Gospel Story Finder

One of Amanda’s great-great grandsons is Hal Loren Taylor, my father. In February 1966 he was serving as president of the Southwest Indian Mission, headquartered in Holbrook, Arizona. While in Salt Lake City for training meetings, he and my mother had to take my two-year-old sister, Susan, who was critically ill, to the Primary Children’s Hospital. When the meetings concluded, Dad left Mom and Susie there in the hospital in Salt Lake City while he returned to the mission in Arizona. He later recounted,

I had a terrible cloud of discouragement over me and I didn’t want to leave them. . . . This heaviness seemed to become worse the closer I got to Holbrook. When I arrived that night, I was so discouraged that I felt I would simply work and work hard enough that I might overcome this terrible feeling.

He started going through the large stack of letters on his desk. A thick letter from a friend who worked out on the Indian reservation caught his attention. He opened it and began to read, hoping to receive some words of encouragement. Instead, the letter contained harsh criticism of him personally and his approach to teaching the gospel to the Lamanites. He stopped reading partway through the letter, his discouragement reaching a new low. He buried his face in his hands and cried aloud, “What am I doing down here?” feeling that the Lord had forsaken him. In that moment the following occurred:

I no more than said those words when a glorious spiritual experience took place where in it was brought so clearly to my mind that I thought someone was speaking these words to me: “Fear not, I am with thee, be not dismayed, for I am Thy God and will still give thee aid. I’ll strengthen thee, I’ll help thee, and cause thee to stand.” That is where the message ended. I looked up from having my head in my hands almost expecting to see someone, or the words written on the wall, because of the glorious feeling which I had. I saw no one, but know that somehow the Lord was giving me the encouragement which I badly needed. I remember straightening up my shoulders and raising my head and feeling a strength that I had never felt before. . . . I realized like I had never realized before that the Lord did not neglect his servants. I cannot remember ever having a real discouraging feeling for the next two and a half years of mission work. [Personal history of Hal Loren Taylor, unpublished manuscript]

My sister, Susie, survived. Although she still has health challenges, she is today the happy mother of a missionary son who this week completes his service in Chicago, Illinois. My father finished his mission in Arizona and four more that followed, faithfully relying on that firm foundation, the Savior. My father recently celebrated his 92nd birthday.

Another example comes from the ministry of the Prophet Joseph Smith. In 1833 the Prophet accompanied Freeman Nickerson to Canada to visit his sons Freeman and Moses. They were received rudely by young Freeman. He said, “Father, . . . I had just about as soon you had brought into my home a nest of scorpions and turned them loose upon us. . . . I know all about Joe Smith . . . ; the papers are full of him and his works, and I want none of either. . . . But, . . . I’ll welcome them for your sake.”

Two days passed. Relations became more cordial, but there were no attempts to discuss religion. Freeman had boasted to his wife how he could handle Joe Smith.

On the evening of the second day, Freeman invited everyone to the living room. “He threw the family Bible on to the table . . . with the challenging remark: ‘There! Now go to it!’”

The Prophet did not “go to” the Bible. “Instead, he related his own dramatic experiences, . . . told with the utmost simplicity, but with great earnestness.”

Freeman apologized for his rudeness. Before the Prophet left town, 14 people, including the Nickerson brothers, were baptized by the Prophet. (Taken from John Henry Evans, Joseph Smith, an American Prophet [New York: Macmillan, 1936], 86–88.)

