Gospel Story Finder

“In the hospital one day I was wheeled out of the operating room by an attendant who stumbled, and there issued from his angry lips vicious cursing with a combination of the names of the Savior. Even half-conscious, I recoiled and implored: ‘Please! Please! That is my Lord whose names you revile.’ There was a deathly silence; then a subdued voice whispered, ‘I am sorry.’ … You don’t ever use any indecent language, do you, my young friends? That would be a disgrace. … We do not use foul language. We do not curse or defame. We do not use the Lord’s name in vain” (“President Kimball Speaks Out on Profanity,” Jan.–Feb. 1981, pp. 4, 6).

There it was. Dead ahead of us. Stopped totally and completely. It was a train. As far as we looked in either direction we saw only boxcar after boxcar with no hint of either engine or caboose. Dad parked the car. One more problem on a day like this was something he did not need.
We had been late leaving, as is our norm for vacations. Dad’s inspection of the new high school he was building in Pekin, Illinois, was not made any easier by the curiosity of six young children who wanted to “help” in any way they could. Finally, however, we were on our way to Nauvoo, Illinois, via some of the state’s seldom-used country roads. Our white station wagon was large, but we were still crowded with three adults (our grandfather was visiting us from Salt Lake City) and six wriggling kids. Gradually, the number of shoves, pinches, and whispered threats from the back seat grew.
Just when the situation was ready to erupt, we saw the train, directly in front of us. When dad got out to see what was wrong, we clamored to get out with him. He gave an emphatic no. “I’m just going to go see why it’s stopped. If any of you step out of this car …” He let the threat hang.
The most unnatural thing in the world is for a child to be in a stopped car on a spring day when he can see the sun outside sparkling its welcome. We endured it, but not too gracefully. Dad returned from his lengthy conference with the switchman with bad news. “They say it will be at least 15 minutes before they can move.”
My oldest brother, David, pleaded, “Can we get out then?”
Mom, who had been trying to restrain us from mortally wounding each other, looked at dad imploringly. His stern face melted.
“Well, I guess so,” he finally conceded. With a shout of triumph we literally poured from the doors and windows of our car.
“Look!” It was 11-year-old Jim’s discovery. “Dandelions!” Dandelions there were, seemingly acres and acres of them, some gone to seed, others with their brilliant yellow blossoms. We happily raced to the fallow field that promised so much fun for us, the adults following with not much less enthusiasm. We blew the seeds into the air, trying to catch the lucky ones that hadn’t touched the ground yet. My older sisters, Lisa and Joanne, me, and almost unbelievably, my mom, made dandelion chains. As we draped the fragile jewelry around each other’s necks, we almost forgot that mom was a grown-up. Grandpa sat in the midst of it all, blowing dandelion seeds far and high for us. Tiny arms that had been afraid of grandpa’s gruff voice wrapped themselves around his neck.
The switchman returned with a progress report. It might be another half hour before they could get the engine fully repaired. No matter! This newfound friend told us of the places this never ending track led.
At last, as the crew had assured us, the train was ready to resume her delayed journey. Dad, carried back to his boyhood days in Salt Lake City where the Bamberger Railroad served as inter-city transportation, recalled a favorite trick. He pulled a penny from his pocket and laid it on the train track. We watched in amazement as the accelerating train reduced it to a steaming mass of shiny copper. Joanne and I shivered in delighted suspense as we wondered if a U.S. marshal would suddenly appear from nowhere and commandeer our father for defacing American currency. David and Jim ran through the fields trying to keep up with the quickly moving train, if not outrun it. I helped little Stephen count the cars as they whizzed by.
When the last click of the turning wheels had subsided into the distance and the train was only a faraway speck, we climbed back into our car, an hour late but eons happier.
As I think about it now, it seems a little strange that one of our family’s fondest memories is of sitting around in a farmer’s weed patch waiting for a mechanic to finish his job. It does, though, make Doctrine and Covenants 64:33 a little easier to understand: “And out of small things proceedeth that which is great.” [D&C 64:33]
We did eventually make it to Nauvoo. I am sure that the time we spent there was fun and even inspirational, but no one seems to remember much about it. On the other hand, whenever we’re busy pulling pesky weeds out of our garden or if we must pause at railroad tracks as a train passes, someone is sure to say, “Remember the dandelions?”

