Gospel Story Finder

Children are especially sensitive to the power of pure example. Ten-year-old Andrea stood at the pulpit. Her dark eyes looked around the room. She took a deep breath and began, “I would like to tell you about some people that I love.
“I love my older sister, Amy. She is always happy and cheerful. She encourages me when things are hard. I like the way Amy is kind to her friends. She is a good big sister.
“My aunt Elaine is a cheerful mother. She wants everyone to be happy. She shows concern and love for others. I want to be just like her.
“Grandma always has time for me. She listens when I talk to her. She is kind and loving and always wants to make things fair.”
Andrea’s sister, aunt, and grandmother each lived Christlike principles in such a way that Andrea was drawn to them. She felt cherished and loved when she was with them; therefore, she wanted to be like them.

I joined the Church when I was 17 years old. I had been introduced to it through Americans from a military base in my hometown in Germany. There was no German-speaking ward in my area, so I attended church with the Americans at the military base in the little multidenominational army chapel.
One Sunday not long after I was baptized, at the end of the services, the bishop stood up and asked, “Can all the parents with seminary students please remain behind?” He also asked me to join them.
Once these families, the bishop, and I were the only ones remaining in the chapel, the bishop explained that I was eligible to join their seminary class for the next school year. But I attended the local German school, which started over an hour earlier than the American school that all of the youth from the military base attended. In order for me to have enough time to race down the hill to get to my school on time, they would have to move their seminary class to 6:00 a.m., more than an hour earlier than they had been meeting.
The bishop then asked everyone to vote on whether they would be willing to make this sacrifice so that I could join the class. Immediately, all the parents and all the students raised their hands and said yes.
That was quite an impressive moment for me. It taught me a lesson about sacrifice. These young students were willing to personally sacrifice their own comfort—not only for a day or a week but for the whole school year—on behalf of a new convert who otherwise could not have participated in seminary.
I’m still grateful for their sacrifice, realizing how important that one year of seminary (studying the Doctrine and Covenants) was for my early life in the Church. Without seminary I wouldn’t have had much contact with the Church except on Sunday. Daily seminary was a great preparation for a mission. It taught me a lot about discipline, and, of course, it blessed me to no end in my knowledge of the gospel and the scriptures. Ask me all the Doctrine and Covenants scripture mastery verses from back then, and I will still know them. These experiences helped me to draw closer to Heavenly Father and also helped me to deal with the challenges of being the only German-speaking member of the Church in my town.

At first I thought seminary would be hard.
I had to change schools, and seminary was early in the morning. I didn’t think it would work because I had a lot of homework and other things going on.
But when I started going to seminary, time just opened up for me. Now, I always have enough time for my homework. And I’m always excited the next day to get up and go back to seminary again. My friends and I support each other and learn a lot while we’re there.