My third counsel relates to some of the goals you should consider. At approximately the same time that Elder Perry was in Japan with the marines, President Boyd K. Packer, President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, served in Japan with the air force at the end of World War II.
In 2004, I accompanied President Packer and others to Japan. He had an opportunity to retrace some of his steps and reflect on some of the experiences and decisions he made at that time. With his permission, I share some of his thoughts and feelings.
President Packer described experiences that occurred on an island off the coast of Okinawa. He considers this as his mount in the wilderness. His personal preparation and meeting with other members had deepened his belief in gospel teachings. What he yet lacked was confirmation—sure knowledge of that which he had already come to feel was true.
President Packer’s biographer captures what happened: “Counter to the peace of confirmation he sought, he came face to face with the hell of war against the innocent. Seeking solitude and time to think, he climbed, one day, to a rise above the ocean. There he found the gutted remains of a peasant cottage, its neglected sweet potato field nearby. And lying amid the dying plants he saw the corpses of a slaughtered mother and her two children. The sight filled him with a deep sadness mingled with the feelings of love for his own family and for all families.”6
He subsequently went inside a makeshift bunker, where he contemplated, pondered, and prayed. President Packer, in looking back on this event, described what I would call a confirming spiritual experience. He felt inspired as to what he should do with his life. He, of course, had no idea that he would be called to the high and holy calling he now holds. His vision was that he wanted to be a teacher, emphasizing the teachings of the Savior. He made up his mind that he would live a righteous life.
It came to him in a rather profound way that he would have to find a righteous wife and that together they would raise a large family. This young soldier recognized that his career choice would provide modest compensation and that his sweet companion would need to share the same priorities and be willing to live without some material things. Sister Donna Packer was, and is, for President Packer, the perfect companion. They never had enough excess money, but they did not feel deprived in any way. They raised 10 children, and they sacrificed. They now have 60 grandchildren and more than 80 great-grandchildren.

By lunchtime, the last group of Richmond Ward youth are putting finishing touches on a wall at Svetlana Iskiyayev’s Village Shoe Shop. They have spent the morning tidying and painting the back room of the shop.
Svetlana and her husband left careers as a doctor and a lawyer when they came to Virginia from Russia several years ago. Now they are building their dreams here. And Helen Capehart, 16, is happy she can help them. She has invited two nonmember friends to help her today and hopes that they, as well as the Iskiyayevs, will see the light of the gospel through her service.
After all, examples of service are what drew Helen to the gospel herself just a short time ago. She says, “I’m so grateful that the Lord led me to this church, and for the awesome examples my friends here have been to me. My biggest example now is Jesus Christ, and I find so much joy in serving him. I hope I always have this feeling in me.”
Most likely, that feeling will stay with Helen because she has found an important key to sharing the gospel—service.
As youth from the Richmond Ward close their day of service with a testimony meeting, Helen once again captures the essence of this activity. “I don’t think that I’ve ever felt the Spirit so strong in my life as when I am serving the Lord,” Helen says. “Look at all those magazines with beautiful people on the covers. The world says that’s beauty. But when I was working today, I got paint and dirt all over me. And I think that is the Lord’s true definition of beauty.”

