Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago, I was one of a few Church members in my grade. People thought I was weird because I was dedicated to living all of the standards of the Church. So one day I decided that I could compromise my standards a little bit. When I did, I noticed that I had more attention from others. But after just a few weeks, I felt guilty and turned to the Lord for repentance. He did help me, and I had to make a lot of sacrifices, but it was worth it! I truly got to see the blessings of living the gospel at school. I did lose friends and attention, but I gained respect and happiness.
Sutton K., 15, Texas, USA

I helped take care of Grandma Pinegar a few Sundays ago. Grandma is 99 and very frail. She is blind and quite deaf, and recently it has become difficult for her to talk in more than a whisper. Her little body is so bent over that there is not much room in her lungs for air.
I leaned close to her and asked, “Grandma, tell me how the gospel has blessed your life.” She whispered softly and shared her gratitude for the promptings and guidance she had received from the Holy Ghost.
When her second child, James, was 18 months old, he and his older brother were playing outside and she was watching them from the window. Suddenly she couldn’t see him and ran from the house, calling and searching frantically. There was water in the irrigation ditch that shouldn’t have been there, and she searched along the edge of the ditch and could see nothing. She ran for the hired hands to come and help and ran back to where the ditch went through a long culvert. Running to the other end of the culvert, she saw two little shoes, and pulled on them. When she had her son in her arms, she was prompted to clasp her hands together and place them under his stomach and carry him in front of her in this way, using her knee to hold some of his weight. She ran toward the road, crying for help. The promptings she received to carry him in such an unnatural manner saved his life.
Brothers and sisters, I am personally grateful for the promptings we received as a Primary presidency. During the general conference when we were sustained, President Gordon B. Hinckley described some of the terrible atrocities that have been inflicted on children throughout the world. We read in newspapers and periodicals of the evil influences that are invading our homes.
As a new and very concerned Primary presidency, we prayed and searched the scriptures and were led to a verse in Isaiah that describes conditions during the Millennium: “They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord” (Isa. 11:9). That was exactly what we wanted to have happen. We didn’t want any child to be hurt or destroyed, but we didn’t want to wait for the Millennium. We wanted that to happen right now. If our Primaries were full of the knowledge of the Lord, if our homes were full of the knowledge of the Lord, there would be peace and righteousness and the children would not be hurt in any way. We prayed to know how we could help that happen and were led to 2 Nephi 25:26. Our homes and our Primaries will be full of the knowledge of the Lord when “we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ.”
We are so grateful for the peace and hope these scriptures gave us and for the direction we received through the Holy Ghost to encourage Primary leaders to have Christ-centered Primaries.

Elder Christofferson graduated from BYU with a bachelor’s degree in 1969 and then pursued a law degree at Duke University. Upon graduating in 1972, he was hired as a law clerk for Judge John J. Sirica, serving during the Watergate proceedings.
“It was an exciting experience for a first job out of school,” Elder Christofferson says. “I saw some of the best and some of the worst in the legal profession all mixed together. But that experience showed me what good legal work could do, and that gave me confidence and aspiration.”

Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter experienced such a discovery. He was struggling to define the concept that—in order to protect the innocent fully—courts of law should treat even the villainous fairly. He went to see Robert Bolt’s play A Man for All Seasons, about Sir Thomas More’s interactions with the selfish tyrant King Henry VIII. At the point where More’s character spoke the line “Yes, I’d give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety’s sake,”14 Justice Frankfurter blurted out, “That’s the point, . . . that’s it!”15

Born in Pennsylvania, USA, in 1798, Rebecca Swain was the youngest of 10 children.2 When she was about nine, her family moved to Niagara, near the United States–Canada border. They were close enough to Fort Niagra that they could hear the gunfire when the fort was attacked during the War of 1812. Even as a young girl Rebecca showed her fearlessness. Once, while traveling alone through the woods, she met a bear face-to-face on the trail. Having a parasol in her hand, she opened and closed it several times in the bear’s face, and it ran away.3

I was told recently of two missionary companions—one had many outward talents, the other didn’t. They had received a letter from a man and his family to whom they had taught several discussions. The letter told the elders to come by and pick up the Book of Mormon because the family had decided they were not interested in continuing the discussions.
The more outwardly talented elder felt confident that by using all his social skills and all his learning he would be able to change the man’s mind. During the meeting he used every persuasive skill he could think of. The other elder listened. Finally the man agreed to continue the discussions.
Later, at the family’s baptism, the talented elder remembered the night with some degree of pride. After the baptism the man told him, “The night I changed my mind and continued to have you teach me was the most important night of my life. As you talked to me, my mind was so determined to not listen that there was nothing you could have said that would have caused me to continue. But then I looked at your companion. His eyes were focused on me. I saw in his face more love than I had ever known before. My heart felt a spirit that made it so I could not resist his silent message. I decided then that if this church could cause someone to love like that, then I wanted to be part of it.”

