Gospel Story Finder

In order to come to the point, I want to tell you of a faithful brother who was a member of the same branch in my home country of Germany in the early years of my membership.

He was living in humble circumstances and felt very blessed to have recently begun a job in a small, privately owned company. He told me about an upcoming event where all of the employed people were invited to participate in a traditional company dinner party. He was concerned because he knew that there would be a big beer party at the end of this meeting, with the boss being probably the heaviest beer drinker of them all. But he also knew that it would be considered very impolite if he did not attend the dinner at all.

When I saw him again, after that dinner event occurred, I saw him with a most happy, deep inner glow, and he could not wait to tell me what had happened. Because he was new in the company, the boss had sat right next to him, wanting to get to know him better. As the evening progressed, the brother saw his wildest fears confirmed because the boss would not tolerate that he would not drink beer with him, and he said, “What kind of church is that that would not permit you to drink even a glass of beer with me?”

The fear of my friend did not grow into panic as he was able to calmly answer his boss that the reason he was not drinking had nothing to do with the church that he belonged to, but that he himself had made a sacred covenant with God that he would not drink. If he would ever break this covenant, how could he continue to stay true to that which he would ever promise, and how could he be trusted, even by his employer, that he would not lie or steal or cheat?

According to my friend, the owner was deeply touched by this statement, and he hugged him, speaking words of profound admiration and confidence.

During the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic, Brother Wisan from Thailand felt prompted to share his feelings and impressions of what he was learning in his study of the Book of Mormon on his social media account. In one of his particularly personal posts, he shared a story of two Book of Mormon missionaries, Alma and Amulek.

His brother, Winai, although set in his religious beliefs, was touched by the post and responded, unexpectedly asking, “Can I get that book in Thai?”

Wisan wisely arranged for a copy of the Book of Mormon to be delivered by two sister missionaries, who began teaching his brother.

Wisan joined in virtual lessons, during which he shared his feelings about the Book of Mormon. Winai learned to pray and study with a truth-seeking spirit, to accept and embrace the truth. Within months, Winai was baptized!

Wisan later said, “We have a responsibility to be an instrument in the hands of God, and we must be always ready for Him to do His work in His way through us.” Their family miracle came because Wisan simply shared the gospel in a normal and natural way.

In his first address as Church President, he spoke sorrowfully of the ridicule and persecution Latter-day Saints had suffered. “The Lord designs to change this condition of things,” he prophetically announced, “and to make us known to the world in our true light—as true worshipers of God” whose “mission in this world is to do good, to put down iniquity under our feet, to exalt righteousness, purity, and holiness in the hearts of the people, and to establish in the minds of our children, above all other things, a love for God and his word, that shall be in them as a fountain of light, strength, faith and power.”25
He promised the Saints if they would live nearer to the Lord, they would enjoy a greater outpouring of the Spirit. He then entreated them to feel “in your hearts and from the depths of your souls to forgive one another, and never from this time forth … bear malice toward another fellow creature.”26 He lived this counsel, refusing to allow repeated attacks upon his character to make him bitter and vindictive. “The spirit of the world is vicious,”27 he said, as he advised the Saints to prize the fruits of the Holy Spirit: “love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance” (Gal. 5:22–23).
Antagonistic journalists made him the brunt of vilifying articles and defaming cartoons. His daughter Edith Eleanor recalled: “Some of the people at school had in their possession false reports and lies about Father. I went home from school furious one day. As soon as Father came in that evening I said to him, ‘Papa, why don’t you do something? You’re not doing one thing, and these mean men are taking advantage of you, printing all these lies.’” Her father smiled and said, “‘Baby, don’t get upset. They are not hurting me one bit; they are only hurting themselves. Don’t you know, Baby, that when someone tells a lie they are only hurting themselves more than anyone else?’”28

The small auditorium was brimming with people, most of them family friends and relatives. As a young man dressed in a formal black suit, white shirt, and black bow tie entered from a hallway to the rear of the stage, the audience began applauding. But when he stopped before the piano he was about to play and indicated he had something to say, the applause subsided.
“This concert, as you know, is dedicated to my 99-year-old grandmother Alice L. Kenner,” he said. “I would like to tell her that I love her very much.” Then the applause began again.
Only a couple of days before, Kevin Kenner, 19, had been a semifinalist in the 1982 Gina Bachauer International Piano Competition held in Salt Lake City, Utah. The Bachauer competition is considered one of the top piano events in the United States, narrowing a field of 200 entrants from all over the world down to 50 performers, then 15 semifinalists and six finalists. The winner not only receives a piano and prize money, but also a recital opportunity in New York.
Although Kevin didn’t make it to the finals (as he has in other competition), he was given a special recognition as the “most promising performer.” He was glad to receive the recognition, but he was also disappointed that he hadn’t made it beyond the top 15. He could have packed his bags and returned home to California to the rigorous practice schedule he had set to prepare for school in the fall.
Instead, Kevin was giving a free performance, open to anyone. That’s the kind of person he is. “It’s fine to make music for yourself, and sometimes you want to make music for music’s sake or for the judges,” he said. “But music is at its best when you share it with others. Audiences are who you make the music for.”

