Gospel Story Finder

When I was a young mother with my first baby, my husband was still in college. We both worked part time to make ends meet.
Looking forward to a day off work, I had planned to watch an old movie on television. This was before DVDs or streaming services.
The movie would begin at the perfect time—10:00 a.m.—when our son would be napping. It starred Cary Grant, one of my favorite American movie stars.
The night before my anticipated day off, the ward Relief Society president called. A sister in our ward had suffered a mild stroke and needed care the next day until her son returned from work.
“I would do this myself, but I have company,” the Relief Society president said. She explained that she had no one else to ask and offered to watch our son while I cared for the sister. I reluctantly agreed.
The next morning, I dropped off our son and went to visit the sister. Her name was Louise, and I felt a sudden rush of affection for her. She was old enough to be my grandmother, who had recently died.
I helped Louise dress and then prepared her breakfast. She eased into a chair and turned on the television. Soon it was 10:00 a.m. As she flipped through the channels with the remote, she said, “This television has nothing to offer.”
I hesitated and then said, “There’s a Cary Grant movie on channel 11.”
“Really?” she asked. “I love Cary Grant!”
We watched the movie and thoroughly enjoyed it. Afterward, she shared things about her life when she was my age. She told me about her son, and I told her about mine. She talked about the Church and how she missed it.
When her son returned, I promised to return. I told the Relief Society president to call me first if Louise ever needed anyone.
Sometime during the next two weeks, Louise suffered another stroke and passed away before I had a chance to see her again. We had shared only nine hours and a movie, but she became a dear friend. I think of her often.
I am thankful I didn’t lose the chance to help a sister who needed me—and whom I needed, though I didn’t realize it.

At times it is better to leave some things unsaid. As a newlywed, Sister Lola Walters read in a magazine that in order to strengthen a marriage, a couple should have regular, candid sharing sessions in which they would list any mannerisms they found to be annoying. She wrote:
“We were to name five things we found annoying, and I started off. … I told him that I didn’t like the way he ate grapefruit. He peeled it and ate it like an orange! Nobody else I knew ate grapefruit like that. Could a girl be expected to spend a lifetime, and even eternity, watching her husband eat grapefruit like an orange? …
“After I finished [with my five], it was his turn to tell the things he disliked about me. [He] said, ‘Well, to tell the truth, I can’t think of anything I don’t like about you, Honey.’
“Gasp.
“I quickly turned my back, because I didn’t know how to explain the tears that had filled my eyes and were running down my face.”
Sister Walters concluded, “Whenever I hear of married couples being incompatible, I always wonder if they are suffering from what I now call the Grapefruit Syndrome” (“The Grapefruit Syndrome,” Ensign, Apr. 1993, p. 13).
Yes, at times, it is better to leave some things unsaid.

“I’m so excited for recess!” Ally told Lauren as they put their lunch boxes back on the shelf in their classroom. “Tami just said we’re all going to play tag together on the playground today.”
“Fun!” Lauren said. “I love tag.”
Lauren was happy and surprised that Tami had invited Ally to play. Tami had always been mean to Ally. Lauren was glad she was finally trying to be nice.
“I need to take a book to the library first, so make sure they don’t start without me.” Ally smiled as she ran down the hall to the library.
Lauren raced out to the playground. When she got there, Tami was already gathering the other kids into a circle. Lauren ran over to join them.
“Hurry up, everyone!” Tami called as she motioned everyone into a tight huddle. “I have a fun idea I want to tell everyone before Ally gets out here.”
Lauren didn’t feel very good about this.
All the kids squeezed into the huddle to hear. “Instead of tagging everyone like we usually do,” Tami said, “let’s just tag Ally. But no one better tell her, or else!” Tami giggled. She seemed so proud of herself.
Lauren looked at the other kids in the circle. A lot of these kids hadn’t been nice to Ally since kindergarten. That’s when the kids really started being mean to Ally. They would make fun of her and tease her. Most times Tami started it and the other kids would follow.
Lauren had never liked how they treated Ally. She decided right then that she wouldn’t follow along with them. She knew everyone was a child of God and should be treated with kindness.
She took a deep breath and looked Tami in the eyes. “That doesn’t sound like a fun idea to me. I don’t think we should treat Ally like that. So I don’t want to play.”
Lauren walked out of the circle and started back toward the school alone to find Ally.
At least she thought she was alone.
Then she heard, “Hey, wait up!” Lauren turned around and there were most of the kids from Tami’s circle. She couldn’t believe it!
“Let’s go find Ally and start our own game of tag,” Damon said.
“I want to play too!” Lea said. The others nodded.
Lauren smiled. That awful feeling in her stomach was gone.
“Good idea!” Lauren said. “There’s Ally coming over right now.”
She turned and tapped Damon on the shoulder. “Tag, you’re it!” she yelled, then raced toward Ally. And all the kids came racing after.

In the summer of 1975 I was 25, and my father had just died. He had been involved in the Canadian oil and gas industry with business interests in other parts of the world. I traveled to Europe and spent a considerable amount of time settling his business dealings there for my mother.

After hours of business meetings each day, my colleagues would take me downtown to relax at a famous shopping and promenade area on one of the busiest streets in the city.

