Gospel Story Finder

Saturday morning was supply day at the mission home, when missionaries from nearby districts came in to pick up copies of the Book of Mormon, tracts, tapes, and all the other materials involved in spreading the gospel in the 20th century. The mission office was filled with elders and sisters taking care of business, swapping mission news, and waiting their turns to stock up.
Just outside the door of my small office, where I was typing away on one of the quarterly reports, which, like the poor, are always with us, Elder Richard Ericson sat. His saddle-brown triple combination lay open on one knee, his black notebook containing the discussions was spread on the other, and a red pencil worked busily between them.
By some small coincidence, we both finished at the same time: I spun the completed report out of my typewriter with satisfaction, and he clapped his books shut in the same instant.
“Well, Elder,” I said, “you’ve been on your mission just about three months now. How’s it going?”
He smiled, almost to himself.
“No, sister, I’ve been on my mission longer than that.”
“Oh, of course. You mean the eight weeks in the Language Training Mission. But I—”
“No,” he cut in, “I don’t mean that. I mean I started my mission two months earlier than everyone else I came out with.”
Had Elder Ericson been transferred from another mission? I thought I ran a pretty good grapevine, but I hadn’t heard about anything like that. Had he been sick, gone home, then returned? Sometimes that happened.
“All right. I give up. Don’t kill me with curiosity. I know you’re getting a reputation as quite a missionary. In fact, rumor has it that you’ll be a senior before Christmas. Do these extra two months have anything to do with it? What’s the story?”
And this is what he told me.
The greatest day of my life, up to that point, was the day I received my mission call. Not even making the all-state basketball team or even Eagle Scout could compare. Dad and I were home alone, because Mother and the girls were spending two months in Phoenix with Grandma. I had just finished phoning Mom the good news.
“Wow, Dad!” I said as I hung up. “I still can’t believe it! Mom thinks it’s great, too. She says to tell you Grandma’s feeling a little better, by the way. Wow! I can’t get over it,” and I leaped to catch hold of the top of the door frame, executing a quick little swing.
“How would you like to start your mission right away?” Dad asked quietly.
“You bet! I wish it were tomorrow! I can’t wait to get into the LTM and then take that old plane for—”
“No. I mean it, Rich. How would you like to begin your mission now?”
“Now? But, Dad, the letter says, ‘You will enter the Missionary Home in Salt Lake City on the 20th of March.’ I don’t think they let you go in early. I think you have to—”
“I don’t mean start it in the Missionary Home. I mean start it here.” He was still sitting quietly in his big leather chair, looking at me very steadily. Something in his look made me quit exploding around the room. I dropped onto the footstool near the fireplace and just waited.
“I don’t want to make any speeches, Rich. You’re ready for your mission; we all know that. You’ve done all the right things to prepare. By the way, in case I haven’t said it lately, I’m proud of you.”
For some crazy reason, I fogged up and had to pretend to tie my shoelace.
“But a mission’s hard on the best of young people. That early adjustment brings frustration and problems most people your age haven’t had to deal with. And I guess a certain amount of frustration is good for the soul. Makes you grow up. But sometimes, if a fellow isn’t able to take those frustrations in his stride, it can really interfere with his mission, and mix him up; it can—”
“But, Dad, you said I was prepared.”
“In all the big things, yes. You’ve honored your priesthood, worked hard in your quorums, done well at seminary and in the institute this past year.”
“Well then?”
“I’m talking about the little things. Your mother and I have tried to teach you a lot about personal responsibility, and I think you are a mature person—well, most of the time!” He laughed. “But you know your mother likes to spoil you a little—”
“Aw, Dad!”
“Well, she does! And I guess that is her privilege. All I’m saying is this: there are lots of little surprises in store for the missionary. If you and I begin working on them now, then your adjustment should be easier. With the two of us baching it alone for the rest of the summer, we could operate on the missionary companion basis and see what we can learn.” Now he sat back and waited.
“I don’t quite get it, Dad. You mean, like you’re the senior companion and I’m the junior? Great! But then what? What will we do? Go tracting? I can see us at Sister Bigelow’s door—or Brother Young’s!” I grinned as I thought of the startled looks that would appear on our neighbors’ faces if my father and I donned dark suits and went around knocking on their doors.
“No, no tracting. You’ll see what I have in mind tomorrow. Right now I think it’s time for us to turn in.” He got up and stretched.
“Okay, Dad. Pretty soon. I just want to catch a little bit of the late show, and then I’ll—”
“No late show. It’s time for bed, Elder.” And something about the look he gave me made me wonder about this new senior companion of mine.
“Rise and shine!” The call came loud and clear.
I bounded out of bed, startled. Dad usually tiptoed past my room, especially in the summer. Then I saw the clock. Six A.M.! I sank back into the bed with a laugh.
“Cut the funny stuff, Dad!” I called as I rolled over.
The door banged open.
“Out of the bed, Elder! And make it up as soon as you’ve finished praying. You’re due in the kitchen in 20 minutes.” The door shut again, this time quietly. I stared at it in amazement.
When I finally made it to the kitchen, the table was set, but Dad had done nothing else about breakfast. He sat reading the scriptures in Mom’s rocker by the window, where the sun streamed in through her white curtains and over the African violets.
“You’re on breakfast detail today,” he said, smiling. And, as I reached into the cupboard for a box of cold cereal, he said, “Sorry. You can’t do a missionary’s work on that. Now listen carefully; I’ll only say this once.” He held up the four fingers of his right hand.
“Basic four. Remember that from health? Every meal. Milk or milk products, meat or protein, fruits and vegetables, cereals and grains. Every meal. Basic four. Now get going.”
As I searched wildly in the refrigerator, glancing back over my shoulder at Dad from time to time, I wondered what had happened to my quiet, easy-going father.
Without tears, but with plenty of sweat and a drop or two of blood (cut myself on the fruit knife), I managed to put a basic-four breakfast on the table by 7:00 A.M. I felt pretty proud. Dad said nothing, just knelt beside his chair and talked to the Lord as he had every morning of the world since I’d been in it, and before.
Later we cleared the table together and did the dishes. Then Dad said, “Study time, Elder. Let’s sit right here.
“Now I know you’re working mornings at the supermarket. But that gives you the afternoons free. I’ve talked with the bishop, and he was delighted with my plan. He’s changed our home teaching assignment; here’s the new list.”
I took one look at it.
“Good night, Dad! This list must contain every inactive member in the ward!”
