Gospel Story Finder

Often our family counseled together in family home evening. On one occasion, we were concerned about some of the music our children were playing. We opened the scriptures and also read the words from our prophet from conference. We wrote down on paper some of the words in their songs and asked how they felt about them. One said he had not heard the words. Another said the words felt really bad. We then asked what we should do? Without any help from us, they decided to throw the music away. But one said, "We paid a lot of money for these tapes." However they quickly came together deciding this music should not be in our home.

I learned this in a powerful way while serving as a missionary in Mexico. In the early part of my mission, I was hesitant to speak, both because I am by nature an introvert and because my Spanish was not very good. I greatly feared that I would be embarrassed. I was focused on myself.

One day as I walked down the street, I suddenly had a feeling overcome me that I can only credit to the Holy Ghost: it was a clear feeling that all of the people I saw bustling about me that day were literally my brothers and sisters and that all of them were sons and daughters of my Heavenly Parents, who were also their Heavenly Parents. Without any conscious effort on my part, I felt overwhelming love for each person I saw. At that moment I felt a great desire to speak to them. I was anxious to share with them words that would help them see their divine destiny, even if the words were not in perfect Spanish. I suddenly found that I cared more about them and their well-being than about my potential embarrassment. My fear of being embarrassed disappeared and was replaced by an almost consuming love for those people. As I shifted my focus from me and my inadequacies to others and their needs, my fear was cast out by the love that I felt.

I credit the Church for helping me become a better reader and student. When the elders read things to me, we would discuss them but by the next week, I could not remember what we had talked about. Reading was hard, but they gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon and taught me the plan of salvation. I sought for help from friends to memorize the plan of salvation, and the missionaries were excited about this. My reading and expression got better through the scripture reading, that was the beginning of my path to becoming an average student.

Hyrum recognized the willingness of others, even when they did not recognize it themselves. In 1835, as special priesthood blessing were pronounced upon those who had worked on the temple, Benjamin F. Johnson stood near the doorway and yearned for the blessing he felt he did not deserve.

As the Prophet finished what might have been the last blessing, he turned to Hyrum and said, "Go and see if there is not one more yet to be blessed." Hyrum came to the doorway, placed his hand on Benjamin's shoulder, and asked if he had not worked on the temple. As his hopes for a blessing faded, Benjamin reported that he had not been strong enough to work on the temple. But Hyrum persisted until Benjamin recalled that he had donated a new gun and that he had helped to make brick. "I did give often," Benjamin finally remembered.

"I thought ... there was a blessing for you," Hyrum exclaimed as he nearly carried Benjamin to the stand. Benjamin's name is the last on the list in the Kirtland Council Minute Book of those who received blessing that day. He later wrote of the experience, "my joy was full" (118-19).

“The Family: A Proclamation to the World” teaches my family the importance of work. Have the children hold up fingers to count each of the nine principles while you read paragraph 7 from “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” beginning with “Successful marriages and families” and ending with “wholesome recreational activities.” See if they can remember the eighth principle (work). To teach the importance and value of work, tell the following story about President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency. As a young boy, he worked at his parents’ laundry business, delivering laundry before and after school. For many years he had to ride a big, heavy bicycle, pulling a laundry cart up and down the streets of their town. He said: “Sometimes the cart seemed so heavy and the work so tiring that I thought my lungs would burst, and I often had to stop to catch my breath. Nevertheless, I did my part because I knew we desperately needed the income as a family, and it was my way to contribute.” Dieter knew his hard work as a delivery boy was helping his family. But it wasn’t until many years later that he learned how his hard work helped cure him of a lung disease he never knew he had. He said, “My regular exercise in fresh air as a laundry boy had been a key factor in my healing from this illness” (“See the End from the Beginning,” Liahona and Ensign, May 2006, 43).

But, for the moment, here we are in this mortal sphere metaphorically described by Lehi as the “dark and dreary waste.” Who knows how many “graces” removed from our ultimate quest are we! Yet, wandering memory’s halls there emerges for me from the reaches of the past another time, another place, another very real “dark and dreary waste” that has become a metaphor within a metaphor, a living reality of the shadows and periodic despairs of mortality enlightened by the ­beckoning reassurance of the Man in the white robe.

The year was 1966. The place was Vietnam. I was a platoon leader in an infantry battalion. I remember the night as though it were yesterday. Our battalion was attempting to move cross-country deep in enemy-controlled territory using armored personnel carriers. The expedition became a nightmare. The weight of these armored vehicles proved to be too great for the soft crust of the rice paddies. One after another, several of them sank deeply into the ooze. Mine was among them. Because of the high vulnerability to attack in the darkness of the hour, the battalion commander did not want to stop the entire column. So he left me—as the only officer among the numerous stranded vehicles—in command while the rest of the battalion moved on.

I shall never forget the feeling of abject ­loneliness. The night was literally as black as pitch. The marooned personnel carriers, each with a half-dozen soldiers aboard, were stretched across the alien and forbidding landscape for a quarter of a mile or more like so many small islands in a dark and sinister ocean. Not wanting to telegraph our plight to the enemy, who often were listening to our radio frequency, I determined to move from one carrier to the next to make personal contact with the men, coordinate our improvised defense, and offer reassurance. It was a dangerous and harrowing experience—a night fraught with an anxiety that even the passage of nearly 40 years has not erased!