With one of the hottest summers on record, it seemed that all the tourists in Europe were on that street. You could see people of various nationalities strolling by, sometimes in native costume or scantily dressed because of the heat.

The street was lined with exclusive stores selling expensive products, but some of the sordid side of life was obvious there as well—pornographic theaters, so-called adult bookstores, and taverns. And, in direct contrast to everything around them, four Latter-day Saint missionaries with a missionary street display.

Their presence seemed amazing, even to a nonmember like me. On this street, where much of what is bad in society was represented, the missionaries were an island of spirituality.

Because I was still discussing business, I was unable to go talk with the missionaries, but I watched them. I noticed that none of the young men looked at the young ladies walking down the street no matter how scantily dressed the girls were. I was quite impressed with that. I decided that I would go back and meet them in the evening when I was free of work, but every time I went to find them, they were gone. I could never seem to find them.

I had to leave the city for a few days, but shortly after my return, I saw two missionaries walking down that same street. I later discovered it would have been their preparation day.

As they walked, they would look in the shop windows. I decided to follow and look in the windows that they looked into to see what interested them. I discovered that they were looking at shoes or coats, and when they did look into a bookstore, it was one that sold only text books. They did not stare into the wine shops or other shops that offered immoral literature or art.

I planned to meet the missionaries at their street display within the next day or two, but suddenly the business deal was completed, and I was on my way back to Canada.

When I got home, I forgot some of the feelings I had experienced watching the missionaries. However, through a friend’s referral, some missionaries made an appointment with me.

As I let the two young men into my apartment, I had the same feelings I felt on the street in Europe when I saw the missionaries there. I sat down and listened to the first discussion. I looked into the eyes of the elders, conscious of the sincerity of their testimonies, and felt that I had known them all my life. After several weeks of missionary discussions, I joined the Church.

I have often thought about the missionaries I saw in Europe. If the two missionaries I followed had stopped in front of a tavern and had been laughing and joking about beer, or if they had gone into some of the stores that you might expect young people to be curious about, the impact of their example on me would have been lost.

The world walked by those missionaries that summer. They never knew I was watching and that their presence bore testimony to me. They never knew that their example was what affected me and made me receptive to the gospel message. Although they never spoke to many of the people on that street, I wonder how many others were influenced as I was just by their example.

“My dad is mission president, and they’ve had some baptisms from the open house,” said Kent Edman. “But the temple’s influence has been more than that, because it’s sparked a lot of interest.

“The people I work for live on the same road as the temple, and when they found out I was Mormon they were really interested. The lady wanted to know if she could have her daughter married in the temple, even though they’re Jewish. I’ve taken them some literature about the temple. The temple has helped the missionaries a lot because it’s a good door opener. People want to know more about it.”

Monday morning is usually taken up with washday chores. But on the Monday before Christmas my thoughts were on the lovely Christmas centerpiece display I wanted to make for the table. I felt compelled to drop everything and make the journey to purchase the materials.
Preparing to cross the road to the bus stop, I suddenly changed my mind and decided to walk. I had gone two-thirds of the way when I saw a woman in a self-propelled wheelchair. She was not a member of the Church, but I recognized her as the spokesman for the elderly citizens of the borough in thanking our ward for the yearly concert we presented for them.
I greeted her, and as we chatted I learned that she would be alone at Christmas. So that was why I had felt prompted to go out that morning! I invited her to join with our family. The decorations were unimportant now, though I did continue on and purchase them.
Then, having committed myself to an extra guest, I panicked. What would my nonmember husband say? We had already invited six relatives to come (two were elderly and two were children), in addition to our household of four. How would they all respond?
At first my husband was not comfortable with the idea at all. Christmas is a time for family, he reminded me, and this lady was a complete stranger. Yet I felt she had been sent to us by inspiration, so I fasted and prayed about it and asked my Relief Society visiting teachers to do the same. By the next day there was a sunny atmosphere in our home again, and the coming of our special guest was accepted by all.
We enjoyed sharing our Christmas with her. She brought a sweet spirit into the house with her testimony of the Savior. As she testified to our nonmember relatives of her belief in the second coming of Christ, I was able to concur with her faith and to explain much more of the gospel than had ever been possible before. Our new friend had paved the way.

