outside and around the house to the gravel walkway. There, hanging from the biggest old tree, is the rope swing that Grandpa put up before Mama was born. I swing and wonder what the world was like before Mama. I can’t imagine it. And once there was a world without Grandpa! That’s even harder to imagine.
Later Grandma calls me inside. “I’ve made oatmeal scones,” Grandma says, “and I have hot soup ready. Where shall we eat, Emily?”
“Out here,” I answer.
She puts food on the picnic table, and I carry out bowls and things. Then she calls upstairs to Mama.
Mama stops reading, and she comes down. As we eat, she and Grandma talk about something that Grandpa did when Mama was as young as I am now. It helps me remember when Grandpa still acted like everybody else.
One time, early in the morning after Mama and I had spent the night with him and Grandma, Grandpa and I went to buy a morning newspaper because the funnies are the best thing to read before breakfast. On the way, he found a big broken branch that made a good walking stick. He pretended to hobble with it, then did a silly hop, skip, and jump. We had more fun than anything!
When we got home, Grandma took one look at Grandpa’s stick and said, “You get that dirty old thing out of the house!” Grandpa just laughed. He lifted her off the floor and swung her around.
“Put me down!” she screeched, but she was laughing too.
Grandpa kissed her before we went into the living room to read the funnies to each other.
That’s the way it used to be.
After we finish the soup and scones, we all go upstairs again. The daisies sit beside Grandpa’s book. Grandma pats his foot. “I’ll bring your lunch up,” she says.
Mama kisses him goodbye. “I’ll come next Saturday,” she promises.
“I’ll be back, too,” I tell him.
And then the greatest thing happens: Grandpa blinks!
All three of us see both his eyes slowly close and open. We look at each other and laugh. Then we pat Grandpa’s shoulder.
Downstairs, everybody kisses and hugs. Even Mama and I kiss and hug each other as if one of us is going and one is staying behind. When we leave, Grandma stands on the front steps to wave. As we turn the corner a block away, we see her still lifting her arm high.
We catch the bus. Mama puts our glass for daisies into her purse and her arm over the back of my seat. We look out the window. It’s getting late. We see lights here and there. At last we are in the city. Lights and noise and people and cars are everywhere.

Years later, Sister Nadauld and I were called to preside over the Switzerland Geneva Mission—also a French-speaking area. Many of our missionaries had musical talents, and we soon saw that music training and learning a foreign language, especially one as lyrical as French, were complementary skills. We shared with them my experience of singing before teaching and invited them to learn simple hymn duets that they could sing before beginning their gospel lessons. They reported back that it had the same wonderful impact on teaching with the Spirit that Elder Robertson and I had experienced some 40 years earlier.

The Holy Spirit has the power to guide. A 15-year-old girl felt that she needed to find new friends. She wrote to the Young Women office, “Now, I don’t know if you have ever had to change friends, but it honestly was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.” She decided to put her problem in the hands of the Lord, and she also counseled with her parents. She says that after several months “she wanted to just give up.”
One afternoon she was casually talking to her seminary teacher, and she confided her problem to him. Then he said, “I really don’t know why I am asking you this, but do you happen to know these girls?”
This girl answered with a yes. And then he said, “Have you ever thought about being friends with them?”
“I told him that there was no way that I could fit in with them. He then asked me if he could talk to one of the girls. I decided I would let him, if he promised not to embarrass me.
“Well, that next day I received a phone call from one of the girls. Now, you have to understand that this girl was on student council, and I hate to use the term, but she was ‘extremely popular.’ She asked if I would like to go to the basketball game with her that night. It was one of the funnest, most peaceful nights of my life. The next day at school, she introduced me to two other girls. We all instantly became friends.”
She concludes by saying, “I don’t know about you, but I would much rather have the Lord, who knows the outcome of everything, direct my life than me, who just sees things as they are at the time. He is right by our side, walking us through life, even when we feel so alone.”

