Gospel Story Finder

“In the Celestial Room, I felt an assurance that I will be healed,” Domingo Servito who faced a fatal health condition testified.
He miraculously survived an eight-hour, high-risk major operation after the Open House, and a few weeks later he was able to attend the Dedication, and celebrated his 68th birthday the day after the Dedication. He bears witness that, “when you feel the assurance of the Spirit, it will truly happen.”

Although my father had been almost completely out of my thoughts up to this point in my life, soon after my marriage a desire to do genealogical work for my ancestors made me think of him more and more. My patriarchal blessing told me that the time would come for me to do the work for my ancestors through genealogy and temple ordinances and that “means and opportunities” would be provided for me to accomplish that work.
After I had joined the Church, my brother, who had moved by then to France, had informed me that my father had accumulated facts, names, and dates on the Ainsa family. I resolved to write to my father, hoping to gain the necessary information to tie my genealogy from my grandparents to my paternal great-grandparents. I sent him a letter asking for details.
His reply consisted of a letter with only general information—and a request that I not bother him again. I felt resentful and angry, but I continued to pray that the “means and opportunities” necessary to do my family history work would be provided.
Sometime in March 1986, while we were living in Arizona, my father wrote again during a family crisis in which my mother was losing her sight. I was comforted by the care and concern that my mother’s second husband showed her and was again offended at my father’s critical letter. I sent it back to him and indicated that if I couldn’t receive pleasant letters instead of criticism, I would rather not communicate at all. Within three weeks, my father answered the letter, telling me, “Your brother will inform you of my death when it occurs. I don’t intend to write to you again.”
Nine months passed after I received the letter. Again I prayed about the admonition in my patriarchal blessing. The answer came unmistakably from the Spirit—I felt I should apologize to my father. I consequently composed a five-page letter to him that detailed the events of the year and that included an apology for my erratic behavior in my previous letter. When I mailed the letter, I prayed that the Lord would soften my father’s heart.
More than two months went by with no answer. Then one day a registered letter arrived. In it, my father asked, “Would you spare ten to twelve days during your upcoming summer vacation to visit me? If you accept, I will send you the money to help meet the cost of your expenses.”
I called my brother in Paris, France, who suggested that I wait a year, since my father had waited thirty-five years to try to see me. But as I prayed with my wife, Angie, we both thought of my patriarchal blessing and knew that my ancestors had waited long enough. I would go this year. My mother’s husband offered to pay for Angie’s trip, as we couldn’t afford it ourselves. My mother-in-law offered to care for our four children in her home in California.
Everything went according to schedule—everything, that is, except for feelings of apprehension. I started worrying that my father might criticize my mother, my wife, or me. He had done it before. How would I handle it this time?
Only when two dedicated home teachers—to whom I will be eternally grateful—came to our home a few days before our departure and gave us a priesthood blessing, did I feel at peace. They blessed my wife that she would be a source of inspiration to me, and they blessed me that I would be receptive to the promptings of the Spirit and would know what to say. I then knew that everything would be all right.
When we arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay, I nervously looked for my father and saw him standing with his wife. He waved his cane at me in recognition. I waved back. Finally, the customs officer told me to proceed. As I walked through the customs door, my father eagerly came toward me. We embraced and kissed each other. As we left the airport terminal, the Spirit told me that the man walking beside me was a different person than I had imagined.
We spent the next few days getting acquainted with one another, laughing together, discovering what we had in common, and becoming friends. Angie and I asked him to record on tape his experiences in his youth and in courting my mother, and we discovered many things about his past. Then, one morning, Angie and I prayed that we would be blessed that day with the right words in asking my father to share with us the Ainsa genealogy and history.
It was my father’s eighty-first birthday. After opening presents at breakfast, he excused himself and came back with an object hidden underneath a towel. He handed me a box and said, “This is the least I can do after all these years. Somehow I feel that I have to make it up to you.” Inside the box was a beautiful watch.
Thirty minutes later, as we were upstairs sitting around my father’s oak desk, I inserted a blank tape into the cassette recorder and asked him to tell me about my ancestors. He talked for a few minutes, then stopped. “It’s a waste,” he said.
I panicked. “Lord, please help me,” I prayed. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.” Then I asked my father, “Why do you say it is a waste?”
“Because I have it in print,” he replied. My heart began to beat faster as he reached for a drawer in his desk, opened it, pulled out a folder, and handed me a sheet of paper with a list of names on it. “These are your ancestors on my father’s side,” he said, “and you’re welcome to this list.” I glanced quickly through it; it contained the names of his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, as well as those of distant relatives.
“What about your mother? Have you compiled a list on her side of the family?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Your grandmother’s lineage is not important,” he muttered, brushing aside my inquiry. I replied that were it not for my grandmother, he wouldn’t be here, to which my father said, “Well, if it is that important to you, you can have it.” With that, he gave me an envelope containing names scribbled on several sheets of paper and said, “As a matter of fact, you might as well have everything.” He placed the folder in my hand.
I opened it and, as tears began to blur my vision, I read through several lists of names of distant relatives. Inside were pictures of my grandmother, my grandfather, and others. I wept openly. During the past twenty-one years, I had prayed on many occasions for this day. The Lord had heard my requests and had answered them at the appropriate time.
“Why are you crying?” my father asked.
“Because I am happy to be here,” I said.
At that moment, he, too, began to cry. He leaned his head on my shoulder and took my hand between his. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am sorry for what I did. I was wrong. I was never a father to you. During all those years, I never bothered to find out who you were. Will you ever forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you—it is forgiven and forgotten,” I uttered between sobs. As I embraced him, the Spirit whispered softly, “I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men” (D&C 64:10). We were at peace. All the years of separation, loneliness, and turmoil melted away. He knew who I was. He had found a son. And I had finally found my father.