“No, not all of them. But they’ll keep us busy. This afternoon I want you to go over the list. Think about the people, the families. Think about what we can do to help them, how we can reach them. Think especially about the Marlins—we’re going there tonight, and you’re giving the lesson. Well, son, time for me to get going. See you a little before five. I’ll fix dinner tonight, since you’ll be working on the lesson.” And with that, he was gone.
I guess my mind was kind of blocked out that first meeting with the Marlins. But I know that I did everything wrong. Preached to them instead of talking. Started coughing—not on purpose, I promise—when Brother Marlin lit up (trying to catch me off guard, I was sure). I asked Linda Marlin how school was, completely forgetting she’d dropped out.
The next morning Dad moved into phase two. Instead of getting me up at six, he opened the door at 5:30, dressed in his jogging outfit. Seems he thought I might have gotten out of shape since basketball season.
“Missionaries do a lot of walking—especially where you’re going. Need to be in good shape,” he said as we strode briskly into the foothills north of our house. “Now then—”
Now then? I thought. What could be next? Here we were jogging in the darkness, with not even the sun to keep us company. What could be “now then”?
“Brothers and Sisters,” he began, puffing only slightly between phrases, “Today we’ re happy to welcome Elder Richard Ericson, who is new to our branch. We’d like to have Elder Ericson say a few words to us. Perhaps Elder Ericson would like to talk briefly on faith.”
“Elder Ericson,” slightly short of breath, rolled his eyes and began to mumble a pretty standard two-and-a-half minute talk on faith. At the conclusion of this wonderful woodland sermon, Elder Ericson, Senior, said, “Tomorrow, brothers and sisters, Elder Ericson will give us a real talk on faith.”
That evening, one tired junior companion spent the evening hours with triple combination, concordance, and a copy of Joseph Smith’s Lectures on Faith. But the next morning I felt pretty good about the talk.
Soon we were jogging every morning; I was making a basic-four breakfast every other day and a basic-four dinner on the days in between; we were making regular evening visits to our home teaching families; and I was spending the evenings memorizing scriptures and preparing for the talks I was “assigned” to give while jogging. I was also doing my own laundry, cleaning my room, and budgeting every cent I earned. I can’t say I was crazy about the hours we were keeping—up at 5:30 and in bed before 11:00—but I really felt I was building myself into a missionary. So, naturally, that was time for me to get humble.
“Special assignment next Sunday, Rich,” Dad told me in the middle of the week. “I’ve asked the bishop to let us give a sacrament service out at Oak Crest Rest Home. It’ll just be the two of us doing everything. Now let’s see, I’ll conduct, you give the opening prayer, I’ll play the piano, you lead the singing, we’ll both bless and pass the sacrament and give talks, and then I’ll say the closing prayer.”
I wasn’t delighted at the thought of visiting the rest home down in a small canyon nearly an hour’s ride from home. I’d never liked hospitals anyway. But I’d just have to gird up my loins and act like a missionary.
When I arrived at Oak Crest with Dad the following Sunday, I realized that that was the problem. I was making outward motions like a missionary, acting like one in some ways, but inside I was still Rich Ericson, star basketball player and good-time Charley. I was totally unprepared for what we encountered. The rest home was clean and modern, the colors bright, the staff cheerful. But the patients! It wasn’t their wrinkled, gray faces, their slow, shuffling way of walking—if they could walk. It wasn’t even the fact that they seemed to be doing nothing, just sitting, or staring at television. What stunned me was that they all seemed so alone. Oh, here and there in a room we’d occasionally see friends and family visiting the elderly patients. And these patients seemed in a completely different class from the others. But most of the people we saw seemed isolated, even from each other. I realized that here, status was no longer money or beauty, strength, or knowledge. Status was having someone who came to visit you.
We held the meeting in a small recreation room. Perhaps 20 patients made up our congregation, grouped before us in wheelchairs or on folding chairs, with canes on the floor beside them.
“Dear brothers and sisters,” my father began. Seated beside him, I looked at each face. As Dad talked, smiles came to the tired features, eyes twinkled behind old-fashioned glasses. When I stood to give the opening prayer, all the formula praying I’d done in my life went out the window. I stood silent for a moment, my head bowed, and then started quietly pleading with our Father to bless these people, to give them whatever they needed to buoy up their spirits and gladden their hearts and enable them to stay strong—to endure—until they were reunited with him.
We went through the program: singing, their wavering voices following ours; blessing the sacrament and passing it while they took it with slow, shaking hands. I began to feel the Spirit growing around us like a pair of enfolding arms. In this room we weren’t alone. None of these people felt alone, I realized with surprise. Their faces may have been old, tired, and wrinkled, but they were serene and radiant, especially after the passing of the sacrament. And when Dad began his talk, they listened without the whispers, the yawns, and the fidgets I was used to in our ward. They were drinking in Dad’s quiet, gentle voice; more than that, they were drinking in the precious words he was saying. They were receiving comfort beyond that which this world has to offer. A quick shiver went up my spine. That day the Holy Spirit became someone, rather than something, to me.
We rode a long way in silence after that meeting. I looked out into the foothills with their sagebrush blowing dustily in the wind.
“Dad, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” I asked. “The hours, the exercise, the basic four, the memorizing of scripture—those are all …” I couldn’t say what I meant.
“They’re the tools. The healthy body, the prepared mind, knowledge of the gospel plan, the discipline to go on when you’re tired or frustrated—those are all just tools. They allow you to use your priesthood—”
“To bless people,” I finished, in wonder. “To really bless them, make a difference in their lives, in their whole, eternal lives. …”
“Hey, Elder! Elder Ericson! Let’s go! We have a discussion to give right after lunch, remember?” Elder Shumway beckoned to his companion from the foyer of the mission home, juggling a pile of books and tracts in one arm while he struggled into his coat.
“I see what you mean, Elder,” I said softly. “You really did begin your mission early.”
“Well,” he replied, wrapping his scarf around his neck and getting into his coat, “let’s say I went through some of my frustration at home, instead of here. I learned to get the mechanics taken care of, smoothly and without thought. Getting up on time, eating right, learning scriptures, staying in shape, organizing talks—I got into those habits before my mission, not during it. But what’s even more important, I got a little glimpse, just a peek, at what it’s all for. So I know it’s all worth it and then some—thanks to my dad.” He chuckled. “My dad—the senior companion!”
And then he was gone.

