Gospel Story Finder

We gradually picked up the pace as our bikes passed under the arched gateway which admitted us into the heart of the old city. I was always impressed when I saw the massive city wall that was built over 800 years ago to protect the inhabitants of the beautiful city of Luebeck in Northern Germany.
I didn’t have much time to think about the wall though, because I had my hands full just keeping the bike from bucking me off as we clattered over the narrow cobblestone street. The generator attached to my front wheel whined as I raced my companion to our small second floor apartment on Kleine Burg Strasse.
Elder Peterson usually got home first—not because he was the senior companion, but because he had a new three-speed bicycle, and I had what we called a no-speed bike.
We were both almost flying as we turned the last corner and headed toward our place. Elder Peterson braked hard, jumped off his bike, and was halfway up the steps with a look of satisfaction on his face by the time I had pedaled the final distance.
We parked our bikes inside the front entryway, locked the door, and hurried up the narrow stairs to the place we had both called home for about three months. We didn’t talk much as we whipped off our jackets and ties and headed for the small refrigerator that supplied us with our nightly dose of yogurt, not the yogurt we had disliked in the States, but creamy plain yogurt that we ate with canned strawberries, Haferflocken (oats), and raisins.
After a blessing on the food, we savored our homemade snack and discussed the events of the day.
“I think Frau Malchow is going to make it,” Elder Peterson said between mouthfuls of yogurt.
“Yeah, if her husband would start reading the Book of Mormon like he promised, maybe they’d both get baptized.”
“Tomorrow let’s finish the last two streets in the neighborhood over by Sister Sasse and then start looking for a new area.”
“Sounds good to me. I’m not used to doing five or six hours of tracting a day without being able to get in and teach a single discussion,” I responded after a big yawn and a stretch.
We rinsed out our large cups, changed, and knelt for personal prayer. I made a mental note to review one of the discussions the next morning so when we did get in I would be prepared to tell the fine family (I always had goals to teach families) about the plan of salvation.
We quietly crawled into our beds and were soon asleep. About 11:00 P.M. Elder Peterson was awakened by the phone.
“Elder Klomp, wake up, it’s for you. It’s President Schwendimann.”
I tried to shake the sleep from my head before I took the phone. The mention of the mission president’s name did help to bring me back from the world of dreams.
“Elder Klomp,” the president said, “I don’t know exactly how to say this to you, but today I received a call from your sister and she told me that your father had just passed away. She wants you to call her and your mother at your brother’s home in southern Nevada tomorrow at 1:00 P.M. your time.
“You have our deepest sympathies, and if there is anything Sister Schwendimann and I can do for you, don’t hesitate to contact us.”
I mumbled a reply and hung up the phone. I was dazed. I stumbled over a shoe in the dark as I made my way to the tiny kitchen that was perched in the space where the roof angled down from over my head to the floor. I gazed out the window at the stars shining brightly.
Had I really heard what I thought I just heard? I asked myself. The cold tears streaming down my face led me to believe that I was awake and hadn’t imagined those words about my dad. I hadn’t been dreaming. I never had nightmares like that anymore anyway. But then it must be true!
Not my dad. My dad was always so healthy and strong! He was healthy before that stroke that temporarily paralyzed him. He was healthy the whole time I was growing up, even though he was a lot older than most of my friends’ fathers. Hadn’t he given me a big hug and tried to hold back the tears at the airport when I was getting ready to fly to Germany? Hadn’t he been proud of me, the last of his three sons to serve a mission for our Father in Heaven? Hadn’t he told me stories about his mission and taught me that I should prepare myself to be the best missionary I could possibly be? How could he be gone? Not my dad.
I need you Dad—I’m your little boy—help me know what to do, Dad, I thought to myself as I gazed out that little window at the wonders of the night. Dad, you were the one who first showed me Orion and the Pleiades, remember? Look over there—I’ve spotted the Big Dipper and the North Star too.
Please Heavenly Father, give me some kind of sign so I’ll know that my dad is with you and he’s okay. I love my dad. Please, help me!
While I waited for the outward sign that never came, my mind and heart were full of poignant memories. I remembered how proud Dad and I had both been on the day when we met with our priesthood leaders in the stake president’s office. I remembered the strength I felt in the hands as they joined in a circle around me as my father ordained me an elder after the order of Melchizedek.
“Well, Elder Rick,” they said to me afterward as they enthusiastically shook my hand, “we know that you are going to be a terrific missionary.”
As I shook my father’s hand and looked into his misty eyes, I knew that he was also sure that I would be successful.
That memory faded and was replaced with the “D” discussion I had preprogrammed myself to study. The details of the plan of salvation ran through my mind as the tears slowly dried on my cheeks.
I reviewed the premortal existence and the council of heaven and realized for the first time that my father must have been there. I knew my dad had been born to receive a body, like everybody else, and had obeyed the Lord’s commandments to the best of his ability like we all must. He was always the most selfless man I had ever known, and even though he wasn’t the most verbal individual, we always knew by the things he did that he loved Mom and us more than he could say.
Nobody enjoyed being home with his family more than my dad. About the only thing Dad would let take him away from his family was the gospel he loved so much. Few people had served in as many different capacities in the Church as my dad. I knew that he had successfully honored his first and second estates, and could surely expect a promising future with our Heavenly Father.
I tried to imagine my dad’s reunion with his earthly parents and little sister who had died over 50 years ago. It wasn’t hard to picture Uncle Lew and Uncle Vic also waiting with open arms to welcome Dad to his next field of labor, almost like a transfer in the mission field.
These thoughts brought a smile to my heart as I continued to gaze out that tiny kitchen window. I knew I didn’t have to worry about what was in store for my dad.
What about Mom, though? They had been married nearly 40 years. What would she do without him?
My stomach tightened nervously until I remembered that this was the week of the Klomp family reunion in Panaca, Nevada. All four of my older brothers and sisters and their families would be there with Mom to help her through this difficult time. She would be comforted by her children as she so often had comforted each of us. It seemed terribly fair somehow. I realized also that Mom was not a weak, ignorant, or faithless woman. She had helped me gain a better understanding of and love for the gospel of Jesus Christ and would certainly take strength from that same fountain of truth.
I don’t know how long I stood at that window, but I do remember being stiff as my eyelids began to droop again with fatigue. I stretched, still staring out the window, hoping to see something, anything which would show me that everything was all right. It wasn’t until later that I realized that my “sign” had come in the form of the Spirit speaking peace to my heart, calming my fears, and warming me with the love of a faraway family and a God who was very near.
When I finally pulled myself away from the window, I wondered whether or not I should return home, leaving my mission only half served. I remembered scriptures about putting your hand to the plow and then turning away or loving father and mother more than the Savior. I felt confident that Dad would have wanted me to stay and finish the work I had been given to do, but decided that if Mom needed me, I would go home to help her.
I kept the whole thing pretty much to myself the next day and was determined not to let it affect the work. Actually it still didn’t seem real. It seemed like a hazy dream. But I still made plans to make the phone call to my family.
After a busy morning and a quick lunch, we pedaled to the post office so I could make the call. I waited anxiously in the long-distance line. When my turn finally came, I gave the man behind the desk the right phone number, and he directed me to the appropriate plexiglass phone booth in the center of the building.
“Hello, Nancy, can you hear me?” I said when the connection was made.
“Yes, Rick. I’m so glad you were able to call. We’re all here taking good care of Mama and we want you to know that everything is fine. She wants you to do what you think is right.”
After speaking to Mom and some of the rest of the family and hearing that Dad had seemed really fulfilled and happy to have almost all his family around before he died, I knew that I wasn’t really needed at home. I was needed in Germany to do the work a prophet of God had assigned me to do. The still, small voice comforted me, and I was able to complete the second half of my mission in a way that honored my beliefs, my family, and most of all, my dad. He had endured, faithful to the end, and taught me to do the same. Did he ever quit or give up before he finished an assignment? Not my dad!