Long ago, when I first became an LDS chaplain in the Air Force, my wife and I were stationed at a large military training center. Every Sunday evening we opened our house to all of the Latter-day Saint military students for a family home evening. We sang, played games, shared joys and disappointments, and inhaled the refreshments. But, most of all, we tried to make sure no one was ever left to feel alone. Something happened there that we’ve never forgotten.
One night my wife and I decided to have a “do-it-yourself” lesson for the students. We handed out crayons, construction paper, clay, and building blocks to everyone and asked them to create something that would reflect their feelings about family home evening and why they would continue to have it as they went on to future military assignments. Some drew pictures, some wrote poems, some made paper models, everybody did something—even John.
John was our quiet one. He always came, but he never spoke to anyone. You see, he was from a very underprivileged background, and social life was not his way. He always stood in a corner by himself and occasionally smiled. My wife and I often worried for his welfare because he seemed so alone. But that night John did more than smile; he spoke from the very depths of his soul to the depths of ours.
When everyone else had finished showing their creations and attempts to capture the spirit of family home evening, John took his turn. He stepped out of his corner and held up the sheep he had sculptured from what had been a lump of ugly clay. But the clay was no longer ugly; it gained meaning in John’s hands as he said, “This represents the lost sheep that the Savior left the ninety and nine to find. I was lonely, and you found me. I was sad, and you brought me good cheer. It was here in this family home evening with all of you students that I found true friendship and love. Thank you.”
Over 60 eyes were wet with tears as he finished, because John had taught us the true meaning of Matthew 25:40 [Matt. 25:40]: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”
I keep John’s sheep in a place where I can always see it. It reminds me that it is for people like him, people who feel they are alone, that we are to “bear one another’s burdens ” (Mosiah 18:8).

Just after my baptism on 31 October 1980, a friend invited me to a ward party. I said to myself, This Church is nice; they even throw a party for me. I later realized I wasn’t really the guest of honor. But at the party my friend introduced me to a young woman and told her to take good care of me. Annie Ortiz was indeed a good fellowshipper. At this time, she is still taking good care of me. We were married in 1985 and sealed in the Manila Philippines Temple.

Illustration by Bradley H. Clark
I was a girl when I first saw my mother’s wedding dress. It was carefully wrapped inside a box, and I remember my mother unwrapping it tenderly so I could see it. How beautiful it was! I so much wanted to wear that dress when the day of my marriage arrived.
My mother gently put it back and promised to lend it to me in the future. She said the dress had been a special gift from my father. She looked so in love and beautiful in her wedding photographs. My parents, not members of the Church, were wonderful people.
I learned about the Church when I met the man who would become my husband. That meeting was unusual because, though he was not active in the Church, our meeting led to the story of the First Vision. I found the story amazing, but I was not ready to accept it.
After we had dated for 16 months, my dreams came true when I put on my mother’s wedding dress with its long tail and walked down the aisle toward my fiancé. I also was so in love. Many people said I looked just like my mother when she married.
Years passed, and we had two sons. When my husband tried to return to church, I hindered his efforts. Though I wasn’t active in the church of my youth, I had a hard time accepting another church.
That finally changed after 19 years of marriage. My husband returned to church, and a few weeks later I began to attend with him. My testimony grew rapidly, and I was baptized and confirmed. Soon afterward my greatest desire was to prepare myself to be sealed to my husband in the temple.
When the happy day of our sealing arrived, I wore my mother’s white dress again. A friend from church had adjusted it so it would be proper to wear in the temple. I have worn it there ever since.
By the time my father had passed away and my mother had entered her last days, she still wasn’t ready to accept the restored Church. But I told her many wonderful things about the Restoration. I also told her that when she crossed the veil, she was going to hear the message of the true gospel. I promised her that after a year, I would wear our dress in her behalf so she could vicariously receive temple ordinances and be sealed to my father. And I did.
My dress is old now, and I know that one day I will have to retire it. Until that day comes, I will continue to wear it with love—for my husband, for my mother and father, for family members I have served vicariously in the temple, for the true gospel, for my sacred covenants, and for my Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.