Five years ago I was invited to a very candid conversation with then Elder Jeffrey R. Holland on whether BYU was realizing its prophetic potential. Sensing his concern, I explained that we still had the honor code, our academic freedom policy, religion classes, and devotionals to act essentially as “bumper lanes” protecting us from getting too far off spiritually.
Without hesitation, Elder Holland cut me off and responded, “Clark, bumper lanes are very different than bowling for a strike!”
In the ensuing years, we have ensured that BYU has appropriate bumper lanes in place: temple recommend requirements, mission-fit hiring, aligned promotion criteria, mission-focused questions in the student application, and other key institutional guardrails. We will continue to safeguard this university, its standards, and its expectations with clarity and purpose. This is a basic stewardship of governments.
But if these boundary conditions capture our concerns and attention, we may be missing the real aim of the university itself. Hiring and promotion standards establish boundaries, but they are not the goal.

The Monterrey México Temple stands prominently on a hill next to a major highway. It is impossible to pass without noting the majesty of the building and its setting. When Román and Norma Rodríguez first passed the temple, there were signs announcing an open house. Feeling drawn to it, they stopped and went in with their family.

Originally married in a civil ceremony as required by law, they were, after 15 years and three children, involved in planning the impressive church wedding they had never had. But during their visit to the Monterrey temple, they felt something they had never felt before. There was a peace and joy Román could not explain. Norma felt it too. They agreed that they had to learn more about the teachings of the church that had built this temple, so they left their names and a request for the missionaries to visit.

“I remember when we were preparing for that other wedding,” Sister Rodríguez says. “I kept wondering if we were doing the right thing. I prayed to the Lord to help me, and I feel my prayer was answered as we learned about eternal marriage.”

On 15 May 2003, just one year and eight days after their baptism, Brother and Sister Rodríguez and their daughter and two sons returned to the house of the Lord for the kind of wedding they really wanted—their eternal sealing as a family. They are members of the Santo Domingo Ward, San Nicolás México Stake, where he is elders quorum president and she is visiting teaching supervisor. Their children—Vanessa, 14; Román, 11; and Omar, 9—enjoy Primary, the youth programs, and the other activities available in their ward.

Both Brother and Sister Rodríguez tell of spiritual experiences that reconfirm the wisdom of their decision to become members of the Church. Before, Brother Rodríguez says, they were running after the common things of life. Now they see with real depth and spiritual clarity. “I feel like our life is beginning to come together,” he says.

Thanks to Scout training and quick thinking, a tragedy was averted in Charlotte, North Carolina. Todd Smith of the Charlotte Second Ward saved the life of a five-year-old after the youngster was hit by a car.
The child was riding a tricycle when a slow-moving car hit him and knocked him unconscious. Todd saw the accident and after telling his mother to call for help, he ran to the little boy. Todd found that the child’s tongue was blocking his throat. Todd cleared the child’s air passage and helped stop the bleeding from a head wound. Todd also prevented anyone from moving the child until the rescue squad arrived, in case there were any back or neck injuries.
Todd received a Medal of Merit and was honored for his quick action.

Elder Ulisses Soares told the story of a boy who followed the example of Captain Moroni. The boy saw his classmates looking at bad pictures on their cell phones. He had to make a quick decision. He was filled with courage and told his friends that what they were doing was not right. Most of his classmates made fun of him, but one friend decided to stop looking at the pictures. Elder Soares said we can be strong like Captain Moroni and stand up for our testimony of truth.

When I was a teenager, my family moved to Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates (UAE). My high school was an international school where people from many different cultures and religions attended. There were hardly any members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in our area, and I was the only member in my grade.
After a while, I started dating a classmate who was Christian but not a Latter-day Saint. As we got to know each other better, he became interested in my beliefs and started doing his own research on the Church.
Unfortunately, the sources he consulted were against The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and what began as curiosity for him soon grew into confusion and concern about my faith. I did my best to answer his questions, but I didn’t always know what to say. It was difficult and painful to have someone I cared deeply about challenge the things I held close to my heart. He was my boyfriend, and his opinions and perspectives were important to me.
As time went on, the questions and criticisms he had about the Church seemed reasonable, and I began to have doubts about my faith too.
The things I believed in seemed uncertain to me. I questioned whether Joseph Smith was really a prophet of God and if he’d really translated the gold plates. Had I been accepting made-up stories as truth? Being surrounded by so few Church members made me seriously question the legitimacy of my and my family’s faith. I felt lost and scared.
But I kept coming back to one thing—the examples I had in my life. My grandparents and my parents have always been faithful members of the Church. Every time I felt tempted to step away from the gospel, I remembered them and the goodness of their lives.
In Matthew we read:
“A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. …
“Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them” (Matthew 7:18, 20).
I knew that my parents and grandparents were good people and that the fruits of their lives were good too.
I reminded myself that there must be a reason why they raised me in the Church. So I decided to trust their judgment and faith when I was unsure whether I should trust my own.
I held on to the faith of my family members for a while. As time went on, my boyfriend lessened his scrutiny of the Church, but I continued studying the scriptures and praying to receive answers to the questions he had brought up.
And then one day, I had a big realization: I don’t need to answer every single question someone has for me about the gospel. I just need to tell them to follow the Spirit. I cannot give someone else my testimony.
I already knew this, but the reminder of these truths hit me with force. I couldn’t convince my boyfriend of the reality of the gospel if he wasn’t willing to listen to the Spirit, study, and pray. Elder Robert D. Hales (1932–2017) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “We do not have the authority to bestow a testimony upon someone else, because a personal testimony is granted by the Holy Ghost.”1
After some time, I worked up the courage to tell my boyfriend that I couldn’t answer all of his questions. But I invited him to pray and read the Book of Mormon if he wanted to know the truth. I explained that although my testimony wasn’t the strongest, I’d decided not to step away from my faith—it had helped mold me into who I was and had brought amazing people into my life who were good examples to me.
I would stand by my faith.
After talking with him, a huge weight came off my shoulders. I knew I had made the right choice in holding on to faith.
Having my beliefs challenged wasn’t fun, but I’m grateful for that experience because it helped me strengthen my own testimony. President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency, said: “Another way to seek a testimony seems astonishing when compared with the methods of obtaining other knowledge. We gain or strengthen a testimony by bearing it. Someone even suggested that some testimonies are better gained on the feet bearing them than on the knees praying for them.”2
In hindsight, I can see that standing up for my beliefs helped me strengthen my faith. Although my relationship with my boyfriend eventually ended, he and I have remained respectful friends, and I’m glad I learned how to protect my testimony while respecting his questions and beliefs.

The first came one afternoon in one of those rare days when I was in my office. I had been interviewing missionaries -- and the Elder serving as my secretary came to my door just as I was concluding an interview with a missionary and said "President Christensen, there is a General Authority on the line who would like to talk to you." Most of the time, when a General Authority calls a mission president, it is NOT good! In fact most often it is to discuss a problem. So, I closed my office door and picked up the telephone. "Hello, this is President Christensen" I said. The General Authority identified himself and began to ask me several pointed and detailed questions about one of our missionaries who had completed his mission some months before. His line of questioning went something like this in a very NON-SMILING VOICE (Do you know what a NON SMILING VOICE sounds like?) "President, did you have Elder _____ in your mission?" "Yes I did I responded courteously. "Well I need to know about him!" "OH NO" I thought. Was there a problem? Had he made a mistake? He was a great missionary. To my knowledge he was one of the best. I gave several positive answers to his every inquiry. Then he coaxed a second time, "President, I need to know what kind of missionary he was!" With confidence I replied "one of the best missionaries in our mission". How did he get along with his companions? Came a second round of the same questions. "Did you interview him often and can you vouch for his worthiness?" he asked. "Yes, I interviewed him often. In fact I have taught him along with all our other missionaries to live their lives according to their temple covenants and the 15 critical questions (the temple recommend questions) which they must answer in order to maintain their recommend."