The Arizona sun was winning the battle with the historic pioneer cabin. Beating constantly against the walls, sun rays had blistered the mud-plastered adobe until its outer covering peeled and tumbled. Tan weeds, also scorched by the heat, clustered at the foundation as if to catch the falling wounded.
Then the reinforcements arrived—Young Adults from Phoenix. They massed around the cabin, dug a hole nearby, filled it with water, and mixed in dirt. A garden hose sprayed the walls of the building and the parched surface sucked the water in. Soon the mud-splattered hands of half a dozen young ladies were smearing fresh new “plaster” on the walls, while friends with hoes evacuated weeds from the base of the structure and from trails nearby.
The restoration of the cabin was only part of a much larger activity, a service project to help the nonprofit living history museum at Pioneer Arizona. The museum, located just outside Phoenix, is actually a small town made up of buildings from the late 1800s that were once used by settlers. The sheriff’s office, bank, wagon maker’s shop, blacksmith shop, church, and other buildings there have been relocated from throughout the state or reconstructed to follow original dimensions and designs. At various times during the year, artisans will actually come and work in the shops as artisans might have in pioneer times.
But for the moment, the museum needed some help. To attract tourists, the site needed to be spruced up. Waves of withered wild grass had invaded, and unless they were hacked down, they might become ignited and engulf the valuable historical buildings in flame.
Steven Pelfrey, the regional Young Adult president, heard of the opportunity to serve, and he didn’t hesitate to volunteer on behalf of his fellow Latter-day Saints. He knew they’d pull through, and they did. Besides, he was looking for an activity to help recent high school graduates who had just come into the Young Adult program to get involved and feel the spirit of Christian service.
Now, on this Saturday morning, he could see them working side by side with the other Young Adults, as, armed with hoes, rakes, and buckets, they swarmed through the town. Kira Burch, 17, from the Tenth Ward, Phoenix Arizona West Stake, wiped her brow as she finished whacking out a stubborn weed. A one-year veteran of Young Adults, Reuben Judd, 18, of the 19th Ward, worked with some new participants hoisting buckets of mud to the top of the adobe cabin to reinforce the roof. Several of the young women, who had come dressed as pioneers, were invited by the museum director to give guided tours to tourists. The older Young Adults, perhaps remembering their own experiences in coming to activities for the first time, seemed to be going out of their way to welcome the newcomers.
“I could tell they weren’t being left out, that they were having fun,” said Kelly Pendleton, 21, of the Ninth Ward. “They were excited to see the kinds of activities Young Adults can do.”
Others agreed. Rena Davis, 17, of the 37th Ward, said, “I’ve looked forward to the activities, and I wasn’t disappointed. Everybody was happy and friendly. They talked to me and said ‘hi’ and made me feel welcome. That’s important. But I have an obligation, too. That is to participate and help make the activities successful.”
Most of the new Young Adults seemed to follow Rena’s advice. They mingled with everyone freely.
“I spent all day learning about people, finding out they have the same reaction to service and to the gospel that I do. They want to serve more and learn more. We’re all striving for the same thing,” Kira said.
Soon trail-marking rocks were aligned in regimented columns, remaining weeds had been gobbled up by marauding shovels, and the whole town reveled in its cleaned-up condition. It was time to celebrate!

Long ago when the earth was new, all the birds that flew in the sky were gray. They were awed by the rainbow’s shimmering beauty, for they had no color. Great Bird, who ruled the skies, would call a meeting after every rainfall so all could admire the splendid colors of the rainbow arching over the earth.
One evening as the sky glistened with the red, yellow, green, blue, and violet of the rainbow, Great Bird made an announcement: “Too long have you just admired such gleaming colors. This night you may share them. You may each choose one color from the rainbow to tint your feathers.”
Almost before Great Bird was through talking, the parrot streaked through the sky and snatched the green. “This is my color. All mine,” he screeched.
“I want the yellow. Give me the yellow,” cried the canary, darting in and out among the feathered bodies.
“Don’t touch the blue,” shrieked the jay.
The cardinal fluttered his wings over the rainbow. “I’ll take the red. It was meant just for me.”
A large duck reached through the crowd and captured the violet ribbon. He wound it tightly around his neck, then flapped to a nearby pond.
Great Bird flew to a tree and watched the fluttering and flapping, the shoving and pushing, the calling and crowding as the birds flew to the rainbow in search of beauty. But sitting beside Great Bird under a leafy branch sat a small gray finch.
“Why are you not grabbing for a color, little finch?” asked Great Bird.
“I was waiting my turn,” answered the finch gently. “But now I’m afraid all the colors are gone.”
“Never!” cried Great Bird, and he called his flock back as they were about to fly away.
While the other birds passed before him, Great Bird took a bit of color from each one and passed it to the finch. The cardinal lost a bit of red; the canary a touch of yellow. The parrot surrendered some green and the jay some of his blue. Finally, the duck unwound the violet ribbon from his neck and passed a strand to the finch.
The little finch glistened with all the hues of the rainbow. Like the rainbow, all the colors melted softly into one another, tinting the feathers with a glow.
Great Bird looked at the gentle finch. “While the rainbow is a symbol of thanks for rain, your beauty is a thank-you for waiting your turn,” he said. “Little finch, wear your colors as a medal for patience.”
To this day, after a rain, the sweet song of the finch can be heard over the rainbow, telling all to wait their turn.