Near the end of my senior year of high school, I knew it would be time to move to Relief Society. I loved Young Women, and the thought of spending Sunday mornings with a group of older ladies just didn’t sound appealing. Relief Society was for mothers and grandmothers, I thought.
The day came. The Relief Society sisters were halfway through the opening hymn when I slipped in the back of the room. At the time, my mother was serving in the Primary, and my married sister had just been called to the Young Women presidency. My grandma was ward librarian, so she would be a little late. I was all alone. After the opening prayer, a counselor in the presidency stood to give the announcements, but I only half-listened as she read off what I considered useless information about cannery dates and ward temple night. My mind wandered during the lesson about a topic that surely didn’t pertain to me.
I went to Relief Society faithfully each week but with the same not-for-me attitude. The sisters in my ward were nice people, but they were so much older and led such totally different lives. I was excited when the summer ended, and I could go away to college and attend Church meetings with people my own age.
As we settled in the chapel that first Sunday, I was surprised when the bishop of my student ward announced that after sacrament meeting and Sunday School we would separate for priesthood and Relief Society. Relief Society? I thought I had left that back home.
I was even more surprised to discover that the form wasn’t all that different from what I had observed in my home ward. Instead of my friend’s grandma leading the music, it was a sophomore who lived in the apartment across the street. My roommate, rather than my old Primary teacher, offered the opening prayer, and I recognized the sister who gave the lesson from my biology class.
Once again I attended Relief Society every Sunday. However, it wasn’t until the second semester that I truly began to appreciate what Relief Society had to offer. I decided to get more involved. I began to really pay attention to the lessons and was amazed when I got so much out of them. My companion and I set a goal for 100-percent visiting teaching, and we accomplished it, forming lasting friendships along the way. As the year progressed, I could feel us drawing closer as ward members and friends but more importantly as sisters in the Lord’s Church.
When the school year ended, I was a little reluctant to return home for the summer. I had grown to love Relief Society at college, and I was hesitant to return to my home Relief Society where I felt I didn’t fit in. But I was surprised to feel the Spirit—the same familiar, comfortable feeling I had felt so many times in Relief Society in my student ward—engulf me as I walked in the door. I took a look around. Instead of seeing distant mothers and grandmothers, I saw fellow sisters. At college, I had learned to love and appreciate sisters of all different personalities, backgrounds, and circumstances. I realized the sisters in my home ward were no different; they were just at different stages in their lives—stages that I, too, would eventually experience. I know Relief Society was divinely organized for all women, young and old, married and single. We may lead different lives, but we are united in the gospel. We are all sisters in Zion.