With each question I remembered this wonderful missionary -- his good nature and worthiness. Then I questioned him, "Elder So and So, is there a problem with our former missionary?" There was silence on his end of the line.. for just a moment and then he asked one more time "are you sure he was an extraordinary missionary and worthy priesthood man?" "Yes" I answered again without hesitation. Then the tone of his voice changed from the NON SMILING VOICE to a CHEERFUL and almost chuckling voice (I believe he felt my anxiety and felt the need to break the tension). "Well good, I am glad you feel that way about him, because he is dating my secretary and I will not allow her to continue down the road to marriage if he isn't the best there is." I first felt a relief that there was nothing wrong and then I felt a special warmth and gratitude and love for this former missionary and his soon to be fiancé that I had not yet met. We visited for a few minutes longer about other things and then concluded the conversation. As I hung up the telephone I leaned back in my chair and felt a rush of JOY and a HAPPINESS for this young man who had become a part of my life. I felt so happy for him, that as a friend and priesthood leader. I could answer each question the way I did. He is here in the devotional today. And so is his wife! They have been blessed with their first child.

My throat felt scratchy, and my stomach was doing cartwheels as Mrs. Allen cleared her throat and prepared to read the last assignments for newspaper staff.
I didn’t know journalism class could be such an emotional experience.
“All right, we have only a couple of assignments left,” Mrs. Allen said cheerfully. “The student government beat is open.”
Student government? I don’t think so. Covering endless and pointless debates about crummy school food, keeping the water fountains free of gum, and ways to get drivers to slow down in the parking lot didn’t exactly bring to mind stories that would land my byline on the front page of the New York Times.
Mrs. Allen looked over her list again. “And we need an advice columnist to take Twila Terwilliger’s place. That was our most popular feature last year.”
Yes, I remember Twila’s column, “Tips from Twila.” No matter what the question, Twila had a spunky answer, which always ran along the theme of “Hang in there!” or “Keep your chin up!” or “Think positive thoughts and everything will be better!” Twila believed that a heavy dose of sugar could cure anything, and she poured it into her columns by the bagful.
Now, if I were the advice columnist, things would be different. Straight answers. No mushy, sensitive stuff. No coddling from Gabe Jeffries. Besides, for my first three years in high school, I hadn’t really found my place. I wasn’t an athlete or much of a scholar, and I never ran for school office. Having my photo in every edition of the paper with a big byline over my column, I had to admit, sounded more than okay.
“Any takers?” Mrs. Allen pleaded.
I raised my hand.
“Gabe? You want to take the column?” Mrs. Allen sounded a little surprised.
“Yeah, Mrs. Allen. I can handle a column.”
She seemed doubtful but said, “Okay, Gabe. Let’s give it a try. Maybe a male perspective would work in an advice column. Stay a few minutes after class. Some letters have already been sent in, and you can get to work on them right away.”
Success! My byline would never appear on a story about crusty spaghetti and runny sauce, or cross-country runners getting sick halfway through their race. My journalism career was looking up.
Later that night, at a desk in the corner of my room, I grabbed the small stack of letters and prepared to take on the problems of the cold, the weary, the downtrodden, the hopeless, the nobodies who inhabited my corner of the world.
To Whomever Is the New Advice Person:
I have a boyfriend, and what we do most of the time for our dates is sit on the couch at his house and watch football or basketball games or action movies. Like, we never do anything fun; we just sort of sit and watch games and eat, although he does most of the eating. If I suggest we go to a movie or on a walk, he just says he’s tired. But I really do love him, and we may get married after we graduate next spring. What do you think? Should I stay with him?
Signed,Wondering
I thoughtfully read the letter and asked myself, What would Twila say? She’d say, “Be perky, smile a lot, and things will get better before you know it.”
Of course, I didn’t want to even faintly sound like Twila. I sat at the keyboard of my computer and began picking at the letters. My answer came quickly.
Dear Wondering,
I have three words for you: Lose the loser. Fast forward a few years and think what life will be like if you hang in with this dude. Imagine, Friday night in the house, you have three noisy kids to deal with, and your husband is passed out in front of the TV. He’s 60 pounds heavier than he is now, hasn’t shaved in three days, and he’s sitting in his undershirt and sweat pants snoring. Is this the life you want? No way. Drop him. The sooner the better. You don’t want to be his girlfriend now and for sure not his wife. Get the picture?
Signed,The Answer Guy
I sat back and re-read my answer. Well, maybe it is a little rough, but someone had to steer this girl away from the wreck that was awaiting her. No one would ever confuse me with Twila, that’s for sure. No one would call me Mr. Nice Guy.
I sorted through the other letters Mrs. Allen had given me and picked out a couple more to answer. One from a guy who wanted to move out of his house (“What? Free room and board, the folks pay the utilities, and you want to leave? Are you nuts?”) and another from a kid who complained it was unfair that the 10th graders were assigned early lunch (“Quit whining. You’ve got to eat sometime, right? Stick with it, and maybe you’ll make it all the way to the senior class and get to eat with the grown-ups”).
Three letters, three answers, in 20 minutes. And I didn’t sprinkle any sugar.
I didn’t think much about my column until the newspaper came out a week later. Just before English class began, Adam Fletcher, who is among the very chosen in our school, a guy who would make anyone’s I-want-him-at-my-next-party list, flopped his hands on my desk, leaned over and said “Man, your column was great. Harsh. I really like it. Sixty pounds in an undershirt. That was money, man.”
“Uh, thanks. Yeah, it was. But I can do harsh. Really.”
Adam, who in the last three years of school had done little more than occasionally grunt at me, was actually paying me a compliment. He wasn’t the only one who noticed the column. A dozen more people said something about “The Answer Guy.” Even Mrs. Allen gave me a thin smile and mumbled, “Well, it looks like you’re not Twila, Gabe.”
Gabe Jeffries, columnist. The Answer Guy, a Someone. Maybe someday I’d have my own radio talk show, coast-to-coast, every weekday night, handing out advice like candy at Halloween. I would be wise, witty, clever, and above all, tell it like it is. My name would be heard in every household.
Two weeks later, I was back home reading a fresh stack of mail. A lot of letters had come in since my first column.
I grabbed a letter out of the middle of the bundle.
To the Answer Guy,
Since you’re a guy, maybe you can help me with this one. I went to homecoming last week, and the guy I was with seemed really annoyed when I ordered a salad for dinner. He got really quiet and seemed like he was upset. We were with a whole group of people at the restaurant, and he hardly spoke to me later on. I just wasn’t hungry and didn’t want to cost him a lot of money, so that’s why I ordered a salad. Did I do something wrong? Let me know.
Signed,Lettuce Woman
This is too easy, I thought.
Dear Lettuce Woman,
Of course the guy you went out with was annoyed. You are a Salad Girl. Guys do not like to take out Salad Girls. He takes you to a nice restaurant, hungry, ready to eat a big meal, and then you order a salad. He’s not impressed when you do that. It makes him feel stupid to order a steak with the trimmings if all you’re eating is a salad. You finish your salad and then all you do is stare at him while he eats, or he decides he’d better just get a salad too, so he doesn’t show you up.
