Gospel Story Finder

Second, pay your tithing to rightfully claim the blessings promised those who do so. “Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of Hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.” After she lost her husband in the martyrdom at Nauvoo and made her way west with five fatherless children, Mary Fielding Smith continued in her poverty to pay tithing. When someone at the tithing office inappropriately suggested one day that she should not contribute a tenth of the only potatoes she had been able to raise that year, she cried out to the man, “William, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Would you deny me a blessing? If I did not pay my tithing, I should expect the Lord to withhold His blessings from me. I pay my tithing, not only because it is a law of God, but because I expect a blessing by doing it. [I need a blessing.] By keeping this and other laws, I expect … to be able to provide for my family.”

I can’t list all the ways that blessings will come from obedience to this principle, but I testify many will come in spiritual ways that go well beyond economics. In my life, for example, I have seen God’s promise fulfilled that He would “rebuke the devourer for [my sake].” That blessing of protection against evil has been poured out upon me and on my loved ones beyond any capacity I have to adequately acknowledge. But I believe that divine safety has come, at least in part, because of our determination, individually and as a family, to pay tithing.

A law school professor, a former judge, had this view of me. He critiqued my performance after giving an opening statement in class. He told me that I had two big obstacles pitted against me: I was short and my voice was too high-pitched. These characteristics made me appear young, inexperienced, and with these flaws I would not “make a good attorney.” I appeared to be “too nice”, and on top of these fatal flaws, I smiled the entire time. My height, voice, and smile, he said, would always prevent me from being an effective advocate.

Hearing I wouldn't make a good attorney from a former judge was crushing! I remember asking to be excused and running to the bathroom. There, in the confines of the stall, I sobbed. These weaknesses seemed overpowering as I realized there wasn’t much I could do to change these characteristics or my circumstance. I couldn’t magically grow taller or change the pitch of my voice. But, in that moment, the still small voice spoke to my heart these words: “Jennifer, change your perspective.” In my mind’s eye, I saw these three “obstacles” were really stepping stones toward helping me become an effective lawyer and the person God wanted me to be.

Given my height, I would never likely be a basketball player or tower over my opponents in the court room. Yet I would never be an intimidating or threatening figure. My voice, although high pitched, could be a source of cheery joy and optimism. It could invigorate, bring hope, and speak tenderness and comfort. I could also work at Disneyland! My smile, could be disarming and communicate warmth and relatability.

I learned several important lessons from this experience:
First, my perceived weaknesses, by the world’s standards, could become my greatest strengths. These were characteristics that God specifically gave me. I could not change them. I had to embrace them and discover how to make them work for me. I want you to consider what others might see as your weakness or flaw and then seek to shift your perspective. Instead of being a negative characteristic, focus on how it becomes a blessing! This is what makes you unique and sets you apart. No one else is quite like you and your “quirks” can become the “quintessential quality” that makes you stand out.

Second, don't let anyone diminish you and your spiritual gifts. You are the master of your destiny.
Finally, lawyers, leaders, and individuals come in all shapes and sizes! You may not have a commanding presence, be the loudest, tallest, etc., but you can still be a great influence for good and a leader with your God-given talents.

We recently had a family home evening where the opposite of this principle was taught. Each of us had a tag on a piece of string around our necks. During the day, when any one of us said anything negative to another, we would tear a little of that person’s tag, indicating that what the offender had done was to give negative rather than positive reinforcement.

So often we do the opposite of what the Savior has taught by tearing each other’s tags. For example, when I say to my children, “Why do you do those dumb things?” “You can’t do that,” “Don’t be silly,” or “You dummy,” I convey a negative connotation to my children. That is, I “tear their tags.”