“Ready to cut down the bananas?” Dad asked. Tadiana watched with her siblings, Alicia and Kavi. Dad used a knife to cut down the whole bunch of bananas.
The garden was growing well this year! But lots of other things were hard. There was a quarantine in New Zealand because of the coronavirus. Tadiana wasn’t able to see her friends or go to school. But she was happy she got to spend so much time with her family.
Kavi’s eyes got wide as he stared at all the fruit. “There’s no way we can eat that all by ourselves!” he said.
Mum nodded. “I bet Sister Banks would like some. She hasn’t been able to work in her garden since her husband died.”
“I know Sister Finau is lonely too,” Tadiana said. “I can take her some bananas!”
“Who else?” Dad said. They all sat down on the grass. They made a list of people who might need a little help.
The next day they filled sacks full of silverbeet (chard), kumara (sweet potatoes), and bananas. Mum and Dad drove around the neighbourhood. At each house on their list they dropped off a sack.
Tadiana peeked out the car window and watched Sister Banks open the door. Sister Banks used her cane to slowly walk toward the bag. Her smile was so big that Tadiana could see it even while they drove away.
Tadiana felt a warm, happy feeling. But she also felt a little sad. She got to spend quarantine with her family. But Sister Banks lived all alone. She probably hadn’t talked to anyone in weeks!
“I think there’s something else we can do for our neighbours,” Tadiana said. “Why don’t we invite them to a video call for our family scripture night?”
“That’s a great idea,” Dad said.
When they got home, Tadiana called Sister Banks. “Hi, Sister Banks! Our family is doing a scripture night tonight. Do you want to call into it?”
“I would love to!” Sister Banks said. After that call, Tadiana handed the phone to Alicia. They took turns calling people in the ward and inviting them.
That night Tadiana nervously waited at the computer. Would people show up? Then, one by one their neighbours’ faces popped up on the computer screen. Some of them had a hard time using the technology, so Mum helped them.
One lady held up a plate of hokey pokey (honeycomb toffee). “I know none of you can eat this,” she said. “But I was so excited for tonight that I cooked a special dessert! Maybe you can pretend to smell it through the screen!”
Everybody laughed and talked about how they were spending their days. Lots of people were struggling, but it made everyone happier to talk to each other.
When they were done talking, Tadiana shared a scripture, 2 Nephi 31:20: “Press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men.”
They had a short lesson and took turns reading from the scriptures. Then Kavi said the prayer.
“Remember to come back next week!” Tadiana said. One by one people waved goodbye and left the call.
When the last person left, Mum and Dad gathered the family into a big group hug. Tadiana was glad she and her family could help their neighbours. They would all press forward together.

Several months ago my husband performed the baptism of a dear friend. As I sat in the service, my mind and heart raced over her years of preparation for that single event—the principles carefully taught, constantly observed, and quietly accepted, the acknowledgment of God’s hand in life events, the sweet confirmation of the Spirit as difficult, but right, choices were made. My mind recalled the past and rejoiced in the present, and I couldn’t help but anticipate the future. I hoped with all my heart that this good woman would remain actively connected to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for the rest of her life—that she would continue to learn and live the gospel and experience the fulness of its blessings.
I telephoned our newly baptized friend last week to ask how things were going for her. Her response was enthusiastic: “My husband and I have been called to teach the 15- and 16-year-olds, and I’m learning so much!” I felt reassured and excited. What better place than a classroom—for her and for each of us!

When Isaac was five years old, his grandfather, who was visiting from Mexico, gave him a chess set and taught him the rules of the game. Isaac caught on so quickly that he was soon competing in tournaments. At first he wasn’t taken seriously. “We went to tournaments, and they thought he was too small,” his mother, Astrid, remembers. “No one wanted to play with him.” Now tournament organizers from several states know him and welcome him.

Not long ago a young mother wrote to me: “Sometimes I wonder if I make a difference in my children’s lives. Especially as a single mother working two jobs to make ends meet, I sometimes come home to confusion, but I never give up hope.
“My children and I were watching a television broadcast of general conference, and you were speaking about prayer. My son made the statement, ‘Mother, you’ve already taught us that.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ And he replied: ‘Well, you’ve taught us to pray and showed us how, but the other night I came to your room to ask something and found you on your knees praying to Heavenly Father. If He’s important to you, He’ll be important to me.’” The letter concluded, “I guess you never know what kind of influence you’ll be until a child observes you doing yourself what you have tried to teach him to do.” What a magnificent lesson a child learned from his mother.

I’ve seen what “suffereth long” and “endureth all things” mean. A family moved into a house near us. The home was new, so I was part of the crew of Latter-day Saints who spent a number of nights putting in landscaping. I remember the last night, standing next to the husband of the family as we finished. He surveyed our work and said to us standing nearby, “This is the third yard you Mormons have put in for us, and I think this is the best.” And then he quietly but firmly told me of the great satisfaction he got from membership in his own church, a conversation we had often in the years he lived there.

In all that time, the acts of kindness extended to him and his family never ceased because the neighbors really came to love them. One evening I came home to see a truck in his driveway. I had been told they were moving to another state. I approached to see if I could help. I didn’t recognize the man I saw loading household things into the truck. He said quietly as I drew near, “Hello, Brother Eyring.” I hadn’t recognized him because he was the son, now grown older, who had lived there, married, and moved away. And because of the love of many for him, he was now a baptized member of the Church. I don’t know the end of that story because it will have no end. But I know that it begins with love.

“At school the open house was publicized, and everyone was curious,” said Paula Sewell, 18. “They all know I’m a Latter-day Saint, and I got to bring my friends to the temple. Since there are only four or five of us Church members at my school out of 2,000 students, it was really good to be able to go through the temple with my friends. It gave them the chance to hear more about the Church.

“My family’s not active in the Church, but my mom and step-dad went through the temple on their lunch hour. I got to take my little brothers there, too, and that was neat going in with them and teaching them about the Church. My brothers thought it was great, and they were reverent. That’s really amazing, getting my six-year-old brother to be reverent,” said Paula.

In September 2004, lots of hurricanes hit Florida, where I live with my mom, dad, and sisters Morgie and Maddie. Our family had never been in a hurricane. We prepared to be inside for a few days and to maybe go without power for a few days. We also prayed that we would be kept safe during the storm. On September 5, church was cancelled because of Hurricane Frances. That Sunday was stormy and ugly outside, but inside we were safe. My mom and dad got permission from the bishop for us to have sacrament meeting at home. Mom and Morgie played the piano, and we sang. Dad blessed and passed the sacrament. Then everyone gave a talk. Morgie, Maddie, and I all gave our talks from the Friend. The storm was still blowing outside, but I felt peaceful inside.