Do everyone a favor: next time when you go out to dinner, order a T-bone, rare, and smack your lips all the way through it. Everyone will relax more. Leave the salads to the weight-challenged who really need to diet!
Not exactly Shakespearian, but I thought Lettuce Woman would get the idea.
The next edition of the newspaper came out, and my transformation to being a Someone rolled along. People who never paid much attention to me were becoming friendly. Sure, I would never be a great athlete, Harvard would never offer me an academic scholarship, and I’d never date a cheerleader, but through my column I was starting to feel accepted by the socials. And I liked it.
Of course, not everyone was ready to nominate me for a Pulitzer Prize. There was the cafeteria incident.
I was sitting among some of my new friends, at a table where mostly the popular hung out, and Rachel Patton came by with a sweet smile on her face.
“Hello, Gabe. I read your column yesterday,” she cooed. “And I just wanted to give you a little something.” Rachel is smart enough to be a doctor and gorgeous enough to be a model. Maybe she’ll end up being both.
“Uh, great,” I stammered. “Yeah. Thanks.”
She pulled out a salad from behind her back and dumped it on my head. “Just a little token of our affection, Gabe. Call it a little gift from all the Salad Girls. And I thought you were such a nice guy before.”
At least there wasn’t much dressing on it. Some people, I guess, just don’t know how to deal with celebrities.
The third edition of the newspaper was much the same, although I had to work harder at coming up with rude answers. The guys at school loved what I wrote. In the fourth edition, I answered a letter from a guy who thought his girlfriend was going to dump him (“Beat her to it. Dump her. It is much better to be the dumper than the dumpee, and she is not worthy of you anyway”) and another from a girl who worried about having no social life (“Millions of people don’t have enough food to eat, and you’re whining because you haven’t had a date since June?”).
After I finished my last answer, I sat back. Great stuff. How will I ever top it? The answer was easy: Just get a little more rude; find new ways of ripping others. Just keep those put-downs coming.
I picked another letter, handwritten on plain white paper.
Dear Answer Guy,
I’m kind of new to this school, and I am having a hard time fitting in. I feel lonely. Sometimes I wish I had a good friend or two. Sometimes, I just feel like giving up. What can I do?
Signed,No One
It was signed in an unusual style, small letters, backslanted, the way left-handed people often write. It was definitely a male’s handwriting. I waited a second for inspiration, then started my answer.
Dear No One,
You are a loser. That’s why you don’t have any friends. That’s why you sit by yourself at lunch, stay home on weekends, and sit in class too afraid to raise your hand and answer a question. You have no confidence, bud. I know your kind. I know everything about you. I know exactly what you’re like and …
And what? I stopped typing. What if this letter were real? What if someone was really asking me for help? What if I gave him rude advice when he needed a real answer? And why did I write that I knew exactly what he was like? Was it because, not too long ago, I’d sat in a class or the cafeteria and wondered where I fit in?
All of a sudden, I felt like a fraud. For too long, I’d been ignoring the gnawing feeling in me every time I wrote an answer filled with put-downs. Was I taking the chance of hurting someone just to get some attention?
I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept thinking about what I’d written. Every column was becoming more rude, more attacking. It was getting tougher to out-do myself. I could feel the expectations of others. In each answer, they wanted me to cut more deeply. Rachel’s words bothered me: “I thought you were such a nice guy before.”
And about midnight, when my eyes were wide open and my mind racing along, I finally understood that feeling inside. I didn’t like the kind of person I was becoming. Acceptance, at least the kind I was getting, wasn’t worth becoming someone else. Maybe I hadn’t been popular before, but at least I was a nice guy who wouldn’t hurt anyone. It was time for Gabe Jeffries to become Gabe Jeffries again.
I finally had come up with an honest answer.
In the morning, I took the letter to school. In study hall, I started writing another answer to the guy who could only call himself “No One.”
Dear No One,
I liked your letter. It took courage to write it. I can tell some things about you from your letter, and they are good things. But I must disagree about one thing. You’re not a No One. You are Someone—someone who is important, who has talent and ability, even though you might not recognize it. You’re someone I’d like to become friends with. I hope we meet. Until then, try to find some good in your life. I’m sure you have a few friends. I also hope you have a family who cares about you. You deserve that much. Things will get better. I know it.
I read through it again. For the first time since I’d become a columnist, I’d provided someone with a real answer.
Later that afternoon, I wrote a second letter. This one was to Mrs. Allen. I gave it to her at the beginning of class. She placed it on her desk and said softly, “I guess I’m surprised, Gabe. You have potential as a writer, and I’m sorry you’re resigning as the Answer Guy. Maybe we can find another place for you as a different kind of columnist.”
“If you still need someone to write about water polo, I guess I’m the one,” I said.
“We’ll find you something a little more exciting than that, Gabe,” she promised.
The following day in history class, Mr. Haney droned on about Germany’s economic collapse after World War I.
Suddenly, Mr. Haney said, “Okay, everyone, put away your books. It’s quiz time!”
The quiz was only 10 questions. When it was over, Mr. Haney told us to pass our papers to the person two rows to our right for correcting. Someone handed me a paper, and as I looked down at it, I almost fell out of my chair. I’d seen that handwriting before: small letters, backslanted, distinctive. No mistake about it. I was correcting “No One’s” paper. Funny, he’d been in my class three months, and I didn’t even know his name.
He nailed nine out of ten answers on the quiz, so I scribbled “Way to go!” on the top of his paper, then passed it back just as the bell rang.
I wasn’t sure what to do next, but I knew I had to do something. He was already out the door. I called his name.
He turned toward me, a look of surprise on his face.
I thought quickly. “Uh, a bunch of us are going to my church tonight to shoot hoops. Want to come?”
He smiled awkwardly. “You want me to play basketball? I’m not very good.”
“None of us are. That’s why we have so much fun. We don’t even keep score. And we only call fouls if blood is involved. You’ll fit right in.”
And the way he looked back at me, I knew he would. I could sense the changes taking place at that very moment: a “no one” was becoming a “someone.”
Well, the New York Times never called, begging me to work for them. I ended up writing feature stories most of the semester, one of which won a statewide writing prize; I even covered a couple of student council meetings, which were, of course, really boring. The next semester, I became the news editor. Mrs. Allen thinks I have a chance at a journalism scholarship. I asked Rachel Patton out, and she said yes, probably just a charity date, but she kept her salad on her plate and off my head at dinner, which I appreciated. On the doorstep, she told me I was a really nice guy.
I took it as a major compliment.
And the guy in history class, well, we still hang out, and I never have mentioned his letter to him. He seems happier now.
Yep, things are going great for me. It all started, I think, when I decided to not worry about trying to be someone else or pleasing others who didn’t really care for me. Everything I need to deal with any problem is all around me: home, family, church, and friends.
I guess I had the right answers all along.