Last Christmas I received a special gift from my mother. She had carefully kept in her possession over these many years a little book I first received from my parents in 1944, when I was 10 years of age.
This is the book. It is a journal in which I was taught to record on a weekly basis my income and expenses.
As an example, my entry for the week of 29 July 1944 records that I started the week with $24.05 on hand and earned $7.00 working on our family farm. For expenses, I spent 5 cents for candy, $3.45 for a purchase, 20 cents for a movie, and $2.37 for personal clothing. I also invested $20.00 in a war savings bond and paid 70 cents tithing. I ended the week with $4.28 on hand.
I remember questioning my father whether my wage of 25 cents an hour might be increased. But remembering that a movie was 20 cents and candy cost only 5 cents, I now realize I was probably overpaid.
As I looked through this journal of more than 50 years ago, I noted that every week during the years 1944 and 1945, I paid tithing of 10 percent of my income for that week. In December 1944 I recorded that I had paid $12.35 in tithing that year—a full tithing.
This is where and how I learned to pay tithing.

“Hey, do you want to dance?”
I turned around to see a guy I vaguely recognized looking at me quizzically. The lights were dim and the music was loud, but I thought he was in my English class.
“Sure,” I said, and we made our way through the crowd to the dance floor.
“So, what’s your name?” he yelled. I couldn’t hear him very clearly above the music and voices surrounding us, but I knew what he said anyway. The dance conversation at BYU is always the same. It goes: “What’s your name? What’s your major? Where’re you from?”
I know this seems like an innocent conversation and nothing to complain about, but that third question is a real problem for me. I know my name, and I’ve known my major since I was a freshman, but to answer “Where are you from?” is practically impossible.
You see, my dad was in the U.S. Air Force the whole time I lived at home, and we lived in nine different places before I turned 18. So you tell me—where am I from?
Sometimes I give my origin according to my mood. Do I feel like I’m from Nebraska today, or is it more an Alaska day? Maybe I feel Southern and I’ll say Georgia, but then there’s always Colorado, Arizona, or California, if I feel like being from the West.
Of course, this method can get dangerous if friends start comparing notes, so I generally stick to a more honest answer. Lately I’ve taken to saying where my parents live right now. It saves time and gives curious people the definite answer they crave. It’s especially useful for loud and crowded dance floors.
One day I spent a lot of time thinking about where I was from. I tried to imagine a house I would call home, streets that would bring back childhood memories, and friends that could remember elementary school with me. And I realized that for me, home is not any of those things.
For me, home is my family. My two brothers, my sister, and my parents are what I think of when I think of home. Sure, I remember the houses we’ve lived in, but after my family left, the houses weren’t home anymore. I’ve gone back to look at some of them, and there always seems to be something missing.
I remember places I played when I was a child, too, but I don’t have any reason to go back to them now that my family is gone. And the only people who have known me since childhood are the members of my family.
I remember certain pieces of furniture that have been in our different houses, and I admit that I associate those with home. But they could change, just like the houses and towns and states have changed, and I would still have a home. Everything about a house can change, and as long as the love of the family that once lived there stays the same, there is still a home.
At times in my life I have craved a hometown and dreamed of one house to call home.
Now that I’m on my own, I know it’s not a house that I miss but my family. They are my home. Maybe I did miss out on some traditional aspects of home-town America. But I think I gained something beyond the memories of a particular house on a particular street. Instead, I know that no matter where my family happens to be, I can always go home.