When I was 14 years old, I began my first job, earning 2 U.S. dollars per hour as a construction laborer. The paycheck for my first week totaled 80 dollars. I wanted to buy an eight-track tape stereo, which was the newest music technology at the time. The full-function model I wanted cost 320 dollars. I excitedly shared with Mom and Dad my intent to purchase the stereo after completing four weeks of work.
My parents wisely taught, “It will take more than four weeks to earn enough money to buy that music player. You should express gratitude to God for His many blessings by paying 10 percent of your income as tithing. You will need to pay the government about 10 percent in taxes. And you should learn while young to obey the counsel of prophets in preparing financially for the future, including your mission; we suggest you set aside 30 percent of your earnings in a savings account.”
My teenage mind quickly calculated that if I did as my parents taught, I would have only 40 dollars each week to spend, which meant I would have to work at least two months to purchase my desired stereo. I found myself at a critical decision point—would obtaining material possessions be my priority, or would I sacrifice to pay tithing and set aside savings?
I decided at age 14 to pay an honest tithing for the remainder of my life. I determined to follow the prophet in saving money for my mission and future education. This experience also taught me to distinguish between wants and needs. I wanted the newest technology, but I did not need it. So I decided to buy a much less expensive model with fewer functions, and it was still performing well when I left on my mission.

When the sunshine tickled my nose, I woke up. I pulled my quilt a little higher and started to roll over. Then I remembered! It was March 17—the day my family had been waiting for had finally arrived. I jumped out of bed and skipped down the hall, humming, “I Love to See the Temple”* to myself.
After breakfast Mom helped me into my favorite blue dress. Then I helped her dress my baby brother, Curtis, in his Sunday clothes. Today was not Sunday, but it felt just as special. Six months ago my parents had adopted my little brother. He was so cute. His cheeks were really chubby, and when he smiled at me without any teeth, he made me laugh.
Because my parents had been sealed in the temple, I knew that I was born in the covenant. That meant I was sealed to them. But because my brother was adopted, he wasn’t born in the covenant. Today we were going to the Logan Utah Temple to have him sealed to us so our whole family could be together forever someday if we live righteously.
When we arrived at the temple, Mom carried Curtis, and I held her hand. Dad carried three small suitcases. The grass was starting to turn green, and a few birds were singing in the bare branches of the trees. Right in front of the temple were some pretty yellow and purple flowers.
We walked through the front doors, and I felt a warm hug without anyone touching me. A man looked at the recommends my parents showed him. A nice lady led us down a hall to the nursery. My parents gave my brother and me a hug, and Dad handed my little red suitcase to the lady. Then my parents went to another part of the temple. The nice lady let me color a picture, and she rolled a ball to Curtis. He laughed. He loves balls.
After a while, the lady helped me change into my new white dress. Then we changed Curtis’s diaper and put his new white clothes on him. The lady said, “The temple is Heavenly Father’s house, and we should be reverent when we walk through the halls.”
“I don’t know if Curtis knows what reverent means,” I said.
She smiled and said, “Heavenly Father loves little children very much, and He’ll understand if Curtis is a little bit noisy.”
As we walked down the halls, I noticed the white carpet. I also saw some pictures of Jesus on the walls. It was easy to be reverent in such a quiet place. We came to a door that was closed. Another lady softly opened the door, and I looked inside. I saw my grandpas and grandmas and my uncles and aunts. They were all smiling at me. Then I saw my mom. She was dressed in white. She looked like an angel. She held out her arms and gave me a hug. Then she reached for Curtis and held him tight, too.
A man dressed in a white suit, called the sealer, greeted us. He talked about the blessings and promises we could receive through temple ordinances if we live worthily. The sealer then told us what to do. He blessed us by the power of the priesthood, and Curtis was sealed to our family. I looked up at my dad. There were tears on his cheeks. He took Curtis in his arms and held him tightly. Mom had tears in her eyes, too. She squeezed my hand, and I felt her love.
When we stood up, the sealer knelt down so he was just my height and asked me, “Do you know what forever or eternity looks like?”
I shook my head and said, “No.”
Then he told my family to stand together and look into a mirror. There was another mirror behind us, too. I looked, and I saw my mom holding Curtis and my dad holding me. I was surprised because I could see us again and again and again and we never seemed to stop. Then the sealer whispered to me, “That is what forever looks like.”
Now, whenever I remember that special day, I think about what forever is like. I imagine my family going on and on, always being together and smiling. I like to think about forever. It gives me a warm feeling inside.