But what I remember the most that night is the artillery. Thank heaven for the artillery! At my request the howitzer battery assigned to cover us fired several phosphorescent air bursts—registered concentrations to serve as reference points for artillery support in the event of an attack. As they split the oppressive gloom, those artillery bursts seemed to offer a mathematical, visible umbrella of reassurance that our location was known to our friends, that we would be all right, and that in due course morning would break. The long night dragged on, but, as it always does, dawn eventually came and with it our pathway to safety.

Liz: When I was growing up, the closest Church member my age lived an hour and a half away, so there were no other members at school. But something I really appreciated was that even though there was just me, my leaders always came to Mutual; they always came to seminary; they always came to teach my lesson—every single time. They never said, “Well, we’ve got just one student so we’re not going to have class today.” I’m sure I learned a lot, but what I really remember is that my leaders were consistent. And because of them, I had opportunities to feel the Spirit.
I think we can never fully appreciate the gift of the Holy Ghost. Even though I had my parents and my family and my leaders, when I was at school I was by myself. But the Spirit was with me. So whatever keeps the Spirit in someone’s life will be a great influence in helping that person keep the law of chastity.

Ben loved his father’s wagon shop. It was a busy place, with the music of saws, planes, hammers, and chisels filling the air all day long.
“Don’t get too close to the workers,” his father often warned the curious boy. “And leave the sharp tools alone.”
“But I want to make a wagon of my own, Daddy. Why can’t I?”
This plea usually earned him some boards, a few tools, and a spot out of the way where he could hammer to his heart’s content.
Then came a joyous day when his father promised to make him a wagon for his birthday. It would be exactly like the big ones—only smaller.
“Just think,” he told his mother, “a real wagon—all my own! I can take baby brother for rides, and I can bring things for you from the store. Won’t that be fine?”
Mother agreed that it would be. She was almost as happy as her little son.
On the morning of Ben’s seventh birthday, he awoke to find his dream had come true. There in the living room was his beautiful new wagon, gleaming with a fresh coat of paint. Tears filled Mother’s and Father’s eyes as their happy son gave them a loving squeeze. Then out he went to run up and down the street and show his friends the rare gift.
True to his promise, Ben took his baby brother for many rides. He also ran errands for his mother most willingly. Ben and his dog, Bones, became a familiar sight around the streets of Nauvoo. With his father’s help, Ben rigged a harness and trained the clever animal to pull the wagon and his young master around the streets near home.
One of Ben’s favorite errands was to start down Mulholland Street, turn past the lot where the great temple was being built, and go on to Parley P. Pratt’s store. It was a stirring sight to see the workers shaping and placing the stones as the stately building rose above the hill. Besides, there were good things at the Pratt store. Ben often brought a jug of sweet molasses home to Mother.
One day he paused near the temple lot to watch a worker carving a stone. The chip, chip, chip of the chisel driven deftly into the stone was so captivating that Ben lost track of time. He did not notice that two workers had also paused to look intently at his little wagon.
“That wagon would be a mighty handy thing to haul our tools about in,” one of the men said. “Sonny, how would you like to let us have your wagon to help build the temple?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” Ben replied.
The man looked at him closely. “Isn’t your father the boss of the big wagon shop?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, we’ll talk to him about it.”
Frightened at the thought of losing his precious wagon, Ben ran home with Bones at his heels. Arriving, he burst into tears. “Mother, you won’t let them take it away, will you?”
Mother looked up in alarm. “What are you talking about, Ben?”
“Some men at the temple asked me for my wagon to haul their tools in. When I said I couldn’t give it to them, they said, ‘We’ll see your father.’”
“Perhaps they were just joking. Come now, you are late for dinner. You’ll feel better after you eat something.”
But he was too worried to eat much. And just after his father finally came home, the same two men appeared at the door.
That night Ben and his parents had a heart-to-heart talk. “You see, Ben, everybody is giving something to help build the temple,” Father said. “I know how you feel about your wagon, and I’m not going to make you give it away. But just think about it. Ask Heavenly Father to help you decide what to do. It is the house of the Lord we are building.”
“I know you will do what is right,” Ben’s mother said. At bedtime she kissed his tearstained face, patted his rumpled hair, and left him to say his prayers alone.
The next morning, Ben pulled his wagon down Mulholland Street and over to the temple lot, followed by his faithful dog. Walking up to the man who seemed to be in charge, he said, “I’ve brought you my wagon to help the men building the temple.”
Looking into Ben’s face, the kind man replied with feeling, “God bless you, my boy. I know what this means to you. No one has made a greater sacrifice to help build the Nauvoo Temple.” He gripped Ben’s shoulder gently.
Ben walked slowly home with Bones by his side. He had done his part.