I met William on the first day of my third year of teaching English in the adult high school program at our local community college. He was small, dark-eyed, with tight blond curls, rather unattractive, unwashed, and, as I soon came to discover, almost totally illiterate. It was the early ’70s, when long hair was popular among the young and drugs were beginning to be a major problem. I thought, Here’s another victim of the drug culture, and my heart sank.
After making my introductory remarks, I asked the class, as I always do on the first day of school, to write about themselves. Looking from student to student, I noticed that William worked very hard on his paragraph, grasping the pencil in a stranglehold, licking the point every few minutes. William’s face was close to the paper, his brows knit close together.
The rest of the class completed the assignment rather quickly and grew restless. I let them leave. It took William 40 minutes to print a few lines, and when he at last handed it to me, I could not read it. He stood at my desk staring at me while I looked at the paper.
“You want I should read it for you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“My name is William, and I live off a government pension in my car in an empty garage. I’m 19 years old, and since I was 11 I been a drinker. Now I’ve decided to be a learner.”
I had never before taught a student who could hardly read and write. I had no idea how to handle the problem.
“You’ve misspelled every word,” I said.
William looked dismayed. “I can learn,” he said.
“All right. I’ll print them correctly, and when you come to class tomorrow, plan to write them for me.”
“A spell test,” he said, as though it were some magical word.
I looked away from him. “Look, William …” I meant to tell him that the class would be impossible, that his skills were so poor he would fall behind immediately, and that there was no hope for him to catch up. I meant to tell him he could not possibly succeed. But instead I said, “Your basic skills are somewhat limited. How hard are you willing to work?”
He stared at me.
“We’ll be studying difficult writers—like Shakespeare and Twain.”
“Who?”
“William Shakespeare. Mark Twain.”
“Oh,” he said. And after a pause he added, “I can learn.”
“It won’t be easy for you,” I said, “but if you work hard …”
I didn’t expect to see him ever again, but the following day William was the first one in the room. He took a front-row seat, and as I taught, his eyes followed me intently, his brows knit into the same shaggy line, his mouth slightly open as he listened. After class ended, he stood by my desk staring at me for a long time.
“What is it?” I asked, irritated.
“I’m ready to spell,” he said.
And he was. He had memorized all the words, and as I called them out to him he wrote them quickly.
He stood watching as I marked his paper, putting a check by each correct word and then an A+ and a large I AM SO PROUD OF YOU at the top of the page. For the first time, I saw William smile. He took the test, folded it carefully, and put it into his shirt pocket.
“Now,” he said, “I’d like to pick up some on my reading. You got anything I can borrow?”
“I don’t think I have anything appropriate,” I said. Opening the desk drawer I began to look through the papers and books.
“What about that?” he said, pointing to a copy of Huckleberry Finn.
My hand hesitated, and then I shook my head. “It would be too hard for you.”
“I’ve done hard things all my life,” he said.
I pulled Ellie the Elephant Learns to Fly, one of my daughter’s books, from my desk drawer.
“That’s for little kids,” he said.
“It’s for new readers,” I said, handing it to him.
“I want that other one.”
Ignoring his comment, I opened the child’s book and began to read aloud, resting a finger under each word while he stood beside me watching and listening.
“Let me do it now.” He read hesitantly and with great difficulty. “See, if somebody shows me, I can learn. If I had that other book, I could work at it. I’m not stupid.”
I gave him Huckleberry Finn.
Each day I sent William home to the garage with a list of words clutched in one hand and one of my daughter’s books tucked under his arm. Every morning he came back with the material mastered. A few weeks later he returned the Twain text. “I read it,” he said, and the look of pride on his face brought tears to my eyes.
That week I gave him a bag containing a bar of soap, a washcloth, a towel, and deodorant. “This is an important part of education, too,” I said.
He looked in the bag and then at me, stunned. But the next day William was clean. And he was reading and writing with greater confidence. He had progressed so much that he insisted on taking his turn at reading poems from our literature text aloud. And every day he stayed after class for an hour to talk with me. Actually, he asked question after question, and I tried to answer them.
His enthusiasm for learning was contagious, and soon three other students began to stay, too. There was Suzy, who later trained as a registered nurse; Jody, who went on to earn a doctorate in biology; and George, who planned to become a physician but died in a motorcycle accident that spring.
George’s death upset the class deeply, and we spent that day talking about the transient quality of life, trying to answer the eternal questions—where did we come from, what are we doing here, and what happens to us when we die? I taught the class that knowledge is power, that the glory of God is intelligence, and that all we take with us from this world to the next is our relationships with others and the knowledge we gain in this life.
“There are two ways most people learn,” I told them. “One way is by experience—and life doesn’t last long enough for us to get all our knowledge that way. The other is to read.” I encouraged them to spread their wings and learn while they were young and filled with energy and enthusiasm.
One day William came into class with a list of quotations he’d copied from the library, and he shared them with us. He particularly loved “Knowledge is the wings wherewith we fly.”
“Watch me fly, teacher.” He spread his arms and flapped them, bringing laughter from the students and me.
William (this genius—the only true genius I ever taught) was my student for two years of English. When he graduated, I sat in the audience and watched with pride, tears brimming my eyes. He enrolled in the community college program and continued his education. On occasion he stopped by my office during the week, sharing with me the excitement of his new world. Each Friday afternoon he borrowed one of my books, which he quickly read and returned. On one occasion, he asked to read my Book of Mormon. I gave him a copy and a week later learned that he had called the missionary number left with my testimony on a front page. At his baptism, I gave him the Pearl of Great Price.
Last spring I received a card from William. He was teaching Spanish and American literature at a large university. “We’re reading Huckleberry Finn,” he wrote, “and I’ve never been happier. I seem to have a gift for languages.” He continued, “Remember years back when you had to teach me English? For all you did for me, I thank you, teacher. Thank you for lending me your wings while I was growing my own.”