The rickety bus slowed just enough to let us swing out the open back door. Lurching forward once again, it careened around the corner and was gone in an instant. We stood alone on the highway, Ciudad de Dios on one side and Urbanización San Juan on the other. It seemed a forsaken place to me that December day in Lima, Peru, three days before Christmas. A humid wind blew the sand into grainy little whirlwinds, and the ever-present Lima overcast was still with us although it was nearly summer. It was my first Christmas away from home, and I felt empty and alone. I had been singing carols to myself for days trying to catch the mood but to no avail. I missed the snow and the crisp Utah winter air. Lima’s mugginess didn’t help at all.
We trudged along past row after row of cement tract houses, all in various stages of construction but occupied nonetheless. Dogs barked at us from their rooftop guard stations, and children tagged along at our sides. Arriving at the Manco home, we knocked on the door and Sister Manco answered.
A three-foot bramble bush stood ridiculously in the middle of the bare cement floor in the living room. We oohed and aahed appropriately. I smiled slightly, remembering the beautiful firs and pinion pines at home, but had to appreciate Sister Manco’s good intentions. Her home would be happy this Christmas Eve. But just down the street where the Nostadez family lived, it would be a different matter.
Brother Nostadez was a trolley conductor who had been out of work since July when his union struck. The government had settled the issue by tearing up the tracks, and Brother Nostadez had been without a job ever since. We had baptized the entire family, except two underage daughters, only the night before. Although I knew they were glad to be in the Church, I also realized that it would be a meager Christmas for them this year.
All at once I knew what had to be done. If I couldn’t celebrate the kind of Christmas I so longed for, at least the Nostadez family would have a good one. My companion Elder Slack agreed, and we enlisted the aid of a member friend, Estrella Costa, to buy things she thought the family might enjoy. We involved the Manco family by asking them to deliver the gifts at just the right moment on Christmas Eve, hoping to teach them something about caring for others at the same time. Estrella had brought the gifts she chose to our apartment.
Still, as I surveyed the fare, I wasn’t completely satisfied. The silly little useless toys, the oranges, apples, and fun surprises that are so much a part of holiday giving were missing.
Hurriedly I set out with Elder Slack in tow to explore the open market across the highway in Ciudad de Dios. Although appallingly filthy, Ciudad de Dios was vibrantly alive. The rhythm of humanity literally pulsated through its streets. A thousand vendors sought to sell their wares. Here was fruit fresh from the jungle: papayas the size of cantaloupes, watermelons, pineapples, figs, several kinds of bananas, mangos, and oranges of every size and variety. We bartered for a dozen of the latter. Huge sides of beef, lamb, and pork were scattered among hogs’ heads and cows’ stomachs, all hanging from enormous hooks for better view. Fresh fish from the famous Peruvian fisheries gaped at us with mouths opened wide. Live animals were sold to be taken home and raised for later butchering. Turkeys, chicks, ducklings, and baby guinea pigs scampered nervously in their pens. Next came sundries. Black market shampoo, soaps, and razor blades were spread on blankets on the ground or in the now-familiar make-shift stalls. There was a section with shoes and clothes of every description. At last came the toys.
I don’t remember what we bought, and it’s really not very important. I do know that we had a marvelous time trying everything before deciding. The vendor waited patiently, enjoying our enthusiasm. I vaguely recall marbles and combs. Yes, we bought combs for all, and a large basket to put everything in.
The shoppers in the marketplace that day carried off their business in a more lighthearted manner than usual. The bartering that is so much a part of Latin life was good-natured and friendly. One usually sees a number of heated arguments among those driving hard bargains, but not today. Shoppers and vendors alike seemed genuinely pleased to do business together. Negotiations were concluded with large smiles and holiday greetings. Everyone in “City of God” was happy that day. They had little and yet they were happy, anticipating the celebration of the birth of Him who was their Savior also. That strange, bustling marketplace made me feel the spirit of Christmas for the first time that holiday season. At last I understood why this tenement was called “City of God,” and no other name could have been more appropriate.
The Latin people celebrate this holiday like none other. Nearly everyone attends midnight mass. After that the fun begins. Fireworks burst everywhere, not just overhead. Rockets zip up and down streets, sidewalks, between one’s legs, and out of windows. Firecrackers of every caliber roar a mass salute that would rival a squadron of 747’s taking off in formation. The next morning a pungent haze overcasts the city, a smokey memorial to the Yuletide celebration, a mushroom cloud Latin style.
Time was short. We quickly bought wrapping paper and dashed back to the Mancos where mother and children helped ready the presents for delivery. I carefully instructed young Paco in the finer points of subbing for “Papa Noël.” “Leave the basket on the front porch, knock loudly, and run. Hide nearby to make sure the basket is taken in before returning home.” They mustn’t discover any connection between the gifts and their new-found faith. We wished the Mancos a “Feliz Navidad” and rushed home to prepare for our own festivities.
We made four or five calls on wonderful families that night, all of whom implored us to share their midnight feast. A carefully planned schedule brought us to the home of a convert employed by a U.S. airline where we observed a sort of Anglo-Latin Christmas culminating in an enormous banquet. After exchanging gifts, we finally dragged back to our apartment.
During the course of the evening I often mused on the events transpiring out in San Juan. I imagined Paco stealing up to the door, leaving the basket with great commotion, and escaping to the safety of nearby shadows. Brother Nostadez answers the door and, finding nothing, shakes his head in disgust at such an annoying prank on Christmas Eve. It is little Teresa who spies the basket on the porch and dashes through her father’s legs, hoping for a glimpse of Papa Noël. Hearing the disturbance, the rest of the family rushes to the door. Sister Nostadez whisks the basket into the house with her excited children in hot pursuit.
Across the street, Paco flattens himself in the sand, stifling uncontrollable laughter at Brother Nostadez who is suspiciously scanning the neighborhood for the perpetrator of the deed. He makes one more careful sweep and then backs through the door, slamming it behind him. As if loosed by a starter’s pistol, Paco is up and sprinting for home to report the success of his adventure.
Inside the house, little girls squeal with delight when dolls emerge from the basket. Ten-year-old Hilario is quietly enraptured with his first pocket knife. And Brother and Sister Nostadez contemplate the happy scenario, amazed at this unexpected answer to Christmas prayers uttered for the first time.
Each Christmas Eve for 12 Christmases my thoughts have returned to that singular event in my life. I know that it’s possible that the outcome was not at all as I envisioned it. And it is that uncertainty that keeps the experience so alive and vibrant in my memory. For the imaginings of that night’s events by far transcend any actuality I might have experienced in person. And so on each Christmas Eve I think, and ponder, and dream of miracles that I never witnessed but that I know to have transpired.
It was my first Christmas away from home and family—a young missionary in a strange land among strange people with strange customs. It was a time of learning and teaching and giving in secret. It was the time I first learned of, felt, and understood the true meaning of the spirit of Christmas.