Dan Jones, a mite of a man physically and a college graduate who left the field of learning to become a sailor, sailed the five oceans and had set foot in almost all of the ports. He ran a steamboat called The Maid of Iowa up and down the Mississippi River, and it was seamanship that brought Dan Jones to the Prophet Joseph Smith. One day he landed a boatload of Saints in Nauvoo, and the Prophet came to the wharf to meet him. He walked up to the little captain, put his hand on his shoulder, and said, “God bless this little man.” Dan Jones never forgot that benediction. He joined the Church that year to become one of the Prophet’s most trusted friends. He was with his beloved Prophet in the Carthage Jail the night before the martyrdom when the Prophet asked, “Brother Jones, are you afraid to die?”
Dan Jones replied, “has it come to that, Brother Joseph? Being engaged in such a work as we’re engaged in, I don’t think death would have any terror for me.”
The Prophet said, “Brother Jones, you shall not die, but you shall go to Wales and fulfill the mission assigned you.” After the martyrdom Dan Jones sailed for Wales, where he performed a most successful mission, setting an all-time record for convert baptisms. He testified, “I have come in obedience to the counsel of the martyred prophet, as a messenger to my native land to bear testimony of the work for which his brother Hyrum died, and which he sealed with his own blood.” (See Thomas C. Romney, The Gospel in Action, p. 89.)

In 1982, because of my continued alcohol abuse, my wife, who had never failed in her faith, filed for divorce. At the time my family was living in Oklahoma, USA, but I had returned to Illinois, USA, where I had been raised. I had reached the point where I was about to lose the only thing that truly mattered to me: my family.
I began praying on my knees morning and evening to a God who I was no longer sure existed or, if He did, I figured He had long ago forgotten me. Yet for three months I prayed faithfully. Early one morning, while I was deep in prayer, a feeling of great relief came upon me and I knew that God lived, that He knew me, and that He loved me. I also knew I would never touch another drop of alcohol.
That very evening I received a call from my wife to let me know she was going to mail me the divorce papers to sign. During that conversation she suddenly said, “There is something very different about you. I don’t believe you are ever going to drink again, and I am going to tear up these papers.” We reunited, and two years later she gave birth to our third son.

Imagine that you are sitting in an elders quorum, high priests group, or Relief Society meeting. The teacher is just beginning a “Teachings for Our Time” lesson when President Gordon B. Hinckley walks into the room and takes a seat. Everyone turns and looks at the prophet, not knowing what to say. President Hinckley breaks the silence. He excuses himself for being a few minutes late and asks if he might share some counsel with the members in attendance.
Now imagine that the teacher nods in President Hinckley’s direction, smiles, and goes on with his or her lesson. A few members raise their hands and share lengthy comments and personal experiences—without any mention of the prophet sitting in their midst.
About 40 minutes later, you can bear it no longer. You raise your hand. When the teacher calls on you, you say, “Um, I wonder … could we hear from President Hinckley now?”
The teacher looks at the clock. “Oh!” he or she exclaims. “I had so much prepared. It seems like we never have enough time to cover it all. Well, uh … let me conclude, and then we’ll hear a few words from President Hinckley.”
After President Hinckley says a few words, the teacher thanks everyone for participating. Someone says a prayer, and everyone files out of the room.