Near my home in the north woods of upper Michigan, there once stood an old turn-of-the-century home. For years it had been abandoned, its black, weather-beaten frame cracking with age and crawling with snaky tendrils of ancient vines that wrapped and coiled themselves across the windows and around the doors. Various out-buildings were scattered here and there, but they were barely distinguishable beneath the creeping tangle of brush and brier. The house towered three stories high and cast a forbidding shadow on the bleached and withered ground. This shadow had spread throughout the community and entered the fearful heart of every child around.
When I entered the ninth grade, however, I decided it was time to get over being frightened of the old place. I wondered if perhaps I couldn’t use it for a party. Now, being the only Latter-day Saint in my high school, I had heard and tolerated some pretty cruel things. I figured I could stand up to jokes and criticism for not smoking and drinking, but what I couldn’t take was hearing over and over again about how Mormons just didn’t know how to really have fun at parties. Because of that, my bishop (who was also my dad and a biology professor at the nearby university) came up with an idea to prove my friends wrong. On Halloween night he would temporarily move into the local neighborhood haunted house. But by then—thanks to the efforts of my dad, brother, and missionaries—it would be transformed into a terrifying realm of horror and fright. According to plan I invited about 20 of my closest nonmember friends. Since all of them lived in town, about six miles away, I assumed none of them had ever heard of the old Sutinen home. I assumed correctly.
At 7:00 the party began at my house; and after about an hour of games, pizza, and root beer, I suggested we visit a poor old man named Toivo. I explained he lived alone but always had treats ready for any trick-or-treater who dared venture down the lonely, overgrown trail that led to his home. My suggestion was enthusiastically received until they saw Mr. Sutinen’s home. Even I, who knew my dad waited within, felt a shiver of fear creep along my spine, like a spider on a web of nerves. We approached cautiously toward where the house loomed up, outlined starkly against the moonlit sky. To add to the eerie effect, a single light flickered from behind the drawn curtains. Ghostly wisps of fog clawed at our legs, and branches whipped wickedly against our faces. We were considering bravely marching on, when shrill laughter split the tomblike quiet. Some of the group turned, running wildly for home, while the rest huddled near and bombarded me with questions. “Are you sure this is the right house?” “How long have you known this man?” “Are you positive he’s harmless?” and finally, “If this is a joke, you’re gonna be sorry!”
Reassuring them that everything was fine, I boldly knocked upon the blistered door. Like something out of a horror movie, the door slowly creaked open, and I gazed into the red-rimmed eyes of a madman. With a start I realized this white-haired maniac was my father!
“Trick-or-treat,” my friends whispered as Toivo Sutinen ushered us into his parlor. This room was dimly lit by two flickering candles perched on large polished skulls. Nice touch, Dad, I thought as I gazed at the skulls, the cobwebs, and the coffin set back in a corner.
“Wall now, ain’t dis a surprise. Ten purdy gerls cum ta visit ol’ me,” muttered Mr. Sutinen in a slurred drawl. “Ah was jist gunna eat ma supper. Join me, hey?”
Carol, the Good Samaritan of our group, slapped “old” Toivo on the shoulder and heartily agreed. The rest warily glanced around. And Mary, still hovering near the door, asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Uh, Mr. Sutinen, what were you planning to eat?”
“Why, ma favorite,” happily responded Mr. Sutinen, “barbecued bat wings!”
Too late we noticed the dozens of murky specimen bottles crowding the counters and shelves of the kitchen.
“Unless, of course,” finished Mr. Sutinen, whacking something near him, “you want ta wait until Mabel here thaws out.”
Looking up, we saw a row of frozen cats hanging stiffly from the rafters!
This, of course, made sense when one remembered my dad was a professor of biology and used such things in his labs. But to my friends it was a ghastly spectacle and required a hasty exit by the nearest door—which was locked! Mary promptly began to cry, and several others looked like they wanted to. I begged my friends to stay and humor this crazy old man a little while longer, and they agreed.
“Wall, ah kin see yer not hungry,” cheerfully said the old man, picking up one of the candle skulls. “Why don’t ah take you on a tour of ma home?”
Happily accepting any excuse to leave the kitchen and its occupants, we followed Toivo Sutinen up the rickety, wooden steps and into a narrow hall.
“First room on the left here was ma dear Mildred’s” explained Toivo opening the door wide and allowing us to enter.
Except for a dusty end table on which lay a bloodstained knife, everything in this room was covered with enormous sheets. Avoiding eye contact with the knife, we halfheartedly listened to Mr. Sutinen reminisce about his dear departed wife. Uncomfortably we began to realize he was talking about Mildred as if she were still alive.
“Yep, ma heart was near broke, couldn’t stand it no more. So went out late one night and brought ma Mildred back home.”
With a flourish, Mr. Sutinen pulled back the bed sheet. And there, in all her skeletal beauty, lay the former “Mrs. Sutinen”!
That was too much; my dad had gone too far! Screaming frantically we ran from the bedroom and down the stairs. We must have triggered something because as we ran ghosts in Victorian dress swooped past, bats squeaked, and howls echoed through the empty corridors. The door was now wide open, but as we bounded down the steep steps, something huge and hairy jumped out from behind a nearby tree.
I don’t remember much after that except a lot of screaming and running. Within minutes we were safely back in the security of my home, breathlessly reliving each terrifying moment. My mother insisted I tell my friends the truth, but it took some doing to convince them crazy Toivo was not only my father but the “minister” of my church.
Later, when my dad, brother, and the missionaries returned, everyone wanted to ask them questions. I’m not sure that much gospel doctrine got discussed that night, but all in all the experience had a positive effect on my friends. Two of them later joined the Church and four others seriously considered it. The greatest result, however, was that from then on there wasn’t a single Church activity that wasn’t attended by as many nonmembers as members.
A couple of years ago, the old house burned to the ground. I’ll never forget that day. Standing with a crowd of interested bystanders and frustrated firemen, I remember thinking that no one would be sorry to see this place go. It had stood too long, frightening children, and reminding others of ghosts, goblins, and things that go bump in the night. With a crash the house collapsed, showering sparks and ashes on everyone. For a brief moment I felt a twinge of regret. And then it was all over. The firemen doused the glowing coals with buckets of water, and the crowd broke up.
As I wandered back down the path that led to my home, I thought once more of that terrifying, yet zany, Halloween party. It was ironic, but comforting to know, that a place of such indescribable horror had served as a site where good opinions of the Church had been formed and, I hoped, would be nurtured for many years to come.