Many wonderful, humble women in the Church provide dedicated service without realizing the far-reaching impact their lives have—as examples of temporal service, but also as legacies of spiritual strength. One such woman is my grandmother, Cherie Petersen. She has served faithfully in quiet callings all her life. If you asked her, she would claim that she doesn’t have many talents to offer the world. However, as I have started to learn about her life, I’ve realized just how much her spiritual strength has affected my life.
Cherie’s parents stopped attending church and divorced when she was still very young, so she grew up with a mother, Florence, who was always working. Florence had been neglected as a child, as she was raised in a boarding school while her mother, Georgia, lived a worldly life. In spite of the challenges in her upbringing, Cherie remained active in the gospel, faithfully attending church with her great-grandmother Elizabeth’s family or with friends. She saw in their families what she wanted for her own. She didn’t know exactly what a family should be like, but she knew what it shouldn’t be, and she was determined to have her future family be different.
Cherie’s husband—my grandpa Dell—once told me, “To have a testimony, you have to want it. Cherie always wanted a testimony.” Though their early years of marriage were filled with struggles, they were determined to remain strong as a family. They were less active during the first year of their marriage because of Dell’s work schedule, but a call to serve in the Primary prompted Cherie to begin attending, and Dell soon joined her at church as a deacons quorum advisor. They’ve both been active and strong in the Church ever since. Cherie’s willingness to serve and determination to raise a strong family helped my mother become the strong woman she is, and my mother’s example has helped define my life, especially as I now start my own family.
My grandmother’s righteous decisions have impacted her family generations past what she could see as a young woman. However, the spiritual influence of the women in my family stretches even farther back. Cherie gained much of her own spiritual strength from observing her great-grandmother (my third great-grandmother) Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s example of faith and testimony reached past two generations of inactivity to help her great-granddaughter Cherie reverse a trend of broken families and return to the Church.

Let me illustrate with an experience the Europe Central Area Presidency had while traveling by train to a meeting. We were taking advantage of the time together by discussing our assignment. A man seated across the aisle became curious about our conversation. He finally asked, “Are you Protestant or Catholic?” We replied, “Neither. We are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” He acknowledged that he had heard of the Church but then went on to say, “You’ll never get very far in this country. The government only recognizes the Catholic and Protestant churches. They are the only ones who receive government financial support. A church cannot exist without government financial support.”

We tried to explain that our Church manages very well without government help—that we use the Lord’s system of tithing. He insisted our Church would not get very far in his country and suggested that perhaps we should place our efforts in some other part of the world. Of course we testified that the Lord’s system does work and told him about all the chapels and temples we are constructing throughout the world without having to resort to borrowed funds to build them. He seemed very surprised but still unconvinced.

Seeing that we could not persuade him that a church could exist without government support, we tried to change the subject. I asked, “What will happen in your country with the changes that are occurring? The declining population and the influx of an increasing number of immigrants will eventually make you a minority in your own land.”

With great national pride, he replied, “This will never happen.”

I countered, “How can you support such a position with immigration exceeding your country’s birthrate?” He kept insisting this would never happen in his country—“Why, they would close the borders of our land before they would allow it to occur.”

I pressed on, “How can you prevent it with your current trends?”

His next statement shocked me: “I’m 82 years old. I will be long gone before we have to face that problem.”

A major problem we face in preaching the gospel in this area of the world is the general apathy toward religion, toward things spiritual. Too many are very comfortable with their present lifestyle and feel no need to do more than “eat, drink, and be merry” (Luke 12:19). They are not interested in anything but themselves—here and now.