“Right before I came on my mission,” said Elder Robert Hockett of the Griffin (Georgia) Ward, who will also serve in Rome, “I was made senior companion to a 30-year-old man who had just been baptized. I remember sitting with him as he told a family about hearing the missionaries read from the Book of Mormon, how he knew it was what he’d been looking for for more than 20 years. It was a very spiritual experience, and very humbling, to be assigned to teach a man older than me how to do home teaching.”

“Mom, I shouldn’t have to do all of these dishes!” Roxanne complained. “David didn’t do them last night, and now I have to do his dishes too. Can’t he help me?”
“David is helping me with something else right now,” Mom said.
“But it’s not fair!” Roxanne said loudly.
“Please speak nicely,” Mom said.
Just then, David poked his head around the corner, laughing and making faces. “Yeah,” he whispered so Mom couldn’t hear. “Speak nicely!”
Roxanne put her hand under the running faucet and threw a handful of water at David.
“Roxanne!” Mom exclaimed.
Roxanne tried to explain, but Mom sent her to her room. Roxanne lay on her bed until Mom came in to talk.
“Roxanne, how do you feel right now?”
“Angry.”
“Would you rather feel happy?” Mom asked.
“Well, yes,” Roxanne said.
“I know I asked you to do more dishes than normal, and that’s hard,” Mom said. “And I know it isn’t always easy to get along with your brother. But don’t forget that you’re always in charge of your feelings.”
Roxanne thought. Even though she would rather feel happy, it wasn’t easy to let go of her anger.
“It’s hard to change how I feel,” Roxanne said.
“I understand,” Mom agreed. “I was feeling upset because we have visitors coming tomorrow, and I’m worried that we won’t be ready. But then I remembered that I would rather be happy, so I said a prayer and chose to feel good instead.”
Mom gave Roxanne a quick hug. “I need your help tonight,” she said. “When you feel better, I hope you will join me in the kitchen.”
Roxanne did want to help Mom. She knelt down by her bed. At first she didn’t feel like praying. Then she started telling Heavenly Father how she felt and asked Him to help her be happy again. She remembered how tired Mom looked and decided to pray for her too.
After her prayer, Roxanne felt calm enough to go back into the kitchen. As she walked in, Mom smiled and handed her a sponge.
Roxanne eyed the stacks of dishes in both sinks and on the counter. She sighed, then she started washing, one dish at a time. Soon, the chore didn’t seem so bad. And before the first sink was empty, she was even humming a little.

He said, “I have a book that will help you prepare, and I want you to have my copy.” It was a book by another Apostle in the Church called A Marvelous Work and a Wonder.
I studied that book along with the Bible. Through this study, I got answers to many questions, as well as a desire to pray. Based on what I’d read about Joseph Smith (see Joseph Smith—History 1:5–19), I felt sure that God would also answer my prayer.
I knelt by my bedside and called out to God with all my heart and soul. I told Him that I was seeking the truth, and then I waited for my heavenly messenger. Nothing happened. I tried again. Still nothing. Finally, I simply asked God if the things I was reading and studying were true.
After my prayer, I began thinking of all I had learned. While reading the two books my LDS friends had given me, I had discovered answers. That felt good. Ever since I went to Israel, I’d wanted to know more about Jesus. Now I did. That felt good, too. Suddenly I realized God was answering my prayer. He loved me enough to send friends and books to tell me about the Restoration of the gospel, and I felt good. How would I feel if the Lord had literally told me the same thing? I would feel the same way. That was my answer.

