Gospel Story Finder

On January 2, 1891, a 19-year-old Norwegian immigrant sat down in his home, in Logan City, Cache County, Utah Territory, and wrote the following lines on some lined paper:
“As I have come to fully realize; that, I am as weak as all other mortals—perhaps weaker than many; and realizing that happiness in life is only obtained by having a pure heart, a clear conscience; and fearing the Lord and keeping his commandments; also as I realize that happiness in old age consists of reviewing a life devoid from great sins; the gratification of noble desires manfully carried out; and finding that my life up to this time has not been as I should like it to have been: I lay down the following regulations by which I shall try to conduct my life hereafter; to which end may the Lord Almighty, my Creator, help me.”
He then wrote down 17 resolutions. Nearly eight months later, on Tuesday, August 25, 1891, he copied them in a hardcover journal. Here he was to record his years of struggle as a stranger-student from Utah Territory at Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He began by entering the 17 resolves that were to guide his life.
“Resolved:
“1st. That religion, the science of sciences, be made my chief concernment throughout life.
“2nd. That I will daily pray to God in secret.
“3rd. That I will daily reflect upon God and his attributes and try to become like him.
“4th. That I will receive Light, Wisdom or Knowledge, wherever or however it may be offered.
“5th. That I will never be ashamed to acknowledge my principles, beliefs and religion when I once become fully convinced of their correctness …
“6th. That I will never lose one moment of time but use it wisely.
“7th. That I maintain strict temperance in eating and drinking.
“8th. That I will never do anything that I would not do were it the last hour of my life.
“9th. That I daily read the word of God, that I may learn his will and that I may be comforted, strengthened and encouraged by so doing.
“10th. That in any narrations I speak nothing but the pure and simple truth.
“11th. That I always do that which I think is my duty and for the best good for my fellow beings.
“12th. That I live with all my might while I do live, that I may not die a living death.
“13th. That I never by word or manner try to force my opinions on others but that I simply state them and offer my arguments against others.
“14th. That I seek to overcome the habit of quickly becoming angry, loud speaking, impatient motions, and whatever might offend my fellowmen and hurt me.
“15th. That I never for a moment forget my duty towards my mother, she who has made me who I am and who will make what I will become, she who has spent the better portion of her life in my behalf and to whom I owe all the honor, respect, and affection that I can give; also that I always remember my duties toward my brother and all my friends and relations.
“16th. That I complete every task which I begin: also that I carefully consider my purpose and its results before taking upon me any duty.
“17th. That I always remember that the men and women I meet are my brothers and sisters and that I look to the beam in my own eye before attempting to remove the mote in my fellow’s eye.” (See Matt. 7:5). It would be well if every young man and woman today would similarly evaluate his or her position in life.
The young man who wrote these lines was a student at the Brigham Young College in Logan when he first recorded them. The new year of 1891 was just beginning. A little over three months before, President Wilford Woodruff had issued, by revelation, the “Manifesto.” New opportunities awaited the driven, persecuted, misunderstood Latter-day Saints.
The young man’s name was John Andreas Widtsoe. He lived with his widowed mother and little brother in a small, poor cottage. They had come from Norway in 1884. On June 27, 1894, in Sanders Theater, in Harvard Yard, Cambridge, Massachusetts, President Charles W. Eliot of Harvard University conferred upon the young immigrant the degree, Bachelor of Science, summa cum laude (with highest honors). He completed the four-year curriculum in three years. He had undergone many hardships. His widowed mother and little brother had sent him small sums of money from their meager earnings. The rest of his education had been financed by unusual personal sacrifice and by loans from kind friends in Logan, with notes signed at 12 percent interest.
He returned home to Logan from Harvard to serve as chemist of the Agriculture Experiment Station, Logan, Utah. On June 1, 1898, he was married to a beautiful young woman, Miss Leah Dunford, eldest daughter of Susa Young Gates. The young couple went to Germany where he earned the PhD degree in biochemistry at the University of Gottingen. This was followed by postdoctoral studies at the Zurich Polytechnium in Switzerland and the University of London, in England.
While in Europe he was offered the presidency of the Brigham Young College by cablegram from the chairman of its board of trustees. A cablegram from President Joseph F. Smith of the First Presidency followed the next day, advising him not to accept the Brigham Young College presidency but to return to what is now Utah State University where he built up agricultural research, establishing scientific dry farming and irrigation practices to bless the arid lands of the world.
He became the father of scientific irrigation practices and dry farming. His books and articles were published in French, Italian, and Arabic and were widely used in arid regions throughout the world as well as in the United States and Canada. He was then called by the U.S. Secretary of the Interior to revise the reclamation laws and policies of the United States. He became the president of Utah State University in Logan, Utah (1907–1916) and the University of Utah in Salt Lake City, Utah (1916–1921). In March 1921 he was called to be an apostle by President Heber J. Grant and continued in that position throughout a long and eventful life. At his funeral in the Salt Lake Tabernacle in 1952, a telegram of appreciation for his great services to Canada was read; it was from the prime minister.
The life of John A. Widtsoe can serve as an example to every young man and young woman of the Church and of the world in these times, especially to those about to enter college, the world of work, and family life.
Recall his words:
“Realizing that happiness in life is only obtained by having a pure heart, a clear conscience; and fearing the Lord and keeping his commandments … I lay down the following regulations by which I shall try to conduct my life.”
Again, it would be well if all young men and women wrote down the regulations by which they desire to conduct their lives. Elder Widtsoe often counseled young people to “make promises. Then keep those promises.”
His commitment to the search for truth, for knowledge, was a notable landmark in the history of young Latter-day Saints. President of two state universities, he was also a member of the executive committee of Brigham Young University for many years and one of its guiding lights. He also served twice as Church Commissioner of Education. Fundamental as his commitment was to research and extending the fields of knowledge, his commitment to the Author of Truth, our Heavenly Father, and his faith in him was even greater. He recognized faith in the Lord Jesus Christ as not only the first principle of the gospel but also referred to such faith as “the greater knowledge.”
One of his poems, written as a Harvard student, now appears in LDS Hymns with a musical setting by Alexander Schreiner (“Lead Me Into Life Eternal”). Here one finds the lines, “Give me faith, the greater knowledge; Father hear me as I pray.” (No. 141.)
Can we overcome handicaps in these times? Can a person without money, family ties, or influence with people in high positions make his way in today’s world? Can we reconcile faith and knowledge?
We certainly can.
How?
By utilizing the same principles that Elder Widtsoe established for his life at a very early age. His example can be commended to all young men and young women today.
In his book “In Search of Truth,” Elder Widtsoe offered a formula we can follow. It served him well. It will serve anyone well. It is: “Work, work, work. Study, study, study. Pray, pray, pray.”

