Gospel Story Finder

My great-aunt Ada never married. Perhaps she believed in the philosophy: “When fretted by this single life, which seems to be my lot, I think of all the many men whose wife I’m glad I’m not.” In any event, she was one of the first female medical doctors in the state of Utah. When I was a young boy, my brothers and I slept out in the enclosed back porch of our small home. One day I was jumping on the bed, trying to see how high I could go. I jumped too close to the wall and tore part of my face on a nail that was sticking out. I need some excuse for the way I look! Aunt Ada was called to come and sew up the wound. At other times, when we didn’t feel well, she fed us castor oil and milk of magnesia. She came with mustard plasters and burned our chests when we had colds. Today when I have aches and pains, which is becoming more frequent as I get older, I wish Aunt Ada were here to keep me healthy. Every time I look in the mirror and see the scar—a permanent record of my encounter with the nail—a great love for Aunt Ada swells in my consciousness. She filled a precious, loving role in my life.

At a CES devotional in 2013, Elder David A. Bednar told the story of a worthy priesthood holder named John who had recently returned home from serving a mission and married a wonderful young woman named Heather. “Approximately three weeks after their temple marriage, John was diagnosed with bone cancer. Because cancer nodules were also discovered in his lungs, the prognosis was not good.”

Over the next few months, John underwent chemotherapy and a surgical procedure to remove a large tumor in his leg. Elder Bednar visited him and Heather in the hospital, and John asked if he would give him a priesthood blessing. Elder Bednar was then inspired to ask him, “I know you have the faith to be healed, but do you have the faith not to be healed?”

John later reported, “Having the faith not to be healed seemed counterintuitive, but that perspective changed the way my wife and I thought and allowed us to put our trust fully in the Father’s plan for us. … As we prayed, our petitions changed from ‘Please make me whole’ to ‘Please give me the faith to accept whatever outcome Thou hast planned for me.’” [6]

My brothers and sisters, I begin by sharing an event from a large ward in Provo about 20 years ago. During a sacrament meeting, a little boy made a big disturbance. After several minutes of trying to quiet this noisy three-year-old, the mother desperately handed him to the father, who was seated on the aisle close to the front of the chapel. By this time the noise distracted the speaker and audience, and everyone was very conscious of the parents’ plight. The father’s patience was much shorter than the mother’s. In a few moments he put the little boy over his shoulder, stood up, and started for the back door. Looking back over his father’s shoulder and sensing his determined steps, the little boy became quiet and apprehensive. Just as the father approached the rear door of the chapel, the little fellow reached his arms out toward the stand and shouted, “Bishop, help!”

I marvel at the account of the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. Joseph Smith’s prophetic call was to bring forth this great publication. It was in the year of 1823, at the age of 17, that he was shown the hidden records by the angel Moroni. After several visitations over the next four years, Joseph Smith was allowed to remove the sacred record that had rested at the Hill Cumorah near Palmyra, New York.

When Joseph went to the hill on the 22nd day of September 1827, the angel instructed him in matters pertaining to his sacred duty. At last the time arrived for the delivery of the plates and the Urim and Thummim and the breastplate to the Prophet Joseph Smith. He finally had them in his possession. The Prophet commenced the translation very slowly and methodically. He needed a scribe. In February of 1828 Martin Harris went to his home. Martin had been impressed with the stories he had heard about the Prophet having the gold plates. He acted as scribe from the 12th of April 1828 until he finally convinced the Prophet that he be allowed to take the record and show it to a few people to convince them that the work he was doing was important.

Permission was finally granted to him on the 14th day of June. Of course we know that that part of the record was lost. Joseph was soundly rebuked and warned against yielding to temptation. The records were taken from him for a season to give him time to repent. It was a bitter lesson for the young prophet, but it was necessary to prepare him for the great responsibility that was ahead of him. Sometime during the fall of the year 1828, the record was back in his hands, but once again he needed a scribe. It was on the 5th day of April 1829 that a young schoolteacher named Oliver Cowdery went to the home of the Prophet and inquired about his work. On the 7th day of April, Oliver Cowdery started acting as scribe to the Prophet. As the history records, the Prophet and Oliver Cowdery spent long hours together dictating the translation without reference to any books, papers, or manuscripts. After they would take a break, the Prophet would return and resume the dictation where the previous segment had ended.