Clara and her family had just been baptized. Clara liked getting up on Sunday and going to church together.
One Sunday the Primary president said there would be a Primary program soon. Clara wasn’t sure what a Primary program was. But she knew she wanted to be in it.
“Can you read a scripture and bear your testimony in the Primary program?” her teacher asked.
Clara nodded. She was excited! She wanted to learn as much as she could about the gospel. But she was nervous too. What if she made a mistake?
Clara practiced her part every night. She didn’t know all the words in the scripture yet.
“You’ll do great,” Mama said.
Clara wasn’t so sure. This was her first Primary program. All the other kids had done this before.
“Remember, if you do your best, Heavenly Father will do the rest,” Papa told her.
The night before the program, Clara prayed for help to do her best. She stayed on her knees and thought about her part. She felt good about it.
On Sunday morning Clara prayed that she wouldn’t be scared.
When it was her turn, Clara walked to the front. She messed up one of the words in the scripture. But then she remembered how good she’d felt after her prayer. She smiled and bore her testimony. She talked about how much she loved the Savior.
Clara smiled as she sat back down. She knew Heavenly Father didn’t care that she didn’t say everything perfectly. He cared what was in her heart.

Yet with undaunted faith, President Woodruff requested sufficient funds from the Saints to finish the temple. Among those who sacrificed to meet that request was a young boy who had found employment on a nearby farm where, after several long hours of work, he was paid twenty-five cents. “I clutched the coin and ran home,” he recalled. He immediately sought out his father. “Pa, look what I have!” he announced. “The next time you go to Provo,” he continued, “I can get a new pair of Levis with this money.”

The father reminded his son of President Woodruff’s request. “President Wilford Woodruff needs ten cents of this quarter for the Salt Lake Temple. Here, I’ll give you fifteen cents for the coin, and we’ll go together to give the dime to our bishop, who will send it to Salt Lake City,” the father gently suggested.

With funds donated by many faithful Saints, the stonework was finished to the point that the last stone—the capstone—could be placed on the temple. Truly, constructing this temple had become a labor of faith and fierce endurance in the teeth of adversity.

It was with a sense of celebration, then, that the Saints gathered on 6 April 1892, thirty-nine years from the time the cornerstones were laid, to rejoice together in the laying of the capstone. President Woodruff, who had pounded in the marking stake forty-five years earlier, wrote impressively in his diary that it was “the greatest day the Latter-day Saints ever saw in these mountains.”

The city, already crowded for the semiannual conference, received thousands more who came for this historic event. Fifty thousand jammed the Temple Block, while thousands more watched from adjoining rooftops, windows, and even power poles. Many more thronged the streets.

Lorenzo Snow, then President of the Quorum of the Twelve, reminded the congregation that the first Hosanna Shout had been given in the heavens “when all the sons of God shouted for joy.” He exultantly urged the people, “We want every man and every woman to shout these words to the very extent of their voice, so that every house in this city may tremble, the people in every portion of this city may hear it and it may reach to the eternal worlds.”

At the climactic moment, Church Architect Joseph Don Carlos Young shouted from the top of the temple to President Woodruff, “The capstone is now ready to be laid!” The 85-year-old prophet “stepped to the front of the platform, in full sight of the assembled multitude in whose midst a solemn stillness reigned.” With uplifted hands, he exclaimed, “Attention, all ye house of Israel and all ye nations of the earth. We will now lay the top stone of the Temple of our God, the foundation of which was laid and dedicated by the Prophet, Seer and Revelator Brigham Young.” He pressed the switch, “a catch was released, and the top-most stone of the Temple fell into position.”

Then, under Elder Snow’s guidance, the Saints cried, “Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! to God and the Lamb! Amen! Amen! Amen!” This heartfelt thanksgiving praise was repeated three times with increasing force as the participants waved white handkerchiefs in the air on the shouts of “Hosanna” and “Amen.”

John Lingren, a member of the Church, thrilled to the emotion of the moment. “The eyes of thousands were moistened with tears. … The ground seemed to tremble with the volume of the sound which sent forth its echoes to the surrounding hills.” Mary H. Nutting, a non-Mormon schoolteacher living in Utah, reported to friends back east that it “gave a peculiar sensation to hear the mighty shout! It made one realize very strongly that Mormonism is yet a great force, that it is by no means ‘dying out.’”

The congregation of thousands followed the clarion sound of the Tabernacle Choir in unitedly singing one of the Church’s most soul-stirring hymns, “The Spirit of God,” first sung at the dedication of the Kirtland Temple fifty-six years earlier and sung at the dedication of every temple since that time. “When the great song, ‘The Spirit of God Like A Fire is Burning’ was sung by the united audience,” wrote Charles Savage, Utah photographer and choir member, “a feeling different thrilled through me from any one I ever experienced. The hosannah shout was something long to be remembered and one I never expect to hear again during my life.”