Jenny brushed her hair until it was smooth, then held it in place with a bow her mother had made to match her new dress. She twirled in front of the mirror on her closet door, eager to go to school. Today was her ninth birthday. That meant that Mrs. Jordan would put her name on the board and her class would sing “Happy Birthday” to her. And, on birthdays, Mrs. Jordan always let the class play an extra fifteen minutes after lunch. When they were through playing games, Jenny would pass out the chocolate chip cookies her mother was sending to school with her.
Then, after school, her friends Carrie and Susie were coming home with her for dinner. They were going to have pizza and cake and ice cream.
Her mother opened the bedroom door and held her arms out for a hug. “Happy Birthday, Jenny.”
“Mom, it’s going to be a fun day.” Jenny hugged her mother hard.
“I know, honey.” Mom straightened the bow in Jenny’s hair and turned to leave the room. “Everyone else is eating breakfast. Hurry, or you’ll be late.”
Jenny grabbed her backpack and her jacket and carried them into the kitchen.
“Happy Birthday, Jenny,” shouted her sisters, Heather and Janie, and her brother, Joshua. Her father got up from the table and pulled out a chair for her just like he did for Mom when they went to a nice restaurant.
When Jenny went to her classroom, she carefully set the box of cookies and her backpack on her desk and turned around to look at the chalkboard. Written there was:
Mary and JennyHappy Birthday, girls!
The smile left Jenny’s face. She had not known that it was Mary’s birthday, too. Mary had been in the class only a couple of weeks. No one had tried to make friends with her. In fact, most of them whispered about her clothes, which always had torn places and were never very clean. Her hair looked as though it were never combed. Because she never tried to talk to anyone during recess and usually played by herself, everyone else felt that she was unfriendly and wanted to be left alone.
Jenny had felt uncomfortable about it, though, especially after last week’s family home evening lesson about trying to see good in others. Still, she felt as if her special day had been spoiled.
Mary was the next student to enter the classroom. Her hair was a little neater than usual. She sat at her desk and didn’t even look at the board.
Jenny could see that she didn’t have anything to share with the class for her birthday, so she asked, “Mary, didn’t anyone tell you to bring something to share with the class? We always bring something on our birthdays.”
Mary looked up. “I couldn’t. My mother is too sick to cook.”
Jenny looked at the blue box that held her cookies. She felt ashamed. What if her mother was sick? She wouldn’t have had cookies or a new dress. She went over to Mary’s desk. “My mom made cookies for me to share with the class after lunch. Would you like to help me pass them out when it’s time?”
Mary looked up at Jenny. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. It will be fun.”
“I’d like that. My mother has been sick for a long time.” Mary’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I probably won’t even get a birthday cake unless my dad buys one for me.”
Jenny couldn’t imagine a birthday party without a birthday cake. She suddenly had an idea. “Mary, you watch the cookies. I have to find Mrs. Jordan.”
Hurrying out of the classroom, Jenny saw her teacher at the end of the hall and ran to tell her about her idea. Mrs. Jordan gave her a note to go to the office to call her mother.
After explaining about it being Mary’s birthday, too, and about Mary’s sick mother, Jenny asked, “May I bring Mary home and let her share my birthday?”
“I’ll go see Mary’s mother and find out if Mary can come to dinner. When I pick you and Susie and Carrie up after school, I’ll let you know what her mother said. Now both of you have a nice day. And, honey—” Mom paused. “I love you.”
That evening four girls stuffed themselves with pizza, played games, and fixed each other’s hair. They giggled and told stories. Jenny had been afraid that Carrie and Susie would be mad at her for inviting Mary to her party, but after Mary had told them a story about her former school, Carrie leaned over toward Jenny. “She’s fun. I like her.”
“Me, too,” Jenny said, and she meant it.
“Girls, it’s time for cake and ice cream.
The girls followed Mom into the dining room.
“Oh, look!” said Carrie. “They’re beautiful!”
On the table were two cakes ablaze with candles. Mary’s eyes opened wide. “I’ve never had a cake with icing flowers.”
Jenny looked at Mary. She no longer looked like the unhappy girl who had been an outsider in their class for the past two weeks. Jenny hugged her mother and whispered in her ear, “Thank you for making both our birthdays special.”
The girls ate pieces of both cakes with big scoops of ice cream. Then Carrie and Susie begged Jenny to open the gifts they had brought her. Mom slipped her a gift to give to Mary.
The party ended with more laughter and singing. Jenny’s mother left the room and came back with Mary’s sweater and a cake box. “Mary, I promised your mother that I would have you home by seven o’clock. We don’t want her to worry.” She handed the box to Mary. “You can share the rest of the cake with your family.”
Mary set the box on the table and hugged Mom. “Thank you. It was the best birthday I’ve ever had!” She turned to Jenny and hugged her, too. “Jenny, thank you for sharing your birthday with me.” She paused a moment, then said in a soft voice, “You’re nice.”
Jenny thought that that was her best birthday present of all.