As we examine the record, it is clear that Joseph Smith could not be the author of the Book of Mormon. The marvel of the whole translation was the rapidity with which the Book of Mormon was translated. It required only 85 days from the seventh day of April—the date Oliver Cowdery commenced acting as scribe—until the end of June, when the complete text was finished and ready to turn over to the printer.

The picture of Joseph Smith kneeling in the sacred grove is familiar to most of us. The results of his prayer have been felt throughout the world. Have you ever wondered what inspired a young boy to turn to prayer when he was troubled and doubting? Some have suggested that his mother planted the seeds. When Joseph was nine years old and his sister Sophronia was ten, she was dying with typhus fever. His mother wrote that she and her husband clasped hands, knelt by the side of Sophronia’s bed, and poured out their hearts to Heavenly Father in prayer asking Him to spare their daughter’s life. From that moment, Sophronia improved and completely recovered.

Even with growth from missionary work, reactivation is a high priority everywhere among members and missionaries alike. Claude Gaston became less active while serving in the army. Though he married a Latter-day Saint, he rarely came to church. “After our second child was born, I began to watch my sister and notice the blessings of the gospel in her family,” says Claude. “My wife, children, father, and branch president encouraged me. I think it was pride that kept me from coming back.” Finally, after nine years, Claude began to attend church again. A year and a half later, he took his family to the Swiss Temple to be sealed.

“I have found a great balance and stability in my life as a result of living the gospel,” says Brother Gaston, who is now bishop of the Vitrolles Ward. “The love that unites my family makes us very happy. I am convinced that if I had not become active again, my family would have dispersed.”

I sat, legs crossed, in my dorm room. My roommate’s bed was empty because she had gone away for the weekend, so I started to fold my clean clothes on it. I glanced up at our big wall clock. Finally it was a quarter to three. I picked up my keys and headed to the campus mail boxes. When I got back to my room, I sank to the floor, let a pile of mail fall to my side, and ripped open a far more important letter.
Keller had written me back, finally. Before when I had written to him, he made it a point to answer quickly. The news in this last letter must have really shocked him. I could understand that. It had taken me almost two weeks to get my thoughts together and finally write the letter. I had written him almost two months ago about our father’s health problems. Neither of us had been particularly close to Dad, but when I found out he had cancer, I knew Keller would want to know immediately. This letter also provided me an opportunity to ask a question that I had needed an answer to for a long time.
Ever since Keller and I were little we knew only two things about Dad, that he loved Mom and that he loved our house. He loved Mom because of her patience, her wisdom, her strength, and her beauty—both inside and out. He loved our house because he had grown up there; his father had died there. Keller and I sometimes wondered if Dad loved us or the house more. We knew he loved Mom the most, but his love for the house was always a mystery.
Our family had lived in that house since I was a baby. It was an old house and had lots of problems. The basement flooded when we had heavy rains, and the well dried up at least once every summer. The house was out in the middle of nowhere, so in the winter our road didn’t even get plowed. Dad bought a tractor and every morning, before he went to work, he plowed out our whole road, from one end to the other.
Keller and I didn’t mind being out in the middle of nowhere though. We used that as an excuse to go wherever we wanted and do whatever we wanted. We built dams in the creek, forts in the woods, and clay slides in the front yard. The house was perfect for two adventurous children like us, and it was perfect for Dad too. Only Mom seemed to be bothered by the frequent problems, but she never complained. She kept herself almost too busy, planting and maintaining our gardens, pruning our apple trees, and raising two fearless explorers. She handled it all so well that no one even realized that she was sick. She kept it from everyone until she was too bad off to continue hiding it. She still wanted to do her jobs, and finally Dad had to take off work just to keep her in bed.
Every day Dad would go into her room and find out what she wanted him to do that day. He even let her tell him how to do the jobs. He knew perfectly well how to weed a garden, but he let her tell him how to do it anyway. The last instructions that she gave him were to help me with my bath and to make Keller take his. She died when Keller was seven and I was five.
Dad lost his job when he asked for the rest of the summer off to take care of us. They said he had already taken too much time. Dad spent close to five months hunting for a new job. He wanted one close enough to our house so that we wouldn’t have to move. He got a position at an architectural firm 71 miles away. He spent more time there than at home.
As we grew up, living in the country lost its appeal. All the problems with the house were a lot worse when there was no one around to fix them. When Dad came home each night, he would fix dinner, take a shower, and then go straight to bed. It seemed that almost overnight a once huge house grew too small, and Keller and I no longer wanted to explore. Neither of us had bothered to replant the gardens once we were old enough to do the work, and Mom’s apple trees had gone years without pruning. All the magic and life that Mom had brought to the house had died with her. Since Dad worked in the city it just made sense that we should live closer to it. If we moved we could get a newer house and not have to worry about the problems. He continued to commute, however, no matter how much we argued in favor of moving.
“That reminds me of your question, which I didn’t think was as strange as you thought I would. I even think I have an answer for you that might actually make sense. Part of it I learned here on my mission.
“I realized long ago that Dad doesn’t firmly believe in God because no one has ever reached him with the message; neither you nor I could do it. I think his house is the only place on earth that he feels connected to his father. After Mom died, I think he felt the same thing there with her. He doesn’t know about the afterlife, or doesn’t believe in it, so earthly connections are very important to him.
At that moment I understood just how much our house meant to Dad. It meant as much to him as the Church meant to Keller and me. It’s the same for anyone who has ever valued anything. From the moment I joined the Church I began a journey toward eternity. Before I reach my destination, I’ll travel through life and have great trials and sacrifices. But when I arrive home to be with my Heavenly Father, the value of being there will be a thousand times greater than the value of all I might ever have possibly had to give up.