On June 23, 2009, the Philippines experienced a typhoon. That afternoon, our area was placed under a severe storm warning. The rest of that day and into the night, we heard something banging on our rooftop. When my son asked what it was, I told him it was our santol tree being whipped by the wind.
I regretted not picking the santol’s sweet fruit a day earlier, as I had planned. But my mother had told me the fruit wasn’t ripe yet and to leave it alone.
At 5:00 a.m. I went outside to look at the tree, fearing to see all the fruit on the ground. I couldn’t see into the tree—it was still dark outside—but I did see four small fruits scattered around our backyard.
An hour later I again inspected the tree. To my delight I saw many big, yellow-green fruit still clinging to the branches. Collecting those that had fallen, I noted that two of them had brownish lesions at the bottom. Black speckles discolored the other one, and the last was misshapen and warty in appearance.
I had expected the bigger, heavier fruit to have fallen; they were twice as big as the ones I collected. But there they were: still securely hanging on to the tree.
Illustration by Allen Garns
As I thought about the experience, I concluded that we are much like the two kinds of santol fruits—the ones that fell and the ones that held on. We too could fall when buffeted by the windy trials of life if we aren’t holding firm to the tree of life, our Savior Jesus Christ (see 1 Nephi 8:10; 11:8–9, 20–23).
The fruits that fell from our santol tree were weak with disease, not able to withstand the wind. The ones that remained on the tree survived because they were healthy and strong. If we don’t keep ourselves spiritually strong and healthy—learning from the scriptures and the living prophets, keeping the commandments, serving others—we too might fall when the adversary brings his forces against us.
The moment the tender fruits stopped drawing on the strength of the santol tree, their maturation stopped. So too the moment we separate ourselves from Christ, the true vine, our spiritual progress stops (see John 15:1; 1 Nephi 15:15).
Sometimes too we need to bend with the wind. Trials are part of mortality, and a humble spirit helps us accept the will of God in hard times. Humility helps us repent of our sins, forgive others, and forget offenses.
Allied with humility is patience. If we are patient in our trials, if we hold on to our faith a little longer, the answers we seek may come. Sooner or later the Savior will calm the storm. Peace and deliverance will come. If we remain obedient and faithful, nothing can separate us from the love of God (see Romans 8:38–39).