A few years later I was finished with school and was working as an apprentice cabinetmaker, putting away every pound I could for my mission.

One early winter day at work I got a call from Mum.

“Granddad’s all right,” she said. “But he’s had a stroke.”

When I arrived at Granddad’s farmhouse, I could hear him arguing with Nan as I threw my coat in the cloakroom.

“You’re not going to feed that rabbit food to me,” he bellowed. “I want bangers and mash (sausage and potatoes). It’s Thursday, and I’ve had bangers and mash every Thursday for 75 years.”

I peeked around the doorway and looked into his room. Granddad looked old and frail, but he had enough strength to sit up in bed and push away my grandmother’s hand as she tried to feed him from a plate of something green and healthy looking.

“She’ll let you go hungry then,” I said.

“Danny!” he called out and held his hand out for me to take. “I’ve been waiting for sumone to rescue me.”

“You’d better get used to the rules, or you’ll get no dinner,” I answered.

“Ahh.”

“Hello, Nan,” I said.

“Finally, someone to rescue me,” she said. “I’m going to nip into town for some things. Sit with your granddad, will you?”

“Sure.”

We heard her car rev up in the driveway. Granddad reached up and felt my arm. “Hmm, strong enough,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“What? I don’t know. I don’t think we should. Nan will be cross.”

“You do as you’re told.”

So I pulled over Granddad’s wheelchair and helped him in. I bundled up his legs and got our coats and Granddad’s cap. Then I scribbled a quick note to Nan.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked when we were outside the house. I hoped he would say ‘down the road,’ but he said what I expected.

“I fancy sum’ mushrooms,” he said, looking out toward the wet hills. I shrugged and began pushing his wheelchair over the pasture toward the first gate.

Pushing Granddad through the bumpy, slippery glens was hard work, but I didn’t really mind. He was happy and spent the next hour pointing things out to me as I grunted and groaned behind him.

When we finally reached the top of mushroom hill, I stopped to catch my breath, sitting beside Granddad’s wheelchair on the damp grass. It was cold out, and the town below was partly obscured by mist. All that rose above the haze were the trees and a few of the tall brick homes.

“I’ve always remembered what you told me here,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for more details.

“You know, about knowing where to look—for mushrooms and other stuff. A few years ago I knew someone who was a bit lost, so I began dropping hints that maybe church was a good place to look for answers. I think it helped.”

“Aye, nice to think I taught you sumthing,” he said.

I smiled. “You did.”

“How’s Stu? Haven’t seen him for a while.”

“He’s all right. I bet he’ll come see you soon. He’s going out with a really nice girl, and they’re talking of getting married in the temple.”

“He’s a good boy, is Stu.”

“Yeah, he is.”

We sat quietly for a time, looking down the hill at the rolling grass and the mist that refused to clear from the town. We stayed until, bit by bit, the cold and damp crept under our wool coats. A wind picked up from the north, and Granddad began to shiver.

“Time to go, lad,” said Granddad. “Time to go.”

“You don’t want any mushrooms?”

“Na, couldn’t be bothered today. To be honest, I just wanted to come here again—with you.”

I stood up and obediently began pushing my grandfather away from our mushroom hill.

“How do you feel?” I asked, stopping the chair and putting my hand on his shoulder.

“I feel good,” he said, putting his hand on mine.

So I started to push again, Granddad and I quietly moving toward home.

Tired but happy after her soccer game, Gracie walked to the bleachers where her family sat. Her whole family, including her abuela (grandmother), had come to watch the game.
“You played with honor,” Gracie’s papá said as he put his arm around her shoulders.
Gracie grinned. “Gracias, Papá.”
The family piled into the car. When Papá suggested that they stop for lunch to celebrate the team’s victory, Gracie and her younger brother and sister cheered.
The restaurant was crowded, with only two empty booths available. Four players from the other team walked in after Gracie’s family and took the booth behind theirs. They began talking loudly, insulting the players on Gracie’s team.
Gracie looked at her parents and saw dismay on their faces. They were as uncomfortable as she was with the vulgar language they were hearing. She wondered what they would do.
Papá started to stand when Gracie’s abuela leaned over the back of the booth and started talking to the young people.
She didn’t say anything about their language but asked questions about their hobbies. One of the girls shyly said that she liked to knit.
“Come over to our table,” Abuela invited. “I’ll show you what I’m working on.”
The four players trooped over to join Gracie’s family at their booth. Everyone slid closer together to make room for them.
Abuela opened the knitting bag she always carried and pulled out a stocking hat. “I can make one of these in 30 minutes.”
“Could you show me how to do that sometime?” the girl asked.
“It would be my pleasure,” Abuela said.
“You’re pretty cool,” one of the boys said.
Abuela smiled. “For an old lady.”
“For anyone.” He hesitated, then looked around to Gracie’s family with an embarrassed expression. “I guess you’d like it if we didn’t talk like we did.”
Abuela patted the boy’s hand and smiled. “You are right.”
“Thanks for talking to us like we’re real people,” the girl said. “Most people ignore us.”
“You are real people. Even more important, you are each a child of God,” Abuela said. “Always remember that.”
Gracie watched a look of wonder come over the girl’s face.
The boys and girls returned to their booth and finished their meal. They left shortly after that.
Papá gave Abuela a hug. “Mamá, you are amazing. All I could think of was their bad language. I didn’t remember that they were also children of God.”
Later that night, Gracie asked Papá, “How did Abuela know what to say to those kids?”
“Your abuela treats everyone the same,” Papá said. “She knows that we’re all God’s children.”
Gracie hasn’t forgotten that lesson—nor her abuela’s example.