Mary Wilkenson awoke to the sound of rain pattering against the tent. It had rained on and off for days, and she longed for sunlight to break through the gray cloud cover. Perhaps today the company would finally be assembled.
Mary and her eight brothers and sisters had traveled with their parents across the sea from Bradford, England. At times it had seemed that the angry black sea would engulf the ship, but they had made it to the eastern shore of America and then continued on to Winter Quarters.
Mary couldn’t wait to get going again. The thought of living among the Saints in Salt Lake filled her with excitement. But waiting for Captain Henry Miller’s company to be made up was taking its toll on Mary’s family. Their makeshift tent did little to protect them from the cold.
Mother had taken ill a few days ago. She lay wrapped up in the few blankets that neighbors could spare. Mary stood up and folded up the little blanket that made her bed, threw her shawl over her head, and went outside to find what little food she could for breakfast. Her arms and legs dragged in exhaustion.
A cold wind whipped through the camp, forcing Mary to cling tightly to her shawl. Just then, thunder exploded in the sky. Wincing at the sound, she looked up to see large black clouds directly overhead. And then the rain started pouring. The wind blew the rain so hard that it felt like pebbles hitting her bare hands and face. She ran back to the tent, taking refuge inside.
“What’s happening, Mary?” four-year-old Eliza asked. The thunder sounded again, exploding like a cannon, and the tent shook in the fierce wind. Eliza started to cry. Mary picked Eliza up, trying to comfort her while giving instructions to the other children to secure the tent. Muddy water began to seep in under the edges.
“Hurry, we must take care of Mother,” Mary said. “Grab those two boxes. We’ll raise up her bed so she doesn’t get wet.” Moving quickly, the children lifted up Mother and her bed just as water started pouring into the tent. It was as if the tent were suddenly in the middle of a river. The wind howled, and they could hear other tents falling to the ground. Father frantically ran into the tent and sighed with relief when he saw Mother’s bed already raised above the ground. His clothing was soaked.
“Mary, boys, our tent is about to blow away!” he shouted. By now the cold water came up above the children’s knees. The tent rattled furiously. Father grabbed hold of one of the tent poles, and Mary and her brothers followed his example. “Hold fast, hold it with all of your might!” Father yelled. The younger children huddled together, crying. In her weakened condition, Mother began silently crying. She was unable to help any of her children and had to lie there as the cold water rose around her. The water, now two feet deep, began carrying their belongings out of the tent. The children cried harder.
“Mary! Mary! Sing a hymn, Mary,” Father called. Mary squinted, trying to keep the stinging rain out of her eyes, and swallowed. Then in a shaky voice she began singing, “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name.” The soft melody seemed to overpower the howling wind. At first Mary’s voice was faint, but as she sang she found strength. She sang louder and louder until her clear, sweet voice filled the small dwelling. By the time Mary finished, all had stopped crying. She began another song, this time joined by Father and one of her brothers. The music brought a warm spirit of peace into the wind-blown tent.
“That’s right, my girl, sing on and all will be well,” Brother Halifant called from outside. “Keep singing.” And Mary did. Hymn after hymn provided comfort. Soon even Eliza sang along enthusiastically, the music making her forget her fear. At last the walls of the tent quit shaking and the wind retreated. Mary exhaled in relief. She let go of the pole, her fingers aching from holding it so tightly. After tending to Mother, she tried to dump the water from the few belongings the current of rainwater had left behind.
“Everyone, come! We’re gathering for prayer,” a loud voice called through the camp. Mary took Eliza’s hand and walked with the family to where the Saints were gathering. Every other tent except the Wilkensons’ and one other had been blown down. The water had carried away trunks and boxes and lodged them in the brown mud. Mary tried to walk so that her legs would not touch her icy wet clothing, and little Eliza shivered in her wet nightgown.
They all bowed their heads in prayer, pleading for strength and comfort. Then Brother McAlister spoke. “Brothers and sisters, the storm is over. We made it through, and the Lord has heard our prayers.” Brother McAlister surveyed the crowd. Everyone was wet, and many had mud smeared across their clothing and faces. “I promise that the Lord will protect everyone from taking cold. No one will get sick because of the storm.”
Mary wiped the tears from her eyes with her numb hands. She knew the Lord would protect her and her family—she had felt His love as she sang.
As the days passed, no one caught a cold. Those who were already sick, including Mother, did not get any worse. Within a few days, the Wilkensons were packing up to start moving across the plains. As Mary helped load the wagon, she softly hummed the song that had brought peace to their tent a few days before, finding strength for the journey ahead.