Each morning, as I would awaken my eight-year-old son, I would say, “Look in the mirror and see the monkey.” And then he would stop at the landing, and again I would say, “Look in the mirror and see the monkey.” And finally, in the bathroom, I would tear his tag again by saying, “Look at the monkey in the mirror.” I didn’t realize that I was “tearing his tag” until one day at family prayer he said, “Please, Father in Heaven, make it so my Daddy doesn’t call me a monkey anymore.” Now when we look in the mirror I say, “Look at that neat kid with his handsome father.” How often do we tear each other’s tags rather than follow the example of lifting through the human touch?

The October dawn was frosty as I helped load our belongings into the covered wagon. The weight I carried in my ten-year-old heart was heavier than the bundles of clothes and food under which I struggled. It just isn’t fair, I thought. I don’t want to leave our home and my friends and travel three hundred miles to an unknown place.
It was 1877, and our home near St. George, Utah Territory, was already one of the farthest away from Salt Lake City.
My mother called. “Mary Agnes, please make sure everything is cleared from the back porch before we leave.”
As I made my way around the house, I thought back to the day six months ago when my father had returned from the dedication of the St. George Temple. Mother and I had stayed home because my baby brother was very ill. One look at Father told me that something serious had happened.
Mother spoke first. “William, what is the matter?”
My strong father took her in his arms with tears streaming down his face. “We must leave our beautiful home.” He could say no more.
Leave? How could we leave? After years of saving and doing without, we had finally been able to buy 260 acres of farmland and build a comfortable brick home where the ten of us could live. We had many horses, cattle, and other farm animals. We lived near my grandmother and my cousins. I was able to attend the school in town. Who would ask us to sacrifice all this?
Later, I heard my parents discussing what was happening. Families were needed to extend Church settlements and influence farther south. Brigham Young had called my father to move with his family. He counseled my father to sell all that we had so that we would not be tempted to return to Utah. We were needed in Arizona.
Arizona. A place where there was very little water. Where there were great distances with nothing to see. Men had been called there by the prophet last year. Many had returned to Utah because they could not endure the hardships. Father said no greater sacrifice could be asked of him.
Mother’s voice brought me back to the present. “It is hard to leave, is it not, Mary Agnes? Do you know the real reason we are moving?”
I shook my head.
“We are going to Arizona because the prophet gave that call to us. Remember what I told you about when I was your age and my family lived in Nauvoo? After the Prophet Joseph Smith was killed, there were contentions with nonmember neighbors. The Brethren told us to leave our homes and move west. There our lives would be spared, and we could worship as we pleased in peace.
“Terrible as it was to leave our home, there was nothing else to do unless we turned away from God, the Brethren, and the Church. We made the long, hard journey to the valley of the Great Salt Lake. We sacrificed again when we followed President Young’s direction to leave there and settle here.
“Now we have been asked to go to Arizona. We do not have to go to the unsettled desert. No one is forcing us. We are not fleeing for our lives. We could make excuses to not go. This time the struggle to obey comes from within.”
Mother hugged me to her as she continued. “In the Doctrine and Covenants, the Lord said that when we receive a commandment ‘whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.’*
“Our prophet has spoken to us. I know he speaks for God. Your father and I decided long ago that we would follow the counsel of the prophet, no matter what the sacrifice.”
The Spirit warmed me as I listened to Mother’s testimony. I gained strength to face the uncertainties ahead.
As I climbed in the loaded wagon, I took one last look at our home, then turned to face the trail to Arizona. I realized that I, too, had a testimony of God’s representative on earth. Like my parents, I would follow the prophet, even to the last frontier.
We have been promised that the President of the Church, as the revelator for the Church, will receive guidance for all of us. Our safety lies in paying heed to that which he says and following his counsel.
President James E. Faust(Ensign, August 1996, page 6).