Around the world needles have been slipping through satins, calicos, muslins, and velvets, stitches taken tiny and neat. No ordinary sewing projects, these—they’re works sewn from the strong threads of testimony, thankfulness, love of family, and all the lovely feelings a young woman holds sweet in her life.
What’s the occasion?
The young women of the Church have made banners to celebrate the Church’s 150th anniversary!
“A banner lets you express what’s important to you,” explained Shauna Stebers of the Northwest First Ward, Chicago Illinois Stake. “It’s not just a sewing project—it’s a part of your personality, of what’s important to you and how you feel about the gospel. And it’s a special reminder of the Church’s sesquicentennial that you’ll be able to pass down to your children and to their children.”
If you could float your thoughts or goals high above the crowd for the world to see, what would you show them? Some young women quilted or sewed slogans on their banners like “Plant happiness and love will grow,” or “I love and sustain our prophet,” or “Prayer is so simple it’s like quietly opening a door.” Other young women filled their banners with symbols of their heritage and goals. And all of them spent long hours designing, planning, and sewing the banners (often with the help of mom, dad, brothers, or sisters).
And the stories the banners tell! Marylynne Aposhina of the Hunter Ninth Ward, Hunter Utah West Stake, designed her banner after an oriental rug her great grandfather, Zadik Moses Aposhina, had made. A wealthy rug designer, her grandfather was forced to flee Armenia because of persecution against Christians. He lost his wealth, and some of his family members were sold as slaves in Mexico, but after overwhelming struggles, they finally reached the Salt Lake Valley.
“Making the banner helped me appreciate my heritage even more,” said Marylynne. “My mother and grandmother and I had fun together doing it, too. I don’t get to do things with both of them very often.”
Teuila Matua, a Mia Maid from the West Jordan 24th Ward, West Jordan Utah South Stake, whose first name means “Ginger Flower,” is Samoan, and her banner reflected her heritage. Her banner was symbolic of a taupaou (handmaiden) of Samoa, who must be of royal family, must be pure, and have dignity.
Teuila explained, “My heritage and the work of the Lord go hand in hand. First, I am born of the royal birthright of Christ. Second, I have purity in keeping clean thoughts and maintaining moral standards. Third, I have dignity in studying the scriptures, attending Church meetings, and keeping the commandments of the Lord.”
Mary Lou Beilfuss, a Laurel from the Holladay 17th Ward, Salt Lake Olympus Stake, earned the money for her banner by working at a grocery store. The theme of her banner was eternal life.
“It helped me understand more about the recent death of my father, because I studied more about eternal life. The subject was on my mind a lot, and the banner gave me the opportunity to express it on material.
“My mother and sister helped me make it. We are very close already, but working together helped us share our love. I feel close to them because they’re always willing to help. We also shared tears together because the banner had a very special meaning. It made my sister and I think of our father and my mom of her husband.
“I learned from making this banner that I am a daughter of God and that he is there when I call. It has helped my self-image and helped me grow closer to my Heavenly Father. Also, it comforted me about my father’s death,” said Mary Lou.
Many of the young women earned the money needed for the banner by themselves. Others made their banners from materials they already had. LeeAnn Cox of the West Jordan 36th Ward, West Jordan Utah Stake, raised the money by babysitting, giving rides on her horse, and selling bread.
And the excitement of making the banners was often contagious. Annett Pemberton, a Laurel from the Bluffdale Second Ward, Riverton Utah Stake, spread her enthusiasm for the banner to her friends and family. “I included everyone as I prepared my banner—mother, father, all 11 brothers and sisters, 5 friends, my basketball coach, and my sewing teacher at school. I learned that friends can make a big difference in a person’s life if you give them the chance to help.” Annett’s brothers and sisters each made a quilted patch with their name on it for the bottom of her banner. The patchwork symbolizes love, purity, and loyalty to the gospel, Annett explained, and her theme is “A Quilt for My Lord.”
And there are many, many other stories that the banners tell. LeeAnn Cox’s banner was in honor of her pioneer ancestors whose son was lost while they traveled across Nebraska. The mother pinned a red shawl on the shoulders of her husband who was to search along the trail for the lost son. The bright shawl waving in the evening sun let a mother, sick with worry, know that all was well.
Kjersti Harward’s banner honors her grandparents in Sweden who dearly wanted to come to America after they joined the Church. Even though they saved enough money, they decided they couldn’t leave their parents, who were unable to make the strenuous journey. Her grandparents sacrificed by remaining in Sweden until their parents no longer needed them.
Displaying the banners has been just as exciting as making them, many of the young women have found. For the Pioneer Day Parade in the Salt Lake Valley, 1,500 young women dressed in white marched up Salt Lake streets, heads erect, banners pointed towards the sky. Thirty-six young women dressed in costumes from around the world marched alongside. And a band of 76 young women playing flute, drum, and clarinet accompanied them all by playing hymns.
In Pasadena, California, at the Rose Bowl, 400 young women dressed in white displayed their banners to the audience gathered for a regional dance festival. And throughout the Church, programs are being held in special meetings where the young women have the opportunity of displaying their banners and bearing their testimonies.
“Making the banners can bring you special opportunities and blessings, even if you can’t march in the 24th of July parade like we did,” said Alyson Barlow of the Monument Park 16th Ward, Salt Lake Monument Park Stake. “It lets you say how you feel about the gospel and brings you closer to whoever helps you.”
Lanette Madsen of the Butler 16th Ward, Salt Lake Wasatch Stake, agreed. “It’s helped me grow so much and can be a great missionary tool. We were able to display our banners and explain them to the people who attended the World Conference on Records. Thousands of people were there, many of them non-Mormons, and I think we were able to touch the hearts of the people who saw us. Many of them were from other countries, and even if they didn’t know our language, they could still feel our spirit.”
“It gives you a good opportunity to spread the gospel, because people ask you what your banner is about. It’s an easy way to talk to them about yourself and the gospel and what you believe,” said Becca Briggs of the Oak Hills 5th Ward, Provo Utah Oak Hills Stake.
For many of these nimble-fingered seamstresses, their banners have pulled a shower of blessings down from the sky. It’s given them the chance to learn more about their heritage, to get closer to their families, and to pass their testimonies down to future generations. And to top it off, they’ll have a lasting reminder of the Church’s 150th birthday.
As Jeannie Winters of the Taylorsville Utah North Stake, 14th Ward, put it, “I think all the young women should make banners, because if they don’t, they’re passing up a great experience they’ll remember all their life.”