The youth of the Malta Second Ward, Declo Idaho Stake, challenged the adult members of the ward to read the Book of Mormon in three months. Many of the ward adults took the challenge. The youth established some rules for the challenge. Team members could only count what they read from that time on. They couldn’t just listen to records or tapes unless there was a special situation.
The youth team consisted of all young people in the ward over 12, including single Young Adults. Everyone married and in the adult classes made up the adult team. At the end of the three months, the losing team would prepare a dinner and dance for the winners.
It was interesting to see the enthusiasm build as the ward caught the spirit of the reading. The following comments from ward members were typical: “This has helped my family so much. We have the most wonderful spirit in our home now.” “I didn’t know the Book of Mormon was so interesting. I could hardly put it down.” “I understood the book better this time than I ever have before.”
As the final day arrived, it was announced that one-third of the adults finished within the deadline, and over half the youth. The youth were ecstatic about their success.
The celebration was held with a great dinner and a family dance.

Elder M. Russell Ballard asked Church members in Argentina to invite someone to come to church before this general conference. Eight-year-old Joshua listened and invited his best friend and his family to an open house at his ward.
That night he kept checking, but his friend did not come. Finally they came, and Joshua ran out to greet them and hugged his friend. They came into the church and met lots of new friends. Elder Ballard said, “It was great to see the faith of this little boy and to know that Primary children can be missionaries too.” (See “Following Up” from the Sunday morning session.)

I was in the ninth grade. A year in which it seemed I was halfway to nowhere. Confidence was not part of my nature. My actions were largely controlled by my feelings of inferiority. Perhaps it was the low light of self-doubt that made the following experience such a bright and guiding star.
Third hour I sat near the back of the classroom. My feet extended as far forward as I could stretch them. By sitting in this manner I was scarcely visible from where the teacher sat at her desk in the front.
Friday was the day for current events. When the roll was called, each student had two choices—he could either answer “Prepared” or “Unprepared.” If his response was “Prepared,” he had to give a talk. If his response was “Unprepared,” he didn’t have to do anything. I quickly grasped the idea that the word unprepared was the word that would get me off the hook.
As the weeks went by, each time my name was called I responded almost with dignity, “Unprepared.” My friends also mastered this word. We all, as a group, made it easier for each of us as individuals.
Once as I was visiting with the teacher, I noticed my name in the performance roll book, and behind my name was a long series of negative signs. This worried me but not enough to make me stand up in front of my friends and give a talk. Speaking to a group seemed like the most frightening of all things.
A girl that I liked very much sat in front of me. I liked her so much that on the way to school I would think of clever things to say to her, but when in her presence, my mind would go blank and I would become almost tongue-tied.
One day when the teacher called the roll and got to my name, I replied, “Unprepared.” It was then that this girl did me a great favor. She turned around, looked back at me, and said, “Why don’t you get prepared?” I was not able to listen to any of the reports that day. I kept thinking of all sorts of wonderful things like, “What does she care, unless she cares.”
I went home, found an article in the newspaper, and read it time and again until I had finally committed it to memory. I cut the article out, folded it, placed it in my wallet, and carried it with me all week.
The next Friday I was there in my usual seat in the back. The teacher started to call the roll without looking up. Finally she got to my name; she said, “George.” And very quietly I gave a great speech—I said, “Prepared.” She stopped calling the roll and looked up at me. I poked my head up as far as I could and nodded. The girl turned around and smiled. My friends looked over at me like, “Traitor.” Then I sat waiting my turn, saying to myself, “What have I done?” I was scared. Then I made a magnificent discovery. It was all right to be afraid if I didn’t let it stop me from doing what I should.
My turn came. I went to the front and started to speak. I remembered every word, and after the last word had crossed my lips, I stood there for just a second, and a priceless thought passed my mind and found its way to my heart. I said to myself, “I like you.”
I returned to my seat and sat down. I didn’t hear any of the reports, but as my heart pounded within me, I kept feeling over and over again, “This is the only way to live.”
I have since learned that the word unprepared really does take you off the hook and lead you away from pressure. By learning to say that word you really don’t have to do anything, but you never know the joy of doing something that causes you to say to yourself, “I like myself.”