It was a hot summer day on my mission. My companion and I had been walking all over the streets of St. Petersburg, Russia, hoping to find new investigators. That evening we met an elderly man near our home and began talking with him. Although he did not express any interest in the gospel, we both felt impressed to give him a copy of the Book of Mormon. Inside the book we wrote our good wishes for him, our testimonies, and our contact information.
Later that same evening, unbeknownst to us, a young man by the name of Ilya was out with his brother. While walking along a dimly lit underground street, Ilya spotted a glimmer of gold on the cover of a book on the ground. Stooping down to get a closer look, he read the gold letters embossed on the book—The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. He picked it up and carried it home.
The next day my companion and I were pondering how we could find new investigators. Thoughts flew through my mind: “We are trying our hardest searching for new opportunities. Where are the results? Maybe we need to change something we’re doing.”
A moment later the telephone rang. I picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end asked, “Is this an elder? I found your lost book in the subway crossing. I want to return it.”
I immediately glanced at the shelf where my scriptures lay. “I don’t think I lost my scriptures in the metro,” I answered. “No, I did not lose my copy of the Book of Mormon, but you can have it and read it.”
The young man said his name was Ilya and explained that he was originally from Orsk, Russia, and had come to St. Petersburg to work.
“I would like to learn more about this book and your church,” he said. “May I meet with you?”
I jumped with excitement. It wasn’t every day that potential investigators called asking to set up a meeting to learn more about the Church.
“Of course we can meet, Ilya!” I responded joyfully.
When we met with Ilya, he listened attentively and asked questions. We were glad that he was so receptive to the gospel.
At one point during the lesson, I opened Ilya’s copy of the Book of Mormon. As I turned to the opening pages, I glimpsed some familiar handwriting—my own! I realized this was the same book we had given to the elderly man the day before. Apparently the man had discarded the book, which was soon discovered by Ilya. I was filled with gratitude that my companion and I had chosen to leave the book with the elderly man, even though at the time we didn’t understand why.
It wasn’t long before Ilya chose to join the Church. He began to enthusiastically share the message of the gospel with his relatives and friends as well.
I have learned that Heavenly Father knows when a person is ready to receive His word. He requires us, as missionaries and members of His Church, only to fulfill His commandments and submit to His will as we seek to share the gospel. In this case God knew that although the original recipient of our Book of Mormon would overlook its value, Ilya would not (see 1 Nephi 19:7).

As a boy I made a startling discovery in Sunday School one Mother’s Day which has remained with me all through the years. Melvin, a sightless brother in the ward, a talented vocalist, would stand and face the congregation as though he were seeing one and all. He would then sing “That Wonderful Mother of Mine.” The bright, glowing embers of memory penetrated human hearts. Men reached for their handkerchiefs; women’s eyes brimmed with tears.

We deacons would go among the congregation carrying a small geranium in a clay pot for presentation to each mother. Some of the mothers were young, some were middle-aged, some were barely hanging on to life in their old age. I became aware that the eyes of each mother were kind eyes. The words of each mother were “Thank you.” I felt the spirit of the statement “When someone gives another person a flower, the fragrance of the flower lingers on the hands of the giver.” I have not forgotten the lesson learned, nor shall I ever forget it.

I was told of a conversation by a Primary teacher, who related what transpired in his class. He was teaching the eleven-year-olds. He asked the question, “Suppose the Lord asked you to build a spaceship big enough to take you and your family and provisions off this planet? Could you do it?”
Steve spoke up and said, “Yes.”
And the teacher said, “Have you ever built a spaceship?”
“No.”
“Have you ever built a model spaceship?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
Steve said, “Yes, on TV.” But then he declared, “You said the Lord told me to build it. If the Lord told me to build it, I could do it.”
I wonder how many of us as adults have that kind of faith.

Perhaps my recent experience as a staff member of a military jail will be of use to you.
I recently completed a tour of duty as chaplain to a centralized military confinement facility. When I first arrived, the staff meetings were full of profanity, even though there were women present. After carefully cultivating the respect of the staff, I one day quietly asked one of the ladies present if she appreciated the type of language being used in that meeting. I was immediately interrupted by one of the principal offenders who said, “Oh, don’t bother Chris; she’s used to us.” Chris then took advantage of this opportunity to say, “I would rather they didn’t talk that way.” As you can well imagine, the entire staff was both surprised and embarrassed; the verbal climate of the staff meetings changed both dramatically and permanently.

I decided to go on foot to stake conference, walking about 30 or 40 minutes with my son, then eight years old. Twenty minutes had passed when I realized that I no longer knew which direction we needed to go. My son, Elson, always a great talker, had been telling me one story or another about things that had happened in school or at home. I asked him to be quiet for a moment, explaining that I needed to think because I feared we were lost.
It was then that my son showed me his faith. He suggested that we offer a prayer. I, with all the intelligence and understanding of an adult (and becoming a little impatient because the hands of the clock were nearing the time for the meeting to begin), answered that if he wanted to offer a prayer, to do so—however, I preferred to think. I said to myself, “There are things we do not need to depend on the Lord for; finding the way to the chapel is one of them.”
As though he were reading my thoughts, Elson gave me a lesson in humility, saying, “Why do you insist on doing things the hard way?” After that he became silent, and I know that in his mind and heart he prayed. Minutes later we arrived at the chapel, and I knew that he had received an answer to his prayer.
As Latter-day Saints, we are blessed to be members of the Church of Jesus Christ. My testimony of the truthfulness of the restored gospel increased when I realized that my son, still a child, knew how to put the principles of faith and prayer into practice, becoming for me an example of how to live the teachings of Jesus Christ.