He was taught well by his parents, but as a teenage farm boy he desired his own personal witness of the reality of God and his work.
“One day in my youth I was hunting cattle. While climbing a steep hill, I stopped to let my horse rest, and there, once again, an intense desire came over me to receive a manifestation of the truth of the Restored Gospel. I dismounted, threw my reins over my horse’s head, and there under a serviceberry bush I prayed that God would declare to me the truth of his revelation to Joseph Smith. I am sure that I prayed fervently and sincerely and with as much faith as a young boy could muster.
“At the conclusion of the prayer, I arose from my knees, threw the reins over my faithful pony’s head, and got into the saddle. As I started along the trail again, I remember saying to myself: ‘No spiritual manifestation has come to me. If I am true to myself, I must say I am just the same “old boy” that I was before I prayed.’”
He had learned a great lesson. A young Latter-day Saint does not get conviction merely by asking the Lord, but by combining that asking with work, service, sacrifice, and obedience to God’s commandments.

As a young teenager, life became difficult for Kennedy when no funds were available for his continued housing, food, and much desired education. It was at this time that BJ Warnick, Sandra Peters, and Anthony Mulenga—who had all known Kennedy since he was four—were able to take him into their care. Through their Heart to Hands Foundation, he and Bwalya were immediately adopted into their flock.
While it was obvious that Kennedy needed the basics required for daily survival, what he really needed was hope and love, and they had plenty of that to offer. Kennedy said while he was “not officially adopted”, it was “even better”. He now had two moms. With his new family’s help, he was able to complete grade 12, obtain a driver’s license, and complete auto mechanic school. Again, he was wrapped in the arms of his Savior, but it was through the acts of others. Kennedy remarked, “I don’t know who I would have become without the continual love of my enlarged family and friends who have dedicated so much time to me.”

There is another temptation to be resisted. It is to yield to the despairing thought that it is too hard and too late to repent. I knew a man once who could have thought that and given up. When he was 12 he was ordained a deacon. Some of his friends tempted him to begin to smoke. He began to feel uncomfortable in church. He left his little town, not finishing high school, to begin a life following construction jobs across the United States. He was a heavy-equipment operator. He married. They had children. The marriage ended in a bitter divorce. He lost his children. He lost an eye in an accident. He lived alone in boardinghouses. He lost everything he owned except what he could carry in a trunk.
One night, as he prepared to move yet again, he decided to lighten the load of that trunk. Beneath the junk of years, he found a book. He never knew how it got there. It was the Book of Mormon. He read it through, and the Spirit told him it was true. He knew then that all those years ago he had walked away from the true Church of Jesus Christ and from the happiness which could have been his.
Later, he was my more-than-70-year-old district missionary companion. I asked the people we were teaching, as I testified of the power of the Savior’s Atonement, to look at him. He had been washed clean and given a new heart, and I knew they would see that in his face. I told the people that what they saw was evidence that the Atonement of Jesus Christ could wash away all the corrosive effects of sin.
That was the only time he ever rebuked me. He told me in the darkness outside the trailer where we had been teaching that I should have told the people that while God was able to give him a new heart, He had not been able to give him back his wife and his children and what he might have done for them. But he had not looked back in sorrow and regret for what might have been. He moved forward, lifted by faith, to what yet might be.
One day he told me that in a dream the night before, the sight in his blind eye was restored. He realized that the dream was a glimpse of a future day, walking among loving people in the light of a glorious resurrection. Tears of joy ran down the deeply lined face of that towering, raw-boned man. He spoke to me quietly, with a radiant smile. I don’t remember what he said he saw, but I remember that his face shone with happy anticipation as he described the view. With the Lord’s help and the miracle of that book in the bottom of a trunk, it had not for him been too late nor the way too hard.