“But I didn’t join right off,” Jack said. “I kind of sat back and doubted for a while, but I wish I hadn’t.” His Las Vegas excursion helped him appreciate the truths they were teaching him. “I looked around at the people there and thought ‘Lots of these people have money, but they’re still looking for something to make them happy,’” Jack said. Maybe he really could find what he was looking for in the Church.

He’d previously been attending Sunday School with a lackadaisical attitude, but now he decided to take the gospel seriously and learn some more. He began the missionary lessons and discovered that it would take the gospel to make him happy—happier than banking billions from bubble gum ever could. “Once the missionaries started teaching me, it only took about a month and a half before I was baptized,” he said.

He had not thought about the law of tithing, however, in his biblical study of Christ’s ancient church. It seemed a hard thing to give up one tenth of his income in his family’s difficult financial situation. “I don’t know if we can pay the tithing. Let’s wait until the Lord helps us (to be capable of paying), and then we will become members,” he told his wife.
His children and his wife helped him change his mind about putting off baptism. Daughter Angelina, then a teenager, had become convinced that the Church was true and wanted to join. She suggested to her mother that they plan a special birthday gift for her father—they would be baptized on his birthday, with him.
Ignacia Perez was not hard to convince. She had had a dream of her own. In it, a young man offered her a cup from which she was to drink. When she attended a sacrament meeting with her husband for the first time, at Angelina’s urging, Ignacia realized the cup in her dream had been a sacrament cup.
So she and the children studied the gospel with the missionaries, until finally she was ready to tell her husband, “We have a gift we want to give you for your birthday—but I have to tell you because it requires your consent.” He quickly gave permission, deciding then that they would simply find a way to pay tithing. He soon found it was not the difficulty he had imagined.
Ricardo and Ignacia Perez and their three oldest children—Angelina, Jorge, and Teresa—were baptized 26 January 1954. Their sons Israel and Victor were too young yet to be baptized, and their youngest son, Josue Ricardo, was not born until after the Perez family had been in the Church for three years.

While my husband, Brandon, was in Orlando, Florida, on business, he woke up one night with a high fever and difficulty breathing. He called for an ambulance to take him to the hospital, where he learned that he had a serious case of pneumonia.

Because Brandon and I have toddler-age sons, I couldn’t immediately travel from our home in Pennsylvania to Florida. I called Brandon daily, hoping for his improvement so that he could return to us.

However, Brandon’s condition worsened. When a nurse at the hospital urged me to come to the hospital as soon as possible, I started thinking about who might be able to take care of our boys.

My mother agreed to take time off from work and said she would come as soon as she could, but the flight I needed to take left before she would arrive. I called a few friends to see if they could watch the boys until my mother arrived. A friend from Relief Society, Jackie Olds, said she’d be happy to watch them.

“Just bring their clothes and diapers,” she said, “and I’ll keep them for however many days you need to be gone.”

I started to refuse because this sister, with three children of her own, had a busy life, but she insisted. When I dropped our boys off a short while later, she comforted me by saying, “Don’t worry about them. Worry about getting Brandon better and getting him home. I’ve taken care of toddlers before.”

I knew then that the boys would be safe, happy, and well taken care of, which they were. I was able to be with my husband, who was seriously ill by the time I arrived at the hospital. But after a few days, he was well enough to return home.

I am grateful for a good friend who responded—far beyond what I would have asked of her—and ministered to us in a time of need.