Several years ago our house was robbed. Almost everything of worth was taken, including my mother’s wedding ring. We’d never been able to afford a new one.
One year as we approached another Christmas season, my six-year-old brother, Jason, and I were coming home from an activity. Jason leaned toward me and whispered in my ear that he wanted to get Mom a new wedding ring. He said she should have one. I told him it was a good idea and that I would think about how to do it.
I thought about it, I planned, I schemed, and I tried to think of some way we could save enough money. I figured we could slip away for a few minutes while Christmas shopping with Dad. Before we went off on our own, however, Jason decided that we should let Dad in on the secret. Dad was surprised but happy and said that was the sweetest thing he had heard all day. He said we could all go together and choose the ring after we had finished the rest of our shopping.
We spent a while looking at different rings. Jason made the final decision, choosing a ring with a ruby in the center surrounded by three tiny diamonds on each side. It was perfect!
On Christmas morning our gift was the second present opened. As my mom unwrapped it, I felt tense. A thousand thoughts went through my head: what if she doesn’t like it, what if it’s too big, what if she doesn’t think it’s right for her kids to be giving her a wedding ring?
When Mom saw the ring, Jason explained what we’d done. Her face broke into the hugest smile, and she hugged him. She put the ring on right away and said “thank you” a dozen times over. She told Jason that someday she and Dad would replace the stolen ring, but until then, the ruby ring would be her wedding ring.
I sat in the background and just watched the whole thing, feeling extremely relieved and happy.
I have never had a better Christmas. I was so happy to see my mom happy that I hardly cared about my own presents. I believe that is the true spirit of Christmas: giving. We can find so much more happiness in giving than in receiving. Although I’ve known this truth for years, I’ve never been more struck with it than I was on that morning.

The third convert, Mine A?kan, is the ?stanbul Branch Relief Society President. She was converted in the country of Malta along with her husband and three sons. Her husband served as a branch president for a time in Malta but sadly went less-active along with her sons. In fact, her husband did not want Mine to go to Church but she, on the other hand, wanted desperately to go to Church. Her husband would at times even physically restrain her from going to Church. She then would wait until her husband was asleep on Saturday evening and then sneak out of the house around midnight or in the very early hours Sunday morning and go sit in a hotel lobby near the branch meetinghouse until the branch building opened on Sunday morning. She is a great member-missionary in Istanbul at her work explaining to others why she has a special glow about her. Mine has given Books of Mormon out to many neighbors in her apartment building. By the way, in her patriarchal blessing it states she is of the lineage of the tribe of Napthali, one of the ten lost tribes.

Julia has often served as a liaison between her community and the South African government in safeguarding her neighbors’ rights. Recently, she became concerned about pensioners who failed to receive their pension checks, sometimes for many months. Taking the subject on the air during a radio talk show she was invited to, Julia rallied community support and brought the issue to the attention of the new government.

It was October of 1972, a clear and sunny Sunday. I was a freshman at BYU. I rode my bicycle up Provo Canyon to Upper Falls. There I contemplated what in the world I was doing here. You see, I came to BYU as a nonmember. Why? Well, several friends at high school were going to BYU, and they simply invited me along. I applied to BYU, and when my parents and I visited campus, coming from smoggy and dry Southern California, we were sold. I knew very little about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints except that they didn’t smoke or drink.

I had arrived on campus a week or so early to attend a late summer honors program. There I met my first roommate, Rahn Price. After a long day we were ready to go to sleep in our room in Deseret Towers (may they rest in peace). Then something unusual happened. Rahn rolled out of bed, knelt at his bedside, and prayed silently. I didn’t know what to do. I was quite astonished. I finally said my own prayer:

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
Should I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Amen.

I was done well before he was. Much later, Rahn said that was the most awkward prayer he had ever said. However, I’m grateful that he did say that prayer.

As the semester began, I learned about agency from a Book of Mormon teacher named Bruce Hafen. I learned of the Atonement. Although I had grown up in a Christian church and was raised by “goodly parents” (1 Nephi 1:1), these concepts were certainly deeper than the wading pool of doctrine I had grown up with.

Once the semester began, my friends in Helaman Halls invited me to church, but I respectfully declined. They did not pester me or make me feel out of place. On Sundays I would just do my own activities, limited as they were by a bicycle.

I found that agency—a topic I had been learning about in my Book of Mormon class—was interesting as presented in the dorms. It was fast Sunday (whatever that meant), and when my floor went off to church, I went down to the Cannon Center for a casual breakfast. But there was no breakfast because it was fast Sunday. I hadn’t planned to fast, but it appeared that I would be fasting even though I hadn’t planned on it. This was in the day when you didn’t have refrigerators and microwave ovens in each dorm room. There was no food there. I was suddenly faced with my own mortality—I knew I was going to die. I figured I had just enough strength left to make it to some local restaurant. Der Wienerschnitzel was the closest. All I needed was a little food to tide me over until the obligatory fast Sunday concluded in the dorms. So I ordered about a dozen hot dogs. I’ve been grateful to Der Weinerschnitzel ever since.

But thankfully I matured. With the help of Rahn, my other friends, Brother Hafen, and my own budding awareness of the beautiful doctrines of the gospel, a seed had been planted. And on that October Sunday morning at Upper Falls, I actually asked Heavenly Father a question—something I was not taught to do growing up. Like most, I was taught that you can ask for blessings. It had never really occurred to me to ask Heavenly Father a question, because that implied you expected an answer—that you expected God to actually hear your prayer and acknowledge it with some sort of communication. It wasn’t even a question about the Church I had at that time. I wasn’t ready for that just yet. It was a question about me: “What wouldst thou have me do?” For the first time in my life I felt what I knew in an instant was the Holy Ghost, that unmistakably distinct and identifiable feeling in my bosom that has since guided me in all matters spiritual and most temporal: a warmth—not alarming or acidic, but peaceful and calm—that gave me clarity and resolve. Like the answer cited by Sister Matsumori in October’s general conference: “It felt like sunshine” (Vicki F. Matsumori, “Helping Others Recognize the Whisperings of the Spirit,” Ensign, November 2009, 10).