“One of my most vivid memories is of the irrigation reservoir that my father built. During the week we used to play in the reservoir. I got a couple of railroad ties and made a raft on which I could sail. Frequently we went swimming in the reservoir. One time the reservoir sprung a leak in its bank along the outlet pipe. It started as a little trickle but soon became a large stream. Before we could stop the leak, the water had washed away part of the dike that served as the bank of the reservoir. Several men from around the neighborhood tried to help by shoveling in dirt, throwing in rocks, and stacking sandbags, but they were unable to control the escaping water, which did a great deal of damage by washing away the crops that were below it. Many times after that I had a kind of nightmare dream about our farm being washed away.
“When I was older, my father permitted me to have a little bit of land of my own to cultivate. I planted raspberries, blackberries, dewberries, and all kinds of garden produce to supplement our food supply. I used to get a seed catalog every year, and I loved to look at those beautiful pictures of radishes, carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, strawberries, watermelons, cantaloupes, etc., and imagine what I could produce by putting a few seeds into the ground. I loved the soil, and I loved to see things grow.
“I think that I learned more on the farm that helped me to succeed in life than I did in any other place. It was while farming that I learned how to work consistently, joyfully, and to the best of my ability. I was motivated by my own enthusiasm, without any prompting from others.”
Elder Sill wishes to impart this message to the children of the world: “In our preexistence, we lived with God, who is our Teacher and our Eternal Heavenly Father. And by the quality of our lives there, we earned the right to be born and to live now.
“What a great time it is to grow up under the most favorable conditions that have ever been known upon our earth. Many of you will have all of the education you could possibly desire. The gospel has been restored in a fulness never before known so that the pathway to eternal life is now brilliantly lighted and perfectly marked. No one need get off that strait and narrow way leading to the celestial kingdom, except by his own choice. God, who is concerned about our destiny, will abundantly bless us if we will always remember to serve and to worship Him.
“The best success formula that I know of in the world is to keep the Lord’s commandments with no exceptions permitted. In the words of Dicken’s Tiny Tim, ‘God bless us, every one.’”