I had never heard of the Mormons, so I went home, got online, and searched. I arrived at Mormon.org and ordered a free copy of the Book of Mormon. Missionaries delivered it a few days later.
I wasn’t sure I could start to believe in God, but the missionaries helped me discover that I could not only believe in Him but also know Him. As I began to pray and study the Book of Mormon, I found myself on a beautiful journey of finding happiness. I quit smoking. I stopped blaming God and started thanking Him for the good things in my life. I came to know that His Son had suffered for my sins and for all the pain I had ever felt. On October 28, 2007, I was baptized into His Church.
If I hadn’t personally experienced the change from disillusionment to happiness, I wouldn’t believe it is possible. Today I love my calling in Primary and am grateful to have had the opportunity to help organize a service project at a young single adult conference in Poland. To be able to regularly help others through Church service has added to the happiness I have found in the gospel of Jesus Christ. Everything I do now, I do with pure love because of Jesus Christ. I believe that life is beautiful and that even when we have challenges, if we follow the Savior, we won’t be lost.

Like Elizabeth generations before, Rosalene soon found herself crossing an ocean to settle in an unfamiliar culture when her husband took a position in Hong Kong.
“Some people thrive on change and adventure, but it was almost too much for me,” Rosalene says.
She again found strength in her Savior and in God’s plan for her. With the support of her family and dear sisters in her ward, Rosalene came to love and treasure her new surroundings and experiences.

“What were you assigned to bring?” Melissa asked Clara as they walked to Sister Wilson’s house for their achievement day activity.
“Flour,” Clara answered. “What are you bringing?”
“Some yeast,” said Melissa.
“I wonder what we’re doing today,” Clara continued. “Hannah is bringing flour too. Sister Wilson has kept it such a secret.”
“I know,” Melissa agreed. “All she would say was it’s going to affect many Church members this Sunday.”
The girls were still talking about the mystery when they reached Sister Wilson’s house. Tina, Jenny, and Susan were already there. Just as Clara and Melissa sat down, Hannah arrived. Now all the girls were present, and they hoped the mystery project would soon be revealed.
Sister Wilson offered the opening prayer, asking that they might understand the importance of the great sacrifice Jesus Christ made for them. She also prayed that the food they would prepare might be blessed for the sake of all who would eat it.
After the prayer, they went to the kitchen with their assigned ingredients.
“Let’s see,” Sister Wilson began, “who was assigned to bring the yeast?”
“I was,” Melissa said.
“Good,” said Sister Wilson. “We’re going to put the yeast into a small bowl with some warm water and let it dissolve. We will put the other dry ingredients into a larger bowl. Who has the flour, sugar, and salt?”
“I do,” Clara, Hannah, and Jenny answered together.
As the girls worked, they talked and laughed. Amid the chatter, Clara asked, “What are we making, and how will it affect the Church members?”
“Can anyone guess?” Sister Wilson asked.
“Are we making cookies?” Susan asked.
Sister Wilson smiled. “We are making the bread that will be used next Sunday for the sacrament.”
The giggling stopped suddenly, and the girls spoke reverently. They weren’t making bread just to learn how. They were making bread for use in a sacred ordinance!
When the yeast was dissolved, Susan poured in the milk she had brought and Tina added her oil. Then the girls mixed the liquid and dry ingredients together. They took turns kneading the dough, then covered it with a cloth and allowed it to rise. They shaped it into two loaves, and while they waited for it to rise the second time, they had a lesson on the sacrament.
“Can anyone tell me what the bread and water represent?” Sister Wilson asked.
“The flesh and blood of Jesus Christ,” Melissa answered.
“That is right,” said Sister Wilson. “Shortly before His Crucifixion, Jesus gathered His Apostles around Him in an upstairs room. He knew He was going to die, and He wanted the Apostles to always remember Him and to be faithful to His teachings. He blessed bread and broke it into pieces. He gave it to His disciples to eat in memory of His body. He blessed wine and gave it to them to drink in memory of His blood.
“When we partake of the sacrament, we renew the covenants we made when we were baptized,” Sister Wilson continued. “Can anyone tell me what we promised to do?”
“I know,” Clara said. “We promised to keep the commandments.”
“We promised to remember Jesus Christ,” Jenny added.
“Very good,” Sister Wilson said. “We also promised to take upon us the name of Jesus Christ. The way we act, the things we do, and the words we say should show others that we are followers of Christ. The Lord promised us that if we keep our covenants, we will always have His Spirit to be with us.
“Is there anything special we should do during the sacrament?” Sister Wilson asked.
Hannah raised her hand. “My mom always tells us we should be reverent.”
“She’s right,” said Sister Wilson. “And we should remember the Atonement and think about the promises we are renewing. We also need to think about ways to improve ourselves and become more like Christ.”
The girls talked about things they could do to be more Christlike. Then it was time to put the bread into the oven. While the bread baked, the girls planned upcoming activities.
Then they took the golden brown loaves from the oven, and Sister Wilson said, “After they cool, I’ll slice them. Then I’ll give them to Bishop Carmichael.”
On Sunday the girls sat with their families in sacrament meeting. They sang the sacrament hymn reverently as the priests broke the bread for the congregation. They listened carefully as a priest blessed the bread, and when they said, “Amen,” they really meant it. Then the deacons passed the bread. When Clara took a piece of bread from the tray, she was filled with gratitude for all the Savior had done for her. She thought about the Last Supper and what Jesus taught His disciples about the sacrament. She also thought about ways she could keep the commandments better.
Clara glanced at Melissa. From the look on her friend’s face, Clara knew the sacrament had touched Melissa’s heart too.
After the meeting, the girls stopped outside the meetinghouse to talk for a moment before going home.
“I’m glad Sister Wilson let us help make the sacrament bread,” Jenny said.
“I thought it made the sacrament extra special,” Tina added.
“It wasn’t just the bread,” Melissa replied thoughtfully. “It was really thinking about the sacrifice of Jesus Christ and what the sacrament means.”
Clara smiled. “I felt the same way. It wasn’t the bread that made the difference. It was the Savior.”