What was my answer? That I had a special mission to perform. I had no idea what that meant. It didn’t matter at that time, because what I had found out that day was that God lives, that He knew who I was, and that, whatever He was doing at the time, He had answered my prayer through the Holy Ghost. I’ve been grateful ever since and have tried to demonstrate that gratitude by serving Him. My view of the world had changed: from peering through a keyhole at life to having an eternal panorama opened to my heart and mind’s view.

Although there were only three LDS seniors in her graduating class of 800, Karen’s senior government class was given the privilege of hearing four oral presentations on Church subjects. Karen spoke on the United Order, Mike Miller on the nutritional aspects of the Word of Wisdom, and Mark Forsyth on Church government. The bonus came when a nonmember friend, impressed by her visit made prior to the dedication of the Washington Temple, and with help from her LDS friends, reported on the Mormons as temple builders.

My parents supported 13 of us siblings on missions and at one time there were three serving at the same time. It was through the examples of my siblings that I desired to serve a mission. I was fortunate and blessed to serve a mission right after I graduated from High School at the age 17. I have to admit that I did not want to serve a mission in Samoa because I did not speak the language.

My mother raised us speaking English because of her father, papa Malaki's, encouragement. That we could learn Samoan anytime. Long story short, I would meet with my bishop at the time, Bishop Beaver Ho Ching, who happened to be my cousin, a few months before graduating from High School to work on my mission papers.

Each Sunday we met he would encourage me to go to College at BYU–Hawaii and find a good husband to raise a family, he said I was too young to go on a mission. I finally asked him to please send my papers in, I would accept the Prophet telling me not to go but not him. He had enough of me and agreed to move my papers forward.

Then I met with the Stake President, President Eugene Reid, who happened to be married to a cousin of mine, and he kind of said the same thing as my Bishop. He knew I was determined to go so he asked where I would like to serve, I joyfully said, New Zealand, at least I can speak English there.

He then said, “Let’s just put Samoa and New Zealand as your second choice. You’d be lucky if you can go at all.”
I reluctantly agreed.

Two weeks later, I got my call, guess where to?
That’s right, Apia Samoa Mission.

I wasn’t too happy at the time but I can honestly say I had the best experience and of course it was the best mission. I am grateful to have served in Samoa because I learned the language, by reading the scriptures in Samoan and English, I came to appreciate the culture and people more and my testimony of Joseph Smith and the Savior grew. It wasn’t easy, but it has been a great blessing in my life.

Recently our seven-year-old son, Wade, had his appendix rupture. The infection had spread throughout his abdomen, yet from outward appearances nothing seemed seriously wrong. Without proper medical care and attention he would have surely died. Like a person who has a serious physical illness, the spirit cannot heal itself after a major transgression without confession. The spirituality of a person can only remain weak, somewhat hesitant in fulfilling its immortal purpose, and could even wane and die.

Perhaps a point can also be made that as we do not visit a doctor for every little scratch, also we should not confess every “minor” sin to the bishop. President Brigham Young counseled, “Do not tell about your nonsensical conduct that nobody knows of but yourselves” (in Journal of Discourses, 8:362). The key is that we must be able to honestly differentiate between major transgressions and “nonsensical conduct.”

President Henry B. Eyring, in his talk "O Remember, Remember" in the 2007 October General Conference, states:
"When our children were very small, I started to write down a few things about what happened every day. Let me tell you how that got started. I came home late from a Church assignment. It was after dark. My father-in-law, who lived near us, surprised me as I walked toward the front door of my house. He was carrying a load of pipes over his shoulder, walking very fast and dressed in his work clothes. I knew that he had been building a system to pump water from a stream below us up to our property. He smiled, spoke softly, and then rushed past me into the darkness to go on with his work. I took a few steps toward the house, thinking of what he was doing for us, and just as I got to the door, I heard in my mind-not in my own voice-these words: I'm not giving you these experiences for yourself. Write them down."
"I went inside. I didn't go to bed. Although I was tired, I took out some paper and began to write. And as I did, I understood the message I had heard in my mind. I was supposed to record for my children to read, someday in the future, how I had seen the hand of God blessing our family. Grandpa didn't have to do what he was doing for us. He could have had someone else do it or not have done it at all. But he was serving us, his family, in the way covenant disciples of Jesus Christ always do. I knew that was true. And so I wrote it down, so that my children could have the memory someday when they would need it.
"I wrote down a few lines every day for years. I never missed a day no matter how tired I was or how early I would have to start the next day. Before I would write, I would ponder this question: Have I seen the hand of God reaching out to touch us or our children or our family today?' As I kept at it, something began to happen. As I would cast my mind over the day, I would see evidence of what God had done for one of us that I had not recognized in the busy moments of the day. As that happened, and it happened often, I realized that trying to remember had allowed God to show me what He had done."

I spent Christmas 2012 together with my family in Samoa and experienced my first ever tropical cyclone. The power went out throughout our whole village in Afega on Christmas Eve night, so our family of four used torches and candles to see each other around our kitchen table. We spent the night talking and laughing and crying together. It was the least glamorous Christmas I can remember—we had no presents and no parties, but it is one of my favourite memories because all we could give each other was time.

Every morning Zach looked outside to see if it had snowed. “Will it snow today, Mommy?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not—the first snow is late this year.” Mommy hugged him sympathetically. She knew that Zach wanted to play in the snow.
It hadn’t snowed in November or so far in December. A week before Christmas, Zach looked out the window and sighed. He wanted to build a snowman and run all over the backyard and leave his footprints in the snow before he went to bed. “But there still isn’t any snow,” he said sadly to himself.
Mommy heard him. She thought about the dishes in the sink and the ironing she had planned to do. Zach is more important, she decided. “Let’s pretend that there is snow and go out and play in the backyard,” she said. She got out their coats and boots and mittens.
Zach and Mommy stomped all over the backyard, pretending to make footprints in the snow. “What big feet you have!” Mommy exclaimed. That made Zach laugh.
They rolled invisible snowballs around the yard and put them together to make a make-believe snowman. Then they went inside to drink hot cocoa and admire their snowman through the kitchen window.
Just as Mommy asked, “Did you have fun today?” a snowflake drifted past the window. Soon there were lots and lots of snowflakes falling faster and faster.
Zach said, “It’s fun to pretend, but”—he gave Mommy a big smile—“it will be even more fun tomorrow, when we make a real snowman!”
Mommy looked at the dishes in the sink and the pile of ironing. Then she looked out the window at the snow and smiled back. “You know,” she said, “I think so too!”