Karen and Susan Jacobs of Walnut Creek, California, found it fun and rewarding. It started when Karen was in the fifth grade at the American School in Copenhagen, Denmark. She was looking for a subject for a rather ambitious American history report. The teacher called for footnotes, bibliography, note cards, and oral reports—everything. Her biggest challenge was to choose a subject. Her parents suggested that she do her report on the Mormon trek westward.
“Why not?” she said.
Once started it was an easier topic to write on than most, with all that help at home, her interest, and her background on the subject from Primary and Sunday School.
Few in the class knew much about the Mormons, and the oral report, filled with interest-raising points, created a lively discussion for months afterwards. She got an A grade too!

Illustration by Mitchell McAlevey
While working one day a few summers ago, I got the news that a good friend of mine passed away from suicide. I was shocked—I honestly didn’t know how to react. I remember sitting at my desk in silence, unable to think or do anything.
All sorts of thoughts and emotions came flooding in, leaving me confused. But I kept telling myself that I was OK and that I would get over it. The following months, however, brought an overwhelming wave of depression and sadness over me. There were many tears and sleepless nights. Some mornings, I couldn’t even get out of bed. I didn’t think my prayers were being answered or heard. Reading the scriptures felt flat and uninspiring. I felt hopeless and didn’t think things would get better.
For the longest time, I was afraid to talk to anyone about what I was feeling. People knew about my loss and would offer to talk or give support, but I always turned them down. “I don’t want to bother them,” I would think. “Besides, they have their own problems to worry about. Why would they care about mine?”
There was one Sunday where my grief seemed too much to bear. I couldn’t sit still during sacrament meeting. When the meeting finally finished, I bolted into the hallway to get out of the building. Just before I made it to the door, I ran into a woman in my ward who had lost a son to suicide years earlier. When we made eye contact, the Spirit told me it was time to say something about what I was feeling.
It was scary, but with a shaky voice I stopped her and asked, “Can I talk to you for a bit? I need help.”
She listened to me explain what had happened and how I was feeling. Then, without hesitation, she held my arm and looked at me with tears in her eyes. “I just want you to know that this is not your fault and that you are so loved,” she said.
We both couldn’t help but cry as we kept talking. For me, it felt like the clouds were parting. There was finally some sort of a light shining through on my life. Everything she said to me in the hallway that day was an answer to my prayers.
What I learned most from that moment was that sharing my feelings had finally allowed me to start healing. For some reason, I had convinced myself that I could face everything alone and that I didn’t need any help. Though I couldn’t see it, I was surrounded by people who loved me and wanted to help me.
I’ve learned that when we say that we are to be “of one heart and one mind” (Moses 7:18), it means that your heartaches are my heartaches and my pains are also your pains. It means not only giving help when needed but also being willing to receive help when we need it as well. Simply letting others help me is what made the difference and ultimately what led me to make a full mental recovery.
Now, a few years after this experience, I can honestly say that I am the happiest I have ever been in my life. With a lot of hard work, and ultimately by the grace of God, I have become someone stronger than I was before all this happened. Prayer, service, vulnerability, humility, therapy, countless blessings, and so much more have helped me get to where I am today. I owe a lot to Heavenly Father, my family, and my close friends for helping me through all this. How grateful I am that I reached out for help—it was a key to healing.