Shortly after I moved into a new neighborhood, the local bishop sent a letter welcoming me to the ward and apologizing that my home teachers hadn’t contacted me yet. Although I appreciated and saved his letter, I rarely attended church and didn’t take the first step back to full activity until one Sunday morning several years later.
Feeling that I should go to church, I looked up the meetinghouse closest to me and headed off, alone and nervous. The parking lot was full. I pulled in, feeling like an out-of-place stranger labeled “less active.” As I approached the back doors, a woman ahead of me struggled with an unwieldy baby carrier while shepherding another child alongside her. Despite her full load, she held the door open for me with a smile and said, “Hi, I’m Sally!” Caught off guard by her friendliness, I returned the greeting. Sally continued down the hall, leaving me glad I had come.
When the bishop announced the blessing of new babies during fast and testimony meeting, I was surprised to see my new friend give the baby to her husband to take to the front. Her newborn was being blessed that day, and she had still taken the time to greet me! I sheepishly reflected that if I had just had a new baby, welcoming an unknown woman to church would be the last of my concerns.
Becoming active was a gradual process, but Sally and other thoughtful members continued to befriend me. Diligent visiting teachers set up appointment after appointment. Friendly ward members called to tell me about stake conference or changes in the meeting schedule. Single adult leaders consistently invited me to activities, even when they knew my polite “Maybe I’ll come” really meant “Don’t plan on me.” And eventually their efforts were rewarded.
Although Sally’s simple greeting took no planning and very little time, her kind act helped open the door for me to enjoy the blessings of Church activity. Many years later I still reflect often upon the results of Sally’s smile.

Richard M. Romney, Utah, USA
When those planning our ward Christmas social asked me to visit a certain less-active member and invite him to participate in the program, I have to admit I was nervous. I had met Darren only once before, when he had participated in an earlier ward activity. He had worn a motorcycle headband across his forehead. His long white hair was tied in a ponytail, he had a full white beard, and his arms were covered with tattoos.
Now, accompanied by a committee member, I was standing on Darren’s doorstep, wondering what he might say. He asked us to step inside, and we told him why we were there. He said, “Oh, I’d love to do that!”
He did an amazing job, helping to make the activity meaningful for so many. A short time later, my ministering companion and I were asked to visit Darren regularly. He always seems glad to see us, and we’ve had some delightful conversations. I’m grateful the inspiration to invite him to participate in the program of a ward activity led to a cherished relationship.

After I received my mission call, my parents and I traveled to the Mesa Arizona Temple so I could receive my endowment. As we prepared to climb a set of stairs that led to the temple’s ordinance rooms, I saw on a wall above a doorway the Savior’s words: “Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:8). The Spirit immediately bore witness to me that I was in a sacred place doing a sacred work.
I didn’t understand all the symbolism in what I saw and heard that day. But I felt the Spirit as I made covenants and received further light and knowledge essential for my eternal progress.

A temple trip to do baptisms for the dead took on new meaning for the youth of the Oklahoma City Oklahoma Stake. To prepare for their temple trip, the youth worked in the name extraction program and personally performed the baptisms in behalf of the people whose names they had extracted.

The Young Women worked in pairs. One would read and the other would print the information on extraction cards. The girls began to feel a close relationship with the people on the film. They prayed for guidance when names were not legible and often were able to decipher the writing.

The Young Men became interested in the program and began participating in name extraction in preparation for the temple trip. The Young Women helped train the Young Men in the correct ways of filling out extraction cards.

When the youth traveled to the temple, they felt the significance of what they were doing because they had been involved through the whole process.

Photograph courtesy of Quinn A.
Ultimate (also known as Ultimate Frisbee™) is a fast-paced sport that combines the running of soccer, the aerial passing of football, and the vertical leaps of basketball. The game is played by millions in the United States alone, with competitions held around the country.
However, don’t expect the number-one nationally ranked high school team to attend any competition held on Sunday.
Three years ago, Lone Peak High School in Utah started an Ultimate team. “Every single person on the team said we were not going to play on Sundays,” explains Quinn A., a recent graduate who’s played on the team since the first year.
Skipping Sunday competitions (and there are a lot of them) hasn’t limited the team’s success. Not only are they ranked number one, but they’re also respected throughout the sport. For example, at a major national Ultimate competition—the Chicago Invite—judges allowed Lone Peak Ultimate to play all their games on Saturday even though the event took place on Saturday and Sunday.
They also have a reputation for being one of the friendliest teams around no matter where they go. “We always come out with friends,” Quinn says. “Every single game.”
Quinn is now helping to coach the team while he prepares to serve a full-time mission.