Francis M. Lyman, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, proposed that those present “pledge themselves, collectively and individually, to furnish, as fast as it may be needed, all the money that may be required to complete the temple at the earliest time possible, so that the dedication may take place on April 6th, 1893.” John Dean, a temple construction laborer, reported that the result was “a deafening shout of ‘ayes’ from the assembled host” as they raised their right hands.

After the capstone-laying ceremony, many remained to see the unveiling of the statue of the angel Moroni. The statue, designed by Utah-born sculptor Cyrus Dallin, was made of hammered copper covered with 22-karat gold leaf. Before nightfall, the massive figure was lowered into position on the stone ball of the 64-meter-high central east spire.

In the year that followed, carpenters, painters, plasterers, and other skilled craftsmen worked unstintingly to complete the interior of the temple. The inside of the temple was adorned with fine wood and plaster ornamental carvings, beautiful murals and paintings, mirrors, elegant curtains and draperies, the best carpets and furniture available, fine light fixtures, chandeliers, and specially ordered stained-glass art windows. All things were made ready for the dedication ceremonies, which were to begin on 6 April 1893. In an effort to complete the temple on time, workers labored even on holidays. On Thanksgiving Day 1892, “nearly all the men were at work as usual,” one worker noted.

As the physical preparations began to wind down, there began a renewed spiritual preparation. In March 1893, the First Presidency issued an epistle calling for tender soul-searching and self-purification:

“The near approach of the date for the dedication of the Temple of our God moves us to express with some degree of fullness our feelings … to the end that in entering into that holy building we may all be found acceptable ourselves … and that the building … may also be acceptable unto the Lord. …

“We feel now that a time for reconciliation has come; that before entering into the Temple to present ourselves before the Lord in solemn assembly, we shall divest ourselves of every harsh and unkind feeling against each other; that not only our bickerings shall cease, but that the cause of them shall be removed, and every sentiment that prompted and has maintained them shall be dispelled; that we shall confess our sins one to another, and ask forgiveness one of another; that we shall plead with the Lord for the spirit of repentance … so that in humbling ourselves before Him and seeking forgiveness from each other, we shall yield that charity and generosity to those who crave our forgiveness that we ask for and expect from Heaven. …

“Asking God’s blessing upon you all in your endeavor to carry out this counsel, and desirous of seeing it take the form of a united effort on the part of the whole people, we suggest that Saturday, March 25th, 1893, be set apart as a day of fasting and prayer.”

Some Saints began arriving in the city weeks before April 1893 general conference. Lucy Flake and her husband started their trip from Arizona to Utah on 8 March 1893. “We went by team,” she noted in her journal, “as we hadn’t the money to go on train.” The group “consisted of William, myself, Sister Lanning, Joel and John, Henry and Emma Tanner and two of their children,” she wrote. The journey by wagon was “a cold hard trip, through snow and mud.” At Beaver, Utah, the Flake family finally boarded a train. “William and I took our first train ride together,” Lucy recalled. “We went with a large company of our friends and relatives from Beaver City to Salt Lake. We were joined at every station by others who were going to the Dedication.”

The evening before the first dedication service, President Woodruff conducted nonmember guests through the building on a first-of-its-kind tour. This act was a step in reconciliation by Church leaders anxious to rebuild harmony with non-Mormon neighbors after decades of hostility. Even federally appointed Utah Territorial Supreme Court justice Charles S. Zane, a longtime critic of the Church, was impressed by the quality of design, decorations, and craftsmanship. “The building is furnished opulently,” he noted in his journal after attending the open house.

Finally, the culmination of forty years of effort and sacrifice climaxed when President Woodruff entered the temple the morning of 6 April 1893. “The Temple Block gates opened at 8:30, and the street was packed long before that hour,” one priesthood leader noted. Two hours were required “to admit, one by one, the 2200 people” into the large upper assembly hall of the temple.

Thomas Griggs, a member of the Tabernacle Choir, arrived at the south gate at 8:20, but the line was so long that “it was 9:55 a.m. when I was 10 feet [3 meters] from the [gate],” he wrote. “Wind, dust and a little rain had come and it was very uncomfortable, to be ended by the door keeper announcing … ‘No more can be admitted.’ … Being well known as a member of the choir [I was] … soon at the south west entrance and hurriedly passed through.”

The focus of the service was the prayer of dedication offered by the aged prophet, “kneeling on a plush covered stool provided for the purpose” and reading the prayer he had prepared that would be read in each of the successive forty-one sessions.

Brigham Young Academy student Amy Brown recalled: “It was one of the most thrilling spiritual experiences of my life. … [As President Woodruff] stood there before the people with hair and beard as white as snow, the essence of purity, gentleness, and faithfulness, he reminded me of the prophets of old.”

For President Woodruff, the occasion was the fulfillment of a dream. He confided in his journal, “Near[ly] fifty years ago while in the city of Boston I had a vision of going with the Saints to the Rocky Mountains building a temple and I dedicated it.”

During the dedication sessions the Saints experienced an outpouring of the Spirit in the temple. The “spirit of God filled the house,” noted a participant. Susa Young Gates, who served as official stenographer for the dedication services, recalled: “The early days of April in the year 1893 were heavy with storm and gloom. A leaden sky stretched over the earth; every day the rain beat down upon it, and the storm-winds swept over it with terrific force. Yet the brightness and the glory of those days far outshone the gloom.” (See pages 44–48 of this issue.)