Becky Latimer, seated in front of a computer, has a glow about her only partially caused by her bright red shirt and the light from the terminal. The other reason for the glow is the triumphant look on her face as she explains, “Yesterday my friend Eryn and I worked on a program for five hours. It was so difficult that we named it Faith. Today we’re on a roll, so we called this program Hope. And we think things will be going well tomorrow. If so, we’ll call our file Charity.”
Becky and Eryn are participants in a two-week intensive program in computer science at Brigham Young University for outstanding high school students. High school students who have completed their junior year come from throughout the United States and abroad to participate. No previous experience with computers is necessary, but students must be nominated to attend by their teachers, school administrators, and PTA presidents, based on their PSAT (college entrance test) scores. Every participant accepted to the program receives a full scholarship.
Becky and Eryn are now good friends. The hard work they’ve done together over a glowing computer terminal has cemented their friendship. And together they have found Faith, Hope, and Charity.

Our hymns can work their miraculous effect even when the chorus of voices is few and even when hardly a sound can be heard. I felt this a few months ago as I participated in a musical performance that was unique in my church experience. I had been invited to speak at the Great Basin LDS Deaf Conference, hosted by the Salt Lake Valley (Deaf) Ward of the Salt Lake Park Stake. Over three hundred deaf brothers and sisters were in attendance. The members of the stake presidency and I were almost the only adults in the congregation who could hear and who attempted to sing audibly. The rest of that large assembly sang with their hands. Hardly a lip moved, and hardly a sound was heard except the organ and four faint voices from the stand. In the audience, all hands moved in unison with the leader as the audience signed, “The Spirit of God like a fire is burning!” (Hymns, 1985, no. 2). As we sang together, the Spirit of the Lord descended upon us, and we were made ready for prayer. Our sacred music is a powerful preparation for prayer and gospel teaching.

Julie sat and listened to the others talk. She wondered if she would be able to say anything without crying. It would be difficult. But then she decided that maybe it didn’t matter if she cried or not. These were her friends and they’d understand.

Above everything else, Julie was so glad to be alive. Each day when she woke up, she took delight in things she’d taken for granted before—the sun, the blue sky, the song of birds—it was such a wonderful world.

Julie was a senior. In two weeks she would graduate. Her senior year had been something she would never forget. She and her friends had been together all through school, and they realized that this was their last year to be together. They all wanted to have some good memories.

Julie had been in the pep club since she was a sophomore. She’d made some very good friends. Most of them weren’t LDS, but they were still great friends. They respected her beliefs and didn’t complain if she didn’t drink when they all got together after a game.

One day Vicky Kramer, her best friend since the eighth grade, talked to her. “Julie, after lunch tomorrow a bunch of us are going up to Daryl’s cabin to have a party for all us seniors. Daryl’s dammed off a section of the creek so we can go swimming. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“I don’t know, Vicky,” she began.

“I know what’s bothering you. Okay, there will be a keg there, but we’re getting diet soda especially for you. C’mon, we just want you to be with us. This is one of the last times we’ll have to all be together. Please.”

It was hard to say no to Vicky.

The afternoon with all the seniors had been a lot of fun. These were some of her best friends, and they all knew their time together was growing to a close. In the fall, they would scatter to colleges all across the country.

There was not just one keg, but two, and near the end of the party, there was still a lot left in one of the kegs. “C’mon, everybody, let’s finish this up,” someone kept saying.

Near midnight they decided to head back to town. Somehow Julie and Vicky got separated, and Vicky ended up in a car driven by Ross Turner, a senior basketball player who’d received a full-ride scholarship to the state university.

Julie was in the car driven by Bruce Seeley. Bruce had been one of the most eager to help finish up the last remaining dregs from the keg.

“Bruce, why don’t you let me drive?” Julie had asked.

“I can drive perfectly well.”