Some years ago I had the privilege of serving as deacons quorum adviser. In our quorum we had three active deacons, all of whom were called to be part of the quorum presidency.
In one of their meetings, this young presidency decided they wanted at least two of the less-active deacons in their quorum to begin attending Church meetings and activities. They prayerfully set a date—a Sunday six weeks away—by which to achieve their goal. They prayed for success in this sacred endeavor and prayerfully pledged to do the following:
Pray together regularly.
Fast together.
Visit each deacon on the roll.
Plan activities so that any returning deacons would enter a well-structured program.
The presidency felt deeply that these goals were the will of the Lord, so they moved forward with faith and confidence.
During the following weeks, these three young men did what they had promised, expecting that their prayers would be answered. They prayed together, fasted together, visited the less-active deacons and invited them back, and prepared activities, believing that they needed to be prepared for an increase in attendance.
Despite their diligence, no deacons returned—not to church or to any other activity. The date approached, and though they were disappointed that members of their quorum were not returning to church, the young men remained confident that Heavenly Father would answer their prayers.
The Sunday of their goal arrived, and none of the young men whom the presidency had reached out to came to church. But the bishop announced during sacrament meeting that two 12-year-old young men who had been investigating the Church would be baptized that evening.
What a blessing it was for these two new members of the Church to join a quorum with such a presidency. And what a blessing it was for the presidency to see their efforts and prayers answered so directly and to learn that the Lord keeps His promises.
Such was the excitement in the quorum that one member of the presidency said, “Let’s do this again.”

Once, while I was on a solo flight over mountain country, my airplane was suddenly engulfed in a thick cloud. I could barely see the tip of the wing out the right window. Below me, the fields, the miniature houses, and the ribbons of road wrapping up the green valley floor had vanished. A Cessna 150 has no radar, and with the familiar landmarks gone, I panicked. Was I too low? How close were the mountains? Disorientation could prove fatal.
At that instant I remembered my flight instructor’s words: “Return to remembrance of past sunshine.” I took a deep breath and coaxed the plane into a 180-degree turn. The clouds began to thin, and sunshine returned. I saw a tiny tractor below, changing a field from yellow to brown. No one heard me shout for joy.

Many years ago, a young couple called my office and asked if they could come in for counseling. They indicated they had suffered a tragedy in their lives and that their marriage was in serious jeopardy. An appointment was arranged.
The tension between this husband and wife was apparent as they entered my office. Their story unfolded slowly at first as the husband spoke haltingly and the wife cried quietly and participated very little in the conversation.
The young man had returned from serving a mission and was accepted to a prestigious university in the eastern part of the United States. It was there, in a university ward, that he had met his future wife. She was also a student at the university. After a year of dating, they journeyed to Utah and were married in the Salt Lake Temple, returning east shortly afterward to finish their schooling.
By the time they graduated and returned to their home state, they were expecting their first child and the husband had employment in his chosen field. The wife gave birth to a baby boy. Life was good.
When their son was about 18 months old, they decided to take a short vacation to visit family members who lived a few hundred miles away. This was at a time when car seats for children and seat belts for adults were scarcely heard of, let alone used. The three members of the family all rode in the front seat with the toddler in the middle.
Sometime during the trip, the husband and wife had a disagreement. After all these years, I cannot recall what caused it. But I do remember that their argument escalated and became so heated that they were eventually yelling at one another. Understandably, this caused their young son to begin crying, which the husband said only added to his anger. Losing total control of his temper, he picked up a toy the child had dropped on the seat and flung it in the direction of his wife.
He missed hitting his wife. Instead, the toy struck their son, with the result that he was brain damaged and would be handicapped for the rest of his life.
This was one of the most tragic situations I had ever encountered. I counseled and encouraged them. We talked of commitment and responsibility, of acceptance and forgiveness. We spoke of the affection and respect which needed to return to their family. We read words of comfort from the scriptures. We prayed together. Though I have not heard from them since that day so long ago, they were smiling through their tears as they left my office. All these years I’ve hoped they made the decision to remain together, comforted and blessed by the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I think of them whenever I read the words: “Anger doesn’t solve anything. It builds nothing, but it can destroy everything.”2

But in trying for balance, Scott has discovered he needs to set priorities. A year or so ago, he was playing several sports, going to school and seminary, taking music lessons, spending time with friends. “I was thinking of quitting hockey,” he says. “I wasn’t happy, and it took up so much of my time. I realized if I wanted to play hockey I had to give up some of the other stuff.” He decided to put aside other sports and his guitar for a while. The NHL, the crowds, the excitement—it’s a hard dream to let die.