A story from the National Baseball Hall of Fame may illustrate how a clearer vision gives us an edge in the fight for right. A generation ago, Ted Williams was a household name in America. The veteran slugger for the Boston Red Sox proved his talent, integrity, and commitment year after year. In 1941, after only three years in the majors, Ted was hitting an incredible .39955 entering the last day of the season. Few hitters have ever come near to batting .400 in a season. Ted’s manager, the legendary Joe Cronin, offered to bench him for the last day of the season so that his average would round up to .400, knowing that if he had a bad day he would miss the mark altogether.
Not a chance, Ted replied. If he couldn’t hit .400 all the way, he said he didn’t deserve it. So he played.
Williams got six hits in eight times at bat during a doubleheader on that last day and ended the season with a .406 batting average. That record still stands. During a career that spanned 22 years, interrupted by 5 years of service as a military pilot in two wars, Ted averaged .344 at bat and hit 521 home runs. Even in his last season, at the age of 42, Ted hit .316, an exceptional average for most baseball players.
Ted Williams’s secret was his keen eyesight. After the pitcher threw the ball, Ted could see the stitching on the ball and could tell by the direction the ball was spinning whether it was a curve, slider, knuckleball, or fastball.
Do not suppose that Ted Williams relied upon his exceptional vision alone. He was known as the hardest worker in the major leagues. He combined personal integrity and tireless preparation with his love of the game to become one of the greatest players ever.

Of those who epitomize the faith I wanted to obtain, a faith like Sarah Ann, is John Murdock. At age seventeen John “came near bleeding to death; yea death stared me in the face, but I covenanted with my Heavenly Father that if he would preserve my life, I would serve him.” True to his resolve, John turned to prayer and meditation and began his search for the gospel of Jesus Christ that professed and practiced the ancient ordinances (see Journal of John Murdock, typescript, BYU-A, p. 3). He first united with the Lutheran Dutch Church, but “soon found they did not walk according to the scriptures.” He next joined the Presbyterian Cedar Church: “I soon became dissatisfied with their walk, for I saw it was not according to the scriptures.” He then united with the Baptists, but soon recognized “their walk not to agree with their profession, [and] I withdrew myself from them” (ibid., pp. 3–4).

Continuing his search for truth, John turned to the Methodist faith, but discovered “when I did not please them I would have to be silent among them awhile.” By 1827 he had joined the Campbellites. “It caused me to rejoice, believing that I had at last found a people that believed the scriptures,” wrote John. For three years he faithfully attended their meetings, but as the ministers denied the “gift and power of the Holy Ghost,” John lost interest and concluded “all the [religious] sects were out of the way” (ibid., pp. 4–5).

Then, in the winter of 1830, John’s prayers were answered. Four missionaries sent to the Lamanites arrived in Kirtland from the state of New York. They preached, baptized, and built up the Lord’s church after the ancient order. Curious, John journeyed twenty miles to see for himself the new preachers and rebuffed a Campbellite who tried to dissuade him: “I told him I was of age, and the case was an important one, of life, and death, existing between me and my God, and I must act for myself, for no one can act for me” (ibid., p. 6).

He arrived at Isaac Morley’s home in Kirtland about dusk and was introduced to the four men and presented a copy of the Book of Mormon. As he read the new scripture,
The spirit of the Lord rested on me, witnessing to me of the truth of the work. . . . About ten o’clock [the next] morning, being November 5th, 1830, I told the servants of the Lord that I was ready to walk with them into the water of baptism. [Ibid., p. 7]

“This was the third time I had been immersed, but I never before felt the authority of the ordinance, but I felt it this time and felt as though my sins were forgiven,” wrote John. After being ordained an elder, he returned home rejoicing and endeavored “to bear testimony,” and to his joy, “My family gladly received me and my words, thank the Lord” (ibid., pp. 7–8).