It was a hot day in Foz do Iguaçu, Paraná, Brazil. I had traveled several hours and was tired. As a leader in the Church Educational System, I had matters to address with the bishop, who was meeting me at the church. However, he was unavailable for a few minutes when I arrived.
While I waited, a lady entered the church. She approached me and humbly asked for a small amount of money to buy bread. She explained that she and her husband were hungry, and despite being embarrassed for asking, she said she didn’t have any other choice. “Just for a little bread is all,” she added.
I was moved, and I took a little money from my pocket. She thought it was a lot. I told her, “Buy bread, milk, and some meat.”
She was grateful and told me that her husband had been promised a job for the next Tuesday. She wanted to pay me back as soon as he received his payment.
I told her that she didn’t need to. She insisted.
I told her, “Instead of paying me, you can come back to this chapel on Sunday morning. When you get here, tell anyone you see that you want to talk with the missionaries. OK?” She agreed.
The woman left. I resolved what had to be discussed with the bishop and continued traveling through Paraná, doing my work.
Many months passed, and another opportunity took me to that same meetinghouse in Foz do Iguaçu for a conference. The choir was beautiful and performed sweetly. When the conference ended, one of the members of the choir approached me. She stretched forth her hand, greeting me with a beautiful smile, and said with emotion, “Thank you, brother. You gave me not only bread to satisfy my hunger and my husband’s; you also gave me the bread of life. Thank you.”
I felt an immense joy as I recognized the woman as the one who had asked me for a little money several months earlier. I realized that the gospel of Jesus Christ—who declared Himself to be the Bread of Life—transforms the life of whoever accepts it.

Several years ago, President Gordon B. Hinckley attended a college football game. He was there to announce that the stadium would be named after the team’s longtime, beloved coach, who was about to retire. The team desperately wanted to win the game to honor their coach. President Hinckley was invited to visit the locker room and share some encouraging words. Inspired by his words, that team on that day went on to win that game and ended the season with a winning record.

My husband successfully stretched three years of schooling at BYU into five, so you can imagine how thrilled we were when he finally graduated and got a real job in Texas. We were surprised when a coworker suggested that he should not wear his wedding ring in certain settings with young professionals because it might limit his opportunities for success. The deception behind this thought was distasteful and countered everything we had worked for in our celestial marriage. Needless to say, Ron never left our little apartment without wearing his wedding ring!

The winter of 1979–80 was more severe than usual in our area, and the heavy snowfall in the mountains collapsed the roof on a friend’s cabin. The entire roof system, all the way down to the concrete footings, needed rebuilding. I was hired to do the job.
The cabin is located in a very secluded spot in a nearby canyon, nestled among majestic pine trees along the bank of a stream. It is so beautiful and peaceful there that it almost seems as if it doesn’t belong on this telestial earth.
Because of the lovely setting and the peace I felt every time I went there, I decided to do the work myself rather than subcontract it out, as I often did. My brother Rusty helped me, and we started tearing down the damaged structure in the latter part of April, as soon as the snow melted enough for us to get to the cabin.
As the weather gradually got warmer, I started taking my little son Kenny with me every day. He was two and a half years old at the time and really enjoyed going to work with his dad. He would entertain himself all day, exploring everything in sight. He was fascinated by all the new-found beauties of nature—especially the squirrels, chipmunks, and birds—and he spent hours playing near the stream, throwing rocks and sticks into the fast-moving water. Often he would curl up and take a nap under the protection of a shady pine tree.
This went on day after day. He took many minor falls and got a few scratches and scrapes during his adventures, but I seldom went to his rescue because I could see the growth he was experiencing. As he became more familiar with these new surroundings, he developed confidence in himself and his abilities. Nevertheless, I was very careful to keep a close watch on him because he was so young and small, and especially because of the nearby stream which had grown deeper and swifter with the melting snow. He showed surprising common sense, never getting close enough to the water to fall in; but I noticed that each day he felt more confident about edging closer to the bank of the stream.
One night, after taking Kenny with me for four or five weeks, I had a terrible dream. I woke up in a cold sweat after dreaming that he had fallen into the rushing water and drowned. It was so real and scared me so badly that I sat up in bed and found myself shaking.
I couldn’t go back to sleep. I spent the rest of the night trying to calm myself and thoughtfully considering the frightful images that kept turning over and over in my mind. I had the distinct feeling that this dream was a warning not to be ignored. At the same time, I wondered how I could tell little Kenny that he wouldn’t be able to go with me to work on the cabin again. I was concerned about hurting his feelings because I knew how he loved to go to the mountains to work with his dad.
The next morning I told my wife, Georgia, of the experience and of my feelings, and she agreed that I had better not take him with me to the cabin anymore. But she, too, was concerned about how he was going to handle the disappointment.
Kenny got up early that morning, and as usual, started to dress himself. He came into our bedroom and sat on my lap, and as I was helping him put on his shoes and socks I was still trying to figure out how to tell him he couldn’t go with me anymore.
All of a sudden he said, “Dad, I can’t go to work with you today.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised.
“Because I will drown in the river,” he said.
Tears of joy came to our eyes as we realized that Kenny had received the same warning that I had that night. A strong feeling of peace came over us, knowing that our Heavenly Father had given us this inspiration to protect our son and save him for his mission in this life.