Jakarta, Indonesia
“Christmas in Indonesia is definitely not a white Christmas, and it’s not cold. Also, although there might be some Christmas decorations here and there in malls, cafes, or hotels, the majority of the people here don’t celebrate Christmas.
“Still, my family celebrates as best as we can. I love eating cookies and sipping hot chocolate, shopping for new Christmas ornaments, and decorating the Christmas tree.
“Last Christmas I was with my parents and my brother only. I wasn’t able to meet my other relatives like my uncles, aunties, cousins, and grandparents due to COVID-19. It felt rather lonely and empty because we would usually gather together.
“Despite the circumstances we were in, it didn’t stop us from remembering the meaning of Christmas day, which is the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ. Throughout our Christmas celebration, we were able to eat delicious meals and to dress in nice clothing. I was lucky enough to receive a gift, and I got so many warm virtual Christmas greetings from the lovely people around me. These are wonderful blessings, and I was able to stay focused on Christ as I remember to be grateful for everything.”
Abigail S., 14, Jakarta, Indonesia

A few days before he finished his doctoral program and returned to Korea in September of 1951, Brother Kim attended the Hill Cumorah Pageant with Brother and sister Wood. On Sunday, they attended a special testimony meeting for local missionaries in the Sacred Grove. After the meeting, Brother Kim met Church President David O. McKay, who was also attending the meeting. “As we walked from the grove,” Brother Wood said, “Brother Kim cradled his right hand in his left and, with his cheeks still moist, he kept repeating, ‘I have shaken the hand of the Prophet of God.’”

When I was called to serve you, the young women of this Church, I knew I had to behave appropriately. One day one of my daughters got a ticket for parking her car on the street with an expired registration sticker. I took matters into my own hands and went marching into the city government building to explain that the registration papers were currently on their way to us through the mail. As I walked resolutely through the door, someone said to me, “I know who you are.” That stopped me and reminded me that I also needed to remember who I am—not just the Young Women general president, but most especially a daughter of God.

I am sure that the skills and discipline and soul-power that result from overcoming the challenge of material shortages open the door for extraordinary blessings. I offer one small personal example. As poor graduate students in Chicago, my wife and I did not have the resources to telephone home, except for very short calls on special holidays. We had to keep in touch by long, weekly letters, which each of us typed to both sets of parents each week. The composition of those letters developed writing skills that have blessed each of our lives for the ensuing forty-some years. We would have been deprived of a blessing of significant growth if we could have simply picked up the telephone and communicated in the almost effortless and sometimes almost thoughtless way that would have been available if we had had more money. I am an advocate of letters among loved ones, and my preference has been reinforced as I have written family histories and rejoiced in the details of loved one’s lives that have been preserved in writing rather than lost on some electronic highway.