It is important for us to remember, however, that sometimes the Lord’s desires differ from ours. As his agents in the performance of priesthood duties, it is mandatory that we be receptive to his inspiration. A missionary I knew had a sobering experience giving a blessing. He was working on a renovation project at a branch chapel in New Zealand. The branch president, who was doing some repairs on the roof, lost his footing and fell to the pavement below. Immediately the missionary ran to his side and pronounced a powerful blessing, promising him life and complete restoration to health. A few minutes later, the branch president died.

Greatly disillusioned, the missionary went to his apartment and wrote three letters: one to his mission president, one to his bishop, and one to the president of the Church. The letters outlined his disenchantment with the priesthood and his intention to abandon his missionary service. Then he went to bed.

After worrying, struggling, and praying intermittently throughout the night, he gradually came to understand that the Lord’s will had been done—and that he needed to seek the inspiration and guidance of the Lord earnestly before undertaking any administration.

For Alvin Martinez, rising against the odds is just like turning swampland into skyscrapers. Despite having polio, which left his left arm and leg dislocated, the 17-year-old priest is an inspiration to his fellow youth.
Alvin was born healthy, and like other newborn Filipino babies he was given polio shots. But somehow, the vaccine attacked his nerves. His right leg and arm started turning immobile, while his left fingers curled up. The polio vaccine rendered his entire right side paralyzed.
Alvin often became the subject of jokes in school when classmates would see him limping his way to class.
“Hey, it’s Alvin,” somebody would shout.
“The way is straight,” another jeered, “but how come you walk crooked?”
“Alvin, Alvin pilay!”
Pilay means cripple; it was a jeer his straight-walking classmates loved to bestow on him.
The teasing wasn’t the only trial. His father suddenly died of a stroke. Struggling with his family’s loss and his classmates’ snide comments, Alvin drifted from school and church activity and found another barkada, or group of close friends.
In Manila, a barkada can consist of either buddies who can build you up or let you down. Alvin still tried to maintain his LDS standards even when friends coaxed him to smoke. “My older friends would invite me to smoke,” he remembers, “but I told them I was a Mormon.”
Alvin finally resolved to rise up despite his limitations and, like David of old, conquer his personal Goliaths. He made a firm resolve to continue schooling. His widowed mother, who now works as a seamstress, was delighted. She had patiently reminded him that his future was brighter if he had a good education.
At school, Alvin found a new barkada, classmates who treated him with respect. “All my classmates are so kind and friendly,” he beams.
But it was Alvin’s strong spirit within his rather frail frame that amazed many. After all, isn’t it the inside of a person that really counts?
A little bit shy at first but actually fun-loving and witty, Alvin also found the Church to be a home away from home. “I enjoy being in church,” Alvin says, “and I like being with my fellow young men.” And because of the influence of good Church friends and priesthood quorum members, Alvin’s testimony was strengthened and he found himself, with the help of his youth leaders, back in church. In visiting Alvin, they would often tell him not to be ashamed of his disability. “We wanted him to know that he was valued,” one youth leader recalls, “and he did feel appreciated eventually.” Alvin is grateful for the missionaries that taught his family, and he’s even more grateful for the youth leaders who helped him come back to church after going through some real struggles.
Today, Alvin is one of the most active Young Men in his ward. Being with his church friends is something he relishes. “They are not ashamed to be with me,” he brightens up, “and they don’t even joke about me.” Instead, it’s Alvin who cracks jokes with them.

Let’s consider some examples. I was an inexperienced priest in a large ward. My bishop called me on the phone one Sunday afternoon. When I answered, he said, “Do you have time to go with me? I need your help.” He explained only that he wanted me to go as his companion to visit a woman I did not know, who was without food and who needed to learn how to manage her finances better.