A friend of mine named Bret went to a local ski resort with some friends to ride the Alpine Slide, a hillside attraction patterned after a toboggan run. There were two parallel tracks on the slide, and one of Bret’s friends wanted to race. They waited until no one was in front of them, then pushed off down the mountain.
Halfway down the slide they came to a sharp curve with a warning sign, “Caution, Slow.” Bret thought this was his chance to pull ahead, so he approached the curve at full speed.
The toboggan jumped the track. Thrown free, Bret slammed into the hillside, then slid a long way over tough, rocky terrain. He wasn’t dressed for protection, and his entire right side was scraped from his ankle to his wrist.
That evening his dad soaked Bret in the bathtub so he could peel the clothing away from the torn skin. Bret fainted from the pain. He spent the next three days in bed taking medication, wondering if the agony would ever end.
“I learned a lesson I’ll never forget,” Bret now says. “I couldn’t believe how bad it hurt and how long it took to get better. The people who put up those warning signs knew what they were doing.”
Bret had started out doing something that seemed safe and fun. And that’s exactly what it should have been. But then he deliberately ignored the warnings, got going too fast, and before he knew it, the situation took control of him.

Any temple dedication is special, but the dedication of the Nauvoo Illinois Temple carries with it a special meaning that touched the hearts of Church members all over the world.
The original temple was dedicated in 1846, and thousands of Saints were able to make sacred covenants there before they were driven from Nauvoo. That temple experience gave them the necessary spiritual strength for the journey west. Shortly afterward, the temple was almost completely destroyed by fire. And what was left was demolished by a tornado in 1850. In April 1999, President Gordon B. Hinckley announced its reconstruction, and, this year, the Nauvoo Temple became the Church’s 113th completed temple. It stands as a monument to the sacrifice and dedication of the early Saints.

I gave a copy of the Book of Mormon to Liz, who is not a member of the Church and is still searching for books to read. No, she hasn’t yet realized how to make the scriptures come alive in her life, but neither had I until I spent more time in them. My goal is to help her learn—like I did—that the scriptures can be fun and entertaining to read and that, best of all, they will bring her the happiness, the answers, and the closeness to God that I have experienced.