Kelly Parks, Pennsylvania, USA

My bishop and I were having a pleasant conversation in his office, but in truth, I wasn’t paying much attention.
It was the middle of December, and we were meeting for tithing settlement. I had always had a testimony of tithing and had paid a full tithe, so I didn’t think much of the short meeting. And I was anxious to get back to studying for my college finals, especially because I had just found out I had failed my math final—for the second time.
I was feeling very discouraged, and my mind was elsewhere.
My bishop looked at me kindly.
“I noticed you didn’t pay fast offerings this year,” he said, smiling.
That brought me back to attention.
He was right.
Fast offerings had been at the back of my mind for months. They were something that my family rarely discussed growing up, and we didn’t really talk about them at church, either.
I mistakenly thought I didn’t have to contribute much, partly because I was now in a YSA ward, and partly because I was blinded a bit by my own pride and didn’t really have a testimony of fasting or fast offerings.
I thought that paying my tithing and just going without food was enough.
“I haven’t,” I said. “But if I’m paying my tithing and fasting, that’s what counts the most, right?”
My bishop smiled and explained to me the importance of paying a fast offering alongside fasting every month, and the number of temporal blessings it provides for those in need in the ward.
But most of all, he emphasized the blessings available to those who are willing to sacrifice and to keep the law of the fast.
He looked me in the eye and said, “Those blessings can help you with whatever challenges you’re facing at the moment, even those in your education.”
My mouth fell open. I hadn’t even told him that I had just failed my math class.
“So what you’re saying is,” I said, “if I pay my fast offerings, I’ll be able to pass math next semester?”
We both laughed, but I was a little shocked when he actually nodded.
He told me that if I would study and gain a testimony of the importance of the law of the fast and paid a fast offering every month, I would be surprised at the blessings that Heavenly Father would shower on me.
Seeing that this math class was the only thing keeping me from progressing in school and that I had struggled with math (especially math that included both numbers and letters) throughout my life, I decided to give it a shot.
At the start of the next semester, I made a promise to myself that I would study math harder than I ever had, and that I would also learn as much about fasting and fast offerings as I could.
I had always fasted growing up, but I hadn’t ever made it meaningful. Most of the time on fast Sunday, I just thought about how I was so hungry that the fruit snacks toddlers had dropped on the floor in sacrament meeting actually looked appetizing.
When the start of the new month came around, I had a hard time paying my tithing and fast offering. I was a poor college student, and I didn’t have much to offer!
But as the months went by, I felt my begrudging attitude and pride slowly fade. As I focused on the why of fasting, I felt my heart and faith change with every fast Sunday in many ways:
My prayers at the beginning and end of my fasts became more sincere and meaningful.
Paying fast offerings helped me fast with purpose, and instead of simply focusing on my stomach growling, I started recognizing the Spirit’s soft voice and influence.
The pure, yet profound, spiritual strength I would feel at the end of each fast would fill my soul and warm my heart.
I ultimately realized that when we willingly make sacrifices for others, we are refined into more Christlike beings, because sacrifice is exactly what He did for us. His life was just one long act of giving.
I felt charity enrich my soul every month as I thought of how many people we are able to serve with our willingness to give. And I also felt gratitude for all the blessings in my life that I had sometimes previously overlooked.
Fasting for the purpose of sharing light and blessings with others became much more important than what was in it for me.
I felt more connected to Heavenly Father and the Savior.
Despite ongoing challenges, I experienced many little mercies, and I felt a lot of joy in my life.
I was struck by the words of Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin (1917–2008) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles when he said:
“Fasting in the proper spirit and in the Lord’s way will energize us spiritually, strengthen our self-discipline, fill our homes with peace, lighten our hearts with joy, fortify us against temptation, prepare us for times of adversity, and open the windows of heaven. …
“As we live the law of the fast, we not only draw nearer to God through prayer, but we feed the hungry and care for the poor.” 1
That’s a lot of promised blessings that are just waiting for us.
Since this experience, fasting and fast offerings have become an important part of my discipleship. I feel closer to my Heavenly Father and Savior each time I give. And sometimes I even fast when it isn’t fast Sunday to seek answers and comfort for myself or on behalf of others.
I’ve realized that the law of the fast is truly a gift.
And in case you were wondering, yes, I did miraculously pass that math class that semester. And I didn’t just pass it—I got one of the top scores in the class. I studied, of course, but for once in my life, those letters and numbers just finally seemed to click in my mind.
Heavenly Father is indeed a God of miracles.
As we strive to follow Him and His Son, Jesus Christ, along with Their commandments, we can move forward with faith, hope, and charity, and They will remind us that They are with us and ready to bless us for our efforts.

When I was a boy, a herd of horses ran wild on Ensign Flats just north of the Utah State Capitol building. In the summertime we would occasionally sit on the mountainside with binoculars and watch the herd as they roamed and grazed on the flat below. For the most part the horses appeared to be a mangy lot, but there was one that had a grace, a dignity, and a spirit that qualified him to lead the herd. We tried on several occasions to put a rope on this stallion. One day we succeeded, but we soon found that we had on the end of the rope a bundle of fury that we couldn’t manage. As hard as we tried, we couldn’t ride him. After several attempts we gave up and turned him loose. He was of no value to us.

I can say, as Nephi said, that I was “born of goodly parents” (1 Ne. 1:1). During World War II my father was captured by the Germans when they invaded Belgium. He escaped and disappeared into the underground (an opposition group). As a young child, I remember seeing my father only once or twice. He made very short visits, then disappeared again into the underground, where he was a radio operator.
Even when the war was over, he didn’t come home right away but went to Germany with the Belgian army. Then he was assigned to another city in Belgium. Fortunately, my mother was a very strong and faithful person. When my father was away, she was the head and the strength of the family.
We were not Latter-day Saints, but I have always had faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. That has never been in doubt for me. I don’t know where my faith came from. I grew up in a typical European home. We did not go to church, and we never prayed in our home. Yet as a child, I knew. I had faith. It was a spiritual gift I could never deny.
As a teenager, I lived with my family on a hill in Namur, Belgium. We often noticed missionaries pushing their bicycles slowly uphill or riding swiftly back down. One day they came to our house. Knowing they were Americans, we were curious and invited them in. It was 1951, and I was about 16 years old.
When the missionaries started talking about religion, we four children were not too interested, but my mother listened and kept inviting them back. As they taught her, she gained a testimony of the Church. Then came the question of baptism. My mother’s parents didn’t want her to be baptized, and my father was in Germany in the army. He came back only once a month for a two- or three-day visit. My mother got his permission, however, and was baptized. But he insisted that we children wait and make our own decisions when we were older.
In the meantime, we attended church with our mother. I went mostly because I wanted to perfect my English. I participated in the youth activities. It was a very good experience because I learned how to sing, dance, and act in the theater. I became acquainted not only with the Church but with the missionaries. I was getting closer to them in age, and we became good friends. They were in our home at least two or three times a week.
When I turned 21, I attended college in Liège, a city about 65 kilometers from home. The missionaries challenged me to be baptized, and I had to make a choice. It was a matter of testimony. I had questions about the Book of Mormon. I was 95 percent converted, but I needed a spiritual confirmation. The missionaries helped me find it by teaching me to pray, praying with me, and helping me recognize the answers I received. I was soon baptized. Since that time in that small branch, I have continued to grow in the gospel.
My faith helped me when I experienced peer pressure. I was the only member of the Church in college and later in Belgium’s air force. To resist temptations, I had to turn somewhere. I could not just turn to a magazine or a book. I had to have the internal strength that comes from a testimony of Jesus Christ. Once you have faith and rely on it, you will be strengthened even more. Faith becomes your determining factor in making decisions and moving forward.
My father never did join the Church, but he was a fervent supporter of it because he could see its blessings in the lives of his wife and four children. (My sister and two brothers were also baptized.) Prior to his death, he asked me to give him a priesthood blessing, and I did. We had a very special conversation, and he confided in me for the first time that he had faith. Coming from him, this was a major step.
With age, physical challenges are starting. At the end of last year I suddenly had a serious back problem. I was unable to move or to function normally. Through a priesthood blessing and my faith in the Lord, my back got better.
I think faith is our “homework” as Latter-day Saints. When you go to school, you have a textbook, but unless you do the homework each night, you don’t progress. The scriptures are our gospel “textbook,” but we have to do our homework. Our faith needs to be practiced. Faith without works is dead (see James 2:17).
My message to you children is to listen to your parents and follow their teachings. I had a foundation in my life from the teachings of my mother and my father, who were great examples. They were not perfect and your parents may not be perfect either. But if you can separate their problems from the true principles they teach and follow by faith, you will be blessed for it. If you will turn to your parents and to the Lord, it will make a big difference.