Now, I knew that he had two seasoned counselors in his bishopric. Both were mature men of great experience. One counselor was the owner of a large business, who later became a mission president and a General Authority. The other counselor was a prominent judge in the city.

I was the bishop’s newly called first assistant in the priests quorum. He knew that I understood little about welfare principles. I knew even less about financial management. I had not yet written a check; I had no bank account; I hadn’t even seen a personal budget. Yet, despite my inexperience, I sensed that he was deadly serious when he said, “I need your help.”

I have come to understand what that inspired bishop meant. He saw in me a golden opportunity to prepare a priesthood holder. I am sure that he did not foresee in that untrained boy a future member of the Presiding Bishopric. But he treated me that day, and all the days I knew him over the years, as a preparation project of great promise.

He seemed to enjoy it, but it was work for him. On our return to my home after we visited the widow in need, he parked the car. He opened his well-worn and heavily marked scriptures. And he gave me kindly correction. He told me that I needed to study the scriptures and learn more. But he must have seen that I was weak and simple enough to be teachable. To this day I remember what he taught that afternoon. But even more, I remember how confident he was that I could learn and be better—and that I would.

He saw beyond the reality of who I was to the possibilities that lie inside someone who feels weak and simple enough to want the Lord’s help and to believe that it will come.

A short answer such as “A chaste life makes me happy; I know it’s the way God wants us to live” will probably suffice in some circumstances. But if you are talking with a good friend, you might want to share some insights on sexual purity found in the pamphlet For the Strength of Youth.

When I wasn’t able to change my friends’ opinion with words, I tried to do so with my example. Many times I had to refrain from participating in their activities. Although I was left to myself, I knew I was doing the right thing.
Now some of my friends have had unpleasant experiences, and some of them are starting to live this important law.Linda López Fierro, 16,Isidro Ayora Ward, Guayaquil Ecuador East Stake

Some years after Maeser’s passing, the university once again faced financial struggles. To finish the construction of the new Maeser Memorial Building on Temple Hill and to keep the university afloat, it was decided the best path forward would be to sell all the university’s remaining land to the north of the building to balance the budget.

Alfred Kelly was the student graduation speaker assigned to endorse this plan. But Kelly was unsettled about the assignment. In the days leading up to his graduation speech, he decided to walk to the area they called Temple Hill, above the Maeser Building, and pray. As he surveyed the valley, a vision unfolded before his eyes.

“Gradually the morning light advanced across the valley floor toward the spot where I stood. I closed my eyes partially to the advancing light and was startled by the strange vision that seemed to appear before me. The advancing sunlight took on the appearance of people, thousands of young people who approached me, their arms laden with books. I turned around to find the area behind me illuminated as well. In that light I saw hundreds of buildings, large and beautiful temples of learning. Those young people passed by me and entered in. Then, with cheerfulness and confidence, they turned toward the east and lifted their eyes heavenward, where, again becoming part of the sunlight, they gradually disappeared from my view.”23

You see, Alfred Kelly saw you and he saw me.

The audience that day was stunned. Longtime BYU benefactor Jesse Knight rose to his feet and pledged his financial support, declaring, “We won’t sell an acre. We won’t sell a single lot.”24 The faith of Alfred Kelly—a student just like you—helped see us through.