“You’ve been drinking all day but I haven’t. C’mon, it’ll be safer.”

“No girl can outdrive Bruce Seeley.”

“She’s right,” someone said, “she’s the one who should drive.”

By this time the first car, the one driven by Ross, had already taken off.

They switched places, and Julie got in the driver’s seat.

“Did you ever hear the story,” Bruce said, “that ends, ‘You’d better drive. You’re too drunk to sing’?”

It was a gravel road heading down a steep mountain canyon leading to home, so Julie drove slowly.

“It’s going to take us forever to get down at this rate,” Bruce said.

A few minutes later when they rounded a corner, they saw the first car. It had slid off a curve and hit a large tree.

Vicky Kramer died in the accident.

Julie stood up, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m so grateful to know that life goes on after we die. You all know about Vicky. Well, I miss her so much …”

Snow had fallen all day, covering everything. Raybell and Linda had come out of their Primary class into the front foyer where everybody’s coats and boots were. “Look at Judy’s raggedy old brown boots,” Linda had said. “Judy is so mean. She’s always saying something rude, even to the teacher. And I know she stole my new pen that I got for my birthday.”
“How do you know?” Raybell asked.
“I saw her with it. I’m pretty sure it was mine.”
“I wonder if she stole my candy bar out of my desk too,” Raybell said.
“You know what we could do?” Linda whispered. “We could put snow in her boots.”
Before Raybell could say anything, Linda grabbed them and started out the door. Raybell went after her, and together they filled the toes of Judy’s boots with snow and put them back in place before Judy came out of her class.
When Judy came into the foyer, Raybell and Linda stood nearby and watched her. Judy pulled on one boot and quickly pulled her foot out again. Linda giggled a little, but Judy didn’t seem to hear. She looked into her boot and frowned. The look in Judy’s eyes made Raybell feel a little sick inside. Judy picked up her boots and went outside. As she passed Raybell and Linda, she looked defiantly into their faces. She emptied her boots, pulled each one on, and trudged across the snowy field to her house. Raybell and Linda stood on the church steps watching her and then went home without saying much.

I reflected on this experience some months ago when in Sunday School the class discussed the ministry of President Spencer W. Kimball. I can remember as a student your age hearing President Kimball ask, “Is anything too hard for the Lord?” in reference to being prepared for the gospel to be preached to the Communist bloc countries. This was at the height of the cold war. I marveled at his faith. I doubted I would see the day this would happen. Last year, in joyful irony, I welcomed back my daughter Emily from a mission to Russia.

What you do when you want to sponsor a Heritage Festival of the Arts in your area is have an Al Klann, a student working toward his degree in architecture, as a member of your institute of religion. This is how Arizona State students at Tempe turned their institute into a gallery. Al and a crew of volunteers cut 400 uprights, drilled 3200 holes, stained boards, planted planters, and then helped the contributors hang their artwork. The preparing was an all-night affair, but the success of the event was well worth it.
Contributing artists were enthusiastic about the crowd, the facility, and the spirit of the event. “It’s the most ambitious undertaking of its kind ever held outside of the center of the Church. Very rewarding,” said sculptor Dennis Smith.
James Christensen expressed surprise at finding such a “professionally organized and constructed gallery setting.” Gary Smith said, “I felt a warm spirit and intention here.” Dr. Clinton Larson, who read poetry in a special writers’ seminar, felt that this and similar shows could serve to “convert people to the gospel by translating spirituality into art.”
The committee agreed that, as D. H. Lawrence once wrote, new experience is the most painful of human activities; yet it is the most worthwhile because it insists on growth. “We grew,” said one member of the committee, “and we feel sure the festival will too.” No reason why not. It was quite popular with Latter-day Saints in the community—as well as many non-Mormons who are interested in the arts.—Deborah Egerer.

During my sophomore year in high school, we were studying the Book of Mormon in seminary. After we read Moroni 10:3–5 [Moro. 10:3–5], our seminary teacher challenged us to pray about the things we were studying. I really enjoyed learning about the Book of Mormon, so I took him up on his challenge.
That night I read Moroni’s promise again and got down on my knees to ask my Heavenly Father if this book was really true. I liked the stories, but I just wasn’t sure if it was true or not.
First I got in tune with the Spirit and started my prayer. At one point in the prayer, I asked Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon was really true. All at once I experienced a strong, loving feeling in my bedroom, and I got warm all over. The next thing that happened really shocked me. It felt like someone wrapped their arms around me and gave me a big hug.
I am now a missionary on the Navajo Indian Reservation in the New Mexico Albuquerque Mission. I wouldn’t be out here if it wasn’t for the answer I received that night. Now I know the things I prayed about are true. And now I want to share that knowledge with others.