Behind the auditorium was a doubly large cultural hall, with offices and rooms off to one side. Shirley Rudd found herself cornered back in those inner reaches of the huge building. She was the one who changed all the bouncy, modern, wedge haircuts to 19th century pioneer bobs at the nap of the neck.
“At first I had to do 40 or 50 hairdos—that was during dress rehearsal. Then most of the kids got the idea and started doing their own hair. By closing night, I just did a few repair jobs, helped some of the guys change from young, black-haired dancers to powdered-haired grandpas for different scenes, and that was it.”

Elder Peterson was born in Roy, Utah, on 6 October 1939 to Rulon and Naomi Skeen Peterson. He and his wife of 39 years, Joan Jensen Peterson, have reared six children, which has been a rich and rewarding experience. A year after he and Sister Peterson were married in the Logan Utah Temple, their first child, Linda, was born with spina bifida. The experience rapidly brought the couple a deepened maturity. Their faith increased as they saw prayers answered and small miracles occur in the life of this daughter. Today Linda has served a mission, taught at the Missionary Training Center, graduated from Brigham Young University, married in the temple, and is the mother of two.

Bertha came into my life when I was thirteen years old and just beginning junior high school. How well I remember that first day of school. The building was large with endless halls and rows and rows of student lockers. Most of the students had come on school buses from small farms and neighborhoods. This was certainly not a big city group, but we were still anxious to be popular and accepted. There were so many of us that we were going to be using a former elementary school across the street for additional classrooms. I alternated between excitement and panic at the thought of finding my way around from one classroom to another.
I had worked hard all summer baby-tending and getting up at 5:00 A.M. to pick strawberries and cherries so I could earn enough money to buy nice school clothes. But even in all my fine new clothes, I felt awkward and uneasy.
My friends and I grouped together, trying to act in a casual manner to hide the fear we felt but didn’t dare admit. We were in awe as the older students moved confidently through the halls laughing and teasing each other. It was a relief when the bell finally rang and we all gathered in the big assembly hall where it was announced that each new student was to be assigned for the day to an older “big brother or sister” to show them around. The name of each new student was called out, along with the name of his or her “buddy” for the day.
When my name was called along with Bertha Brown, I heard several of my friends gasp. I had no idea who Bertha Brown was, but it was obvious that some of them did. As soon as we were excused to go meet our “big sisters,” I was surrounded by girls telling me to hide quickly before Bertha could find me. It was clear that to be assigned to Bertha was the worst possible fate. I was so confused. Part of me said not to hide—that would be a mean thing to do. But another part of me wanted to be popular with the other girls, and that’s the side that won.
So the game began—the hiding, the giggling, and the running from imagined danger. We managed to escape from Bertha for the moment, but not before I caught a glimpse of her. It was true that she was not pretty. She was even a little scary to look at with her unkempt, dry hair. Her clothes looked like something a grandmother would wear, and her shoes were brown and ugly.
All day the big story was how poor little Sheron had to hide from Bertha. The one time that I really saw Bertha’s face she looked so sad. How could we be so mean to her? I thought. She hadn’t done anything to deserve it. There we were, a whole group of girls, running away from one lonely person. I knew that what we were doing was wrong. I didn’t want to play that awful game. What I really wanted was to talk to Bertha and tell her I was sorry. I knew that she must be embarrassed. But I wasn’t brave enough, so I let everyone else lead me. But oh, I was miserable!
Later that day I forgot about Bertha when I was called to Mrs. Jensen’s office. She had been my very favorite teacher in elementary school, and now she was a counselor at the junior high. I could hardly wait to see her. All the way to her office I imagined all kinds of wonderful things. Maybe she wanted me to be her special assistant. Maybe she had something important that she wanted me to do. I almost ran through the halls in my eagerness to see Mrs. Jensen. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her.
When I walked into her office, I could see tears in her eyes, and my heart nearly broke when she looked straight at me and said, “Of all the girls coming into seventh grade, I assigned Bertha to you because I thought that you were the one girl who would be kind to her!”
All the misery of the day came crashing down on me, and I sobbed as I realized that Mrs. Jensen did have an important assignment for me and I had failed her. I had failed Bertha. But, most of all, I had betrayed myself. The next day everyone else forgot about the game—and Bertha. I never did. I rarely saw her after that day. When I did catch a glimpse of her all alone, I wanted desperately to tell her how sorry I was. But I was too ashamed and too young in my understanding of compassion to know how much it would mean to her.
I never saw Bertha again after junior high, and yet she has been a very important part of my life. Even today I wish that I had found the courage to be her friend. How do you say you are sorry to someone that you have never spoken to and yet hurt so deeply that more than thirty years later you cannot forget?
I finally dealt with what I had done to Bertha one Easter when I was studying about the atonement of Christ. How grateful I am to the Savior for his sacrifice and for the realization that through his wonderful gift I can finally lay that burden down and find peace and forgiveness—not that I will forget, but that I can now use the lesson to improve my life and bless others.
Because of Bertha, I have never again knowingly been unkind to anyone, and I have tried to teach my children the same. I have a special place in my heart for those who don’t seem to fit in, for those who are lonely and forgotten. Because of Bertha, it is easier for me to see beyond the surface and understand the heart of those I meet. I have tried to make it up to her by the way I treat others, but I will always wish that I could see her and say, “I’m sorry, Bertha.”