One example of Chea’s diligence and enthusiasm as a young missionary is recorded in Elder Gooch’s journal: “I was home for lunch, trying to prepare a talk for zone conference. Somehow I just couldn’t get my thoughts together. The telephone rang. It was Chea. He told me that he wanted Elder Black and me to visit the Vongs, a Cambodian family that had been in Lowell for a year. They were praying and fasting to find a church they could attend.”
Saveth Vong and her three children, Chetena, Chendra, and Tola, had narrowly escaped execution. Her husband, a pilot in the Cambodian Army, had been captured. Saveth and her children managed to get out of prison three days before they were scheduled to be shot.
Chea smiles as he recalls his and the elder’s first visit to the Vong home. “Everyone seemed so eager to learn. There were many questions. The Spirit was very strong.” Although the Vongs used a Book of Mormon printed in Cambodian, they needed help with gospel principles. Chea played an important role, assisting the elders as he translated discussions and shared his own experiences in the Church. Elder Gooch’s journal entry continues, “Day after day, Chea sat quietly by Saveth helping her understand the things we taught. He never seemed to tire of the message of the gospel.”
Indeed, as Chea taught the gospel his testimony grew. He recalls, “I remember reading 3 Nephi 27:7: ‘Therefore, whatsoever ye shall do, ye shall do it in my name; therefore ye shall call the church in my name; and ye shall call upon the Father in my name that he will bless the church for my sake.’ I thought, how could it be that I’ve never seen this scripture before? It makes so much sense. Heavenly Father’s true church must be named after his Son!”
This scripture also confirmed for Chea what he knew in his heart was true—that if he prayed to Heavenly Father in the name of Jesus and asked for help to share the gospel message, Heavenly Father would bless his efforts.
When the Vongs made the decision to be baptized, Chea was delighted. Elder Gooch recalls that evening, “While we were driving home, Chea asked Elder Black and me to stop by a grove of trees in a nearby park so that we could thank Heavenly Father. We took turns giving thanks and expressing our joy. When we were finished, Chea climbed on my shoulders. After a few quiet moments Chea lovingly looked down, flashed his big smile and said, “The Holy Ghost is with us, Gooch, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Chea, it sure is.”
“I know—I felt it!”
The Vongs were baptized a week later.

Only a few days ago in Arizona as I was at the pulpit in a conference meeting, a tiny boy came walking down the aisle and up on the stand, perhaps searching for a mother in the choir, maybe just investigating. He wasn’t making any fuss, but he was a wonderful little boy and I couldn’t refrain from pausing a moment and talking with him. I asked him his name and where his mommy and daddy were, and at that point a tall, handsome young man stood in the chapel and advanced to retrieve his child. When the father took his son in his arms in front of the pulpit he kissed him, and I had to swallow a quick lump in my throat. There was no embarrassment, no spanking, no yanking, no anger. There was just the gentle kiss and a loving hug in those big strong arms, and for all of us present a warm, tender, memorable experience from a fortunate youngster and a wise, mature, regular dad.

Have you ever been to a restaurant where some of the food items on the menu are unfamiliar? In 2018, my wife and I went to a restaurant in Osaka, Japan. The menu had many options, most of which were unfamiliar and strange to us. One person in our group chose calamari (squid). But I did not like calamari, so I chose something else. Everyone selected something different from the menu. We all enjoyed our meals because we each chose a dish that appealed to us.

You do not need to eat calamari unless you like it. (By the way, after sampling excellent Japanese calamari, I have come to like it.) You can choose to invite others to learn about the gospel of Jesus Christ in ways that are comfortable and natural for you, using your own talents and abilities. Over time you may find that the range of things that are comfortable expands.

Since the time of our baptism in 2001, my husband and I had many conversations about traveling to the temple with our family to be sealed together for eternity. However, our plans came to a halt when he was diagnosed with liver disease and passed away before we could go.
I was heartbroken, but my desire for our family to be sealed for eternity grew even stronger after my husband’s death. As a widowed mother of four children, however, I knew it would not be easy to raise the money needed to take my family from Cambodia to the Hong Kong China Temple—roughly 1,000 miles (1,600 km) away.
Despite our meager income, my children and I knew that we needed to get to the temple so we could be sealed as a family for eternity. I continued to work hard doing laundry at a hotel while my children worked odd jobs. We slowly began to save a little money for our trip, but we soon realized that we might never be able to save enough.
Because we knew an eternal family was more valuable than anything we could have on earth, we decided to sell the only thing of value that we owned—my late husband’s motorbike. After we sold it for a significant amount of money, our hearts rejoiced to know that we would soon be able to be sealed to our beloved father and husband.
But our happiness was short-lived. One week after selling the motorbike, we returned from church to find that our home had been burglarized. When we discovered that the money from the sale of the motorbike was gone, we were grief stricken. For months after the break-in, we continued to pray that we could find a way to go to the temple.
After several months our prayers were answered when we were told that we could receive help from the Church’s General Temple Patron Assistance Fund.* My children and I rejoiced at the news and soon made our hoped-for trip to the temple.
Thanks to the generosity of other Latter-day Saints, we are now an eternal family.
*The General Temple Patron Assistance Fund was created to give financial assistance to Church members who otherwise could not afford to attend the temple.