Illustrations by Kevin Keele
Parker liked lots of things—music, art, rocks with cool shapes. But his favorite thing was riding his dirt bike. He loved racing over hills on his bike. He wanted to be the best racer ever!
But no matter how hard he tried, he never was. As he zoomed over dirt hills and across winding trails, it looked like he wouldn’t be best in this race either.
Parker crossed the finish line and braked to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust behind him. He heard his family cheering as he squinted up at the scoreboard. Parker felt his stomach clench. Eighth place.
“You did great!” Dad said, clapping Parker on the back.
“No, I didn’t!” Parker dumped his helmet on the ground.
“Last time you got 10th,” Mom said. “You’re doing better every time.”
“It doesn’t matter!” Parker almost shouted. “I’ll never get anywhere close to winning.” He threw his gloves on the ground too.
“Cumulus,” Mom said.
Cumulus was the code word that helped Parker calm down. When Mom or Dad said that word, Parker closed his eyes, pictured a big puffy cloud, and did the breathing exercises Mom and Dad had taught him.
Usually it worked. Parker didn’t really want to think of clouds right now. But he closed his eyes anyway. He breathed in for five seconds. He held it for five seconds. And then he breathed out for five seconds. He did it over and over until he felt a little better.
When they got home, Parker tried to calm himself down by playing the piano. He sat down at the piano and started playing a song he knew. He liked it when he could play it perfectly. But today he messed up at the end. Parker slammed his fist onto the keys. The jarring notes rang in his ears.
Mom came in from the other room. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do anything right,” Parker said.
Mom sat down on the piano bench and put her arm around Parker’s shoulders. “I’m sorry you feel so frustrated today.” She picked up the Book of Mormon on top of the piano. “One of my favorite scriptures is Ether 12:27. Can we read it together?”
She turned to the right page and handed it to Parker.
“My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me,” Parker read. “For if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.”
Mom smiled. “I like that promise. It reminds me that Jesus Christ can help me with my weaknesses.”
Parker nodded. He liked that promise too.
“You know, you are good at so many things,” Mom said. “But something you struggle with is being patient with yourself. It takes time to learn and grow and get better. And it’s OK to not be the best at something.” Mom gave Parker a hug. That made him feel a little better.
“Heavenly Father and Jesus can help you be patient with yourself,” Mom said. “With piano and dirt bike.”
The next day, Parker tried playing a new song. The first part was easy, but he kept messing up in the middle. He was almost ready to throw his music book on the floor, but he stopped. He pictured fluffy white clouds and breathed slowly in and out.
It’s OK, Parker told himself. He could be patient and kind to himself. He looked at the picture of Jesus on the piano and thought of the promise his mom had read. I’m getting a little better every day.

At a fast and testimony meeting, Emanuel, age 5, felt impressed to bear his testimony. He thought, No, I can’t get up and do that. I’d be too frightened! Then he felt as if someone were speaking to him, telling him he needed to bear his testimony. He walked to the front of the chapel. As he did so, he felt calm. When his turn came, he remembered everything he wanted to say and wasn’t at all nervous. It was the first time he had borne his testimony, and it made him very happy.

When Elder Gardner H. Russell was nine years old, he helped build a chapel in his hometown. “Hand-cut stones had been purchased from an old building,” Elder Russell recalled, “and they still had mortar on them. I remember sitting outside in the cold weather, chipping the mortar off the stones so that we could reuse them. After the church was dedicated, I sometimes looked at the walls and thought that I could see some of the stones that I had worked on, and I felt a certain pride of ownership.”

Fortunately, there are seldom-reported but marvelous-to-consider stories of great patience. Recently I attended the funeral of a lifelong friend. His son told a beautiful story of parental patience. When the son was in his youth, his dad owned a motorcycle dealership. One day they received a shipment of shiny new motorcycles, and they lined them all up in the store. The boy did what every boy would like to do, and he climbed up on the closest one. He even started it up. Then, when he figured he had pushed his luck far enough, he jumped off. To his dismay, his dismount knocked the first bike down. Then, like a string of dominoes, they all went down, one after another. His dad heard the commotion and looked out from behind the partition where he was working. Slowly, smiling, he said, “Well, son, we had better fix one up and sell it, so we can pay for the rest of them.”
I think my friend’s response personifies parental patience.

But you know something, I have great faith in the young women and young men of the Church. Everywhere I go I find them standing for what is right. Modesty is still popular. Good manners are still to be found and Christ-like behavior is still the model. All over our young people are saying, "Enough is enough." Another group, this one consisting of young men and young women, decided that they had had all of the improper high school dances they wanted. Their message to the school administration was clear: "Bring the dances up to our standards or we'll start holding our own." Large numbers of young men have returned to the standards of conduct the world has now abandoned. They treat the young women in their lives with courtesy and respect -- and the young women are doing the same. Things are changing and it's young people like you who are changing them. That's why I have faith in you and in your tomorrows.