Alan rested his arms wearily on the edge of the pool and gulped deep breaths of air. He’d lost to Chris again—by a tenth of a second. Alan wished he could beat his teammate in the 50-yard freestyle race just once!
As Alan hoisted himself from the water, Chris clapped him on the back. “Good race,” he said. “The two of us ought to take first and second this Saturday against Brookston. If we do, the team could get the district trophy.”
Alan wished he felt as confident about winning as Chris did. Instead, he groaned inwardly at the thought of letting the team down. He’d have to do well in both the 50-freestyle race and the 400-freestyle relay for the team to win, and he was afraid he couldn’t do it.
That evening when Alan sat down to supper, he tried not to think about swimming. But his brother Pete’s trophies kept staring down at him from the trophy shelf. Then Pete came into the kitchen, plopped into his chair, and immediately launched into his swim report. “What a workout we had at the pool today! But the coach clocked me at one minute thirteen in the 100-yard breaststroke. At that rate I could break the district record on Saturday.”
Pete turned to Alan. “How about you guys? Think you’ll bring home a trophy?”
“Chris thinks we will, but I’m not sure,” Alan answered. “They’re counting on me to take second in the 50-yard freestyle.”
“Why not a first?” Pete asked.
“You know I can’t beat Chris. Every time I take off a tenth of a second, he does too.”
“If you keep thinking like that you’ll never win a race,” Pete chided. “When you’re competing in a swimming meet, you have to think of yourself as a winner.”
“Sure, sure,” Alan muttered, pushing back his chair with an “Excuse me.”
Alan hurried down the basement steps and went over to the exercise mat where Pete kept his weights. Maybe I should try using them, he thought. Alan had watched Pete work out, so he knew what to do.
Just as Alan was about to lift one of his brother’s weights, Pete came down the stairs. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m going to lift some weights,” Alan replied as he got into position.
“You don’t start lifting weights three days before a meet. If you do, your muscles might tighten up, and you won’t have a chance of winning.”
Alan put down the weights and went upstairs to his bedroom. I might as well face it, he thought. I’ll never be as good as Pete or Chris. If only Saturday were over …
The day of the meet, as Pete walked to the locker room with Alan, Pete delivered his familiar pep talk: “Remember now, don’t start thinking you’re going to lose. I’ve been watching you, and you can swim just as fast as Chris. You can start adding your own trophies to the family collection.”
Pete clapped Alan on the back, and the younger boy hurried off to change into his suit. It’s easy for Pete to talk about beating Chris, he thought, but I’m the one who has to swim the race!
When the time came to swim the 50-freestyle, Brookston was slightly ahead of Lakewood in team points. Chris slapped Alan on the shoulder good-naturedly and said, “Don’t forget—we’re going for first and second.”
When the starter’s gun sounded, Alan made a good, long, entering dive and came up to the turn even with Chris. Alan knew Chris would pull ahead now—he always did on the second length. Alan sucked in air and choked on some water. For an instant his rhythm broke, and he felt Chris touch the wall before him. What was even worse, the swimmer from Brookston had edged out both of them. That meant Lakewood had to win both the backstroke and the freestyle relay to win.
Alan helped Chris stretch out for the backstroke race, working his arm muscles and drawing out his legs. Chris didn’t disappoint the team. He pulled ahead even before he reached the first turn. And when he smacked his hand against the wall for the finish, the timer flashed a record-breaking 28.6 seconds.
But Chris got out of the pool white-faced, clutching his wrist. “I hit too hard. Something’s wrong!”
Quickly the coach led Chris to the locker room, while the team murmured anxiously. When the coach came out of the locker room, he was alone and he headed straight for Alan.
“The trainer’s taking Chris for an X-ray, Alan. We’ll put Tony Ramos in as third swimmer, and you’ll swim anchor.” The coach gave him an encouraging smile. “You can do it, Alan. You’re as good as Chris is—maybe even better. I’ve been watching your progress. Now, get out there and get that win for us!”
Alan swallowed hard. He wasn’t “as good as Chris.” And he’d have to be even better if he was to beat the swimmer from Brookston! Alan’s eyes moved up into the stands. He saw Pete pointing his thumb up in the air in a sign that meant, “Get in there and win!”
As they lined up for the start, Alan looked over the Brookston team. Sure enough, the power swimmer who had beaten Chris and him earlier would be Brookston’s anchorman. What chance did Lakewood have!
But the Lakewood team put up a battle. Alan watched his teammates churn up and down, splashing water as far as two lanes away. Lakewood fell behind on the third leg, though, and Brookston’s anchor swimmer got off the block before Alan did. Not wanting to let his team down, Alan resolved to do his best. He poured all his strength into each kick, each stroke. Then, at the turn, Alan saw that he was almost even with the Brookston swimmer! Somewhere, deep down inside, Alan felt a new confidence.
I’m not going to let him beat me! he decided. His legs ached, his arms hurt, but he pulled and kicked harder than he’d ever done before. He began a rhythmic chant to himself: Pull and win. Pull and win. With a final surging stroke he hit the touch pad. The electronic timer flashed the results, and a great shout broke from the Lakewood team. They’d won!
Alan’s teammates pounded him on the back, and he heard the coach exclaim, “You did it!”
Now Pete was beside him, his eyes dancing. “Hey, Brother, what got into you?” he asked.
“Oh, I just got to thinking,” Alan answered.
“That’ll do it!”
Alan nodded happily as he went to get the trophy that just might be the start of his own collection at home.