We were packing for a short trip to the mountains of northern New Mexico, and I was loading the last of the children and supplies into the car. My wife appeared at the door and said cheerfully, “Well, we’re all set!” As she was pulling the locked door closed, I realized I didn’t have my keys! I yelled quickly, “DON‘T SHUT THAT … door.” Too late.
In an instant I was irritated. I said to my wife, implying she was to blame, “My keys are in the house!”
Fortunately, a forgotten open window allowed us access to the house without the loss of much time, and my feelings dissipated. I “forgave” my wife for having caused me emotional pain.
Later, as I thought of the experience, I realized I had found it convenient to blame my wife because it was a way of justifying my own failure. By my hostile feelings I could make it appear that she was the guilty one and that I was a helpless victim.
The truth is that my irritation was not due to her behavior at all. It was, instead, the product of my own unwillingness to accept the responsibility of my actions, and obviously, she hadn’t needed my forgiveness—but I certainly needed hers.
The real issue was my need to repent of the feelings I had. Had she been in some kind of transgression, then the solution to the problem would have been for her to repent and me to forgive. In this case, however, only my repentance was necessary to restore us to oneness. I understood also that my repentance, my giving up of my feelings of resentment, would have been necessary whether she had been guilty of anything or not. I saw that I could not be both unrepentant (or unforgiving) and compassionate at the same time. These are two incompatible attitudes.

Three summers ago, I watched a new bride and groom, Tracy and Tom, emerge from a sacred temple. They laughed and held hands as family and friends gathered to take pictures. I saw happiness and promise in their faces as they greeted their reception guests, who celebrated publicly the creation of a new family. I wondered that night how long it would be until these two faced the opposition that tests every marriage. Only then would they discover whether their marriage was based on a contract or a covenant.
Before their marriage, Tom and Tracy received an eternal perspective on covenants and wolves. They learned through the story of Adam and Eve about life’s purpose and how to return to God’s presence through obedience and the Atonement. Christ’s life is the story of giving the Atonement. The life of Adam and Eve is the story of receiving the Atonement, which empowered them to overcome their separation from God and all opposition until they were eternally “at one” with the Lord and with each other.
Still, the ground was cursed for their sake: their path of affliction also led to the joy of both redemption and comprehension. That is why the husband and wife in a covenant marriage sustain and lift each other when the wolf comes. If Tom and Tracy had understood all this, perhaps they would have walked more slowly from the gardenlike temple grounds, like Adam and Eve, arm in arm, into a harsh and lonely world.
Now I return to Tom and Tracy, who this year discovered wellsprings of their own. Their second baby threatened to come too early to live. They might have made a hireling’s convenient choice and gone on with their lives, letting a miscarriage occur. But because they tried to observe their covenants by sacrifice, active, energetic Tracy lay almost motionless at home for five weeks, then in a hospital bed for another five. Tom was with her virtually every hour when he was not working or sleeping. They prayed their child to earth. Then the baby required 11 more weeks in the hospital. But she is here, and she is theirs.
One night as Tracy waited patiently upon the Lord in the hospital, she sensed that perhaps her willingness to sacrifice herself for her baby was in some small way like the Good Shepherd’s sacrifice for her. She said, “I had expected that trying to give so much would be really difficult, but somehow this felt more like a privilege.” As many other parents in Zion have done, she and Tom gave their hearts to God by giving them to their child. In the process, they learned that theirs is a covenant marriage, one that binds them to each other and to the Lord.