I can still picture them. Those unforgettable, incredibly quiet Sundays spent outside in a neighborhood filled primarily with Latter-day Saints—and I wasn’t one of them.
I used to imagine a tumbleweed rolling slowly down my street as they did in old Western films, indicating that no one was around. I knew where my neighbors were (at church), I understood why my friends couldn’t play on Sundays, and I knew why only my family would be outside doing yard work on a blistering Sunday afternoon. At least, I thought I knew. Little did I realize that seminary and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints would give me true insight and change my life for the better.
Fast-forward a few years from those childhood days: I was baptized when I was 11 years old. I’m not sure if an 11-year-old can choose to be baptized for the wrong reasons, but I believe I did. I didn’t fully understand the role of the Holy Ghost, and all I remember about my baptism was thinking, “I will finally be like my friends.”
To my dismay, I was still nothing like them. I assumed that once I was a member of the Church, my family would automatically attend church with me. When I realized my family was not going to attend church, I wondered if my friends knew how lucky they were. They would talk about how they didn’t like going to church or how they seemed to dread saying family prayers. I wanted so badly to tell them they shouldn’t be wishing away something so precious. I knew they had something special.
Yet I also didn’t fully embrace all that the gospel and the Church had to offer, even though I was baptized.
Then one day when I was a freshman in high school, something happened that changed everything: I ran into Brother Esplin.
“Excuse me,” he said as I tried to walk past him.
“Yes?” I replied.
“I’m Devin Esplin, Melissa Esplin’s husband. My wife talks about your volleyball potential all the time, and I just wanted to formally introduce myself.”
I stood there silently until a lightbulb finally went off in my head.
“Oh! Right, I love Coach Esplin!”
“Me too!” he said. “Anyway, I’m the seminary teacher here, and I was wondering if you would like to transfer into my class.”
“Well, I would, but I can’t,” I replied. “But I promise that next year I will!”
“I sure hope you do. It will be a great experience.”
“I will! I promise,” I said as I walked away. As I walked back to class, I couldn’t hide the smile on my face. This was my opportunity to find out for myself what the Church had to offer. This time I was going to learn about the Church for the right reasons. I was given a second chance, and I wasn’t going to pass it up.
My sophomore year was incredible. I was so excited to go to seminary and learn! The first few weeks were pretty crazy. I felt like a little child—I had a lot to learn. People would use words like repentance and the Atonement, and I felt ashamed because I had no idea what those terms meant. Mercifully, my class helped me learn and never made me feel like an outsider.
As the year progressed, I found myself craving more knowledge. I was amazed by the things that my peers would discuss. I learned that I wasn’t the only one who suffered trials. I was saddened that I had made it so far in life without focusing on the Savior and the gospel. As I began to understand what being a Latter-day Saint is all about, I knew I never wanted to give it up.
My junior year was the major turning point of my life. Because of seminary, I read the Book of Mormon for the first time. As I studied daily, my testimony grew, and I grew closer to my Heavenly Father. I learned that I can strengthen my testimony every day. I understood that I’m never alone.
Seminary is a blessing that has altered the course of my life forever. Every day, I now think about how grateful I am that I have my Savior to get me through trials and temptations.

It’s been almost eight years since I have put up Christmas lights at my parents’ house. Due to a variety of circumstances, my family has not been able to be together for a long time. I did not like decorating my house, because I resented not being with my family. However, I could not hide what my heart was feeling: I had the urge to put up Christmas lights.
I convinced my brother to help me hang them. Between work, school, and different responsibilities, we took several days to finish hanging the lights. When we finished, two lessons stood out to me.
The first is that life doesn’t always follow a straight path. We began to hang the lights in orderly rows, but when we got to the back of the house, we noticed we had more lights than anticipated. We decided to dangle the leftover lights on the lower part of the house, far more crooked than the rest of the lights. It was then I realized my life has been like these lights. I try to go straight, without straying from the path of the gospel of Jesus Christ. But sometimes, I make mistakes and don’t know what to do. The Lord said, “He who has repented of his sins, the same is forgiven, and I, the Lord, remember them no more” (Doctrine and Covenants 58:42). Although the Christmas lights were tangled, they continued to serve their purpose: to give light and to illuminate my house. Like the lights, I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes but can still find the light and follow God’s plan for me, thanks to the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
The second thing I learned is that the Light of Christ is always present. Above, below, to the right, to the left—it is there, ready to give us guidance and correction. In Moroni 7:19, we read that we should search diligently in the Light of Christ so we can distinguish between good and evil. I feel it was the Holy Ghost that spoke to my heart so I could hang those lights and remember that Jesus Christ is there, calling me and giving me guidance. The Light of Christ illuminates the whole year, not just special times like Christmas.
The lights on my home may not be the best in the neighborhood, but they remind me that my efforts to follow the Savior bring blessings into my life.