This incident happened during World War II. I was serving on a four-man agriculture advisory committee to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and was chief executive officer of the National Council of Farmer Cooperatives, a federation of 4,600 farmers’ marketing organizations located in every state of the Union and in Puerto Rico.
Because of the demands of the war, materials used in farming were in short supply. With the help of the board of directors, we had organized a National Committee for Farm Production Supplies to help focus the attention of heads of government agencies on the needs of farmers. If they were to produce to the maximum, meet the challenge of the president of the United States that “food will win the war,” they must have adequate production supplies.
I had gone to my office at 1731 “I” Street N.W. early to prepare for the meeting at the White House and also the meeting of the committee in the hope that I would get much work done before office hours began and the telephone started ringing.
I had just arrived at my desk when the telephone rang. A total stranger on the other end of the line introduced himself as a prominent businessman from Chicago. He invited me to have lunch with him at a downtown hotel. I told him I was too busy for lunch, but he was so sincere and earnest that I finally agreed, and so at one o’clock I faced him across the luncheon table at the Washington Hotel in downtown Chicago.
After introductions he said, “I suppose you wonder why I have invited you to lunch inasmuch as I am a total stranger.”
I said, “Yes, I have been wondering.”
Then he said this: “Earlier in the week I came out of a businessmen’s luncheon in Chicago and while talking with some of my friends, I told them that I was going to Washington, D.C., to set up an office and hire a young man to take charge of the office and represent our corporation in the nation’s capital. I began telling my business friends the kind of a young man I would like to have represent our firm. I said I would want a young man whose integrity would never be questioned, who was clean in his habits, who would leave liquor alone and was living a clean, moral life. In fact, I would prefer to have a young man who didn’t smoke.”
Then he said, “One of my business associates said, ‘What you want is a returned Mormon missionary.’
“I had heard about the Mormon Church,” he continued, “but I knew very little about their organization or standards. I knew they had missionaries because my wife told me that she had a very pleasant conversation with two young men in dark suits who had called during the day and left literature.”
He added, “As I rode down here on the train last evening, I thought to myself that possibly the suggestion of my business friend had merit. Possibly that’s just the kind of a young man I do want—a returned Mormon missionary. When I registered at the hotel here last evening, I said to the clerk at the desk, ‘Are there any Mormons in Washington?’
“He said, ‘I don’t know. I suppose there are; they seem to be everywhere.’ But I said to him, ‘Do you know any?’ He said, ‘Frankly I can’t say that I do, but Mr. Bush, the manager, is here, and maybe he can help you.’”
Then my new acquaintance said, “I put the question to Mr. Bush and he gave me your name. Now that’s why I’ve invited you to lunch. Can you give me the names of three or four young men who meet the standards I have outlined? I would like to interview them for a job that I think has a great future with a starting salary of some eight or nine thousand dollars.” (In the 1940s the purchasing power of the dollar was about three times what it is today.)
My new-found friend continued, “Our corporation is one of the largest in Chicago and has among its assets the largest hotel in the city.” And he repeated, “Can you give me the names of three or four young men?”
I was happy to tell him, as president of the Washington Stake, that I could not only give him the names of three or four, but ten, or fifteen, or twenty, any one of whom I felt sure would meet the standards that he had outlined.
Yes, it pays for young men, and young women too, to maintain the standards of the Church and be true to the faith.

Another young woman had great plans for her life. It’s the story written by Ardeth G. Kapp about her sister Shirley. Shirley said:

“I want to help the world turn, and I want to help it turn sharply. I want to make a mark in life.”

With enough successes already to give her considerable confidence, her goals could be lofty. As she spoke of far-away places and exotic endeavors, her father posed a simple question with a not so simple answer. “Shirley,” he said, “why don’t you become great like your grandmother?”

. . . She excitedly asked, “What did she do?”

. . . He replied, “She kept a beautiful home and raised a fine family.”

Often during the following years her father’s counsel would come to mind for Shirley at the most unexpected times, such as during a psychology class at college, or when she was organizing the election campaign for a student body candidate. It would come during a piano recital or when she was camping or learning first aid. It would seem logical when she was preparing for a Spiritual Living lesson, but why right in the middle of an economics class dealing with the gross national product? Why in the middle of a heated discussion with a roommate about the budget and the laundry? And especially why during general household responsibilities? [In Ardeth Greene Kapp, Miracles in Pinafores and Bluejeans [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1977], pp. 2–4]

The time came when Shirley married and had 11 children. Her husband was serving as stake president in Canada when a General Authority came to stay in their home while he was on a conference assignment. Upon his return home from the assignment, he called Shirley’s sister and reported on a grand experience. He said these words: “Your sister keeps a beautiful home and is raising a fine family.” This was a direct quote from Shirley’s father’s advice to her as a girl. All the preparation she had made to make a mark on the world truly paid off. With her skills and talents, she has blessed a family, and the ripple effect of that will go on forever.

Danny was worried. He was excited about spending the night with his friend Jonathan, but he had a problem. This would be the first time he had stayed overnight with a friend, and even though Jonathan was his best friend, Danny had never mentioned his pillow. Could he take it with him? Danny wasn’t sure. He decided to ask his older sister, Linda.

Linda looked up from the TV set. “You’d better not, Danny. You’ll get teased about wanting to sleep with it.”

“But I always take it when I go to Grandma’s house.”

“Grandma would never tease,” said Linda. “But Jonathan’s big brother might, and then you would be embarrassed.”

“But I don’t think I can sleep without it.”

“Oh, sure you can,” Linda reassured him. “You’ll be so busy talking and laughing that you won’t even think about your pillow.”

Danny wasn’t so sure. It was the only pillow that felt comfortable when he went to sleep. Maybe he’d better ask Mom.

Danny stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Mom cook. That meant that it would soon be time for him to leave, because he was eating dinner with Jonathan. Maybe I should stay home, he thought. Then I won’t have to worry about my pillow.