Annie Cannon Wells, an editorial contributor to the Woman’s Exponent in Salt Lake City, wrote, “I am only one of thousands who have watched the rearing of those walls and seemed to be a part of them, so much have our thoughts dwelt upon and longed for the day of completion. … This dedication is to the Saints the greatest event for many years. How long we have watched the building of the Temple and as stone has been laid upon stone our faith and prayers have been offered for the safe and perfect completion of the building and now that it is so handsomely completed well may we feel proud and happy.”

For many of the Saints, the temple dedication provided a spiritual seal for their efforts to gather with the people of God in the Rocky Mountains. It also confirmed the Lord’s acceptance of the covenants they had made with him and the sacrifices entailed in fulfilling the vision of modern and ancient prophets that a temple would be “established in the tops of the mountains” in the last days.

Another Church leader, Elder J. Golden Kimball, expressed the theme of united effort and sacrifice when he spoke in general conference in 1915. He said of the Salt Lake Temple, “Every stone in it is a sermon to me. It tells of suffering, it tells of sacrifice, it preaches—every rock in it, preaches a discourse. When it was dedicated, it seemed to me that it was the greatest sermon that has ever been preached since the Sermon on the Mount. … Every window, every steeple, everything about the Temple speaks of the things of God, and gives evidence of the faith of the people who built it.”

How helpful this experience was for me twenty years later when my wife and I stood outside an emergency room in our home town. We had waited for hours as several doctors examined our sixteen-year-old daughter. She had been in an automobile accident and had been seriously injured. Our bishop and his wife joined us, along with the stake president and his wife.

When a doctor stepped out of the X-ray room, his voice choked as he told us that our daughter’s spinal cord had been severed and that she would never walk again. My sweetheart and I embraced while she wept, “Oh, no, no!” Our friends wept with us.

Later, as we drove home, we wondered how we could break the news to our daughter. We wondered, too, whether it would have been better for our Heavenly Father to have taken her out of this life. A few hours later, we returned to the hospital. As I leaned over to explain to our daughter, I could not contain my tears.

She opened her eyes, thrust out her arms, and exclaimed, “Don’t cry, Daddy. Look, I’ve got my arms, I’ve got my heart, I’ve got my mind, and I have all eternity to run around in.”

When I was a little boy, one of the favorite games played in our neighborhood was “Kick the Can.” Usually it was played at dusk with all of the children in the neighborhood gathered in one of the yards or orchards where there were many hiding places. The game began with the one who was “it” standing over the tin can with his eyes tightly closed, counting, while all the other youngsters fled to hiding places. He concluded his counting, “ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred! “And then he would shout in a loud voice, “Here I come. Ready or not, you will be caught.” And so the game began.
I have thought when observing a teacher struggling with a disinterested class, or watching a parent trying to give an untimely lesson to a youngster, that teaching is something of a game in which we announce through our actions, “Here I come. Ready or not, you will be taught.”
If teaching is to be effective, it must capitalize on the readiness of the students to learn. A number of years ago when I was teaching seminary, a student was killed in an automobile accident on the way to school. There was a pall of gloom and shock over the whole school that day. The students came to class more serious and ready to learn than I had ever seen them before. I was teaching Church history, and we were bringing the pioneers West. But that was not the time for a lesson on pioneering. That day they were ready for a lesson on the atonement of Christ, the resurrection, life after death.
A good teacher will be alert and will seize upon the opportunity to teach when the youngster is ready. Many lessons that we have been anxious to teach our own children have had to wait until they were ready.
One of the major difficulties, and one of the monumental dangers, of sex education courses in public schools is that they disregard this significant principle of teaching. They tell all before the youngster is ready, and in so doing, they often wreak havoc with the spiritual, emotional, and moral stability of the students. They open them to great jeopardy. Things should be done in the season thereof, and there is a time for all things. A wise teacher and a wise parent will be alert to that fact.
Likewise, in programming Church activities we should use great wisdom in considering the maturity and readiness of our members to be taught the basic principles of morality. If we teach the basic principles too soon, they may be meaningless to the youngsters. The matter of teaching morality may be necessary, but the framework in which it is set should recognize the degree of maturity and readiness.
For instance, when the youngster is too young to have been subjected to the urging of physical desires, he must be taught about the subject in an entirely different way than will be appropriate when he is older. There will come a time for some more mature discussion later, but this must always be with reverence.
Information presented to a student must be palatable to him and of such a nature that his learning constitution can digest it. Unfortunately, there is no series of charts or graphs or measures or tests available that will enable the parent or the teacher to gain an accurate profile of maturation of each student and thereby tailor his teachings accordingly. This means that we must be careful and must be quiet observers of each youngster in order to be able to understand when he is ready. This is true of many subjects.
The principle of readiness is important when teaching our own children. Parents are with their children almost constantly and can observe when they are ready to be instructed. From questions or behavior or because of experiences in their own lives, they can sense that it is time to teach. Parents must know when the time for the lesson is now, right now, for their children are ready for it.
My wife and I have made it a practice as parents never to put off a question from one of our youngsters. Regardless of how unimportant the question seems or how busily we are involved, we have always been willing to interrupt anything to respond to the question of a youngster. That is because the question is an indication that he is ready; he wants to know—now.
We have learned something about feeding that intangible, invisible appetite within by comparing it with physical hunger. While our children have been growing up we have made it a practice to feed them when they are hungry. Now that may seem like a very strange and reckless thing to do, but it has been very successful.
Soon after our children come home from school, a hot dinner is waiting for them. About four-thirty or five o’clock they eat. They have been in school all day; their blood sugar is low; they are restless and tired; and when they come home they are hungry.
There are two courses that could be followed. Their mother could serve them cookies and milk or bread and jam in order to tide them over until dinner time, in which case their appetite is usually dulled and they don’t eat as well as they should at dinner. The other course is to feed them the dinner when they are most hungry. They eat heartily, and then the snack comes a little before bedtime.
It is interesting to see them, after they have had a good meal, go about their chores or settle into studying or peacefully play or take care of any other activities.
The question is immediately raised: Well, doesn’t father eat with the children, then? Father has his dinner when he comes home. Often the children sit around and visit. And with a snack served later, it is like family home evening virtually every night.
This has contributed much to the peace and tranquillity of our home because the children are fed when they are ready.
There is, of course, a comparison to teaching in this. Sometimes we give students little off-hand answers, little tidbits that really spoil their appetite for learning, and they come away without being given the nourishment spiritually and intellectually that they need.
The cry from the childhood game, “Ready or not, you will be taught,” is poor advice for any teacher or parent.