The big day Neal was waiting for finally arrived. All week long he had anxiously watched his dad build a tree house for him, and now it was almost finished.
“Can I sleep in it tonight, Dad?” Neal asked, dancing around the tree trunk while waiting for the answer.
The door of the tree house opened and his dad, crouching low, came out and climbed down the ladder. “Well, it’s done,” he said, collecting his tools. “Do you think you’re ready to sleep up there?”
Neal’s face lit up. “I sure am. Can I?”
“I guess a boy who has just turned seven is big enough to sleep out all night,” Dad answered. “Get your sleeping bag and whatever else you need and then wash up for supper.”
After Neal finished eating, he rushed out and climbed up into his tree house. What a great place! he thought. When Neal looked out of either window, he could see the branches waving in the gentle breeze. He rolled his sleeping bag out on the wooden floor and plumped up his pillow. He was set!
To help pass the time until darkness and bedtime, Neal played in the sandbox that his dad had made under the tree house. Long shadows crept across the grass as he finished making the last road for his small cars. By the time he had all his things put away, the sky had darkened, and a few stars were blinking brightly.
Neal crawled into his sleeping bag and zipped it up halfway.
“You all settled?” Dad asked, opening the door a crack.
“Yeah, Dad,” Neal answered. Even though he was happy to finally be sleeping in his tree house, he felt lonely when Dad left. Soon his eyes became used to the dark and he could see the shadows of the trees dancing on the inside walls of his house. Neal played a game, trying to find the shapes of animals in the strange shadows. But before long his eyes became heavy and he drifted off to sleep …
During the night Neal was awakened by a loud clatter. His blue eyes widened with fear as he lay still, waiting to hear the sound again. Then he heard a garbage can rolling around in the wind. The tree house creaked.
“Whew!” Neal said, crawling further into his sleeping bag. “It sounds like a storm coming.”
The rain began to pound on the roof and against the windows. And the tree branches scraped the sides of the tree house, making a scratching sound.
Neal huddled in his bag and wished he were in his own bed. But he was too frightened to climb down the ladder and run to the house that seemed so far away.
Neal’s ears perked up when he heard a new sound. One of the boards on the ladder was creaking. He saw a yellow light bobbing through the window. Neal’s eyes darted from the light to the door. It rattled slightly and slowly began to open.
The frightened boy scooted back into the corner, his sleeping bag pulled up to his chin, a scream frozen in his throat. Through the opening door appeared a bright light. Then, with relief flooding over him, Neal saw it was only a lantern, and Dad’s smiling face was behind it.
“Hi, Neal,” Dad said. “I couldn’t sleep in the house so I thought I’d come out here. Do you mind?”
Neal smiled. “Nope, I’m glad you came,” he replied and slid his bag over so Dad could spread out his sleeping bag.
The lantern’s soft glow made everything in the tree house look friendly and safe. The storm seemed less scary as the two slid down into their bags. They could still hear the rain beating on the roof, and Neal said, “That storm is really loud, huh?”
“Yeah,” his dad answered. “I like to be with someone when it’s storming, don’t you?”
But Neal only mumbled an answer, “Uh huh,” because already he was drifting off to sleep, snuggled up next to his dad.