When his mother saw Danny in the doorway, she grinned and said, “Hi, sport. Are you about ready to go?”

“Mom, do you think I should take my pillow to Jonathan’s house?”

“Do you want to?”

“I think I do, and I think I don’t. I don’t really know.”

“Well,” said Mom, “why don’t you take your pillow with your other things. Maybe they don’t have enough pillows, and they’ll be glad that you brought yours.”

Danny immediately felt better. “You don’t think Jonathan’s big brother will tease me?” he asked.

“No,” said Mother. “You’re going to be sleeping in Jonathan’s room with him. Thomas has his own room. He probably won’t even see your pillow.”

Danny grinned happily. “I’m going to go pack it now. Do I still have to take my toothbrush?”

Mother grinned back. “Yes, you do, young man. You wouldn’t want to sleep on that pillow with bad breath!”

Danny laughed and ran upstairs to get his things. Stacking everything on his pillow, he waited for Mom to take him to Jonathan’s house.

Jonathan was standing by the door when Danny arrived. The two boys ran to Jonathan’s room to unpack Danny’s suitcase and play. He looked at the twin beds. There were pillows on both of them.

“This is where you’ll sleep,” said Jonathan, and he placed the suitcase at the foot of one bed.

Danny held out his pillow. “I brought my own pillow in case you needed an extra.”

“Oh, we have enough, but you can sleep with yours if you want.”

Danny put his pillow on the bed, carefully putting the other one on a chair. Then he and Jonathan sat on the floor to build a block city. They hardly knew how hungry they were, until Jonathan’s mother called them for dinner.

Dinner together was fun, and they had a great time playing board games in the family room until it was time for bed. Danny looked around Jonathan’s bedroom. The block city was still there. His pillow was still there.

When Danny jumped into bed and snuggled under the blanket and felt the familiar pillow beneath his head, he was cozy and comfortable. Smiling, he raised his head to talk to Jonathan. But Jonathan was still walking around the room.

“Are you looking for something?” Danny asked.

“Yes, my brown bear. I always sleep with him.”

Danny sat up straight, a look of surprise on his face. “You always sleep with a brown bear?”

“Yes.” Jonathan lowered his voice. “I even took him with me to a hotel once.”

Danny laughed and held up his pillow. “I’ll tell you a secret, Jonathan. I always sleep with my pillow.”

The boys laughed together, and Danny jumped out of bed. “Come on. I’ll help you look for your bear.”

They found the bear sitting behind a stack of blocks. Jonathan picked it up, holding tightly to the brown body. He whispered to Danny, “You’re my best friend.”

“You’re my best friend too.”

Then Danny went to sleep on his pillow, and Jonathan went to sleep holding his brown bear.

In the United States, on the morning of the Fourth of July 1952, as all the three major networks at the time were present with cameras rolling at the eastern edge of Catalina Island off the coast of California, 34-year-old Florence Chadwick waded into the water. She was a celebrated endurance swimmer, who now planned to swim 21 open-water miles to the southern California coast. Twenty-one miles! She had already conquered the English Channel. Now she was determined to be the first woman to swim the California Catalina Channel. She began the solo swim.

Minute after minute, hour after hour ticked by as Chadwick resolutely swam on, despite bone-chilling cold, unpredictable currents and terribly dense fog. Several times, sharks had to be driven away by rifle shots from the support boats. Ultimately, fatigued and chilled to the bone, an exhausted Florence Chadwick stopped. She lifted her goggles and looked in all directions but could not to see the shore through the fog bank. Disoriented, she lost her perspective and, temporarily, she lost her will.

From one of the support boats, her mother and her trainer pleaded with her not to give up. But from Chadwick’s compromised viewpoint in the water, all she could see was fog. So, after 15 hours and 55 minutes of constant swimming and over 58,000 strokes, she was pulled out of the water into the boat. She was utterly exhausted and was attended to medically. But Florence was even more devastated when she discovered she had tragically miscalculated her effort and distance. Where she had swum to was less than half a mile from the coast!

"I'm not excusing myself," she later told a reporter, "but if I could have seen land, I know I could have made it. I was licked by the fog." The resilient Florence Chadwick had been through tough times before. She immediately and resolutely began training, planning, and preparing again.

Two months later, renewed and indomitable, she once again entered the water off Catalina Island, determined to succeed in what no woman had done before. The networks were missing now but not Chadwick’s resolve.

Again, the same factors were equally present, along with their timing. The thick fog bank again descended and obscured her view at the same critical moment in this daunting endeavor.