In 2006 I was taking an anthropology class at a Catholic college. Our teacher assigned us to conduct research about a particular religion and present it to the rest of the class. I chose to make my presentation about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—after all, I had been a member for 21 years. I knew this would be a rare and marvelous opportunity to share what I believed with 40 colleagues and friends.
During the two months I had to prepare my presentation, I struggled to find a simple way to present the doctrines I hold dear in a way that my classmates would understand. I wasn’t sure what points I should make or how I should make them. When my presentation was a week away, I still didn’t know what to do. In desperation, I prayed and asked for the Lord’s help.
My answer came in the form of general conference, which was held that weekend. During the April 2006 conference, President James E. Faust (1920–2007), Second Counselor in the First Presidency, gave a talk titled “The Restoration of All Things.”1 I felt the Holy Ghost confirm that the truths President Faust shared—and the way he shared them—were a pattern I could follow in giving my presentation.
I downloaded a copy of the talk from the Internet following conference and used it as the basis for preparing a slideshow presentation, which I delivered the next week. I had been allotted 20 minutes, but because of all the questions my teacher and classmates posed, the presentation lasted 40 minutes—the entire duration of the class.
When I finished, our teacher pointed out that none of his students had ever made such a good presentation. He gave me a high grade and told me that the only reason I didn’t get a perfect score on my presentation was because I hadn’t shown impartiality to the theme.
I later shared with the teacher the Liahona web page, where he could find President Faust’s talk and others he might find helpful. I also gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon and asked him to read it, inviting him to talk with me afterward.
I was grateful to learn that the presentation had influenced some of the students as well. Throughout the rest of the year, I saw evidence of the difference it had made in their lives. One of them even received the missionaries in his home, which gave us a great opportunity to continue our conversation about the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I am grateful for the opportunity I had to share my beliefs with my classmates. But more important, I am grateful that I came to learn that the Lord answers our heartfelt prayers through the words of modern prophets and apostles.

In a sacrament meeting talk last fall, Scott said, “Everyone is a child of God. That means that we are all brothers and sisters. Being a child of God means that God is the Father of our spirits and that we can become like Him.

“Learning about our Father in Heaven and obeying His commandments in this life is like going to school for the job of becoming a God. I’ve found that my parents have rules similar to Heavenly Father’s: One—Thou shalt not steal. Two—Thou shalt not lie about what thou did to thy brother. Three—Thou shalt obey thy father and thy mother or thou shalt get a time-out.

“All of us have trials in our lives. Some are permanent and some are temporary. We can learn from our trials if we have a positive attitude. My disease is a permanent trial. I am learning to practice self-control because when kids make fun of me, I want to pound their faces in. The kids in my class used to call me names because I am short for my age and my belly sticks out. I had to learn to ignore their comments because they did not understand. Now that I am in sixth grade, the kids who know me don’t make fun of me anymore. Being a child of God helps me understand the things that happen in my life.”