I wish to bear you my witness of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and the power of His infinite, atoning sacrifice. In doing so, I will call upon an experience from my years in Tennessee. One evening there I received a call at home from a gentleman I did not know. He introduced himself as a recently retired minister of another faith and asked to meet with me privately the following Sunday. When we met, my guest stated frankly he had come out of concern for the welfare of my soul. He pulled out of his portfolio a fairly long list of scripture citations from the New Testament and said he wanted to review these verses with me and see if he could help me be saved. I was a bit surprised at his directness, but I could tell that he was sincere, and I was touched by his genuine interest in me.
We conversed for more than an hour, and he was open to hear me explain something of my faith as well as to read with me some teachings from the Book of Mormon with which he was not familiar. We found there was much we believed in common and some things we did not. We felt a bond of friendship and prayed together before he left. What remains with me is our discussion about being born again. It is spiritual rebirth through Jesus Christ that is the context of my witness of Him.

By that time, we were ready to continue proselyting indefinitely, but we had run out of nonmember friends whom we knew well enough to invite. Sometime later, after we had become good friends with about thirty nonmembers we repeated the same successful experience. Then we moved to Tucson, Arizona. After again making about thirty nonmember friends, we invited them to our home for the discussions. These two experiences with groups here were as successful as before. Again, about two-thirds accepted our invitation to participate in the lessons and of those about three-fourths accepted our invitation to be baptized. June, my wife, and I did the teaching in these groups, since by this time we had been called on stake missions. Had we not been missionaries for the Church, however, we would have again sought the help of full-time missionaries.

A few years ago, one of our young grandsons, Aaron, began having health problems. He became fatigued, had quite a bit of bruising, and did not look healthy. After medical testing, he was diagnosed with severe aplastic anemia, a disease where his bone marrow stopped producing red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets. Without treatment and an eventual cure, his blood could not clot properly or fight off infections, so even minor falls, injuries, or illnesses could quickly become life-threatening.
For a period of time, Aaron received regular platelet and blood transfusions to keep him out of danger. The doctors explained that the only cure for the disease would be a bone marrow transplant, and the best chance for success would be to have a sibling as the donor. If one of his siblings were an ideal match, the outcome of the transplant could be lifesaving. His four younger brothers were tested, and one, Maxwell, was deemed a perfect match.
Even with a perfect donor match, a bone marrow transplant still poses a serious risk of complications. The process required that Aaron’s own cells in his diseased bone marrow be destroyed by a combination of chemotherapy and radiation before receiving the stem cells from his brother Maxwell’s bone marrow. Then because of Aaron’s compromised immune system, he needed to be isolated in the hospital for several weeks and then at home for several months with special protocols, restrictions, and medications.
The hoped-for outcome from the transplant was that Aaron’s body would not reject the donor cells and that Maxwell’s cells would gradually produce the needed red and white blood cells and platelets in Aaron’s body. A successful donor transplant causes a very real physiological change. Amazingly, a doctor explained that if Aaron committed a crime and left blood at the crime scene, the police could arrest his brother Maxwell. This is because Aaron’s blood would come from Maxwell’s transplanted cells and have Maxwell’s DNA, and this would be the case for the rest of his life.
Aaron being saved by his brother’s blood has spurred many thoughts about the atoning blood of Jesus Christ and the effect of His Atonement on us. I would like to focus today on the permanent, life-giving change that occurs as we allow the Lord to work miracles in us.
Aaron did not have the power in himself to overcome the disease. His body could not make the blood cells needed to sustain his life. No matter what he personally did, he could not heal his bone marrow. Just as Aaron could not cure himself, we cannot save ourselves. No matter how capable, educated, brilliant, or strong we are, we cannot cleanse ourselves from our sins, change our bodies to an immortal state, or exalt ourselves. It is only possible through the Savior Jesus Christ and His infinite Atonement. “There is none other way nor name given under heaven whereby man can be saved in the kingdom of God.” It is His atoning blood that cleanses us and sanctifies us.
Although Aaron could not heal himself, in order for the transplant to work he needed to be willing to do what the doctors asked—even very difficult, challenging things. Although we can’t save ourselves, when we submit to the Lord’s will and keep our covenants, the way is open for our redemption. Like the remarkable process of the very DNA of Aaron’s blood cells changing, we can have our hearts changed, have His image in our countenances, and become new creatures in Christ.
Can you imagine how overwhelming it would have been for our young grandson Aaron to assume he had to understand and perform all the medical procedures associated with his transplant himself? We should not assume we need to do what only the Savior can do in the miraculous process of our perfection.
With medical treatments like Aaron’s, there is always some uncertainty of the outcome. In fact, Aaron needed a second transplant when the first one had complications. Thankfully, with a spiritual change of heart, we don’t have to wonder if it will happen. When we live according to His will, “relying wholly upon the merits of him who is mighty to save,” there is a 100 percent guarantee of being cleansed by the Savior’s blood and eventually being perfected in Him. He is “a God of truth, and [cannot] lie.”
The miraculous change in Aaron’s health has brought great joy to our family. Imagine the great joy in heaven as mighty changes happen in our souls.