But this time, Florence resolutely swam on, knowing that somewhere beyond this fog and ocean was land. I can imagine her repeating over and over, “Just keep swimming; don’t give up.”

This time, she swam directly through the fog bank and emerged on the sunlit, California seacoast. Not only was Florence Chadwick the first woman to swim the Catalina Channel but she beat the standing men's record by two hours!

That same light showed two teenage sisters the way to go on a very frightening day in 1833. An angry mob stormed through the quiet streets of Independence, Missouri, where 15-year-old Mary Elizabeth Rollins and her 13-year-old sister Caroline lived. The terrifying mob was destroying property and burning and rioting. Some of the mobsters broke into the home of Brother William Phelps, where the printing press was located. He had been printing revelations received by the Prophet Joseph Smith. They tore apart the printing press and threw it into the street. They carried the priceless printed pages out of the building, throwing them in a pile in the yard to burn.

Mary Elizabeth and her sister Caroline were hiding behind a fence, trembling as they watched the destruction. Mary knew full well the danger of angry mobs, but in spite of that, she felt the urgency to save those precious pages. The two teenage sisters ran out to the street, grabbed armfuls of the scriptures, and fled. Some of the mob saw this and ordered them to stop as they chased after the courageous sisters. The girls ran into a large cornfield, where they fell breathless to the ground. Between the rows of corn they laid the copies of the revelations on the ground and then spread themselves over the pages. The men were relentless in their search for the girls among the tall cornstalks, coming very near at times, but they never were able to find the girls, and eventually they gave up and left to finish their destruction in the town.

The light of the Lord showed those young women what to do and where to go for safety. That same light shines for you. It can keep you safe as it did them. We have a sculpture of those sisters in the Young Women office to remind us of the courage of young women then and now.

It started just about like any other spring day in Louisville, Kentucky. Thinking back now, it did seem just a bit warmer, perhaps more humid than usual. Philip Matthews, a 15-year-old teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, felt that his hair was getting just a little bit too long. As he looked in the mirror he decided to visit the barber shop several blocks away.
His father asked if he would like a ride, and the two of them headed from their home to the barber. Phil sat back in his seat and relaxed, looking sleepily out of the window.
Suddenly he was wide awake. Doing his best to point the direction, he asked excitedly, “What’s that in the sky, Dad?” Brother Matthews, not able to see exactly what his son was pointing at, asked, “What?”
Then as Phil pointed excitedly, Brother Matthews saw it. It was a big mass of clouds. They were boiling and circling. It looked like a huge diesel engine with smoke pouring out of its pipe. Brother Matthews’ face turned white as he shouted, “It’s a tornado!” and he stopped the car suddenly.
The tornado crushed two houses and came right toward their car. Phil leaped out and shouted, “Hit the ditch!” But finding no ditch, he “decided my only hope was to run across the nearby schoolyard and enter the school building for protection.”
He doesn’t know how fast he was running, but as he crossed the yard, the wind nearly lifted him from the ground. “I just knew I had to reach the school.” Phil is a distance runner for his school, and perhaps his record-breaking running ability helped him get there in time.
As he approached the school, trees were falling and houses being smashed. Finally he made it to the building and tried to pull the doors outward, but they were locked. Now Phil knew that he must face the wind without protection. He doesn’t remember a time in his life when he was more frightened than he was as he stood in the terrible wind alone. Holding tightly to the door handles to keep from being blown away, he saw debris, shingles, and bricks spinning in the air about him. Small particles struck him in the face.
“I knew I needed special help. I know that the Lord heard my prayer of panic. As I stood there my mind centered on prayer. I asked the Lord to help me. Then it was like a miracle. When I prayed there seemed to come a great calm.”
A nearby tree crashed just missing him as it fell. The school to which he had come was demolished, only the area of the building where he stood went undamaged. The wind calmed somewhat, and Phil began to fear for his father. He ran back to the car, which was now in the churchyard.
“I was sure the car had been blown there,” Phil reported. “When I saw Dad get out of the car, I knew that he was all right. Then I just sort of went into shock. Dad came toward me, and as he got close I could see tears in his eyes as he looked at me. I sort of fell into his arms and we embraced. I repeated over and over ‘I was in it, Dad. I was out in it, Dad.’ Then we both looked around at the destruction that was around us. The chapel roof had been blown off and was behind our car.”
The terrible monster wind had taken its toll, but Phil and his father were spared. The two made their way home, taking detours to avoid fallen trees. They were greatly relieved when they found that the only damage to their home was two blown-off shingles. They entered the home and once again were reunited with their family.
There would be another day for a haircut.