Elder Marvin J. Ashton: “A new convert to the Church recently shared this story. ‘I was in and out of enforced confinement most of my teen years. It wasn’t so bad being there because the food was pretty good, and we were treated all right. But it did get boring, so when anyone had any reading material, funny books, magazines, or anything, we would trade our food for a chance to borrow those items. One day I saw a fellow with a nice, thick book. I knew it would take a long time to read, so I offered him my pork chops, my potatoes, and all my main course food items for a week. He accepted my offer and loaned me the book. As I read it, I knew I was reading something very special and very true. The book for which I had sacrificed my food was titled the Book of Mormon. When I had a chance, I found the missionaries, changed my habits, and am now finding a new way of life. I love that book for which I traded my food” (General Conference, April 1981).

However, reading scriptures can present a challenge for everyone. President Boyd K. Packer shares his first attempts as a teenager at reading the Book of Mormon. He says: “I opened it and read, ‘I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents’ (1 Nephi 1:1). … It was interesting, and I could follow it until I got over to the Isaiah chapters. … So a few months later I decided to try again to read the Book of Mormon. I read, ‘I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents,’ but every time I’d hit the barrier of those Isaiah chapters. … Finally I decided I was even going to read them.”

And of course President Packer did read them. Persistence is the key. With every reading of the scriptures, unfamiliar words will take on meaning. You can read about heroes and great acts of courage. You can learn of the tender mercies of the Lord. And above all, you can feel the love of God and know that Jesus Christ is our Savior.

Gray dawn had come. Pacha, a mountain boy of Peru, went out from his thatched hut to the place where the llamas rested at night. His whistle was low, his voice gentle, “Come, llamas!”
The six long-necked, woolly animals rose slowly to their feet while Pacha explained the new day. “When the sun comes,” he told them, “we will go with Papá down the mountain—to the market fair in the valley.”
The llamas made no sound, but Pacha felt sure that they understood. As they marched in stately line from the stone-enclosed corral, he stroked their thick fur, calling each by name. “Ocle … Astro … Yana …” They were brown llamas with patches of yellowish white—all but Nubi, the smallest and youngest. Nubi was pure black.
Pacha loved them all. They were his friends, his companions. But he couldn’t help wishing that one of them was his very own. He wished it more than anything else.
A boy living farther up the mountain owned a llama. It had been given to him the day he brought his father’s string of llamas safely around a dangerous mountain landslide.
Ever since, Pacha had tried hard to think of something he might do—a deed so big and important that he would deserve a llama of his own. “I would choose you,” he whispered into the velvety ear of Nubi, the last to leave the corral. And Nubi’s small head gently nudged Pacha’s shoulder.
Outside the corral, the llamas formed a circle with their heads turned inward, waiting patiently for the loads to be tied to their backs. First Pacha and his father folded into a bunch the long, coarse hair that grew on each animal’s back. This made a soft padding for their loads, which today would be lighter. Instead of the usual dried corn and hard mountain potatoes, the woven carrying bags were filled with llama fleece.
“It is good wool. We can trade it for many things we need,” said Papá as he tied the last bag in place. Only Nubi carried no load. She was still too young.
The man and the boy now turned their faces toward the eastern sky, waiting for the sun. The wind was strong and cold! Shivering under his red and blue poncho, Pacha pulled the earflaps of his tasseled cap closer.
At last a rosy glow came up from behind the farthest snow peak. “It is time,” said Papá.
Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas.”
Ocli had been chosen leader because he could pick the best way. The golden bell on his neck tinkled. Although the trail winding down the mountain was rocky and very steep, the padded hoofs of the llamas never stumbled. Pacha stayed close behind Nubi, the last in line. Papá followed.
As they descended into the valley, the air grew warmer. Wildflowers bloomed purple and yellow and crimson. Then they saw the red roofs of the town in the valley, and soon they were making their way along a narrow, turning street. Their sandals slap-slapped on the worn cobblestones, and the hoofs of the llamas swish-swished.
An automobile, its horn blaring, crowded them. But the llamas strode on in perfect order, their heads high. Even Nubi stepped with pride and dignity all the way to the market fair in the center of town.
Pacha sniffed. “Mmmm!” How good the fresh bread smelled! “Mmmm!” How delicious it tasted when his father, smiling at Pacha’s eagerness, sold some wool, then bought a loaf.
Their next stop was a fruit stall, where they bought big, yellow-orange papayas. Farther on, they added sugar cane and rock salt to their purchases, also a shepherd’s knife for shearing the llamas and a round clay cooking pot.
Now they had only enough time to get the clothing they needed: white trousers and new caps—a red one for Pacha, a white one for his father.
“We will take the rest of the wool to our friend Don Jacinto,” said Papá, “then buy our clothes at the indoor market.” He led the way down another street to a building with arches and pillars before it.
After taking as many bundles of wool as he could carry, Papá carried them into the store, saying, “Stay with the llamas, my son.”
The llamas quietly folded their legs beneath them and lay down to rest. Pacha was about to do the same, when a boy in town clothes hurried up. “Haven’t you heard?” he cried. “Foot races! They start over there!” He pointed to a nearby fountain.
The first race was for boys their size, he quickly explained, and it would start soon. As he ran off in the direction of the fountain, he called back, “The winner gets a prize! A fine prize!”
Pacha’s thoughts were awhirl! He had never run a race, but he knew that his legs were strong from climbing mountains. To win a race and a fine prize would be something big and important for him to do. At last his chance had come!
Pacha’s heart thumped with excitement. He started running to catch up with the boy.
Then suddenly he stopped. The llamas! They wouldn’t understand being left alone. Something might happen to them. He couldn’t run this race, after all. A lump too big to swallow came into his throat. He started to run again, this time back to the llamas.
All six animals stared at him with dark, sad eyes that were full of questions. Pacha spoke soothingly. “Of course I wouldn’t leave you, llamas.”
He stooped and put his arms around black Nubi. He hugged and patted each woolly animal. Even when he heard the loud boom that signaled the boys’ race, he stayed with them. The llamas, comforted, softly hummed.
A man’s deep voice spoke. “Ah, Pacha, why are you not running with the others?” It was Don Jacinto. He had come with Papá from the indoor market.
Before Pacha could explain, his father spoke. “Pacha was left in charge of the llamas. He could not leave them, not even to run a race.” To Pacha’s amazement, Papá seemed very pleased that his son wasn’t trying to win a race. Pacha’s heart felt light again.
Don Jacinto had turned to look at the wool still tied to the llamas’ backs. His eyes fell on Nubi. “A fine black one!” he exclaimed. “When you have fleece from this llama, I will pay extra.”
Pacha’s father was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “The black one now belongs to Pacha. Her fleece will be his.”
At first, Pacha couldn’t believe what his ears had heard. Nubi his? A llama of his own?
Papá turned to Pacha. “Our llamas serve us well. In return, we must take good care of them, my son. Now that I’m sure you understand this, I give you Nubi.”
It took Pacha a while to find his voice. “Gracias, Papá. Oh, gracias!” he exclaimed. He looked up at Don Jacinto and said, “When Nubi is sheared, I will bring the black fleece to you.”
It was time to start the homeward march. The sun, warm now, would set quickly. The stinging chill of the wind would return. The travelers needed to reach their mountain home before the trail darkened. Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas!”
Ocli’s golden bell tinkled. The carrying bags, repacked with new possessions, swayed lightly on the animals’ backs.
Pacha, staying close to Nubi, thought over the happenings of the day. It had been a wonderful market fair, and he had learned something he would always remember: Small deeds can be as important as big ones.