One night, while serving as a youth leader in my ward, I arrived at the church and was not surprised to find a group of young men playing basketball in the gym while they waited for opening exercises to begin. I was surprised, however, to see David. He was relatively new in the ward but had already demonstrated that attending Church-related activities was not a normal part of his routine. Coming to a Young Men activity was a big step.
David did a pretty good job of quietly easing into the group without being noticed—that is, until the basketball rebounded off the rim and went straight at him. He caught the ball and realized it was his turn to take a shot. He dribbled a few times and clumsily threw the ball up toward the hoop. It banged hard off the bottom of the rim and came right back at him, hitting him on the arms he had put up to protect his head. Everyone laughed, and so did David.
The ball then went into the hands of another boy, who mockingly imitated David’s awkward shot. As before, most of the boys laughed, but this time David was not laughing. He had come to be a part of his priests quorum but had become the brunt of their laughter.
David turned to the exit and walked out.
My heart broke for David. I was not sure what to do, but I knew I needed to try anything to get him to stay. I followed David out the door, trying to think of something to say that might help him have the courage to come back.
As I was walking after David, I was surprised to see Dennis, one of the other priests, run past me and put his arm around David. I do not know what he said, but Dennis must have been inspired, for David’s heart was softened and he hesitantly, but willingly, turned around and came back into the church. It was a wonderful moment.
It was only a few weeks later when a similar situation occurred. Some of our ward members, including many of our young men, were practicing for an upcoming theatrical performance. Todd, a priest, was one of the performers. During a rehearsal, someone mockingly mimicked Todd’s performance. He was offended and started walking toward the door dejectedly.
“Oh, no,” I thought, “here we go again.” I felt compelled to follow him outside and encourage him to ignore the offense and come back.
What happened next was a beautiful surprise.
This time it was not Dennis who hurried past me, but David. David, who only a few weeks earlier had been the dejected one, was now the inspired one. He ran up to Todd and, putting his arm around him, pleaded with him to return. Todd accepted the invitation, and within minutes both boys were standing side by side on the stage. David had now successfully convinced another to stay.
As I witnessed this example of the Aaronic Priesthood in action, I was reminded of a statement by Elder Neal A. Maxwell (1926–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “We are so busy checking on our own temperatures, we do not notice the burning fevers of others even when we can offer them some of the needed remedies, such as encouragement, kindness, and commendation. The hands which hang down and most need to be lifted up belong to those too discouraged even to reach out anymore” (“Swallowed Up in the Will of the Father,” Ensign, Nov. 1995, 23).
David’s hands had been ones that hung down. From the selfless act of one young man to another, David’s hands then became those that lifted up.

At the October 1856 general conference, President Brigham Young (1801–77) announced that handcart pioneers were still crossing the plains and that everyone was to help gather supplies for them immediately. Lucy Meserve Smith wrote that women “stripped off their petticoats [large underskirts], stockings, and every thing they could spare, right there in the Tabernacle, and piled [them] into the wagons.”

As the rescued pioneers began to arrive in Salt Lake City, Lucy wrote, “I never took more … pleasure in any labor I ever performed in my life, such a unanimity of feeling prevailed. I only had to go into a store and make my wants known; if it was cloth, it was measured off without charge.”4