A father should never consciously disappoint his wife or children. In 1989 there was a terrible earthquake in Armenia that killed over 30,000 people in four minutes. A distraught father went in frantic search of his son. He reached his son’s school only to find that it had been reduced to a pile of rubble. But he was driven by his promise to his son, “No matter what, I’ll always be there for you!” He visualized the corner where his son’s classroom would be, rushed there, and started to dig through the debris, brick by brick.

Others came on the scene—the fire chief, then the police—warning him of fires and explosions, and urging him to leave the search to the emergency crews. But he tenaciously carried on digging. Night came and went, and then, in the 38th hour of digging, he thought he heard his son’s voice. “Armand!” he called out. Then he heard, “Dad!?! It’s me, Dad! I told the other kids not to worry. I told ’em that if you were alive, you’d save me and when you saved me, they’d be saved. …

“There are 14 of us left out of 33. … When the building collapsed, it made a wedge, like a triangle, and it saved us.”

“Come on out, boy!”

“No, Dad! Let the other kids out first, ’cause I know you’ll get me! No matter what, I know you’ll be there for me!”

I will forever remember a missionary who was sent to our mission to be a great trial to his mission president and help me learn patience. He was nearly 27 years of age and came to the mission with much of the wrong kind of experiences in life and I am convinced that he was sent on a mission by wonderful priesthood leaders as a 'last hope strategy' to save his soul. He did not like North Americans, His President, Mission Rules, nor talks in Zone Conference about obedience. The Chile Area Presidency had challenged us as Mission Presidents to help our Latin missionaries learn English. You can only image .. (no you probably can't) how he felt about that. He challenged every bit of counsel I gave. Though in our many many interviews, he promised to try to be better and more compliant to do things the LORD'S WAY, within a few weeks he failed in his resolve and returned to his OWN WAY. After many visits with him and invitations to 'have a mighty change in his heart' -- (or any kind of change for the better). In time, I received permission and advice from the Area Presidency to send him home at anytime the Spirit dictated that I should. I counseled with his Stake President (in one of those 'other kind' of telephone calls) and we agreed that this missionary was likely only a 'telephone call away' from going home at some point in the future.

However our LOVE for him, The Lords Love for him, and I am sure that the answers to the prayers of his aging and faithful parents prevented me from doing so four or five times during the first 15 months of his mission.

However, one day while LOVE was still in my heart, PATIENCE ran out!!! After learning from his zone leader of something he had done, I turned to the missionary serving as my secretary and with some emotion (I confess) I asked him to purchase an airline ticket, that the moment had arrived this missionary would be going home. I instructed that I had already conducted all the interviews with this missionary that I intended to have, that I had warned him of the consequences of his actions so many times, that I had done all I could. I requested that he return home, without honor, on the next plane.

To my Assistants I turned and instructed them to go find him (if they could), inform him, help him get packed, and make sure he was at the airport on time to meet his flight. As the office staff left my office, there was a "still" and a profound silence in the office corridor as they moved around shuffling papers and doing what was necessary to do what I had asked. Few words were spoken among them and a kind of 'thick' silence prevailed.

A few long quiet minutes passed and then one of my assistants (who had just recently been called to serve as my assistant and would normally continue in that assignment for two to four more months), meekly and humbly approached the door of my office asking me if he could talk to me alone for a minute.

Certainly I said.

He stood quiet for a few precious moments not knowing how to say what he wanted to say and then reverently said "Presidente, por favor -- Please don't send him home!" With a tear now in his eye he once again begged, "please don't send him home. We just can't let him go home like this. Going home like this will ruin his life. You know what will happen if he goes home like this. Presidente, I will do anything you tell me to do but I am respectfully asking you to release me as your assistant (remember he's just begun his time as service as my assistant). Please release me and let me be his companion and let us try again, and again, and even again, if necessary.

No, I shall never forget the image of this humble latin missionary standing one day in a mission office in Santiago Chile (at about noon) with the LOVE of CHRIST in his brown eyes pleading for the chance to LIFT and serve his undeserving and six years older associate. I just will never forget that image -- nor the feelings I felt that day.

After a kneeling prayer together, followed by continued personal soul searching, and seeking the advice of the Area Presidency -- a few hours later the will of the Lord dictated that I release my assistant and continue on with an effort to LIFT our confused associate. The process of his going home was aborted. We made the necessary changes, and Elder Ramirez went out to serve his new companion.