“Raúl,” Mother called, “will you stir the frijoles (beans), please?”
“Yes, Mamá.” Raúl stirred the beans, then joined his mother in the cool front room, where she ironed. Silently he watched as she used the iron to lovingly smooth the wrinkles from the white temple clothes.
“There,” she said happily as she finished the last piece. “I’m through.” Carefully she folded the clean clothes and placed them in an old suitcase before going to the kitchen to make tortillas.
Smells of chili verde (green chili peppers) cooking drifted through the little house. Raúl followed the aroma. “Mamá, could I have just a little of that? It smells so good!”
Mamá laughed and dished up a small bowl of the chili verde, added some beans, and placed a still-warm tortilla on top. “Here. I’m sure there’s enough for you to have some.”
Using the tortilla as a scoop, he dipped the spicy food out of the bowl and into his mouth. It tasted so good! When it was gone, he washed his bowl and put it away. “Mamá, may I go with you today?”
“I’m going there to work. What would you do?”
“I could help.”
“Do you know what I do there?”
Raúl knew that his mother had been called to help Saints coming from Mexico to attend the Arizona Temple. It cost so much to travel that sometimes people sold everything they had in order to get there. When they arrived, they were hungry, they needed a place to stay, and sometimes they even needed clothes to wear. Since his mother spoke Spanish, she helped them feel comfortable in their new surroundings. Sometimes she also went to the temple with them. “You’re going to help those who want to go to the temple,” he answered now. “I want to help them too.”
Mama wrapped the still-warm tortillas in a towel and placed them in a cardboard box. “I will be gone a very long time. Are you sure you want to come?”
He nodded.
“If you promise to help, I will take you with me.”
“I promise.”
His mother put on her Sunday blouse and skirt. Then she packed a bag with another skirt and blouse to wear when she served the supper. Raúl put on his shoes and socks. Soon they were both ready to go.
At the stake center, people scurried everywhere like ants. They wanted to be ready when the Saints from Mexico arrived. Raúl was drawn into the activity. He set tables and poured glasses of water. He cut cake into squares and put the pieces on plates. When the bus pulled into the parking lot, food was steaming in the kitchen, and the tables in the dining hall were ready for the visitors.
Raúl watched as the people climbed down from the bus. They were tired and hot after having traveled for three days and nights. As Mamá walked forward and greeted them in her soft Spanish, the tired faces broke into smiles. Soon she was surrounded by happy, chattering people.
Following her directions, the Saints from Mexico entered the building. Watching for someone his age, Raúl spied a boy carrying a small baby and waved at him.
The boy walked towards Raúl. “Me llamo Nefi. Cómo estás? (My name’s Nephi. How are you?)”
“Is your name really Nefi?” Raúl asked. “Wow! My name’s Raúl Samuel Rodriguez. I’m named after Samuel the Lamanite.”
The boys chattered happily as they walked into the building. Suddenly the baby began to cry.
“This is Lupita, my little sister. I think she’s frightened and maybe a little thirsty.”
Raúl ran to get water for the baby. When he returned, Nefi’s mother was comforting Lupita. Gratefully she took the glass and let her drink. “Gracias (Thank you),” she said. Then she turned to Nefi, “I’ll take care of her now if you want to eat. Don’t go far, because after lunch we are going to the temple.”
Raúl talked to his new friend while he ate. “I brought a puzzle my abuelo (grandpa) gave me. We can put it together if you want.”
“That would be great. First, though, I need to get cleaned up. I must be clean to go into the temple.”
Raúl showed Nefi where the showers were, then waited for him in the hall. When Nefi came out, his hair was wet and slicked back. He was wearing the same clothes as before, but he had brushed them clean.
“I’m ready now,” he said happily. “Let’s put the puzzle together.”
“Where are your shoes?” Raúl asked. Then, realizing that Nefi didn’t have any shoes, his face got very red.
“Won’t they let me in without them?” Nefi asked fearfully. “I told Mama they wouldn’t.”
Raúl felt awful. What should he do? “Of course they’ll let you in. No one will mind.” He looked down at his own feet. His shoes were not new, but they had just been polished. “You could go without them—but would you like to wear mine?”
Nefi began to smile. “You’d let me wear your shoes? I’d like that.” Quickly he sat down and pulled on Raúl’s shoes. As he walked around, his feet slid around in them. “They’re a bit too big!” he said, disappointed.
“I know just what to do,” Raúl said. He hurried to the washroom, grabbed some paper toweling, and hurried back to his friend. “Put this in the toes.”
“Nefi,” his mother called. “Apúrate (Hurry)! It’s time to go.”
Quickly the boys stuffed the toweling into the shoes. Nefi put them on and tested the fit. “It worked!” He hurried after his mother.
“You look good, Nefi,” Raúl called.
“Thanks, Raúl. We’ll put the puzzle together when I get back, OK?”
It was late that evening when Raúl wearily helped his mother carry the empty pots out to their car. “I’m glad I came,” he said.
“I’m glad that you came, too,” she answered. “You were a big help.” She glanced down at his feet. “Are you sorry now that you gave Nefi your shoes?”
He shook his head and smiled. “Oh no, Mamá. I’m glad you let me do it. He was happy to wear them to the temple. It helped make this day even more special for him. He’ll grow into them soon, too, and I still have a pair at home.”
Raúl noticed that his mother was in her old skirt and blouse, even though she’d just got back from the temple. “Where are your Sunday clothes?” he asked.
“Oh,” she said quietly, “someone else needed them more than I do.”
Raúl remembered a young mother whose dress had hung in tatters. She was just about his mother’s size. It made him happy that Mamá had helped her.
“I remember when we went to be sealed,” he said softly. “I loved being in the temple. It was so peaceful. I’m glad we were able to help others feel comfortable there. Going to the temple is important.”
“Yes, mi hijo (my son), it is.”