For Laurentino Moreira, the gospel was a new-found treasure to give to those he loved. In sharing it, he began a chain of events that has led to more than one hundred conversions—and perhaps saved the life of his brother Joaquim.
Laurentino—Tino to his friends—was at home one day in Porto, the second-largest city of Portugal, when two young women knocked at his door. He told them politely that he already belonged to a church and had no interest in the religion they wanted to discuss with him. But when they asked if he would like to see a movie at their chapel, he agreed.
The movie, The First Vision was interesting enough that Tino agreed to listen to one of the missionary discussions, and one discussion led to another. By the second one, he was beginning to feel a spirit that he liked very much. He realized that what these young women were teaching could change his life.
“When the missionaries told me that through prayer I could ask God about the truth of things, this was not a new idea for me,” he explains. Three years earlier, he had read a series of books about ancient civilizations and had concluded that God must have had a part in their origins. For more than two years, Tino had recited prayers, the way he had been taught as a youth, entreating God to help him learn more about those civilizations. (He feels that those prayers were largely answered when he was taught about the Book of Mormon.)
One night after he began hearing the missionary discussions. Tino had one basic question about Church doctrine: Was Joseph Smith a prophet of God? So Tino asked Heavenly Father that question. Immediately, “I began to feel a peace and a great joy at the same time. I began to smile, and immediately, I was happy. I said to myself, ‘Well, this is the answer.’”
He couldn’t keep what he was learning about the gospel to himself. Previously, “I had believed that life didn’t end with death,” Tino remembers, but he had only his own theories about what came after mortality. Now that he had heard of the plan of salvation, he wanted everyone else to know, too. “I had some great friends. I felt the need to share this good news with them.”
One of those “great friends” was his brother Joaquim. When Tino invited Quim (pronounced “Keem”) to his baptism, Quim was surprised to learn that his brother had even been attending a church.
The brothers had developed different interests through the years, and Quim used drugs, lived a dissolute life, and claimed not to believe in God. He was on a downward spiral. “Maybe if I hadn’t learned about the Church, I wouldn’t be alive now,” Quim reflects. But because Tino wanted some of his family to attend his baptism, Quim agreed to go.
The chapel was a different world to Quim, with its wholesome atmosphere and well-groomed people. After the baptism, Quim was invited to hear a missionary discussion, so he stayed. He responded positively to all of it. “I was surprised at myself,” he says.
At the end of the discussion, Quim was asked to offer the prayer. “I had never offered a prayer in my life,” he says. But the missionaries taught him how to do it. “I never have offered a better prayer than I offered at that moment,” he recalls. At the end of it, “I stood up—and I felt like I was flying!” He asked the missionaries repeatedly: “What is this? I don’t understand. What is this I am feeling?” A great sense of peace, light, and joy had come over him. All evening, Quim kept talking about what he had felt.
By the next day, however, he had almost convinced himself that the experience hadn’t really been so important. “Listen, Tino,” he said, “I don’t want to go to your Church anymore.”
But during the following week, the desire to know why he had experienced such wonderful feelings after that prayer built up in him. Quim’s resolve to stay away from Tino’s church collapsed. It was late at night, Tino recalls, when Quim shook him awake to say, with some intensity, “I want to go to church tomorrow.”
“And from that moment, I wanted to be baptized,” Quim says. “As soon as I heard the other discussions, I believed.” It was a joyful discovery to learn “that our Father cares about each of his children.” He was baptized just three weeks after his brother was.
Tino served diligently in every Church calling extended to him following his baptism, but after a couple of years, he realized that there was more he could, and should, give—the time required for a full-time mission. He felt that, by serving a mission, he would be able to help other young people find answers to the same questions about life that had so perplexed him a few years earlier.
Like Tino, Quim served a mission in Portugal. When Harold Hillam, president of the Portugal Lisbon Mission, told Quim, “Brother Moreira, you’re going to be a missionary,” Quim replied: “How? I have no money, my parents aren’t members, and I’ll have to quit my studies.” But the mission president insisted that he must be prepared to go on a mission in a few months, and Quim continued to pray, asking the Lord how it could be done.
One night, in a dream, he saw himself dressed as a missionary, leaving home with his suitcases, and he awoke knowing that it would happen. Financial help was found through the Church, and Joaquim Moreira left school to accept the call. That is a very important decision in Portugal, for it is difficult to gain readmission to a university.
When they talked to their parents about going on missions, the two young men expected sterner opposition. Perhaps the elder Moreiras did not withhold their permission because they were grateful for the Church’s influence on their sons. Nevertheless, the parents—particularly Tino and Quim’s mother—resisted the idea of changing religions themselves.
But the influence of the gospel continued to work in the lives of Quim and Tino’s family. Shortly after Tino entered the mission field, their father was ready for baptism. Tino, who was working nearby, had the privilege of baptizing him. Their mother declined at first even to read her sons’ letters from the mission field. Quim sent one letter home, however, with a special prayer that she would read it and be touched. His prayer was answered, and it was not long until she was baptized by her husband.
Tino and Quim both found treasures of spiritual strength in the mission field. Quim recalls trying to teach one widow whose husband had spent much of his life as a missionary for another church. The woman had agreed to listen to the missionary discussions because her daughter was a Latter-day Saint. As one of the discussions progressed, however, she found it too difficult to accept the idea that the teachings of her church were not correct. “Elder Moreira,” she said, “I don’t want to hear any more of this doctrine. I am going to labor to finish the missionary work my husband started!”
Quickly, Quim offered a silent prayer, asking what to say. He was inspired to assure the woman that her husband had already accepted the gospel in the spirit world.
Later, the woman’s daughter told Quim that after saying her own personal prayers that evening, she lay meditating on how she could help her mother accept the gospel. Suddenly, “I saw my father in my room. He said, ‘That missionary spoke the truth, and I want your mother to be baptized.’”
Because of her daughter’s experience, the mother agreed to listen to the missionaries again. This time, there was a different spirit about her; she was baptized a week later.
For Tino, missionary service took an unexpected turn. Deferment of their mandatory military obligation is not allowed for Portuguese missionaries, and Tino was called into his country’s air force. He still remembers the counsel of R. Perry Ficklin, then president of the Portugal Lisbon Mission, who explained that Elder Moreira’s missionary service wasn’t over, that he was only being “transferred to another area—more difficult.” Tino went on to teach and baptize a number of people in the air force.
Quim, too, has been responsible for introducing several co-workers to the gospel since the end of his mission. The lives of the two brothers have, in fact, continued on parallel paths in several ways. Both are married now—to two sisters, also named Moreira! Both Tino and Quim, now in their mid-twenties, have also been deeply involved in Church leadership positions. Their commitment is such that Quire served concurrently as second counselor in his ward’s bishopric, as a stake high councilor, and as stake mission leader; at the same time, Tino was serving as ward elders quorum president, as first counselor in the stake mission presidency, and as director of Church educational programs for their area. (Tino now works for the Church in Lisbon, while Quim still lives in Porto.)
Was it difficult to fill all those positions and handle their other roles in life as well?
Difficulty was not a consideration, Tino says matter-of-factly. “When we chose a mission, we chose to be active in the Church.”
Two of Tino’s friends whom he introduced to the gospel—Jose Gouveia Pereiro and Hernani Cerqueira—also served missions. Tino, Quim, Jose, and Hernani have helped bring more than one hundred people into the Church and continue to be missionaries even now—long after their full-time service is over.
Tino reflects that none of this would have been possible without “that first little seed” planted by the missionaries who knocked on his door.
And now, he says, with a mixture of wonder and enthusiasm, “the tree keeps on growing—so fast!”