At a special conference held in Great Salt Lake City on August 28 and 29, 1852, Richard was called to serve a mission in Hindoostan (Hindustan), India. For four years the Ballantynes had been hungry. Their clothing was inadequate to protect them against the harsh winters; they had no money and little food. With Richard gone, life would be even harder. Yet Huldah did not hesitate in supporting her husband in this call. She immediately began to prepare clothing for Richard, darning his socks and scrubbing and mending his white shirts. When she discovered that his one suit was totally threadbare, she ripped out the seams of her best homespun skirt, made from material that she had woven and dyed herself. She took Richard’s measurements and carefully tailored a suit for him. That suit was to last him throughout his mission.
Richard was gone for three years. By herself, Huldah cared for their three small children, tilled the land, and made all of the family’s daily necessities. She carded wool and extracted dyes from roots, leaves, bark, vegetable peelings, and cochineal bugs. From beef and mutton tallow, she fashioned her own candles. Scraps of fat, rind, and meat trimmings were saved to make into soap. After soaking and drying potatoes, she grated them to use as starch.
Throughout her life, Huldah quietly loved and took care of her family. She did not serve a mission or even travel far from her own home after she settled in Utah. Yet her influence was deeply felt in the lives of her husband and nine children.

Many years ago when I was a retail executive, we had a night watchman in one of our stores whose teenage daughter had just joined our church. He would often comment on the change that had occurred in the life of his daughter. Her baptism had brought a new spirit into their home. I was attempting to use this event as a base to teach him the gospel.
One evening as I was leaving the store, he was by the exit checking out the late customers who had completed their purchases after the store had closed. I stopped for a minute to visit with him. He immediately commenced to tell me about his daughter. He said, “You know, she just radiates since she joined your church.”
I proceeded to tell him that having a trust in the Lord and conforming our life to the gospel plan does make a change, even in our countenance. Just at that time I noticed two ladies approaching the door with several other customers. They were neatly dressed, and their faces reflected a special glow. As if my eyes were directed, I immediately noticed a “Duty to God” pin on one of the lady’s dresses, which many of our fine young men present to their mothers after achieving this special award. I turned to my friend and said, “Look at those two ladies coming towards the door. They have a different look. They, too, are members of our church.”
He was so caught up in my remark that he rushed over to them and asked, “Are you Mormons?” After confirming this fact, he returned to me shaking his head and saying, “You know, you can tell the difference.” I agree with him. There is a difference in those “who trust in the Lord and do good.”

Take the example of Dr. Blair Bybee. After his call he received additional training in parasitology and nutrition. He was then sent to a Latter-day Saint hospital in a rural area so that he could gain experience in that situation.
Q—How long was this extra training in the rural hospital?
Dr. Mason—Two weeks.
Q—What happens when the health missionary arrives in his field of labor?
Dr. Mason—For the first five months of Elder Bybee’s mission, he performed as any other missionary would. He was a junior companion in a small village. During this time his responsibilities were divided between proselyting (70 percent) and health service (30 percent), as he learned the language and the customs of the Samoan people. Then in January he ended his preparation period and began concentrating on his specific health mission responsibilities. He was assigned by the mission president to create a health education and disease prevention program for all the Saints in Samoa. Appropriate health lessons that had been developed with the help of the BYU faculty and then translated into Samoan during the first five months of his mission were ready for use. He began conducting health seminars in conjunction with district conferences throughout the mission. He is lecturing in village after village—wherever we have a chapel—to members and nonmembers—anyone who wishes to attend—on such subjects as nutrition, alcoholism, baby care, home sanitation, the evils of tobacco, and so forth.