For a long time in Primary, I wanted to go inside the temple and do baptisms for the dead. So when I became a Beehive, I couldn’t wait to get started. The first time I went was on my 12th birthday. My dad took me to the Ogden Utah Temple, where we did the baptisms and confirmations. I felt the Spirit so strongly, and I didn’t want the feeling to leave.
I decided that for a Personal Progress experience, I wanted to do my family history. A kind sister from my ward taught me how to use the FamilySearch program. I then searched for names with my mom, and every time I saw a green arrow pointing to the temple, I squealed with delight—it meant we’d found another name to submit to the temple for temple work!
My mother and I just went to the temple to do six of the baptisms. Temple workers said they had more names for us to do if we’d like to do them. I was overjoyed! My mom and I did at least 12 baptisms each. I felt the Spirit and always will when I go to the temple.

When Darren climbed onto the top bunk, he found a note on his pillow: “CK 24/7.” He slid down and showed it to his older brother, Byron.
“I got the same thing!” Byron said. “What does it mean?” They asked Mom if she knew anything about it.
“Hmm … ,” she said. Then she smiled. Darren knew she was up to something! “I bet you’ll get some answers during family home evening tomorrow.”
On the way home from school the next day, Darren and Byron tried to guess what CK stood for.
Candy Kangaroos? Curious Koalas? Crafty Kings?
Mom just smiled when they asked at dinner. When it was finally time for family night, Darren was ready for some answers.
But first Mom read a story from the Friend about a boy who helped take care of his grandma. The boy didn’t realize it, but by showing Christlike love he was keeping his baptismal covenants.
“We keep our covenants every day when we show love and take care of each other the way Jesus would,” Mom said.
“Hey! Covenants starts with C!” said Darren.
“And keep starts with K. So maybe CK is … Covenant Keepers?” said Byron.
“Yeah, and the 24/7 could mean all day, every day!” Darren shouted. “We cracked the code!”
Mom high-fived Darren and Byron. “Good job, guys! But the lesson’s not over yet. I need to tell you boys that I’ve been spying on you.”
“What do you mean?” Darren asked as he watched Mom pull out a piece of paper. He could see different notes for each day of the week.
“Well, I decided to write down the times I spied you keeping your covenants this week,” Mom said. “And here’s what I saw.”
Monday: Your friend asked if you wanted to watch a violent movie, but you suggested a better movie instead. You were obedient.
Tuesday: Darren’s teacher was grouchy, but you were still kind to her. She was so impressed she called and told me about it. You were forgiving.
Wednesday: Heidi came home from college for a few days. She was sad because one of her classmates died. You two brought her tissues and kept her company. You showed compassion.
Thursday: Byron used a bad word and wished he hadn’t. But you apologized and said you would do better. You repented.
Friday: When your older brothers came to visit and teased you, I saw you guys start to get angry. But then instead of fighting with them, you laughed it off. You showed self-control.
Saturday: When Mr. Gomez offered to pay you for playing with his grandkids, you two said you were happy to help for free. You served.
Sunday: You both sat quietly as you took the sacrament to renew your baptismal covenants. You were reverent, and you remembered how important the sacrament is.
As Mom read the list, Darren felt happy and warm inside. He knew it was the Holy Ghost telling him that those were good choices to make. He wanted to be a covenant keeper by following Jesus 24 hours a day, 7 days a week!

While newlywed undergraduates at BYU, Christy and I learned valuable lessons about recognizing this type of prompting.

After my mission to Taiwan, I thought international law would be a good career choice. As Christy and I considered that possible future, we understood that five more years of expensive education lay ahead. The United States economy was in a deep recession and our funds were limited, so we reasoned that joining the air force ROTC would be a wise choice to pay for my schooling. But as I took the required tests and filled out the paperwork, we just could not get comfortable about making that commitment. No stupor of thought or dark feelings came—only an absence of peace. While joining the air force is a great option for some, we determined this was not the right course for us. Looking back, that seemingly illogical financial decision was inspired, in part, because I would have been a horrible lawyer!

There have been times when I found myself acting more like a judge than a teacher. When I was a young father, I volunteered as a coach for my children’s soccer teams. I remember one game in particular—I was shouting from the sidelines, pointing out mistakes, and expressing frustration when players were out of position or lost the ball.

At the time, I did not understand that a more effective way to motivate and inspire is to recognize what people are doing right, not just what they are doing wrong. As I began to change my approach, I noticed something important: the players responded differently. They trusted me more. The attitude and atmosphere changed. I moved from being a judge and a critic to being a supporter and a teacher.