Illustration by Stan Fellows
When I got married, I began to diligently store food. My husband and I wanted to accumulate a large supply, but we couldn’t afford to buy it all at once, so we decided we would buy something extra every week. We looked for special offers on the things we bought regularly, especially canned foods.
I loved looking in my cupboard to see my little pile of canned and dried foodstuffs gradually growing bigger. Once we made the mistake of buying canned cheese, which was revolting, but my husband steeled himself and ate a can each week until it was gone. After we had a decent amount of food storage, we began to eat from it, resolving to replace each item eaten with two more items.
Soon our cupboard became quite full, so we bought storage items for our dog and cats. We also began to store herbs and spices, vacuum-packed wheat, water and soft drinks, and anything we used daily that wasn’t food, like soap, deodorant, and detergent.
Then we bought a house, and just before we signed on the dotted line, mortgage rates increased drastically. We had to live on our food storage for almost a year to avoid losing our home.
Food storage is just a part of general housekeeping now. We use it and are blessed by it every day. I am so grateful that we listened to the inspired counsel from the Lord’s prophets because it means that now I can look around in gratitude at my warm and cozy home.

I learned this lesson about small things adding up to great things when I was in athletics. In my earlier days I was a gymnast and a wrestler in high school, both of which are good sports for short (yet muscular) young men. In fact my wife enjoys looking at pictures of me from those days with my muscular physique, but I don't like her to look at them because she inevitably asks, after looking at my current physique, what happened? So I've hidden most of them, now, on with the story.

I had a new gymnastics coach who had trained with the best in the world at that time. I had already been in gymnastics for a few years and felt like I was pretty good for my age. He came to me when we started and said, I have a method which will make you unbeatable if you follow it. Someone may be able to tie you but they can never beat you. That sounded good to me, so I started going to practice with him. I was surprised and disappointed however to find that the entire practice consisted of him making me do simple, small and boring moves over and over and over. When I questioned him on it, he said that when I perfected those, we could move on. That took a while and I didn't enjoy it but I continued going until I saw what was happening. He had taken what I considered to be the big, complex and exciting moves such as flips and back handsprings and broken then down into a series of smaller moves that could be perfected with much repetition. After that he showed me how to piece them together to create a perfect front flip, back flip etc, and my performance in gymnastics dramatically improved.

Andy’s little sister, Trisha, had been born with many health problems. She needed extra help to do even the smallest thing. Trisha was 18 months old, but she couldn’t walk or sit up or even roll over. She couldn’t feed herself and had to eat through a tube.
Andy’s daddy, grandpa, and uncles had given Trisha many blessings, and Andy wanted to do something to help her too. He set a goal to help her do the things she couldn’t do for herself.
Every day Andy looked for ways to help Trisha. When he saw her trying to roll over, he gently helped her roll from her tummy to her back. When she struggled to sit up, Andy supported her.
One evening after Andy had helped Trisha sit up, Mommy and Daddy sat down to talk with him.
“We know you love Trisha very much and want to help her,” Mommy said. “But it’s important to let her become as independent as possible. That means we need to let her do the things she can by herself.”
“But Trisha can’t sit up by herself,” Andy said.
“She can’t sit all the way up,” Mommy said. “But she can pull herself up partway. We need to let her do that.”
Andy knew how hard Trisha struggled to pull herself up. He didn’t want her to have to work so hard. “Why can’t I help her?” he asked.
“When she tries to do things by herself, it helps her to grow stronger,” Mommy said. “I know it’s hard to watch her try so hard to do something. I want to help her too, and then I remember that Heavenly Father is always there to help and bless her.”
“Will Trisha be sick forever?” Andy asked.
“She’ll always have some problems,” Daddy said. “But we know that one day she’ll be resurrected with a healthy, whole body, and that she’ll be with our family forever.”
Andy knew that his parents had been sealed in the temple, and that he and Trisha were sealed to them.
Andy thought about what he could do for his little sister. He knew that Heavenly Father loved him and Trisha and that He listened to prayers. “I can pray for Trisha,” Andy said.
“That’s the best gift of all,” Mommy said, and gave him a big hug.