World War II had just ended, and most people in Germany had very little food or money. My birthday was coming up just a few weeks before Christmas. I did not expect to receive any Christmas or birthday presents, knowing quite well—even as a young girl—that our parents were struggling to meet our basic needs. In our big city, hunger was always present. It was a sad and dark time.
On the day of my birthday, to my surprise and delight, a wonderful present—just for me—was placed on the kitchen table. It was the most beautiful present I could have imagined: a tiny little Weihnachtsbaum, a Christmas tree, just one foot (30 cm) tall, covered with delicate handmade ornaments of tinfoil. The tinfoil reflected the light of our living room in an enchanting way. As I inspected the tinfoil ornaments, I realized with amazement that they were filled with small pieces of caramelized sugar. It was like a miracle. Where did my mother get the tiny evergreen tree, the tinfoil, and the rarity of sugar?
To this day, I do not know how she made this miracle happen at a time when none of those precious things was available. It remains in my heart as a symbol of my parents’ deep love for me, as a symbol of hope, love, and the true meaning of Christmas.
During the Christmas season, we still have in our home a Christmas tree, now decorated with electrical lights and ornaments of every variety. When we are together with our children and grandchildren, the beauty of the tree and the sparkling lights warm my heart and bring back sweet memories of a happy family moment that came from a tiny tree with shiny tinfoil ornaments.

Many years ago when I was practicing law in California, a friend and client who was not a member of our faith came in to see me and with great enthusiasm showed me a letter he had received from an LDS bishop of a nearby ward. The bishop wrote that a member of his congregation, a former employee of my client, had taken materials from my client’s work site and had rationalized that they were surplus. But after becoming a committed Latter-day Saint and attempting to follow Jesus Christ, this employee recognized that what he had done was dishonest. Enclosed in the letter was a sum of money from the man to cover not only the cost of the materials but also interest. My client was impressed that the Church through lay leadership would assist this man in his effort to be reconciled to God.