Sarah Thompson was hurrying to gather the laundry so she could get everything finished before her husband, Ted, got home from work. She opened Melissa’s bedroom door and hurried toward her closet to retrieve the multitude of shirts, blue jeans, and socks for the washer. When she turned to leave, she realized that she wasn’t alone in the room.
“Why, Melissa, I thought you were outside playing with the rest of the children. What’s the matter, dear?”
Melissa had obviously been crying, and it took a while for her to choke out the words: “I—I don’t want to get baptized on Saturday.”
Sister Thompson quickly joined her daughter on the bed and took her in her arms. “Melissa, dear, it’s all right. But you’ve been talking about your baptism for months, and you could hardly wait for your eighth birthday. Why have you changed your mind?”
“I’m scared.”
Sister Thomspon smiled. “Melissa, you’ve been to baptisms before. What is there to be afraid of? Besides, your friends Ann and Sarah will be baptized on Saturday too. Won’t they help to give you courage?”
“But they’re different from me,” Melissa said in a soft, unsteady voice. “They’ll have their dads there to baptize them.”
Sister Thompson knew that Melissa’s nonmember father couldn’t baptize their daughter, but she had thought that Melissa was pleased that their home teacher had promised to do it. “I thought you liked Brother Adamson, dear,” she said. “He’s such a special man.”
“I love Brother Adamson,” Melissa sobbed, “but it’s not the same. He’s not Dad.”
“Sweetheart …” Sister Thompson tried to comfort her daughter. She loved her husband very much, but at the same time her own heart was breaking. She thought of all the times she had wanted to share special spiritual experiences with her husband but had been unable to. Now it was hurting their child. Maybe she had made the wrong decision when she had listened to the missionaries and had decided to be baptized. Yet she had received a strong testimony, and she had been sure that Ted would soon realize how true and good the gospel was. But that had been three years ago, and he still showed no sign of ever wanting to become a member of the Church.
“Melissa,” Sister Thompson began again gently, “do you enjoy going to Primary?”
“Oh, yes! I love the stories, and my teacher, Sister Westover, is so nice.” Melissa had stopped crying.
“Do you believe those stories?” Sister Thompson continued.
“Yes, of course I do,” Melissa answered confidently. “I know that the Church is true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet.”
“How can you show that you know it is true?” her mother urged.
Melissa realized what her mother was trying to tell her, and she knew that she would be baptized on Saturday. But without her dad to share it with—it just seemed kind of scary. Melissa smiled at her mother and said, “Maybe Dad will come to see me get baptized on Saturday. I’m going to ask him just as soon as he gets home.” Melissa went outside to wait for her dad.
Sister Thompson remained sitting on the bed, deep in thought. Ted hasn’t attended a Church meeting yet. He has gone with us to several church socials, but nothing about the gospel has really interested him. She hoped that Melissa wasn’t in for another disappointment.
Melissa saw their car turn into the driveway, and she ran across the lawn to meet her father. Ted Thompson got out of his car, took his daughter in his arms, and gave her a big hug. “What’s my little one so excited about today?” he asked with a smile.
“Oh, Daddy! I’m getting baptized on Saturday, don’t you remember?”
Mr. Thompson suddenly grew serious, “Yes, your mother told me about it.”
Melissa hurried on, not noticing her father’s concerned look. “Dad will you come and see me—will you, please? Everybody else’s father will be there. You’ll come, won’t you?” Melissa pleaded.
Mr. Thompson was caught off guard, and he didn’t know what to say. Finally he mumbled, “We’ll see. We’ll see. It’s still a long time until Saturday.”
Melissa was disappointed, but she decided that a “we’ll see” was better than a “no.” She gave her dad a final squeeze and ran next door to play with her friends.
Saturday was a beautiful, clear day, and Melissa thought that it was a perfect day for her baptism. She hadn’t talked to her father about coming with her since that day in the front yard. But he hadn’t said anything, so she assumed he would be there.
That afternoon Melissa took a long, hot bath, and her mother helped her get dressed in her prettiest Sunday dress. Hanging in the hallway waiting to be put into the car was the lovely white baptismal dress Sister Thompson had made for Melissa. When they were ready to go, Sister Thompson said, “We’d better hurry, dear, or we’ll be late.”
“I’ll get Dad,” Melissa replied. But when she entered the living room, Melissa saw that her father was still in his work clothes, reading the newspaper. “Dad, aren’t you ready for the baptism? We’ll be late!”
Mr. Thompson looked at his daughter’s anxious face and said, “Melissa, dear, I can’t go to your baptism. I’d feel out of place. I just don’t belong there. Please don’t be angry with me.”
Melissa was out of the room and running for the car before he had even finished. Sister Thompson saw the tears in her daughter’s eyes, and for the second time that week she wondered if she had made a mistake in joining the Church.
There was great excitement in the girls’ dressing room as Ann, Sarah, and Melissa changed clothes for their baptism.
“I’m so excited!” Sarah exclaimed. “Dad gave me my very own Book of Mormon. It has a leather cover, and it has my name on it and everything!”
“That’s really neat,” said Ann. “My whole family’s going over to my grandma and grandpa’s after the baptism. Grandma promised to help me start on my Book of Remembrance.”
Sarah and Ann noticed that Melissa was very quiet. “What are you going to do afterward, Melissa?” Sarah asked.
“Well, I’m not sure.” Melissa knew that they would just be going home, but she added, “Mom and Dad are probably going to surprise me.”
Melissa slipped her white dress off its hanger, and as she began to pull it over her head, she noticed a piece of paper pinned inside. She unpinned it and saw that it was in her father’s handwriting! “My dear Melissa,” she read, “I’m sorry that I won’t be there with you today. I want you to know that I am very proud of you. You have made a very important decision in your life. I only hope that I can have enough courage to make that same decision some day. Please remember that I love you very much. Daddy.”
Melissa wiped the tears from her eyes as she finished dressing. When Brother Adamson helped her down the steps of the baptismal font, Melissa had the most radiant smile that her mother had ever seen. Sister Thompson knew then that she hadn’t made a mistake three years before when she, too, had entered that same baptismal font.