In the days, weeks, then months that followed the missionary CHANGED. I can't tell you for sure how -- but His younger companion, the Spirit, and love changed and lifted him. It was one of those miracles you always hope for. He changed. In time he was trusted enough to become a trainer. He finished his mission. He expressed almost weekly, verbally and in writing, his love and gratitude for me and my companion Sister Christensen. He spoke of Jesus Christ and the atonement in his interviews. Our love for him changed and expanded too. And this missionary who once had an extreme dislike for North Americans. Stood to share his final testimony with nearly one hundred missionaries (75% North American) by expressing his love for them. He thanked them for their patience and expressed his love for the Lord and his mission. It was simple and undiluted and he gave it in English). A few weeks after his return home, I was in attendance at area meetings, where his stake president sought me out to inform me that this "Several-times-almost-sent-home-without-honor-and-then- finally-Honorably-Released-Returned-Missionary" had been called to the High Council in his stake in Southern Chile and was serving excellently and enthusiastically. He has since been married and sealed in the temple.

I am thankful for LIFTERS!

Elder Clate Wheeler Mask Jr. knows that nothing happens by chance.
As a young boy in El Paso, Texas, Elder Mask was affected by the service of his father, Clate Wheeler Mask Sr., in World War II. It was a trying time.
That’s when his mother, Marva Gonzalez Mask, taught him to really pray. His father was not a member of the Church. “Our family prayed my dad would join the Church and come home safely,” he says. “As a little boy praying at my mother’s side, I just knew God was there.”
With his father away, Elder Mask spent many hours with his maternal grandparents. “I would sit at my grandmother’s knee as she told Book of Mormon stories. My grandfather would tell about his mission to Mexico,” Elder Mask recalls. “That set the course of my life.”
His father did join the Church and return safely. From that time, Elder Mask’s testimony was firm.
He eventually served a mission to Central America, and just before coming home he was assigned to write a report on some missionaries he had worked with. “One sister was just tremendous in every way, and I realized she was the kind of person I wanted to marry someday,” Elder Mask says.
Following military service, Elder Mask attended Brigham Young University, and there he became reacquainted with that same sister missionary, Paula Carol Garns. They married in 1965 in the Los Angeles California Temple and reared six children.
Elder Mask graduated with a bachelor’s degree in English and Spanish and has had a 30-year career with the Church Educational System. He has served as a mission president, bishop, bishop’s counselor, stake Sunday School president, high councilor, and branch president.
Elder Mask, age 60, was born on 20 August 1942. He knows his new calling as a member of the Second Quorum of the Seventy will be as life changing as the other not-by-chance events of his life. “Everything that has happened to him has prepared him for this calling,” says Sister Mask.