Very recently I had another experience that represents something of a contrast to the episode with the young man. I was visiting a stake conference and, following the Saturday evening session, I was greeted by a woman who asked, “Do you remember me?” The face was vaguely familiar, but I needed help in remembering her. The sister reminded me that she had been one of my students in a high school English class many years ago. I immediately remembered her as I had known her 32 years before. She was one of the student leaders, a good scholar. We reminisced for a time on the experiences we had shared. She was pleased to introduce me to her family. Some of her children were married, and one son was serving as a missionary. There were several grandchildren. This was obviously a solid family, making a significant contribution to the community and the Church.
During our visit this good sister suddenly asked me, “Do you remember the day you asked me to leave your English class?” I was surprised by the question and could not remember such an event. I wondered if she might be confused in her recollection because I could recall nothing but good experiences with her as a student. “No,” she insisted, “there was the one day when I had been talking more than I should have done. When you attempted to correct me, I made some impolite remarks that I shouldn’t have made. You then asked me to leave the room. I was startled. No other teacher had ever disciplined me in that way. I refused to leave, and you assisted me to the hallway outside the classroom, telling me that I could return when I had learned to behave like a lady.
“I was very angry and embarrassed. I thought of the things I could do to get back at you. My father had influence in the community, and he would not tolerate this.
“Later in the day I began to think about what had happened. I realized that you were right and I was wrong. I knew then that teachers and classmates had too often tolerated that kind of behavior from me and that it was not good. I discovered a characteristic in myself that I had never realized before, and I decided that I would change. That’s why I came back and apologized to you for my conduct in the class. It was a turning point in my life in an important way, and I will always be grateful to you.”