My brother was less-active for a while. I tried almost everything I could think of to get him back to church. My parents were trying as well. I was almost ready to give up when a thought came to my mind in the middle of sacrament meeting. I followed the prompting, and a few weeks later he started to come for only sacrament meeting. It made me feel wonderful that he was coming back. I know that my Father in Heaven had answered my prayers and was helping my brother and me along in this obstacle in our lives. I know that if you pray for guidance, then Heavenly Father will indeed help you. Just don’t give up.
Hanna M., 15, Denmark

That evening, Holly went to the LDS dance, which is one of the highlights of social life for young Latter-day Saints in Calgary. After the dance, she brought home many of her friends to meet her grandfather, who received them with graciousness and humor. He made them all feel like old and valued friends, and they also felt the powerful witness of the Spirit that they were in the presence of a beloved servant of God.

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.”

For 50 years, another sister yearned for a relationship with her father. “Growing up,” she says, “there were my brothers and my dad, and then there was me—the only daughter. All I ever wanted was to be ‘good enough’ for my dad.
“Then my mom passed away! She was my only liaison between my dad and me.
“One day,” the sister said, “I heard a voice say, ‘Invite your dad and take him to the temple with you.’ That was the beginning of a twice-a-month date with my daddy to the house of the Lord. I told my dad I loved him. He told me he loved me too.
“Spending time in the house of the Lord has healed us. My mom could not help us on earth. It took her being on the other side of the veil to help mend what was broken. The temple completed our journey to wholeness as an eternal family.”
The father says, “The temple dedication was a great spiritual experience for me and my only daughter. Now we attend together and feel our love strengthen.”

I was excited to go to youth conference, but then I found out there were lots of rules—for example, no cell phones and no going outside alone. It seemed like adults were constantly keeping an eye on us. But I had a great time, made a lot of friends, worked on a service project, and learned about the gospel.
During a testimony meeting on the last day of youth conference, one of the leaders talked about how much he loves us, the youth in the stake.
If you love us, why do we have so many restrictions here? I thought. At that same moment, like he could read my mind, he answered my question.
Leaders put rules in place, he said, not to annoy us but for our safety. The moment he said that, I was touched by the Spirit. I understood that Heavenly Father gives us commandments for the same reason. They are not to annoy us; they are to help us return safely to Him (see Doctrine and Covenants 82:2–9).
The Holy Ghost touched me and helped me to know that this is true.
Serge P., Île-de-France, France

Ryan started learning about music when he was two years old. His parents put a set of stereo headphones on him and, instead of yanking them off, he was fascinated. He started piano lessons at seven and had to be pushed into practicing like most people. As he learned to play, he and his mother discovered his talent. “I never did like the endings of pieces in books. I would just start making up new endings.” Several years later they discovered that Ryan had perfect pitch. Then he started writing music and performing on a variety of keyboard instruments. He has won numerous awards for his musical talent—composing, performing, and singing. He was voted the most talented in his ninth-grade class.

I saw a young man nearly overwhelmed by a new call not long ago. The Lord had inspired His servant to call him to be the president of a stake. The young man had never been a bishop. He had never served in a stake presidency. The stake had in it many men of greater maturity and experience.

He was humbled when he heard the call. His wife through tears said to the servant of the Lord who called him, “Are you sure?” Her husband said quietly that he would serve. His wife nodded her support, tears streaming down her face. As you might have done at such a time, he wanted to talk with his father, who was far away. He called him that afternoon on the telephone. His father has been a dairy farmer all his life. He raised the boy into a man through milking cows and letting his son observe him stop to talk with neighbors to see how they were doing. The next morning, in his first talk as a stake president, this is how he recounted the conversation with his father:

“Many of you that know me know I am a man of few words. I must have gotten that from my father. As I called him yesterday to let him know that I was being called as a stake president, his one response to me was, ‘Well, you better do a lot of praying.’ That was his counsel to me. What better counsel could he give?”