“The name Poelman is a Dutch name,” Elder Poelman explained. “My paternal grandfather was born in Holland, and as a young man in his teens, he left Holland and went to South Africa. There he married my grandmother, a Scottish girl. She was working at the time as a governess for an English family living in South Africa. My grandparents had one child born in South Africa, then they went back to the British Isles. Another child was born in England, and they moved to Glasgow, Scotland, where my father was born. It was to their home in Scotland that the missionaries came tracting, and my grandmother answered the door. They were on the third floor of an apartment house with only cold running water in the working-class section, and a man named A. Z. Richards was one of the missionaries. He stayed close to our family until he died, and I have always been very fond of him.
“Subsequently, I was called to serve as a missionary in Holland, as did all three of my younger brothers. My father also served a mission in Holland. That missionary experience was a valuable one for me, because I had an opportunity to meet some of my grandfather’s brothers and sisters, and I was able to learn the language.”
I asked Elder Poelman what message he wanted to share with the children of the world, and he replied, “Your Father in heaven knows who you are and loves you unconditionally. Even when you do things that are bad, He loves you. It makes Him sad, of course, but it doesn’t mean that He stops loving you. I would encourage you to pray to our Heavenly Father often, knowing that no matter what you’ve done or how you feel about yourself, Heavenly Father will listen to you.
“Sometimes we may think that the Lord loves us only if we keep His commandments and that if we disobey His commandments, He loves us less. That isn’t true! This is something Satan would like us to believe because then we feel estranged from our Father in heaven. Remember, He loves you all the time wherever you are and whatever you are doing.”

When you first look at Aaron Shamy, you might think he could get lost in a crowd. At five feet, six inches tall, he has the build of a gymnast. He’s not exactly imposing, especially when you compare him with athletes who passed six feet several inches ago and can bench press more than Aaron weighs.
But believe it or not, Aaron gets compared to those sorts of people all the time. As a world-class speed climber, he caught the attention of climbing fans when he won the 1999 Extreme Games—you may know them as the X Games—speed-climbing competition against a host of climbers who were much taller, stronger, and more experienced.
Journalists, broadcasters, and other climbers quickly forget that Aaron is small when they see him climb. A sportswriter named Steve Smyth described Aaron’s climbing style at the X Games by saying, “He shot up the wall at the sound of the starting gun like a cat darting up a tree to evade an angry dog.”
But it’s what happens after Aaron wins that is truly attention getting.
“I don’t ever remember being nervous talking about my religion at all,” says Aaron, a member of the Holladay 24th Ward, Holladay Utah North Stake. “I’ve made God the center of my life, and everything just falls into place after that. If something is that important, you shouldn’t be afraid to talk about it.”
And he’s not. After his big win, Aaron was asked how he would spend his substantial winnings. Winners in other X Game sports were talking about cars and other “toys” they would spend their money on. But not Aaron.
“I told them that the money would pay for my mission. They [the newscasters at the event] really seemed to like that answer.”
It’s not surprising that Aaron, fresh from the most exciting win of his athletic career, would immediately mention a mission. He doesn’t let opportunities to talk about the gospel slip by, whether he’s on television, with a group of fellow X Gamers, or just talking one-on-one with a friend.
When people meet Aaron they always want to know more about the boy with boundless energy. They are interested in the reasons he doesn’t drink or smoke, the reasons he always seems cheerful, and the reasons people are so drawn to him. And nothing makes Aaron happier than telling them why.
“When I talked to the people at ABC Sports, I told them that the reason I do the things I do is that there are so many good things people can do that there’s no time left for all that unholy, unspiritual stuff,” says Aaron.
Aaron turned 19 just a few months before this year’s X Games, and it would have been easy to postpone his mission just long enough to compete one more time before he left for the mission field, but he says he can’t wait that long. He’s too excited about being a full-time missionary.
“One of my sponsors asked about ‘this mission thing,’” says Aaron. “He asked if my church can’t make an exception and let me leave later. I told him it’s my choice.”
So this is it. Aaron has traded in his climbing gear for a suit and tie, and he’s headed for a summit of a different kind.
When Aaron returns home, maybe he’ll be a little taller; maybe he won’t. But he knows that he’ll grow spiritually and that his testimony and his love for people will be stronger than ever. And it’s that kind of training, more than any climbing or exercise he could do, that makes Aaron easy to spot in any crowd.
Editor’s note: Aaron has received his call to the Italy Padova Mission.