It was not any easier when the Saints moved west and began to settle in these valleys. As a young man of Primary and Aaronic Priesthood age, I attended church in the grand old St. George Tabernacle, construction for which had begun in 1863. During very lengthy sermons I would amuse myself by gazing about the building, admiring the marvelous pioneer craftsmanship that had built that striking facility. Did you know, by the way, that there are 184 clusters of grapes carved into the ceiling cornice of that building? (Some of those sermons were really long!) But most of all I enjoyed counting the window panes—2,244 of them—because I grew up on the story of Peter Neilson, one of those little-noted and now-forgotten Saints of whom we have been speaking.
In the course of constructing that tabernacle, the local brethren ordered the glass for the windows from New York and had it shipped around the cape to California. But a bill of $800 was due and payable before the panes could be picked up and delivered to St. George. Brother David H. Cannon, later to preside over the St. George Temple being built at the same time, was charged with the responsibility of raising the needed funds. After painstaking effort, the entire community, giving virtually everything they had to these two monumental building projects, had been able to come up with only $200 cash. On sheer faith Brother Cannon committed a team of freighters to prepare to leave for California to get the glass. He continued to pray that the enormous balance of $600 would somehow be forthcoming before their departure.
Living in nearby Washington, Utah, was Peter Neilson, a Danish immigrant who had been saving for years to add on to his modest two-room adobe home. On the eve of the freighters’ departure for California, Peter spent a sleepless night in that tiny little house. He thought of his conversion in far-off Denmark and his subsequent gathering with the Saints in America. After coming west he had settled and struggled to make a living in Sanpete. And then, just as some prosperity seemed imminent there, he answered the call to uproot and go to the Cotton Mission, bolstering the pathetic and sagging efforts of the alkali-soiled, malaria-plagued, flood-bedeviled settlers of Dixie. As he lay in bed that night contemplating his years in the Church, he weighed the sacrifices asked of him against the wonderful blessings he had received. Somewhere in those private hours he made a decision.
Some say it was a dream, others say an impression, still others simply a call to duty. However the direction came, Peter Neilson arose before dawn on the morning the teams were to leave for California. With only a candle and the light of the gospel to aid him, Peter brought out of a secret hiding place $600 in gold coins—half eagles, eagles, and double eagles. His wife, Karen, aroused by the predawn bustling, asked why he was up so early. He said only that he had to walk quickly the seven miles to St. George to give $600 to Brother David H. Cannon.
As the first light of morning fell on the beautiful red cliffs of southern Utah, a knock came at Brother Cannon’s door. There stood Peter Neilson, holding a red bandanna which sagged under the weight it carried. “Good morning, David,” said Peter. “I hope I am not too late. You will know what to do with this money.”
With that he turned on his heel and retraced his steps back to Washington, back to a faithful and unquestioning wife, and back to a small two-room adobe house that remained just two rooms for the rest of his life.

A young man, a few months out of college, got a job with an insurance company. He was full of enthusiasm and vigor—determined to sell insurance to all he met, including the farmers. He walked into a farmyard one lovely autumn morning and noticed an old farmer across the yard, somewhat stooped and bent, looking out over his field of grain. The salesman briskly walked over to the farmer and said, “Look up my good man, there’s much to live for.”
The elderly farmer straightened up the best he could and replied, “Young man, you see that beautiful field of wheat?” The salesman acknowledged that indeed it was beautiful. “Do you notice that some of the heads are bent over?”
“Yes,” said the youth, “that’s right, they are.”
The old farmer said, “Those are the ones with the grain in them.”

Character is revealed under pressure. Let me illustrate. A few years ago, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley related this inspiring story:

“I talked with a young man recently returned from the war. He too had walked the jungle patrols, his heart pounding with fear. But reluctantly he admitted that the greatest fear he had was the fear of ridicule.

“The men of his company laughed at him, taunted him, plastered him with a nickname that troubled him. They told him the things they reveled in. Then on one occasion when the going was rough, he faced them and quietly said, ‘Look, I know you think I’m a square. I don’t consider myself any better than any of the rest of you. … But I grew up in a different way. I grew up in a religious home and a religious town. I went to church on Sundays. We prayed together as a family. I was taught to stay away from these things. It’s just that I believe differently. With me it’s a matter of religion, and it’s kind of a way of respecting my mother and my dad. All of you together might force me toward a compromising situation, but that wouldn’t change me, and you wouldn’t feel right after you’d done it.’

“One by one they turned silently away. But during the next few days each came to ask his pardon, and from his example others gained the strength and the will to change their own lives. He taught the gospel to two of them and brought them into the church.” (Church News, 29 Apr. 1972, p. 14.)