When Walnetta’s family migrated from Fiji to Devonport on Auckland’s North Shore a few years after the Second World War, her father, Oscar P. Broederlow, and his family, were the only known members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in that area. But the missionaries set to work and soon there were enough new converts to hold meetings in the Devonport Labour Hall, arranged by Walnetta’s mother, Hilda E. Lobendahn Broederlow.
Once the Relief Society organisation was established there, the small group of sisters would meet weekly in the home of Sister Norma Roberts. Walnetta’s mum took her along so that she could provide the piano accompaniment for ‘the singing mothers’. “Primary had not yet been formed,” she recalls, “so I always look back bemused at the fact that for me, attendance at Relief Society preceded Primary!”

The first time Lori Solomon attended a Latter-day Saint ward, she noticed something significant. Not only were the people she met there extremely friendly and kind, but they also had their own copies of the scriptures. During the meetings, they were reading from, talking about, and trying to apply the scriptures to their lives. This impressed Lori because she had never been able to understand the Torah when it was read in Hebrew in her Reform Jewish congregation.
When Lori went to church the second time, a powerful feeling propelled her to the microphone in fast and testimony meeting. Standing before a roomful of strangers, she tried to put into words the feeling that was already growing into a conviction. “I’m home,” she said. Lori was baptized in Chicago, Illinois, in 2001.
The Apostle Paul compared the experience of conversion to finding our spiritual home: “But now in Christ Jesus ye who sometimes were far off are made nigh. … Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God” (Ephesians 2:13, 19).
But, as Lori soon discovered, knowing the Church is true is not the same as understanding how the Church works. Like most new members, Lori found herself unfamiliar with the procedures, protocol, and specialized vocabulary that long-term members take for granted. For example, she didn’t know that Church members don’t make comments in sacrament meeting. And the first time she heard someone refer to “home, family, and personal enrichment meeting,” she thought she needed to bring her family with her. It takes time to learn these and other unwritten “rules.”

I remember the terrifying words of my labor nurse: “I think he has some anomalies.” At the same time, the population in the delivery room escalated to allow for the resuscitation of my severely compromised newborn.
I had lived similar scenes many times before, but from the other side, as a nurse. I was supposed to be the one reviving the newborn. Now I was the mom reaching through an incubator door to touch the hand of my son, while a transport team waited to take him to another hospital.
The next morning I received a telephone call from the newborn intensive care unit (NICU), where my husband, Andrew, sat surrounded by doctors, as they explained the surgery Timothy would immediately require to remove giant abdominal tumors.
I clung to the hope that surgery would cure our child and that he would lead a normal, happy life. I envisioned him as a chubby toddler with a cute scar, a reminder of the short-lived scare he gave his parents.
Three weeks later in that same hospital conference room, a neurologist attempted to explain the brain malformation that would leave our child with significant cognitive delay, speech difficulty, and eventually seizures.
A few days after that, in the same room, the neonatologist said, “I can’t conceive that Timothy will go home without a feeding tube.” Our baby was an emaciated three pounds (1.4 kg) less than at birth, anemic, and virtually unresponsive to stimulation. When offered a bottle, his suck was weak at best, and he choked on its contents.
Expectations for our baby seemed reduced to nothing. My world was crashing down on me. I questioned the Lord’s promise that He will never allow a trial that is beyond one’s capacity to bear. I felt this burden was crushing me physically, mentally, and spiritually. During long daily hours at the hospital, I longed to be with my two older children and to resume our peaceful life. When I was at home, I obsessed over the welfare of my baby and, honestly, what I thought were our newly destroyed lives.
At my lowest point I pleaded with the Lord, letting Him know all the wonderful ways I would serve Him if He would just take Timothy back, let me mourn his loss, and allow me to get on with my life. Anything else was clearly more than I could handle.
While all of this was going on, my own personal miracle was beginning. Many members of our ward, along with several family members and friends, were fasting and praying for our family. One Sunday morning when I woke up, I had a strong impression that something great was going to happen that day as a result of all the fasting and prayers. I was hoping, of course, that Timothy would suddenly become alert and miraculously begin to feed. When I arrived in the NICU, Timothy was as nonresponsive as ever, and he still had no interest in bottle-feeding. Naturally, I was disappointed, but as I held him, an intense feeling came over me that he was going to be OK. I didn’t know what “OK” meant, but I had no doubt the Lord was in charge and was aware of our family.
A few weeks later my mother and I stopped by the hospital. In that quiet, dimly lit room, my mother held my weak little baby to her chest and rocked him as she sang the Christmas lullaby:
Oh, hush thee, my baby; a story I’ll tell,
How little Lord Jesus on earth came to dwell;
How in a far country, ’way over the sea,
Was born a wee baby, my dear one, like thee.
Lullaby baby, lullaby dear.
Sleep, little baby; have nothing to fear.
Lullaby baby, lullaby dear.
Jesus will care for his little one here.1
I knew peace would come through my Savior, who came to this earth to bring peace and eternal happiness for each of us. Surely He would care for this dear little one and lift those of us who were chosen to care for him.
A few weeks later Timothy was transferred to the special-care nursery where I currently work. There he miraculously learned how to eat. And I again experienced an incredible feeling that he would be OK. And although he has improved in so many ways, I still don’t know exactly what that means. But I have had such a comforting presence with me since that time. And whenever I find something that I probably should worry about, that feeling washes over me, and the message is the same: “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be OK. Just enjoy him.”
This Christmas season my thoughts turn to the beautiful gifts the Savior has given us. In so many ways He allows us to have peace here on earth. One of the most wonderful gifts of peace is the opportunity to prayerfully do all we can and then give our sorrows to Him.
By putting our trust in the Lord, we can give our worries to Him, and He in turn will lift us, giving special gifts to sustain us—often through other people. For me these gifts came in the form of babysitters for my two older children, meals from ward members, wonderful nurses and doctors, and loving support from family and friends. The most powerful gift, however, has been the peace granted by Heavenly Father as His Son has carried my sorrows and worries. Because of Him, I am free to love and enjoy baby Timothy and to celebrate all of the people and blessings that have been placed in my path because of his special life.