I wish to express my deepest heartfelt thanks to the New Era, the members of my ward, and my best friend, Shirley Beo, for showing me the way to Heavenly Father.
I live in Myrtle Creek, Oregon, and met Shirley in the seventh grade. Neither of us really fit in at school. She had just moved to Oregon from England, and I was a social outcast. My life up to then had been rough, but Shirley seemed to turn me around. It wasn’t until five years later that I asked Shirley to pick me up for church.
I must tell you how shocked I was to feel Heavenly Father’s Spirit so strong. The members of the Myrtle Creek Ward accepted me as one of their family, and I have never met a bishop as terrific as the bishop of our ward, David Antis, Sr. Two months later my parents, both of whom are nonmembers, allowed me to be baptized. My life was turned around from then on.
I am now assistant to the president in our priests quorum, and the oldest and one of the most active youth in our ward. I play Church basketball and volleyball and am in top form for school. Last quarter I pulled my first 4.00 report card.
I wish to thank all the people who have helped me, and also the New Era for all the encouraging articles.
Robert RussellMyrtle Creek, Oregon

We also served for three years in the Pacific Islands. It is significant that almost 25 percent of all the Polynesians in the world are members of the Church. Their faith and spirituality are legendary. Sister Cook and I were in Vava‘u in the Tongan islands on one occasion. I had just spoken about following the prophet in the general session of stake conference. At the luncheon following the conference, I sat next to a distinguished elderly patriarch. He indicated how grateful he was to hear what the prophet was teaching. He gave me the following account. Vava‘u, which is a relatively small island, usually has sufficient rain, but periodically there are severe droughts. The island has long inlets or bays, almost like sounds, which curl into the island below steep hills. When drought conditions left the village without water, there was only one way they could obtain fresh water and stay alive. Over the centuries they had found that fresh water traveled down through rock formations inside the mountains and came up in a few spots in the sea.
The Tongan men would set off in their small boats with a wise elder standing at one end of the boat looking for just the right spot. The strong young men in the boat stood ready with containers to dive deep into the seawater. When they reached the appropriate spot, the wise man would raise both arms to heaven. That was the signal. The strong young men would dive off the boat as deep as they could and fill the containers with fresh springwater. This old patriarch likened this lifesaving tradition to the living waters of the gospel of Jesus Christ and the wise man to God’s prophet here on earth. He noted that the water was pure, fresh, and, in their drought condition, lifesaving. But it was not easy to find. It was not visible to the untrained eye. This patriarch wanted to know everything the prophet was teaching.

I never saw anyone dead before. I knew that Hans would be different, that he wouldn’t be able to talk to me. I wondered how I would feel when I saw him.
Mom held my hand, and we went into a beautiful room with lots of flowers. There was quiet music playing. The room was just for our family so that we could be alone with Hans.
Hans was lying in a casket. It looked like a little white bed. His eyes were closed. He looked different, but he looked nice.

I learned early on that there is great value in listening to experience in older people. I had a stake president once who said, “I always tried to be in the presence of great people.” He was in a little town in Idaho, but he said, “If there was a lecturer coming or something special, I would always try to be there, because I could learn.”

This is best described with a story. When Sister Kaitlyn Palmer received her mission call last April, she was excited to be called as a missionary but felt it equally important and special to go to the temple to receive her endowment and make sacred covenants. Shortly after she scheduled her endowment, the announcement came that all temples would temporarily close due to the worldwide pandemic. After receiving this heartbreaking information, she then learned she would attend the missionary training center (MTC) virtually from her home. Despite these disappointments, Kaitlyn focused on keeping her spirits high.
In the intervening months, Sister Palmer never lost hope of attending the temple. Her family fasted and prayed that temples would open prior to her departure. Kaitlyn would often start her home MTC mornings by saying, “Is today going to be the day we receive a miracle and temples open back up?”
On August 10, the First Presidency announced that Kaitlyn’s temple would reopen for living ordinances on the exact day her early-morning flight to her mission was scheduled. She would not be able to attend the temple and make her flight. With little hope for success, her family contacted temple president Michael Vellinga to see if there was any way the miracle they had been praying for could be realized. Their fasting and prayers were answered!
At 2:00 a.m., hours before her flight departure, Sister Palmer and her family, in tears, were greeted at the temple doors by the smiling temple president with the words, “Good morning, Palmer family. Welcome to the temple!” As she completed her endowment, they were encouraged to move quickly, as the next family was waiting at the temple doors. They drove directly to the airport just in time to make her flight to her mission.