High wind warnings for northern Utah were making a lot of people nervous, but not Matt Hansen, 17, and his dad Barry. To them, it sounded like perfect weather. They shared a love of windsurfing, and the news that high winds were coming was like music to their ears.
“When a windsurfer hears that the wind is going to be blowing hard, that’s when you drop everything and go. In Utah, the wind rarely blows over 40 miles per hour. So when we heard the wind would be blowing, we packed up and went.”
Barry called his brother Drew, and they made plans to go to Utah Lake. Barry also took his two daughters, Nicole and Natalie, because they liked to play on the beach.
When they arrived at the lake, it was disappointing. “We got there and the water was almost glassy,” said Matt. “I wasn’t even going to rig up my sail or put on my wetsuit.”
Barry decided to go out because he is not quite as good a windsurfer as his son and his brother. He has fun with the winds blowing between 10 and 15 mph. “It finally started blowing hard enough for Matt. He’s quite a bit better than I am, so he likes to be out in 20 to 40 mile-per-hour winds. I was tired, so I went in and was lifting my board up onto the beach. By then Drew and Matt were about three-quarters of a mile out. In a matter of two or three minutes, the wind shifted, going from 20 mph to what I estimate was about 60 mph. I knew they were in trouble. There was no way they could sail in that kind of wind. The waves went from three-foot swells to so high I couldn’t see over the tops. It was blowing hard and kept building and building. I could occasionally see my brother, but I couldn’t see Matt.”
In the water, Matt felt the wind shift. When the high winds hit, he saw his uncle heading in. “I was in the water waiting for a gust so I could water start. That’s where your sail pulls you up. Then the wind started picking up. I tried to hold on, but it was too strong. I thought it was a microburst, and I could wait a minute for it to pass. Usually the wind won’t blow that hard that long. I looked at the clouds coming from the mountains. I knew it wasn’t a microburst, and it wasn’t going to stop.”
Matt was right. The wind was not going to stop for several hours. In fact, the wind wreaked havoc, blowing down dozens of trees, toppling trucks, shearing power poles, and ripping apart roofs throughout northern Utah. The wind would be clocked as high as 86 mph in places, hurricane velocity.
On the lake, Matt was just a speck on the water. “Quick as I could, I tried to save my boom; that’s what you hold onto on your sail. I got it off and detached my sail from my board and let my sail take off. I went to grab my boom to put it on top of my board to swim it in. The wind caught my board, and it took off. I dropped my boom and went after my board. It’s my best flotation device besides my life jacket. I looked back and my boom and sail were gone, so I started swimming with one hand on my board. I would get glimpses of the shore, but it was blowing so hard that if I tried to look at the shore, the spray off the waves would hit me in the eyes and face.
“I had been swimming for half an hour, and I felt like I wasn’t making any progress at all. I thought to myself, Any decisions I have to make, I have to make them right now before hypothermia kicks in. After a while I won’t be able to make the decisions very well or very wisely. I told myself everything I was going to do, over and over.”
The situation was similar to what Matt had been taught in church. Make your decisions before the moment of crisis. Make your decisions when you can think clearly. Then when faced with the critical moment, the right decision to carry you through will already be made.
“After an hour of swimming, I felt I was a little closer to shore. It never crossed my mind to stop. I had a life jacket and board. I was not stopping. Wherever I ended up, it was not going to be in the water. I was starting to get cold. I knew hypothermia was coming. It was getting harder to think. I had to concentrate and keep swimming. Then I felt ground underneath me. I thanked the Lord and thought, Now all I have to do is walk.”
In the meantime, Drew had gone to a marina to get a boat, but the high waves swamped the boat when they attempted a rescue. They had to turn back. The sheriff’s office could not send a helicopter up because of the high winds. At home, Matt’s mother, Barbara, was trying desperately to stay calm: “I kept saying, ‘Matt, hang onto the board. Hang onto the board. Keep your strength.’” Then she felt the comfort of the Spirit.
There was nothing to do but wait. Barry drove down the beach and stared at the most horrifying sight he had seen, waves crashing and no trace of Matt. “That’s when I felt absolute despair,” said Barry. “I knew Matt was in very good condition. I knew he knew the rules of safety. But it was getting dark. I knew he couldn’t last too much longer in the cold water. I pleaded with the Lord to temper the elements and bring my son back.”
Just when darkness was about to set in, Barry saw a figure walking toward him. It was Matt. He ran to his son, hugging him. Matt, his face purple with cold, said, “Dad, I love you.” Barry was crying on his son’s shoulder.
That evening, after Matt was reunited with his sisters and mother, the Hansens knelt in family prayer. Matt’s father is his bishop in the Parkview Ward, South Jordan Utah Stake, and rarely had the prayers of thanksgiving been so sincere and given with so much joy by the Hansens and other ward members as those that night.
The Hansens still enjoy windsurfing, but needless to say they are very cautious about weather conditions, particularly on Utah Lake. And Matt knows what it means to make decisions ahead of time, then to keep his eye on his goal and never ever stop until he reaches it.

With a basketball in his hand and his naturally quick feet, Dax Crum from Kirtland, New Mexico, is a fine shooting guard. He also serves as a great example to other young people in how to deal with obstacles.
When basketball commentators say that Dax Crum of Kirtland, New Mexico, is single-handedly leading the offense, they are telling the truth. Dax was born without a right hand, yet when he was growing up he refused to listen to those who said he would never play basketball. As a high school junior, he scored 22 points in the game leading up to the 2002 state championship and 17 points in the final game. He also has not listened to those who said he wouldn’t be able to play baseball (he hopes to earn a college scholarship as a pitcher). In addition, he was the leading scorer on his soccer team, and he runs sprints and anchors the relay team in track.
Dax is a priest in the Kirtland Second Ward in New Mexico and is the fourth of six children. He’s a straight-A student, loves to be with his friends, and enjoys playing his guitar. His parents, Richard and Valerie, have always encouraged their son to overcome obstacles, and they saw their son become relentless in learning to do things. Dax says, “I don’t let my hand embarrass me. I guess if people feel sorry for me, they can. But I don’t feel sorry for myself.”
Dax is the perfect person to talk to young kids about facing hard problems. Just like the advice he gave to one young boy, also born without a hand, “I just said, ‘You can do anything. Don’t let anything get in your way.’”