Our family—my parents, my brother, and me—prepared for a long time so that my brother could serve a mission. Whenever we would talk about him being a missionary, I would joke with him, saying I wouldn’t miss him and that I would be glad to be alone.
The day finally came for him to send in his missionary papers. He had tried to do well in school, and we had all worked hard to save money for his mission.
One day the stake president called us and said the call had arrived. My brother decided to open the letter after dinner at home. He was called to serve in the Mexico City East Mission.
Not long after that we dropped him off at the airport and said goodbye. On the way home my mother could not stop her tears, but I did not cry. But only two hours later, when I was in the room I used to share with my brother, I suddenly realized that I would not see him again for a long time. Then I was the one who could not stop my tears, and I let myself cry and cry. My parents hugged and comforted me, and we all felt great joy and great sadness at the same time.
Since that day, I pray to Heavenly Father and ask Him to take care of my brother as he serves.
My brother taught me that I must also prepare for a mission. I must be worthy to receive the priesthood, attend seminary, and achieve the goals in Fulfilling My Duty to God. He taught me to work and save money, read the scriptures, and obey my leaders.
I want to serve a mission too so that other people can have the blessings of the gospel and know that it is true.

Rachel and Nathan also share a love for school—and the memory of how it feels to be the new kid. Three years ago, their family moved to Connecticut from Las Vegas, Nevada. Nathan quickly found a best friend who looks so much like him that people often think they are twins. He was also super excited about living where it snows, especially because his new front yard has a built-in sledding hill.
For Rachel, it wasn’t quite as easy. “By third grade, the kids at school already had all their friends,” she remembers. Finally she began making friends from other classes at recess. The children in Primary were very welcoming to both Rachel and Nathan.
Rachel is already in the Beehive class in Young Women. But her birthday is in January, so she is still in Primary for class time.
She used to feel sad that she didn’t get to go to Sunday School with the girls who were a few months older. One reason she feels better about it now is that her Primary class is studying the Doctrine and Covenants. “It’s really interesting, and that helps keep me from thinking about not being in Sunday School,” Rachel says.
Rachel is also happy that she can still be in Primary class with her friend Marissa. “If I had moved on completely, she would have been left in a class with no other girls,” Rachel says.
Her positive attitude fits right in with one of her favorite scriptures: “I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded” (1 Nephi 3:7).
Both Rachel and Nathan are kind and helpful. Rachel likes helping classmates who are having trouble with math. She hopes to be a teacher someday. And Nathan watches out for a boy in his class who has special needs. With kindness and hard work, these two great kids are right on target to make their dreams come true!

I was in school when I saw a new boy. A few days later, some of my classmates hit him in the hallway. They gave him a black eye. I felt so much pain for what they had done to him. I found out where he lived and offered him my friendship. The gospel teaches us that we should be helpful, and I love that.
Jeshua, age 11, Illinois, USA (please include the star he’s holding in the photo)

I was in school when I saw a new boy. A few days later, some of my classmates hit him in the hallway. They gave him a black eye. I felt so much pain for what they had done to him. I found out where he lived and offered him my friendship. The gospel teaches us that we should be helpful, and I love that.
Jeshua O., age 11, Illinois, USA