As I have traveled far and wide throughout the world fulfilling the responsibilities of my calling, I have come to know many things—not the least of which is that sadness and suffering are universal. I cannot begin to measure all of the heartache and sorrow I have witnessed as I have visited with those who are dealing with grief, experiencing illness, facing divorce, struggling with a wayward son or daughter, or suffering the consequences of sin. The list could go on and on, for there are countless problems which can befall us. To single out one example is difficult, and yet whenever I think of challenges, my thoughts turn to Brother Brems, one of my boyhood Sunday School teachers. He was a faithful member of the Church, a man with a heart of gold. He and his wife, Sadie, had eight children, many of whom were the same ages as those in our family.
After Frances and I were married and moved from the ward, we saw Brother and Sister Brems and members of their family at weddings and funerals, as well as at ward reunions.
In 1968, Brother Brems lost his wife, Sadie. Two of his eight children also passed away as the years went by.
One day nearly 13 years ago, Brother Brems’s oldest granddaughter telephoned me. She explained that her grandfather had reached his 105th birthday. She said, “He lives in a small care center but meets with his entire family each Sunday, where he delivers a gospel lesson.” She continued, “This past Sunday, Grandpa announced to us, ‘My dears, I am going to die this week. Will you please call Tommy Monson. He will know what to do.’”
I visited Brother Brems the very next evening. I had not seen him for a while. I could not speak to him, for he had lost his hearing. I could not write a message for him to read, because he had lost his sight. I was told that the family communicated with him by taking the finger of his right hand and then tracing on the palm of his left hand the name of the person visiting. Any message had to be conveyed in this same way. I followed the procedure by taking his finger and spelling T-O-M-M-Y M-O-N-S-O-N, the name by which he had always known me. Brother Brems became excited and, taking my hands, placed them on his head. I knew his desire was to receive a priesthood blessing. The driver who had taken me to the care center joined me as we placed our hands on the head of Brother Brems and provided the desired blessing. Afterward, tears streamed from his sightless eyes. He grasped our hands in gratitude. Although he had not heard the blessing we had given him, the Spirit was strong, and I believe he was inspired to know we had provided the blessing which he needed. This sweet man could no longer see. He could no longer hear. He was confined night and day to a small room in a care center. And yet the smile on his face and the words he spoke touched my heart. “Thank you,” he said. “My Heavenly Father has been so good to me.”
Within a week, just as Brother Brems had predicted, he passed away. Never did he dwell on what he was lacking; rather, he was always deeply grateful for his many blessings.

One special moment for the choir occurred December 28 during a rehearsal at the Jerusalem Center, the first rehearsal with David Shallon, director of the Jerusalem Symphony Orchestra. The choir sat facing the draped front wall of glass in the auditorium, and Mr. Shallon had his back to the windows as he worked with the choir. Partway through the rehearsal, someone pulled open the drapes, giving the choir a view of the old city in the daylight. As Mr. Shallon turned to look, he gave an audible gasp and paused for a moment with his hands together under his chin as he and the choir absorbed the wondrous view. It was a stirring moment for both choir and director.

Thirty years ago, I was attending Arizona State University majoring in Religious Studies. In a course on the Old Testament, we received a semester-long assignment to draft a lengthy research paper known as an exegesis. An exegetical paper of the type we were assigned takes a few words of scripture, sometimes a full verse or more and studies the literary, linguistic, political, cultural, historical and religious background of the verse in an effort to understand, best we can in our day, the author’s intent at the time the verse was written.[xvi]

I selected for my paper a verse of scripture from the first chapter of Genesis that states: “God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.”[xvii] Near the end of the semester we turned in our lengthy papers. On the day our papers were handed back, we arrived the auditorium and took our seats. Our papers were in a tall stack on a small table at the front of the class. One by one our professor called us forward to return our paper. Finally, reaching the last paper on the table, he paused, holding it in his hands he declared “Now, we have a paper written from a most interesting perspective. We will now invite Mr. Bangerter forward to present and defend his paper during the remaining 40 minutes or so of our class.” This was a class of masters and bachelor’s degree candidates and as far as I know, I was the only member of the Church in the entire College of Religious Studies.