“Shhh!” The girls in the corner giggled, and Wade and I rolled our eyes. All five of us in the Valiant B class were hidden behind the steel folding chairs. The lights were off and the door was shut as we waited to present our traditional welcome for our new Primary teacher.
After what seemed like forever, the door opened and the new teacher came in. But it wasn’t the teacher that made all five of our jaws drop—it was the big yellow dog at her feet. Whoever heard of a dog at church?
Someone hurriedly turned on the lights, but the teacher didn’t seem to notice. She walked directly to her seat near the chalkboard and sat down with a cheerful smile on her face. It was then that I realized she was blind.
Of course, we’d all heard that a new woman was moving into the ward—not much goes unnoticed in a town the size of ours—but no one had mentioned anything about her being blind.
“Good morning! I’m Sister Linden, your new teacher. This is Molly, my guide dog.” The yellow dog was already asleep on the floor by her feet. Molly opened her eyes when she heard her name but closed them again after a moment. “Now, let’s see,” Sister Linden went on, “is everybody here today?”
One of the girls murmured, “Yes.”
“OK. Would you all do me a favor and sit in the same order each week so that I’ll know where you are?”
I nodded, then turned red as I realized that she could not see me nod.
“How about if Wade sits in the first chair on your left, then Mark, Laura, Jessica, and Katie, in that order?”
We all came out from behind the chairs and sat where she’d asked us to.
Then Sister Linden told us about herself. She and Molly had moved into the old Winter home. She had a job as a court reporter that she and Molly walked to every day. She told us that Molly was a yellow “Lab”—that’s short for Labrador retriever—and had been trained at a special school in California. Sister Linden said that without Molly, she wouldn’t be able to do most of the things that she used to do before she lost her sight. Besides that, she said, Molly was good company.
When the bell rang for us to go to Sharing Time, none of us jumped up to leave. We all helped fold and stack the chairs. For the first time in years, our class had actually been reverent.
Sister Linden’s lessons were really interesting every Sunday, and we learned a lot. She couldn’t read the lessons straight from the book, so she told them in her own words. She often brought a tape recorder, and we listened to stories.
Molly almost always slept through the lessons. Sometimes she even snored a little! But she was always on her best behavior during class.
That summer, Sister Linden invited us all over to her house on a Saturday afternoon. Her small home was very neat so that she could always find the things that she needed.
She showed us her Book of Mormon in Braille. She read it by feeling the bumps with her fingers. She let us try it, but it just felt funny to me.
Her cans of food had magnetic Braille labels on them so that she knew what was in them. When she used up the food in the cans, she put the labels on the refrigerator door to remind her of what she needed to buy. She also had Braille labels sewn into the lining of her clothes so that she could tell what colors they were. She even had a watch with Braille numbers!
She showed us how she could tell coins apart by their size and feel. She folded her paper money in different ways so that she could tell how much each bill was worth.
Molly slept on the floor near Sister Linden’s bed. Molly wasn’t allowed on any furniture, but she had a toy ball and a bone that she carried in to show us.
Later we all took a walk in the park. Sister Linden and Molly walked so fast that it was sometimes hard to keep up with them.
When I think of my favorite Primary teacher ever, I don’t think of her as disabled. Sister Linden took what she had and made the best of it, and she taught us more about the gospel than any sighted teacher I ever had.

In the late 1940s a young man named Tom was at a dance for the freshman class at the University of Utah. As he was dancing with a girl from West High School, a young lady from East High came dancing by. Tom took one look and decided that there was a young lady he needed to meet. However, she danced away and the evening concluded before Tom could dance with this mystery girl, much less find out her name. Several months later, while waiting for a streetcar at Thirteenth East and Second South in Salt Lake City, Tom looked up and could hardly believe his eyes! There was the young lady he had seen at the dance! She was with another young lady and a young man who Tom recognized from his days in grade school. However, Tom couldn’t remember his name. He squared his shoulders and plunged into his opportunity.
Tom walked up to the young man and said, “Hello, my old friend from grade-school days.”
The young man responded, “I can’t remember your name.”
Tom told the boy his name and then was introduced to Frances Johnson, who later became his wife (from Thomas S. Monson, Be Your Best Self [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1979], 131).
I wonder if Tom ever wonders what would have happened had he not gone to the freshman dance? What if he had decided to go somewhere else? What if he had decided that he was too tired or didn’t want to go dancing that night? Was Tom’s sudden interest in Frances just a random thing or was it something more than that?
We may not know the answers to these questions, although we certainly seem to enjoy asking them, but I believe some greater questions could be examined. Let’s assume that Tom had indeed felt the prompting of the Spirit that evening at the dance. Could he have felt what he did if he had been behaving in a disorderly manner? What if Tom had decided to just hang out with his buddies at the refreshment table? What if there had been something amiss in his life that would have prevented him from feeling the Spirit? How is it that the future President Thomas S. Monson was in the right place at the right time?