Work had begun on the temple on June 5, 1833. For the next three years the Saints endured many trials and hardships in order to build a house for the Lord.
Most of the people had few possessions and little money. But every able man worked one day each week on the temple. They worked in the quarry, cutting sandstone to form the walls of the temple. They worked as carpenters, painters, teamsters, and in many other jobs. Sometimes as many as a hundred men worked on the temple at a time. The women spun, knitted, wove, and sewed to make draperies and carpets. They also made clothing and food for the construction workers.
Everyone was busy, but it was not just the Saints’ time and talents that the Lord required. The large three-story building cost between $40,000 and $60,000, an enormous amount of money at a time when the average worker earned only around two or three dollars a day. Many of the Saints gave almost everything they had to build the temple.
Some people in the area opposed its construction. Mobs came at night to destroy work done and to steal tools and supplies. It became necessary for men to stand guard each night.
When the temple was completed, it was the most beautiful building for miles around. Inside were two curved stairways and beautiful wood moldings and railings. But it will be remembered forever not for its beauty but for the marvelous events that happened there.
On Sunday, March 27, 1836, hundreds of Latter-day Saints came to Kirtland for the dedication. The doors opened at 8:00 A.M., and one thousand people entered. Hundreds more were left outside. They had also worked and sacrificed for the building of the temple. Seeing their disappointment, Joseph Smith decided to repeat the dedication on Thursday.
The choir opened the meeting, then President Sidney Rigdon spoke for two and a half hours. After a brief intermission, the officers of the Church were sustained. Then the Prophet offered the dedicatory prayer, given to him by revelation. This prayer is now section 109 of the Doctrine and Covenants [D&C 109]. After the prayer, the choir sang “The Spirit of God,” which had been written specifically for the dedication.
The congregation ended the seven-hour service by standing and giving the sacred Hosanna Shout. Sister Eliza R. Snow said that it was given “with such power as seemed almost sufficient to raise the roof from the building.”
That evening over four hundred priesthood bearers again met in the temple, and while George A. Smith was speaking, “a noise was heard like the sound of a rushing mighty wind which filled the temple, and all the congregation simultaneously arose, being moved upon by an invisible power.” Many men began to speak in tongues and to prophesy. Others saw glorious visions, including angels who filled the temple.
People living nearby heard the sound, too, and ran to see what was happening. As they approached, they beheld a pillar of fire resting upon the temple, saw angels hovering over the temple, and heard heavenly singing.
Many other spiritual manifestations took place in the temple that year. Prescindia Huntington described how a little girl came to her door during one meeting and called out in excitement, “The meeting is on top of the meeting house!” Prescindia looked outside and saw angels walking back and forth on the temple. Many children in Kirtland saw the angels and remembered the glorious sight the rest of their lives.
One week after that first dedication, on Easter Sunday, April 3, 1836, Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery stood in the pulpit area of the temple and dropped the veils around the pulpit so they could be alone to pray. After their prayer, they saw the Lord standing upon the pulpit. “His eyes were as a flame of fire; the hair of his head was white like the pure snow; his countenance shone above the brightness of the sun; and his voice was as the sound of the rushing of great waters” (D&C 110:3). Jesus told Joseph and Oliver that He accepted the temple and that in that house He would “appear unto my servants, and speak unto them with mine own voice, if my people will keep my commandments, and do not pollute this holy house” (D&C 110:8).
After this vision, Moses, Elias, and Elijah appeared and gave to Joseph and Oliver the keys necessary to continue the Lord’s work upon the earth. Among these keys was the sealing power that seals husbands to wives and children to parents for all eternity.
This was a time of rich blessings. Even though the temple was used only for a few years before the Saints were driven out of Kirtland, it was worth every dollar spent, every minute worked, and every hardship endured, because the Lord had indeed manifested Himself to His people.

I was busy in my last year of high school when Dad decided that our family should begin an intensive study of the scriptures to help my brother Bruce prepare for his mission. Dad’s goal was to read the entire Book of Mormon before Bruce left, tape-recording our voices as we went along. Since Bruce and I were the only two of my parents’ seven children still living at home, Dad would herd Mom and the two of us into the living room every day after school, and we would take turns reading a chapter.
I wasn’t thrilled with this idea. I was particularly opposed to the tape recording. So more often than not, I would head out the door to work or to a school-related activity just as scripture time began, secretly glad that I had an excuse to miss out.
To my surprise, the family finished the Book of Mormon a few months later, and Dad eagerly tackled a new project. There were still several weeks before Bruce was to leave, so Dad decided we should read and record the four Gospels from the New Testament. I complained this time, telling Dad that I didn’t see the point: we could buy audiotapes of professionals reading the scriptures, and they sounded a lot better than we did. Still, Dad persisted. “Carole, one day these tapes will be a great blessing to us,” he said. I remained unimpressed and a little uncooperative.
The weeks went by, school was almost over, and I had fewer excuses for missing scripture reading. But as I participated more often, I began to enjoy these times together with the family. I especially liked to hear Dad share his personal insights about passages of scripture. Soon I began to sense the peace that comes through studying the scriptures. We finished reading the four Gospels shortly before Bruce left for the Missionary Training Center. We made a copy of the tapes for him and a copy for ourselves.
Dad had been right all along about those homemade scripture tapes; they did become a blessing. After Bruce left, I noticed how comforting the tapes were to Dad. He often listened to them, partly just to hear Bruce’s voice, I thought, since they had been very close. Sometimes at night Dad would fall asleep listening, and I would smile to myself as I heard the familiar click when the recorder had run to tape’s end.
Those tapes also blessed me in a way that I never could have guessed. When Bruce had been gone for more than a year, Dad died quietly of a heart attack on a bright September Sunday. I remember wondering how it could be so beautiful outside when all seemed black to me. By the next day, all of our family members had gathered except Bruce, who had determined to finish his mission.
That evening, after talking with my bereaved brother on the telephone, I was feeling sad. I went upstairs to Dad’s room and dejectedly sat down at his desk. I noticed his well-used tape recorder lying nearby. Inside was one of our tapes of the New Testament, which Dad must have listened to the night before he died. I began rewinding the tape, stopping it at random, hoping to find solace in hearing the gentle resonance of Dad’s voice. I hadn’t really been listening to the words, but suddenly I sat upright as my father spoke from the tape:
“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
“Ye have heard how I said unto you, I go away, and come again unto you. If ye loved me, ye would rejoice, because I said, I go unto the Father: for my Father is greater than I” (John 14:27–28).
I listened to that passage over and over; the words seemed to reach out and wrap a comforting arm around me. Through my tears, I found them in my Bible, marked them, then went downstairs and shared them with my mother. Despite our sorrow, we realized that Dad was at peace and that he wanted his loved ones to be at peace, too.
Peace did come to us that night, and it continued to come slowly during the months that followed. Since then, I have often tasted the sweet peace of the New Testament.