Tommy stood at the window looking out at the drifted snow. He sighed a long, loud sigh. The snow hadn’t melted a bit since yesterday. He was tired of winter.
“That was a mighty big sigh for a small boy,” Grandpa said.
Tommy looked at Grandpa who had just come into the room. Then he looked back out the window at the snow and said, “I don’t like winter. I can’t go outside and play. The snow just stays in heaps and mounds all over the yard.”
“It does stay snowy and cold,” Grandpa agreed.
“I can’t even fly my kite, it’s so cold and wet outside,” Tommy complained.
Grandpa laughed.
But Tommy was still cross. “I wish I could push winter so far away that it would never come again.”
“Never have winter!” Grandpa was astonished.
“I don’t know what good it is,” Tommy said. “So I wish it would never come again. Then I wouldn’t have to keep waiting through winter.”
Grandpa put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you get your coat and cap? The sun is out for awhile and we can go for a walk and see about the winter you don’t like.”
Tommy bundled up and met Grandpa, who smiled at him as they went outside together.
They had gone only as far as the front walk when Grandpa stopped. He pulled a branch of the maple tree down close to Tommy’s face.
“See those shiny brown bumps?” he asked.
Tommy looked closely at the branch and nodded his head.
“Those are leaf buds,” Grandpa said. “The tree is just waiting for the bright sunshine to melt the snow so that the water will go down to its deep roots. Without water, the tree can’t make its leaves open for spring. It would stay bare and brown forever.”
After they had walked a little farther, Grandpa stopped again. This time he bent close to the ground and pushed away the snow. Tommy could see some bright green shoots poking right up out of the ground.
“These are spring crocuses and hyacinths,” Grandpa said. “The snow has already melted deep enough into the soil to wake them up. They’re only waiting for the sunshine to tell them it’s time to grow taller.”
Grandpa pushed the snow back over the shoots and stood up. “Let’s go this way,” he said, pointing up the street.
They had gone only as far as the corner when Grandpa stopped. Beside the wall of a house he showed Tommy a spot of brown earth where the snow had melted.
Grandpa poked at the brown earth. Tommy poked at it too.
“See how soft and damp the soil is already,” Grandpa asked. “It’s just waiting for the sunshine to warm the seeds so they can burst into life.”
Tommy walked beside Grandpa. And Grandpa said, “Soon the snow will melt and make ponds where wild ducks and geese can live. It will fill streams where fish live. And, most important of all, it will melt into water for all of us to drink.”
Tommy nodded his head up and down. He looked at the snow that still lay in heaps and mounds all over the lawn and laughed right out loud.
“Now that I understand how important winter is,” Tommy said, “I won’t mind having to wait through it after all.”

After 13 years as an artist and producer at Disney, I remember getting on the elevator to go to work. As I pushed the button to go up, I had a gentle but clear thought come to my mind: “You’re not supposed to be here.”

What would you do with that thought? Well, I put it on a mental shelf and went to work. There was a lot to do. However, that thought came back again and again until it was the only thing I could think about, and the only thing I could see in front of me. I cried as I told my sister, “I think I’m supposed to leave, but I don’t know why or where I’m supposed to go.” As a single sister, stability was important. And this career was stable, offered incredible creative opportunities, and though I had no personal life because of the workload, I loved the people I worked with.

As I tried to put a plan in place, nothing would come together. Later I learned that the plan was not to have a plan. So, I left without an opportunity. I remember thinking, “So this is what faith looks like.” This approach was definitely not “after the manner [or logic] of men.” [33] I remember waking up without a job and away from the people I loved. I cried and had many heartfelt conversations with my Heavenly Father. This time was invaluable as I learned who I really was—minus a career, a title, a status, minus the people I knew well. I came to know in a deeper way who I was to Him as His daughter, and how much He knew and loved me.

I began to have peace, and my covenant relationship with God deepened. After letting go of everything I thought I had to have, I was open to what the Lord had in store. Though I had stepped away from what seemed like a prosperous, stable place into an unknown desert, the Master of the vineyard took great care to nourish, comfort, and strengthen me.