Thanksgiving morning I awoke to the usual rattle of milk pans. Grabbing my shoes and stockings, I raced barefoot to the warmth of the kitchen stove. Papa was straining the milk. “Where’s Mama?” I asked.
“She coughed all night” he said, “so I told her to stay in bed and you’d get breakfast ready.” He set the pans of milk in the pantry and went out to tend the cows.
“Oh, no,” I wailed aloud, “Mama can’t be sick on Thanksgiving Day!”
Helplessly I regarded the old cookstove. In bright, shiny letters across the oven door was written FROM KALAMAZOO DIRECT TO YOU. Such good things had come from that oven, I remembered, especially at holidays. For the first time in my memory there had been no bustle of baking the day before Thanksgiving. Mama wasn’t up to it, and Grandma had gone to Moccasin to spend a few days with Uncle Fred and Aunt LaVern. She had said that the family was too big now for all of us to be together on Thanksgiving. To top that off, we got a sad little note from my two oldest sisters, Annie and Kate, who were away at school, saying they couldn’t find a way home from Cedar City.
Mildred, just older than I, was helping Sister Cripps. What a situation! There would be no plum pudding bobbing up and down in its little cotton sack in the boiling kettle, and there would be no row of pies cooling on the pantry shelf.
The fire crackled and steam spouted from the copper teakettle, reminding me that I had better stop feeling sorry for myself and get busy.
Absolutely the only thing I’d ever cooked was mush. I had had no reason to learn to cook, what with Grandma, Mama, and my three older sisters around. Mama had the gift of making something out of nothing, especially when company unexpectedly appeared. My sisters had all learned to cook because they often worked out for people, and then there was Grandma. She lived next door to us, but did her cooking on our stove. She used to run the Isom Hotel at Virgin during the oil boom, and she delighted in cooking for big crowds.
As I poured the boiling water into the mush pot and stirred in the cracked wheat, I thought of other Thanksgivings. Last year when Grandma was taking flaky crusted pies out of the oven with a towel, her thumb accidentally touched the hot tin pan and she dropped a currant pie upside down on the kitchen floor. Steaming red juice trickled across the clean linoleum, and I thought it was a disaster until Grandma said, “You youngsters can have that pie.” She wasn’t one to waste anything. I remember my aunts saying that Grandma was so saving that if a mosquito lit in the molasses, she’d lick its legs before turning it loose. Maybe so, but no pie ever tasted so good as the one she dropped.
Thanksgiving meant lots of relatives. Three years ago everybody in Hurricane had Thanksgiving dinner together in the little wooden meetinghouse before it was torn down. The grown-ups ate first because “children must learn their proper place and respect their elders.” It was one of the rare times that it snowed in Hurricane. While the grown-ups ate, we scraped enough snow together for a snowman; then it was our turn to eat. Politely we sat at the long, wonderful table. I had never seen so many kinds of scrumptious food in my whole life. And what fun it was to eat with playmates and cousins while even the men, wearing happy faces and big aprons, served us.
Stirring the mush smooth, I put on the lid. My little sisters were giggling in their room and singing “Over the River and Through the Woods.” That got to me. Slipping into my coat, I ran to the barn where Papa was pitching hay into the manger.
“Papa, aren’t we going to have any Thanksgiving?” I cried.
“I guess it’s up to you,” he replied, ramming the pitchfork into the hay and climbing down from the loft.
“Me!” I said aghast.
He patted my shoulder. “You’re almost twelve, aren’t you?”
“Eleven,” I corrected.
He took my hand and we walked to the house together. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll put these nice white beans Mama set to soak in this big kettle, like this. Then we’ll put in a piece of fresh pork.” Stepping outside, he brought in a flour sack of meat that had been hanging on the shady side of the house and cut off a hunk for the bean pot. “Now for a little salt, then the lid, and we’ll slide it on the back of the stove. You keep the fire going and the beans will be ready for dinner.”
“But Papa! It’s Thanksgiving! Are beans all we’ll have?”
“With plenty of brown bread and butter and fruit, nothing could be better.”
Grandma always said Papa was a very practical man, and I knew it was true.
Mama ate breakfast with us, then went back to bed. Papa went to fix the corral gate. My little sisters, Edith and LaPriel, did the dishes while I tidied up the house. I looked at the pictures of pilgrims and turkeys that they had colored with crayons and pasted in the front window. Of course we’d never had a turkey, because we didn’t raise them. We ate what we grew. Papa had butchered the pig and Mama had bottled sausage, but she hadn’t rendered out the lard yet.
Quietly I slipped into Mama’s room. Feeling my presence, she opened her eyes.
“Mama, I wish I knew how to make something special for dinner,” I said.
She patted my hand. “The first step to becoming a good cook is to want to. Run down to Aunt Mary’s house and borrow half a cup of lard and I’ll teach you how to make a cake with sugar in it.”
“Sugar!” I exclaimed. Usually we had molasses cakes.
I flew to Aunt Mary’s with my tin cup and she filled it with fresh, creamy white lard. Then I ran all the way home.
“You might want to write this down for the first time,” Mama said, “but in no time at all you’ll be cooking from memory.”
The good cooks I knew gloried in the fact that their recipes were in their heads. We didn’t even own a cookbook.
“We’ll start with two cups of flour.”
I wrote it down.
“Now remember this rule: For each cup of flour, you use one teaspoon of baking powder. Then add a good pinch of salt.”
“How much is a good pinch?”
“About half a teaspoon. You’ll get used to that. Sift these together. In a separate bowl put half as much sugar as flour. How much would that be?”
“One cup,” I replied.
“Now add half as much lard as sugar.”
“One-half cup lard,” I said out loud as I wrote.
“Cream these together. I’m sure you know how to do that because you’ve watched me. Now, since the chickens aren’t laying too well, we’ll use just one egg today. Another rule you might remember is to use the same amount of milk as sugar. This is basic,” she explained.
“From these simple rules you can make many kinds of cake. I’ll leave it to your imagination. You can add a teaspoon of lemon or vanilla extract or a teaspoon of nutmeg—whichever you like.” After explaining how to alternately mix in the flour and milk she said, “Now run along and have fun making your first cake.”
I kept popping back into her room with questions, but finally the cake was in the oven.
“If you’ve kept just enough fire to keep the beans bubbling gently, your cake should be done in half an hour,” she said.
Anxiously I watched the fire and the clock. An angel must have sat on my shoulder because the cake browned just right, springing back to my touch as Mama had said it should.
Remembering Grandma’s cake topping, I ran down to the cellar for a glass of plum jelly and spread it on the cake as it cooled. Cream on the pans of last night’s milk for tomorrow’s churning reminded me of what else Grandma would do if she were here. I ladled some into a bowl for whipping.
Down the cellar once more, I scanned the shining store of bottled fruit. Himalaya berries! Today we would open a two-quart bottle of them! Sweet pomegranates in a basket on the dirt floor caught my eye. Some of them were already splitting, exposing ruby red seeds. I selected the biggest one.
Edith and LaPriel had caught the excitement of the day. They kept the woodbox filled, put the best white cloth on the table in the living room, and even fixed a bouquet of pink chrysanthemums they had rooted out from under the yellow leaves beneath the cherry trees.
Papa came in and scrubbed up. Mama came downstairs and said she felt much better. The table with its flowers and the cut glass bowl of berries and the bread, butter, and beans looked like Thanksgiving. We bowed our heads and Papa thanked Heavenly Father for the bounties of the earth and for a couple of hundred other things; then he blessed the food. He had just barely said, “Amen,” when the brakes to Ether Wood’s freight truck squealed outside our front gate. Ether is the Good Samaritan of our town who always remembers students who are away from home.
Annie and Kate burst in through the front door at the very moment that Mildred opened the kitchen door, announcing that Sister Cripps didn’t need her anymore. My heart almost popped the buttons off my dress. I wanted to laugh and to cry. Everybody hugged everybody else. We put on three extra plates and, chattering like sparrows, passed the beans.
When it came time, I brought out the cake. Like jewels, pomegranate seeds sparkled from the whipped-cream topping. It looked so pretty everyone gasped.
“I made it myself. Mama told me how,” I explained.
Papa said it was fit for a king and Mama said it was perfect and everyone else said I should try one again soon. I looked at the happy faces of my family around the table.
“My goodness!” I exclaimed, “This isn’t a pitiful Thanksgiving after all!”