“I want a Saturday chore,” Johnny said to his mother. “You and Daddy have chores, and Sarah and Joe have chores. I want one too.”
Mother smiled. “Why don’t you watch what everybody does this Saturday. Maybe that will help you think of something that you can do.”
On Saturday morning Johnny watched Joe carry large piles of dirty clothes to the washing machine. Joe left a trial of socks and shirts behind him and had to go back and pick them up.
Then Johnny went outside, where Daddy was mowing the grass. Every once in a while Daddy stopped to carry the grass clippings to the vegetable garden.
Next Johnny went to the garden. Sarah was pulling out the weeds. She walked back and forth, carrying the weeds to the compost heap.
When Mother returned from the grocery store, Johnny watched her carry grocery bags from the car into the house.
At lunchtime Mother asked Johnny, “Did you think of a Saturday chore?”
“You’ll see next Saturday,” Johnny told her with a happy smile.
The next week Johnny got his red wagon and pulled it behind Joe, picking up the socks and shirts that were dropped.
“Thanks, Johnny,” said Joe.
Johnny took his wagon outside. When Daddy’s lawn mower bag was full, Johnny piled the sweet-smelling clippings into his wagon and pulled them to the garden.
“Thanks, Johnny,” said Daddy.
Then Johnny’s wagon rattled back and forth, carrying Sarah’s wilting weeds to the compost heap.
“Thanks, Johnny,” said Sarah.
When Mother came home, Johnny used his wagon to carry the bags of groceries to the house.
“Thanks, Johnny,” said Mother.
Johnny and his wagon were busy hauling things all morning. At lunchtime, Mother smiled at Johnny and said, “You found a good Saturday chore.”
“Yes,” he said proudly, “Johnny’s Delivery Service. It’s a ‘Saturday Special’!”

Weeks went by, and in our history class, with the same teacher, we began to study the ancient civilizations of America.
One night while doing my homework I felt the strongest desire to speak in class again about the Book of Mormon. I knelt in prayer and asked Heavenly Father to grant me an opportunity to do so. After praying, I felt I should again prepare a discourse on the Book of Mormon.
The next day as Mrs. Protschka began class I raised my hand. But before I could say anything, she looked at me and said, “Yes, Robert. Last night when I was preparing my lesson for today, I suddenly thought of you, and wondered if you wouldn’t have anything else to tell us about the Book of Mormon?”
This time I focused mainly in Christ’s visit to the ancient Americas. I quoted from a book which related the legend of the Great White God Quetzalcoatl. The similarity between Christ and this Indian God was obvious. Again, I told my friends and teacher that Christ had indeed visited the people in the Americas; he had indeed taught them the gospel.
At the conclusion of my speech, Mrs. Protschka wrote on the blackboard: “The Book of Mormon is the best theory of how the ancient civilizations of America came to be,” and asked us to write it down in our notebooks. What a triumph! I felt like jumping for joy. God hears and answers prayers. He is indeed a God of miracles. And he knows how to soften the hearts of men for his purposes.

A young journalist wrote:
“I was … driving to a scene I didn’t want to see. A man … had accidentally backed his pickup truck over his baby granddaughter in the driveway of the family home. It was a fatality.
“As I parked … I saw a stocky, white-haired man in cotton work clothes standing near a pickup. Cameras were trained on him, and reporters were sticking microphones in his face. Looking totally bewildered, he was trying to answer their questions. Mostly he was only moving his lips, blinking and choking up.
“… I can still see in my mind’s eye that devastated old man looking down at the place in the driveway where the child had been. Beside the house was a freshly spaded flower bed, and nearby a pile of dark, rich earth.
“‘I was just backing up there to spread that good dirt,’ he said to me, though I had not asked him anything. ‘I didn’t even know she was outdoors.’ He stretched his hand toward the flower bed, then let it flop to his side. … I … went into the house to find someone who could provide a recent photo of the toddler.
“A few minutes later, with all the details in my notebook and a … studio portrait of the cherubic child tucked in my jacket pocket, I went toward the kitchen where the police had said the body was.
“… Entering the kitchen, I came upon this scene:
“On a Formica-topped table, back-lighted by a frilly curtained window, lay the tiny body, wrapped in a clean white sheet. Somehow the grandfather had managed to stay away from the crowd. He was sitting on a chair beside the table, in profile to me and unaware of my presence, looking uncomprehendingly at the swaddled corpse.
“The house was very quiet. A clock ticked. As I watched, the grandfather slowly leaned forward, curved his arms like parentheses around the head and feet of the little form, then pressed his face to the shroud and remained motionless.
“In that hushed moment I recognized the makings of a prize-winning news photograph. I appraised the light, adjusted the lens setting and distance, locked a bulb in the flashgun, raised the camera and composed the scene in the viewfinder.
“Every element of the picture was perfect: the grandfather in his plain work clothes, his white hair back-lighted by sunshine, the child’s form wrapped in the sheet, the atmosphere of the simple home. … Outside, the police could be seen inspecting the … pickup while the child’s mother and father leaned in each other’s arms.
“I don’t know how many seconds I stood there, unable to snap that shutter. I was keenly aware of the powerful storytelling value that photo would have, and my professional conscience told me to take it. Yet I couldn’t make my hand fire that flash-bulb and intrude on the poor man’s island of grief.
“At length I lowered the camera and crept away, shaken with doubt about my suitability for the journalistic profession. Of course I never told the city editor or any fellow reporters about that missed opportunity for a perfect news picture.
“Every day, on the newscasts and in the papers, we see pictures of people in extreme conditions of grief and despair. Human suffering has become a spectator sport. And sometimes, as I’m watching the news film, I remember that day.
“I still feel right about what I did” (James Alexander Thom, “The Perfect Picture,” Reader’s Digest, Aug. 1976, pp. 113–14).*