I was unexpectedly led to graduate school in BYU’s Master of Public Administration program. I was also unexpectedly offered a position to manage the Church’s animation team. And I was serving as Young Women president of more than 50 girls. I couldn’t have written or imagined these elements in my story. That’s when you know it’s Him.

Two months after I left Disney, the studio that I thought was so stable shut down without warning. The Lord had mercifully given me time to recenter in Him. And I’m so grateful He let me choose Him.

Pierre’s idea for a choir of homeless men never got off the ground in Paris because he didn’t stay in Paris. His older brother and sister had moved to Montréal, and he visited them frequently. In April 1995 he moved to Québec to get married. His engagement didn’t work out, but Pierre fell in love with Canada and decided to stay. He set up a successful dental lab and, of course, began volunteering.
“On my second day here,” he says, “I inquired at the tourist office where I could volunteer.” By coincidence, the tourism officer was a volunteer at l’Accueil Bonneau, a homeless shelter, and told him how to find it. “I arrived in time for lunch, and they gave me an apron,” he recalls. “I started to serve lunch to the homeless. For more than a year I did this.”
But the same frustrations he had felt in Paris resurfaced, and so did his idea. He typed a flyer and handed out 600 copies to the men in the food line. It offered employment to “singers, even beginners, for part-time work. Men only. Any age. Any nationality. Must love to sing. Musical knowledge not necessary.” Thirty men expressed interest, but at the first rehearsal only 3 showed up. However, 7 came the next day. The day after, 12 showed up. Pierre taught them four Christmas carols from the LDS hymnbook.
The metro was an inspired and logical location for their performances. “If the mountain won’t come to you, you must go to the mountain,” says Pierre. “Thousands and thousands of people come to the metro.”
Residents of Montréal are accustomed to seeing homeless people on the street, but they were not prepared for what they encountered in the metro station at 7:30 A.M. on 17 December 1996. It was an unforgettable experience for the performers and the commuters. “I couldn’t see the faces of the spectators,” Pierre explains, “because I was conducting, but I could see the faces of my friends in the choir. Their faces changed. People crowded around us. Several missed their trains to listen longer. One woman began to cry, and her sobs filled that improbable event with incredible emotion. It was like a tide coming in. People were crying, singing with us, putting money in the hat to the cadence of the melody, clink, clink. They started to make a line to put money in the hat. It was a wonderful experience.”
That first concert brought in more money than they had expected. The next morning the choir earned even more. “But the greatest pay the men received,” says Pierre, “was when people came directly up to them, spoke to them, and shook their hands. This meant much to men who had spent their lives digging in garbage cans, begging, or even stealing simply to survive.”
The choir sang every day that Christmas season except Sundays. The money they earned allowed all of them to spend the holiday in more comfortable circumstances. A few were able to visit relatives. Some hadn’t seen their families in years.
“After the last performance,” Pierre recalls, “I asked my friends, ‘Do you want to keep going with this choir, or do you want to stop now and start it up again next Christmas?’ ‘Keep going,’ they insisted.”
After the choir’s first subway concert, the media quickly learned about them. Two days later they were invited to introduce the weather forecast for a large television station, and the next morning articles appeared in most of the Québec newspapers. This unexpected free publicity allowed the choir to sign contracts for concerts at festivals, schools, churches, banks, and other television stations.
“The media,” says Pierre, “has helped give us a voice for our message that life is beautiful, that it is really worth living, and that we should never give up. Everyone deserves a second chance, and no one should be excluded, even if he or she is different.”

A Primary teacher shared the following example. “Today,” she said, “our five- and six-year-old class made love necklaces. Each child drew pictures on strips of paper: one of themselves, one of Jesus, and some of members of their family and loved ones. We glued the strips into circles that looped through each other to make a chain that we turned into love necklaces. As they were drawing, the children talked about their families.
“Heather said, ‘I don’t think my sister loves me. We are always fighting. … I even hate myself. I have a bad life.’ And she put her head in her hands.
“I thought about her family circumstances and felt that maybe she did indeed have a hard life. But after Heather had said this, Anna, down at the other end of the table, responded, ‘Heather, I am putting you in my necklace between me and Jesus because He loves you and I love you.’
“When Anna said that, Heather crawled under the table to get to Anna and threw her arms around her.
“At the end of class, when her grandmother came to pick her up, Heather said, ‘Guess what, Grandma? Jesus loves me.’”