The old clock ticked in the dusky light like a tired heartbeat, and the windows in the small living room were filled with the soft, crimson glow of a going-down sun. Eric listened to the ticking as the light in the windows turned from red to gray to black.
From where he lay with Sparky beneath the scraggly branches of the Christmas tree, he could see a falling star plummet past the square of glass. Down, down it came. It was as if God was sending the fiery light to light somebody’s Christmas tree—somebody who was too poor to have an ornamental star for the top of his tree.
“Could be Jess Crowley’s place,” Eric said quietly to the perky little pup whose eyes and lip jerked in sleep. “Or Carrie Ludlow’s. Or maybe even ours. If it was ours, Sparky,” he figured out loud, “someone gave the angels the wrong address, because it landed farther from here than good fortune.”
Good fortune had not been their lot, it seemed to Eric, for longer than his eight-year-old mind cared to remember. His mother had died three years before, and his father had barely escaped death in a car accident a year later. The accident had left him too disabled to work. If it weren’t for the kindnesses of ward members, Eric speculated to himself, and the saving assistance from the Church, I don’t know what would become of us. With that computer someone left on our doorstep last year, though, Dad’s been able to get some jobs working at home. “So don’t you worry about not having a place to hang your hat,” he spoke aloud to the little dog, “or whatever it is dogs carry around with them—besides fleas, of course.” He chuckled softly, stroking Sparky’s head.
Twisting and peering through the open living room door, Eric could barely make out the sleeping form of his father in the room at the end of the hall. A spray of moonlight hazed across his bed. The boy eyed the figure affectionately. Dad was strong in the faith and had taught him to be so too. Dad had also taught Eric that they had problems in their lives not because Heavenly Father was punishing or ignoring them but because He loved them, knew what was best for them, and wanted them to grow and be happy. In spite of their sadness.
Eric stretched out beneath his worn, frayed blanket. There was plenty of room under the tree, even though it was just two days before Christmas, for there were only two presents there. The one wrapped gift was a little bird for his father that Eric had fashioned out of wood at school. His father loved birds. He said a bird could get closer to heaven than most of the rest of us, “except when we pray. And except for your mother,” he added warmly, “who may at this very moment be walking and talking with the Savior himself!”
The other gift was from Dad to Eric: Sparky. Dad had given the pup to Eric early. “It’s too hard to wrap up a dog,” Dad had said, “and expect her to lie still under a Christmas tree until some boy unwraps her!”
Eric gently stroked the puppy’s fur that was every bit as soft and warm as Dad’s love. He could hardly wait for the day when the little dog was big enough to run full tilt next to his flying feet.
He reached up and touched a tiny glass ornament glowing in a speck of moonlight that had found its way through the window and down through the shadowy branches of the scraggly pine.
“It sure does have a regular shine when the moon works on it, doesn’t it?” The voice came from behind Eric. His father sat down beside him in the sooty light, a blanket draped about his shoulders.
“I was trying to be quiet so I wouldn’t wake you, Dad.”
“You didn’t, Son. The bedsprings did. I rolled over and heard a chorus of rusty voices!” He chuckled, then ran his fingers through the boy’s golden hair. “I saw you in here camped out under the tree with that little fur piece of yours, and I thought I’d tuck you in.”
Eric smiled. His attention momentarily returning to the glitter of the glass ornament in the moon’s glow, he turned it slowly and watched the flash of revolving light.
“Something else shines just as pretty as that,” his father remarked. “It’s love, when the Savior puts His shine to it—except that glow is much, much brighter. It’s so bright, in fact, that you almost have to close your eyes to see it!”
Eric’s quiet, probing look asked his father to tell him more.
“This tree may be little and spindly, but the stable in Bethlehem wasn’t much to look at either—yet it held the greatest gift of all, God’s gift to all mankind, even Jesus Christ. And what He gave to you, me, your mom, and everyone else that ever was, is, or will be, is something so precious and priceless . …”
Eric squeezed his father’s hand with quiet understanding.
“Well,” Dad continued with a smile through his tears, “if we were to try to hang His gifts to us on this tree, they would break every branch. And if we tried to stack them beneath it, we’d break our necks trying to look up. And up. All the way to heaven. Where your mom is waiting for you and me.”
“I guess we have more for Christmas than what every store in the world has in it put together,” Eric said, “and a lot more, huh, Dad?”
Dad lay down next to his son and hooked his arm as a pillow under Eric’s head. Together they gazed up into the dark branches of the little tree and shared memories that shined like hope and faith and the sweet surety that families can be forever, that things eternal never die—all because of one small Babe born long ago in the city of David, Bethlehem, and placed in a manger there.