Last fall Sister Rasband and I were on our way to Goshen, Utah, for a worldwide Face to Face event being broadcast to over 600,000 people in 16 different languages. The program was to focus on the events of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, with questions submitted by young adults from around the world. Sister Rasband and I had personally reviewed the questions; they gave us the opportunity to testify of Joseph Smith as a prophet of God, the power of revelation in our lives, the ongoing Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and the truths and commandments that we treasure. Many listening today were part of that miraculous event.
Initially the broadcast was to originate in the Sacred Grove in upstate New York, where, as Joseph Smith testified: “I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!” That, brothers and sisters, was a miracle.
The worldwide pandemic forced us to relocate the broadcast to Goshen, Utah, where The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has re-created, for filming, a section of old Jerusalem. Sister Rasband and I were within a few miles of Goshen that Sunday evening when we saw thick smoke coming from the direction of our destination. Wildfires were blazing in the area, and we worried the broadcast might be at risk. Sure enough, at 20 minutes to 6:00, our broadcast time, the power in the entire complex went out. No power! No broadcast. There was one generator that some thought we might be able to power up, but there was no assurance it could sustain the sophisticated equipment at hand.
All of us on the program, including narrators, musicians, and technicians—even 20 young adults from our own extended family—were fully invested in what was to take place. I stepped away from their tears and confusion and pleaded with the Lord for a miracle. “Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “I have rarely asked for a miracle, but I am asking for one now. This meeting must happen for all our young adults around the world. We need the power to go on if it be Thy will.”
Seven minutes after 6:00, as quickly as the power had gone out, it came back on. Everything started working, from the music and microphones to the videos and all the transmission equipment. We were off and running. We had experienced a miracle.
As Sister Rasband and I were in the car returning home later that evening, President and Sister Nelson texted us with this message: “Ron, we want you to know that as soon as we heard the power was out, we prayed for a miracle.”
In latter-day scripture it is written, “For I, the Lord, have put forth my hand to exert the powers of heaven; ye cannot see it now, yet a little while and ye shall see it, and know that I am, and that I will come and reign with my people.”
That is exactly what happened. The Lord had put forth His hand, and the power came on.

A few years ago, our family started going through some trying times. Our daughter, who was two at the time, had received a cancer diagnosis that required ongoing rigorous treatments. We also had a baby who had her own medical complications requiring frequent monitoring and visits to specialists. Life was not going quite as we had planned!
Based on our circumstances, we needed to make a few changes—and do so quickly! Upon the cancer diagnosis, I quit my job, dedicated my time to my children’s health-care needs, and started traveling out of state frequently for my daughter’s treatment.
As a six-year stretch of various cancer treatments for her began, I didn’t know that I was going to get an intensive course on how to be ministered to and in turn how to minister to others.
I’d like to share a few of the lessons that personally helped me when I was the one being served:
Say yes to help—if it actually is helpful. It can be hard to be on the receiving end of service. It is humbling since it can bring up vulnerabilities and weaknesses. But if someone offers something that would be helpful to you, say yes! Some offers may not be helpful, and in those cases, it is appropriate to politely decline. Maybe in that case you can suggest something they could do instead. In the future, you can offer to serve someone else.
Reach out. I am grateful for the organization of the Church because there are people in the ward or branch who are responsible to minister to each one of us. We are not alone. If you are in need, humbly reach out. Speak up and let others know a way that they can help. So many struggles are not public knowledge and not shared, so it might be hard for others to know how to help you if you don’t tell them. One example is that we had a few unexpected treatment appointments come up, and we had not yet arranged childcare. I asked a few friends to have my youngest daughter over for playdates to help ease the burden on Grandma, who was primarily caring for her. They were so kind and willing but would not have known I needed that help if I did not ask.
Be graceful in response to people’s well-meaning comments. No one but our Heavenly Father and the Savior can know exactly what you are going through. Be generous in accepting people’s comments or words of sympathy. We all have been in the position of wishing we could take back something we have said. On the rare occasions when people said something that came across the wrong way, I would try to focus on their good intentions and move on.
When able, share your thanks! When you are in the trenches of your trials, thank-you notes or expressions of gratitude might not be a possibility. In those times, it can feel overwhelming to notice and receive any gifts of generosity or love. If you missed an opportunity to share your thanks, remember there is no expiration date for gratitude. You can always reach out later and let them know how much their service meant to you at the time.
During our daughter’s first few months of treatment, our time and energy were filled with the daily grind of our children’s health-care needs. Normally, I like to give people thank-you notes but didn’t make the time for that. Instead, I kept a list on my computer of some of the gifts and acts of service we received, both to remember to thank later and to remind us of the wonderful people watching out for us. This is a list I hold dear to my heart, and it serves as a reminder on how I can help those around me.
To follow Jesus Christ, our ultimate example of being a minister, includes being “willing to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light” (Mosiah 18:8). I have received many Christlike acts of service, making my burdens light. Being on the receiving end of this kindness is humbling, and I am grateful to have learned more about our Savior’s love by being ministered to by His disciples.

You have to understand. Chris and Jason are the kind of guys who, if you ask about diving and you’re close to the community pool, will show you the dives they do. Never mind that they didn’t bring their suits. They’ve been lifeguards here, and the caretaker, who knows them well, gives permission. They look at each other, accept the challenge, and even though they’re in jeans, jump on the board and plunge in the pool. You get the feeling that’s the same way they’ll plunge into missionary work—follow the rules, be dependable, work hard. But get with it—no wimpy excuses.