So, perhaps you can understand why I felt my heart pound within me as I stood, then walked down those steps to the front of the auditorium. It wasn’t the presentation of the paper that gave rise to the concern – but the poignant questions I knew would follow. Those questions soon came as I completed my presentation which, as you can imagine spoke from a theological perspective distinct to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In the moments that followed, I felt the comforting, strengthening and inspiring influence of God’s Holy Spirit wash over me. Peace filled my mind, calmed my pounding heart and informed my witness that day. You see, within just a few minutes all questions, consuming the remainder of that class session, focused on the divine origin of the call of the Prophet Joseph Smith.

I testified then and I bear you my solemn witness now that God continues His pattern of revelation and guidance through living prophets. He revealed Himself to Joseph Smith and called Joseph as the prophet through whom the restoration of His doctrine, His authority, and His direct, continuing guidance was once again reestablished on the earth.

In spite of her time-consuming activities, Amelia still felt that she needed to make one more long-distance flight. She told her husband that it would be her last long flight.
On January 11, 1937, Amelia started her flight by flying west from Oakland, California, to Hawaii. Then she had an accident while trying to take off in Honolulu, and she was delayed several weeks until major repairs were completed on her Lockheed Electra airplane. During this time it was decided that Amelia should fly around the world going east instead of west.
It was May 1937 when she finally took off from Oakland again. Amelia said she was just making a test flight. On board with her were Fred Noonan, her navigator; Bo McKneeley, her mechanic; and her husband. Things went so well, however, that they continued on to Miami, where on June 1 Amelia and Fred Noonan took off to finish the eastward flight around the world. A month later, on July 2, 1937, Amelia Earhart’s plane was lost while she was trying to locate Howland Island in the South Pacific Ocean. She had completed more than two-thirds of her around-the-world flight. Neither she, Fred Noonan, nor the airplane were ever found.

“I feel the Spirit and receive promptings through sudden ideas and thoughts. This happens when my mind is open to God. At Young Women camp, I felt really lonely. I walked to my cabin and prayed about it. Afterward I had the feeling to turn around. I did and met with my leaders. We had a great time ziplining and eating snow cones! This experience helped me learn how I can feel the Spirit.”
Harper J., 14, Oregon, USA

It was Memorial Day evening. Jason Booker, 13, told his mother he was going for a walk. He headed up the hill to the creek where the night before his father and some other men had built a rock wall to contain the high runoff. Jason was just going to see how it was holding up.
“I was in the circle in front of Sims’s house when I heard a rumbling and cracking noise. I looked up the hill and saw the trees falling over, and rock and mud was coming down. I ran down the street and told my parents. Some friends who were visiting us left. We got the younger kids out of bed and into the car. I walked back up the hill with my dad. We got to the edge of the circle, and the mud was completely surrounding the Sims house up to the eaves. It started to move, and we just got out of there.
“We drove out of the area. The officials wouldn’t let us back into our house that night because more mud slides were coming down. On Tuesday they let us back in to get some clothes and necessities. Our house was still okay on Tuesday, but when we woke up Wednesday morning, we saw our house on the national news. We didn’t even know the mud had hit it until then.”
Jason’s house wasn’t destroyed, but the basement was filled to the ceiling with mud and the house was surrounded by several feet of mud. With the help of ward members and volunteers, the Bookers are restoring their home.