Eliza smiled as she walked back to her seat. Sharing her testimony in sacrament meeting had made butterflies flutter in her stomach. But she’d also felt the Holy Ghost, and that made it worth it.
After sacrament meeting, Bishop Baldry walked over to Eliza and her family.
“Thanks for sharing your testimony today, Eliza,” the bishop said. “It was really great.”
Eliza felt her cheeks get warm. “Thanks!”
“Would you be willing to give a short talk about family history next week?”
“Um—” Eliza’s heart started racing.
“Eliza, you love family history!” Dad said. “That’d be the perfect topic for you.”
“I don’t know,” Eliza said, looking down at her shoes. “It’s hard enough to say my testimony. I don’t think I could stand up there and give a talk.”
“That’s OK,” the bishop said. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He smiled as he walked away.
Dad patted Eliza’s shoulder. “I think you’d give a great talk about family history. If you change your mind, I could help you get ready and practice. Then maybe you wouldn’t feel as nervous.”
Mom nodded. “And Heavenly Father would help you too.”
Eliza thought about standing up in front of everyone. Those butterflies in her stomach started to flutter again.
Then she thought about family history, and she felt more peaceful. Maybe she could give a talk next week.
“OK,” Eliza said. “Where’s the bishop?”
That week, Eliza spent a long time writing her talk. She learned about the prophet Elijah. She learned how, when we get excited about doing family history, we call that feeling “the spirit of Elijah.” My name sounds kind of like Elijah, she thought. She added that as a joke to begin her talk.
But what if no one laughed at her joke? What if she talked too fast? What if she got tongue-tied and couldn’t talk at all?
Her dad helped her practice all week. He got out the broom for a pretend microphone. The first time Eliza read her talk out loud, she couldn’t stop laughing at her joke. But she kept practicing until she could give her whole talk without messing up or going too fast.
On Sunday, Eliza sat on the stand in the chapel. Her heart thumped as she watched the room fill up. She prayed and asked Heavenly Father to help her feel calm.
After the sacrament was over, Eliza heard the bishop say her name. Her legs wobbled as she walked to the microphone. She took a deep breath. “Hi, my name is Eliza. My talk is about family history. I was asked to give this talk because I have the spirit of Eliza—I mean, the spirit of Elijah.” People smiled, and some even laughed.
The butterflies fluttered in her stomach while she spoke. But Eliza also felt the Holy Ghost helping her along. Finally, her first talk was almost over! “I’m glad I got to share my love for family history with you. I know that when I do family history, I am helping people who died without learning about the gospel. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

Not too long ago, while reading the scriptures, I came across the word preserve, and it struck me in a way that I hadn’t recognized previously. A small seed was planted in my mind. Subsequently, I felt like I was encountering this word everywhere.
I felt the Spirit invite me to contemplate three questions:
What does it mean to preserve something?
What am I trying to preserve in my life?
What are the observable steps I’m taking toward that preservation?
Question 1 led me, predictably, to the dictionary to look up preserve. I love the language that I found there. It helped me visualize the purpose of preservation. I learned, for example, that to preserve means:
To keep safe from injury or harm
To protect, to keep alive or intact
To safeguard, secure, defend, shelter, shield, and give sanctuary
Ultimately, this exercise clearly highlighted a few things for me:
Our desire to preserve something indicates its value in our lives.
We want to preserve these precious things because we know they are susceptible to harm, decay, erosion, or even destruction.
Just wanting to preserve something isn’t enough. We have to take observable steps to protect the things we value and to prevent any harmful corruption.
With this understanding, I was able to discern what the Spirit of the Lord was trying to tell me. He wanted me to assess, before all else, how I can preserve my faith in Heavenly Father and His Son Jesus Christ and my relationship with Them.
This singular question called on me to apply all that I was learning about preservation to my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and the covenants that I’ve made with Them. It led me to determine whether I had placed Them in the prevailing position on my personal list of values, allowing everything else in my life to flow from that most important relationship.

Seven months before that experience, our second child and first daughter was born. At the time of Brianna’s birth, my mother sent a beautiful white satin dress. This important dress was for mother’s first granddaughter. Since it had to travel all the way from the United States to Jamaica, Mom had packed it in a plastic covering and placed it in a sizable box for further protection. When the dress arrived, my husband and I couldn’t have been more pleased. It was clean, white, and beautiful—just perfect to put on our little girl.