When I was a young father, our little son, who was five, came home from school one day and asked his mother, “What kind of work does Daddy do?” He then explained that his new classmates started debating about their fathers’ jobs. One said that his father was the chief of the city police, while another proudly declared that his father was the chief of a big company.

So when asked about his father, my son simply said, “My father works in an office on a computer.” Then, noticing that his answer did not impress his new little friends much, he added, “And by the way, my father is the chief of the universe.”

I guess that was the end of the conversation.

I told my wife, “It’s time to teach him some more details of the plan of salvation and who is really in charge.”

But as we taught our children the plan of salvation, their love for Heavenly Father and for the Savior grew as they learned that it is a plan of love. The gospel of Jesus Christ is centered on the love of the Father and the Savior for us and our love for Them and for one another.

While speaking to a group of single adults at Christmastime a year ago, I reminded them that if they were working in an environment that was not conducive to their spiritual well-being, perhaps they should resign. Afterwards, a young man the age of many of you came up to talk to me. He expressed concern that he was called upon to do some things that he didn’t feel comfortable doing. Jobs were almost impossible to get, he explained, and the work he was doing paid well. I reminded him that it was his decision whether to stay or resign. “Call upon the Spirit,” I advised. The next week he called me. Reminding me who he was, he said, “I did it. I quit my job. I am frightened, but I know I did the right thing.” Within two weeks he reported back that he had a job where now he was comfortable, and he appreciated the promptings of the Spirit.

At some point sooner or later, our time as mortals on this earth will end and we will learn that we were truly strangers and pilgrims here. This fact became devastatingly clear to me eighteen months ago when my younger brother Kendall died suddenly of a heart attack, seemingly in full health and just a few weeks after being released as bishop of his ward. His ward loved him, especially the youth. Professionally, he worked at the hospital in our small town and was similarly loved by the patients and by his coworkers.

Our family was emotionally shaken to its core by this tragedy, but our faith was not. We knew the promises of the Resurrection and had felt the power of the witness of Mary at the open tomb as she turned in hearing Jesus call her name, of the disciples on the road to Emmaus as their hearts burned within them while they conversed unknowingly with the resurrected Lord, of the apostles gathered together in fear and wonder of the events of that first Easter and then in what must have been utter joy as they felt the prints of the nails in His hands and His feet, and of the Nephite multitude as Jesus ministered unto them in power and glory. Jesus has overcome death, and, as a result, so will we.

This tragedy gave me great cause for reflection about my life and how I should spend the rest of my days. It also motivated me to have my physical heart carefully examined. One test was a cardiac perfusion test, in which you walk on a treadmill to get your heart rate up and then you receive an injection with a radioactive tracer. You are placed in a scanner that follows the tracer as it circulates through your heart. During the test you must lie very still under the scanner for some time so as not to disturb the imaging.

As I lay there, I closed my eyes trying to relax, wondering how my heart was performing in this test. Suddenly, without ­opening my eyes, I saw my brother walk past the ­scanner. He was dressed in his hospital scrubs, looking young and healthy. He moved past me to the other room where the monitor was showing the results of the scan. In my amazement, my first thought was, “What are you doing here?” and then the realization hit me that he was concerned about my well-being and wanted to know the results of the test. This view was gone in an instant, and I was left to contemplate it. The act was so ­typical of him, doing what he did in life, ­caring for others.

From this and many other experiences, I too confess that we are strangers and pilgrims on the earth, that life continues after our mortal bodies fail us, that our loved ones who have gone before know us and are there to help us.

Building relationships—as well as cutting down some unwanted trees—is in full swing where a third group of youth are stationed. Todd Swenson, age 17, is here, and he’s a little tired from pulling up roots and clearing leaves. But his attitude is not the least bit tiresome. “This is my first time doing anything like this, but I want to do it again. I think it makes the people we are helping feel that they have friends, that someone is looking out for them,” Todd says.
Ben Mullins, age 14, agrees. “I hope it makes them feel that Church members like to help other people. It also gives me a better attitude about serving.”
Besides, according to Heather Swenson, there’s not much better to do on a Saturday. “I can spare one Saturday. I’ve got a lot of time left in my life to help other people. I need to use that time well.”