The state of New Mexico has a dot-to-dot line called Highway 66. This line comes across the state boundary near the northeastern corner and connects dots Gallup, Bluewater, Grants, and Albuquerque. Although Bluewater is the smallest of these dots, to me it is the most important. Here I was born and raised. It was my world. Here I learned many lessons, not the least of which was one taught by the episode of the “gentile cow.”
In Bluewater, nature is not a soft, sweet, green Mother who gives of her bounty. Here she is a rugged individual who demands the utmost of man’s endeavor for the yield she lets him have. She does have a strong beauty here, however. Mt. Taylor stands to the east and the range of Rocky Mountains to the west. North, toward Gallup, are red sandstone bluffs and black jagged malpais (volcanic ridges). Much of the level valley floor is covered with red soil. When it is dry, which is nearly always, this sandy loam is sifted around fence posts in miniature mountains by the ever-present wind. It used to be a delightful experience to walk barefooted through the sand, but the Russian thistles that thrive here made walking pleasant only for the wary. It was a status symbol to have feet tough enough to walk barefoot over thistles.
An arroya (deep gully) begins from the northwest hills and zig-zags diagonally across the valley. This arroya is usually dry, but in rainy seasons it holds a red, raging torrent. Near the head of the arroya where there is a runoff from the hills, some cottonwood trees have managed to send their roots down deep enough to be sustained by underground water. They are so firmly situated that they are not affected by wind or drought. As a child I had hoped my testimony of the gospel would become as deep-rooted and as unbendable as those cottonwood trees.
Bluewater was really a community divided between the Mormons and the gentiles. Northward lived the rich (we thought) gentiles. They owned the General Merchandise Store and the garage with a gas pump. There also was a small Union Pacific Depot and the United States Post Office. Southward, the Mormons had a little concrete church house and a red brick, four-room schoolhouse. There was not much socializing between the groups. The Mormons went up to the store to get produce and to fill their gas tanks at the garage and get their mail at the Post Office. Few trains ever stopped at the depot, so few people went there. The gentile children came down to school, and the gentile adults came occasionally to Church socials or dances.
During the depression of the 1930s, we lived mostly on potatoes and pinto beans. The ultimatum was, “If you don’t raise it, you don’t eat it.” Momma could make potatoes and beans taste like gourmet food, but she couldn’t make them into milk for the children. In this little town there were no telephones, sidewalks, electric lights, or paved streets—and no dairies. There wasn’t even any money to buy canned milk. A milking cow was a necessity for a family. Our cows were all dry. My parents worried about their eight children. As the oldest child, I worried too.
One day as I helped Momma with the dishes, I asked, “Are we going to starve?” She countered, “We haven’t starved yet, have we?” I knew we hadn’t starved, but we had hungered for variety, and now we needed milk. She continued as much for herself as for me: “So long as we pay our tithing, I can’t think the Lord will let us starve. He has always looked after us.” I knew this was true, and I knew that my parents always paid an honest and cheerful tithe on every cent they received. Every tenth calf went for tithing. I saw Momma write on the calendar each night the number of eggs she had gathered that day, and each month a tenth went to the Lord. I was reassured. Besides, it was spring and new crops were being planted.
One day not long after this, I hurried home from the school bus. As I came up the path to the house, I saw my two little brothers and my sister looking at something by the gate. It was a smoldering cigar butt. I could not think how a fat cigar butt could have gotten inside our gate. The only smoking Mormon I knew smoked thin cigarettes.
“Where did it come from?” I asked.
The answer could only make more questions. “Mr. Thigpen threw it there.” Mr. Thigpen was the arch-gentile. He owned the General Merchandise Store.
“Why was he here?”
Their next answer did nothing to solve the mystery: “He’s going to give Daddy a cow.”
My sister reached out her foot and kicked the cigar butt. We stood aghast. But lightning didn’t strike, and the earth didn’t swallow her up, so my brother took the shovel and covered the remains with sand.
Daddy came out of the house and put a bridle on the horse that was in the corral. Momma came out and said, “Are you going now?”
“Yes. Mr. Thigpen said to come get a cow. He’ll change his mind when he sobers up, but we’ll milk her tonight anyway.”
He threw the saddle on the horse’s back and fastened the cinch. “I’ll be back in a little while.” He got on the horse and trotted off to the north. I was too mystified to ask if I could go too.
While Momma got supper, I worked on my lessons. I had to get them done before dark because we were out of coal oil for the lamp. Momma put wood in the stove. She stirred the food in the kettles, then pushed the kettles to the back of the stove where they would keep warm but not burn. She took the bread from the oven and turned it out of the pans onto the sideboard by the stove. Then she set the table.
By this time the children who had been watching at the gate came running through the house. “Daddy’s home! The cow’s here!” They ran out of the kitchen door. I ran out too. Momma followed with a milk pail. My brother quickly opened the corral gate. We all watched as the beautiful little Jersey cow with the big milk bag stepped daintily inside. She stood waiting to be milked. No prima donna ever had a more appreciative audience.
Daddy milked the cow. We stood there listening to the sharp zing of the stream of milk as it hit the pail, beating itself into a standing foam that soon muffled the zing to a mellow swish. We all filed into the house behind Daddy who carried the milk pail. He opened the stove door to light the darkened room. He strained the milk and set the pitcher on the table. Momma broke a warm loaf of bread and set the beans, potatoes, and bread on the table. We all sat down, and Daddy said the blessing on the food and thanked the Lord for his kindness to us that day.
Mr. Thigpen did come back a few days later. He was a bit chagrined by his generous offer. However, he saved face by offering Daddy a job to pay for the cow and also to draw “store pay.”
“Well,” said Momma, “we don’t know in what way the Lord will help us. I never thought a drunk gentile could answer a prayer.” The roots of my testimony anchored about ten feet deep.
It has been many years since we sat around that table eating our supper by firelight, but the scene is as bright to me as an unshaded light bulb. I have traveled many fine lines on the map and eaten many remarkable meals. I have sampled milk that has been pasteurized, homogenized, pulverized, refined, and vitalized, but no milk has ever surpassed, or even equaled, the soul-satisfying milk that the Lord sent to us by that gentle “gentile cow.”

Since being baptized in August 2024, Robert L., 18, of Kenya, has brought more than 50 friends to church—and baptized 25 of them!
Those were the totals when we talked to him a few months ago, anyway. They’ve probably gone up since then.
Robert L. of Kenya has invited dozens of people to church—neighbors, schoolmates, kids he plays sports with—everyone.
Naturally, Robert wanted to share his new blessings with others. He couldn’t sponsor anyone’s education. But he could certainly teach them the gospel!
He began inviting people to church—neighbors, schoolmates, kids he played sports with—everyone he knew. “I came one Sunday with, like, five, then on another Sunday I came with 10,” he says. “Then I sent the missionaries to them so they can understand and know that this Church is true and they can experience what I experience.”
It wasn’t long before some of Robert’s friends chose to be baptized and asked him to perform the ordinance.
The Church is growing fast in Africa, in part because of disciples like Robert. He baptized 10 people one week, 11 the next week, and “only” 4 the following week.
Robert invites friends to his Church branch, which meets in a tent in a grass lot.
More than a dozen of those newly baptized friends were with him at an FSY conference in Kenya last December, including one friend who had already baptized one of his friends.
See how the momentum builds? It feeds on itself!
Many of the people Robert has invited to church have chosen to be baptized, and they are inviting others to come as well.