The following experience was posted on a Christian website by a Hospice of Metro Denver physician:
I just had one of the most amazing experiences of my life and wanted to share it with my family and dearest friends: I was driving home from a meeting this evening about five, stuck in traffic on Colorado Boulevard, and the car started to choke and splutter and die. I barely managed to coast . . . into a gas station, glad only that I would not be blocking traffic and would have a somewhat warm spot to wait for the tow truck. It wouldn’t even turn over.
Before I could make the call, I saw a woman walking out of the “quickie mart” building, and it looked like she slipped on some ice and fell into a gas pump, so I got out to see if she was okay. When I got there, it looked more like she had been overcome by sobs than that she had fallen; she was a young woman who looked really haggard with dark circles under her eyes. She dropped something as I helped her up, and I picked it up to give it to her. It was a nickel.
At that moment, everything came into focus for me: the crying woman, the ancient Suburban crammed full of stuff with three kids in the back (one in a car seat), and the gas pump reading $4.95. I asked her if she was okay and if she needed help, and she just kept saying, “I don’t want my kids to see me crying,” so we stood on the other side of the pump from her car. She said she was driving to California and that things were very hard for her right now.
So I asked, “And you were praying?” That made her back away from me a little, but I assured her I was not a crazy person and said, “He heard you, and He sent me.”
I took out my card and swiped it through the card reader on the pump so she could fill up her car completely and while it was fueling walked to the next-door McDonald’s and bought two big bags of food, some gift certificates for more, and a big cup of coffee. She gave the food to the kids in the car, who attacked it like wolves, and we stood by the pump eating fries and talking a little. She told me her name and that she lived in Kansas City.
Her boyfriend had left two months ago, and she had not been able to make ends meet. She knew she wouldn’t have money to pay rent on January 1, and, finally, in desperation had called her parents, with whom she had not spoken in about five years. They lived in California and said she could come live with them and try to get on her feet there. So she packed up everything she owned in the car. She told the kids they were going to California for Christmas, but not that they were going to live there.
I gave her my gloves and a little hug and said a quick prayer with her for safety on the road. As I was walking over to my car, she said, “So, are you like an angel or something?”
This definitely made me cry. I said, “Sweetie, at this time of year angels are really busy, so sometimes God uses regular people.”
It was so incredible to be a part of someone else’s miracle. And, of course, you guessed it, when I got in my car, it started right away and got me home with no problem. I’ll put it in the shop tomorrow to check, but I suspect the mechanic won’t find anything wrong.
Sometimes the angels fly close enough to you that you can hear the flutter of their wings.

While serving a full-time mission in the Philippines, my husband, Robert, and I traveled to Cagayan de Oro to set up a Family History Center in the Cagayan de Oro East Stake Center and to do some training. We also invited members from the Malaybalay district to join us. Non-Filipinos are not allowed to go into some parts of the region, and Malaybalay was an area where we could not go. For almost a year, the Malaybalay district had had the equipment for a Family History Center; all they needed was some training to be able to set it up.
We contacted the Malaybalay district president, Leandro Miole, and asked him if he and the Saints in Malaybalay could come to the Cagayan de Oro East Stake Center for our seminar. President Miole responded that they would be happy to come, even though it meant a drive of more than two hours on mountain roads. My husband wrote a letter to President Miole confirming the date, place, and time of our training session.
On the day of the seminar as I was doing my portion of the training, a man walked in and started talking with my husband. The man drew a letter from his pocket and opened it for my husband to read. I could see the conversation was quite serious.
At the end of our training session, my husband informed me that the man was President Miole from the Malaybalay district and that he and 10 members of his district had been waiting at the Cagayan de Oro Stake Center since 8:00 A.M. President Miole had shown my husband the letter stating the details of the training. To my husband’s chagrin, he realized he had forgotten to identify the place as the east stake center. We felt bad that these faithful Saints had waited hours for training that had never come, and we happily agreed to go to the Cagayan de Oro Stake Center to conduct the training session.
The Saints were happy to see us when we arrived. We opened with a prayer and a hymn, then launched into the training.
As I began demonstrating how to use the microfilm reader, I noticed that a film had been left in the reader. So instead of using the film I had brought for the demonstration, I used the film already in the reader. As my husband turned the crank and I showed where to look on the film for names, I heard someone crying softly. Looking up, I realized President Miole was in tears. I quickly asked if I had said something to distress him.
Through his tears he quietly said, “I found them!” Pointing to the names on the screen of the microfilm reader, he told us he had searched and prayed to find these names—the names of his ancestors—for more than three years. And now, there they were—on a microfilm reader he should not have been looking at, in a building he should not have been in.
That day we were reminded that “by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).