Brian felt very proud. He had built a birdhouse with a feeder tray that was just right for sparrows. Brian poured birdseed on the tray before he hung the birdhouse up in a tree where he could see it from the kitchen window. Then he waited.
About a week later a mother and father bird moved into the house. They carried small twigs and pieces of grass and string into the house to build a nest. Then the mother bird laid some eggs. Brian watched them every day. He always checked to make sure there was birdseed in the feeder.
One day Brian heard chirping. The baby birds had hatched! All day long the mother and father birds flew out of the house, then came back with a worm or a bug. They landed on the perch in front of the door and poked their heads in. When they pulled their heads out, their beaks were empty, and they flew away again.
A few days after the baby birds hatched, Brian saw some bees near the birdhouse. After the mother and father birds left to find food, the bees flew into the birdhouse. The bees buzzed and buzzed, and the baby birds chirped like they were scared. The mother and father birds came back, but they could only sit on a tree branch and watch.
Brian was scared. The bees buzzed like they were getting angry, and the babies were chirping frantically. He didn’t know what to do. “Those bees are going to sting the babies and kill them!” he cried.
He ran into the house to tell his mom. After she saw the bees, she called a teacher at the university. Brian sat in the kitchen, listening to his mom on the phone and watching the birdhouse out the window.
“Are you sure?” Brian’s mother said into the phone. “Well, all right, then. Thank you.” She hung up the phone and said, “He said there’s nothing we can do.”
Brian started to cry. He reached up and hugged his mom. Then he said a prayer in his heart. He asked Heavenly Father to help his mom save those little birds.
In about a minute, Brian’s mom ran over to the fridge. She quickly pulled a great big white onion out of a drawer and chopped it in half. Juices started oozing out of the onion and tears started rolling out of her eyes.
“Here,” she said, handing half to Brian. “Go put this on the bird feeder. Maybe it will scare the bees away.”
Brian took the onion and ran out the door. His eyes had started to water and his nose had started to run by the time he got the onion on the feeder. The bees suddenly swarmed out of the birdhouse and were gone. Brian was relieved, but the mother and father birds still wouldn’t come feed their babies. They stayed on their branch, staring at Brian. One had a worm in its beak; the other had a bug. Brian took the onion off the feeder and threw it away. Then the birds came back to the nest and fed the babies.
Brian smiled and silently thanked Heavenly Father for answering his prayer.

When I practiced law one of my partners was Marion G. Romney's son. His grand father George Samuel Romney was once president of this university. Marion G. was then in the First Presidency of the Church. One day my friend and I spoke of deeply spiritual things. We wondered, as perhaps some of you have, how many people in the history of the world had seen the Savior. I remember saying that if anyone on earth at the time had, it would most likely be President Romney.
I said to my partner, "Have you ever asked him?" "No. Not really," he replied. I said, "Why don't you? You are his son. He will surely tell you." He thought a moment and said, "All right, I will. We have a family home evening scheduled with dad next Sunday night. If the opportunity presents itself I'll ask him."
I could scarcely wait for the week to end. The following Monday, early in the morning, I stood in the doorway of his office and said, "Well?" "Well what?" he asked. "Well. Did you ask him?" I said. "Come in and close the door," he replied. I went in and sat down.He laughed and said, "Yes. I did ask him. And do you know what he said to me--his own son?" "Tell me," I said. "Well, when I asked him if he had ever seen the Savior my father just looked at me and said, 'Not to speak of son. Not to speak of.'"

A large framed picture of the Taipei Taiwan Temple hangs on an alcove wall inside Taiwanese Church member Chang Chih Hsun’s hydraulic-machine business. Symbolizing his new faith, the temple’s spires point heavenward. The picture replaces a shrine where employees once burned incense.
“Most business places in Taiwan have a shrine where employees worship a god of prosperity,” explains Brother Chang. “After I joined the Church, I hung a picture of the temple where the shrine used to be.”
His example is characteristic of the faith and courage Church members in Taiwan demonstrate as they strive to live the gospel. Brother Chang, who serves as stake mission president in the Taichung Taiwan Stake, recently offered a cash bonus to any of his employees who would give up smoking, as he did before his baptism in 1995. So far, no one has taken him up on the offer.
“Before my husband joined the Church, he did not know what love was,” says Brother Chang’s wife, Chang Wu Lan Hua, who was baptized 10 years before her husband. “Now he knows how to love me and the family.” The Changs were sealed in the Taipei Taiwan Temple in 1996.

With that intricate process in mind, imagine the work that goes into creating a massive stained glass mural depicting Christ’s mortal ministry, because that is exactly what Tom and Gayle Holdman of Provo, Utah, USA, and a team of artists, designers, and models miraculously accomplished in less than a year. The finished product is displayed in the Rome Italy Temple Visitors’ Center and is absolutely breathtaking.
In the beginning, plans for the Rome Temple Visitors’ Center included a video wall, but the idea was canceled, which made an opening for the stained glass window to be placed there. A scene was drafted for the window; then actors in costumes were brought in to pose for it, allowing artists to create concept art for the window.
“We kept feeling more and more impressed to go with a certain concept design,” Brother Holdman says. “We ended up doing an intricate sketch of the whole picture so we could capture the emotion of the actors.” After the final sketch was created, Tom was able to begin working with the glass.
The window depicts the Savior and His Twelve Apostles during His earthly ministry. It is placed strategically at the center of the visitors’ center so it will be the first thing visitors see as they walk in the building. Then as visitors walk around to the other side of the window, they can see the marble statues of the Christus and the original Twelve Apostles.
One of the many beauties this stained glass window contains is that it does not depict just one scene from the Lord’s earthly ministry. In what appears to be a single scene at first glance, Jesus Christ and the Twelve Apostles are in the midst of characters and symbols that represent events and people from the Lord’s earthly ministry as well as each parable He taught. The Holdmans are excited for visitors to see the piece and to find and point out their favorite stories about Christ.
The depiction of the woman by the well is especially intricate. She represents more accounts than just the woman at the well; she is reaching out to the Savior as the woman with the issue of blood did, and the stones next to her symbolize the woman accused of committing adultery who was brought to be stoned.
“The woman at the well is one of my favorite parts of this window because she represents so many different women from the New Testament,” says Sister Holdman. “Each of those women had a different outward need, but ultimately they all just needed to be healed. Their stories and faith truly testify to me, and hopefully to many visitors, of the Savior’s healing power.”
One of the Holdmans’ highest hopes is that their stained glass will be a useful missionary tool at the visitors’ center. “This whole piece was created to be a visual testimony of Christ,” Sister Holdman explains. The artwork includes symbols and elements of Christ’s birth, Crucifixion, Atonement, Resurrection, and many more symbols of Him.
“We included imagery that exists within other Christian religions like the cross and the crown of thorns so it can possibly create a spark of recognition and allow investigators and missionaries to build on common beliefs,” says Brother Holdman. “This whole window shows that what is important to them is important to us. It shows that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is a Christian church. I hope this will help people fully understand that.”
After working tirelessly to complete this miraculous project in less than a year, Brother and Sister Holdman have been humbled and overjoyed in seeing this beautiful piece of artwork come together. “The artwork really allows you to see how all the stories of Christ’s ministry overlay and interweave and also relate to us today,” says Sister Holdman. “We’re not much different from those who lived in Christ’s day because we need Him and His teachings just as much as they did.”
“We specifically crafted and designed this piece so that all of the lines of glass point to the heart of the Savior at the center of the piece,” Brother Holdman explains. “From the buildings to the height of the people, everything in this artwork points back to Him.”