Gospel Story Finder

Living near the coast on Vancouver Island, Marnie gets many opportunities to go to the ocean. “I hike to Witty’s Lagoon sometimes. You can see whales and sea lions there,” said Marnie. “Once when I was there with my friends Kara and Nina and my sister Stephanie, two sea lions came up not far from us and played for fifteen or twenty minutes. When we got out of the water, they swam away. Another time our family was at Witty’s Lagoon with Brother Bedesso from our ward. We put inflated inner tubes on each end of a big log we found so that it would float better. Then Dad, Brother Bedesso, Stephanie, Kristy, Melissa, and I all sat on the log and sailed in the lagoon. Later that day we caught a dogfish, which is a kind of small shark.
“I like to swim in fresh water, too,” said Marnie. (There are two fresh-water lakes near Marnie’s home.) “I like to wade in the water and put logs out to sail.”
“Our family goes to Sealand sometimes. There are three killer whales there, and we know that if we stand in a certain spot, the trainer will pick us to feed the whales. So Stephanie, Melissa, Kristy, and I have been able to feed the whales.”
Marnie does her share to help her mother, Linda, and her father, Doug, do the housework and yard work. “I help clean the house, and I put my laundry away and make my bed. Sometimes I take care of Kellie, and I make supper every Saturday. Well, not exactly every Saturday, but lots of Saturdays. In the summer I water the raspberry bushes.
“Each day Stephanie, Melissa, Kristy, and I draw sticks with jobs written on them to see who clears the table after supper, washes the dishes, and dries the dishes. One stick says that that person gets the day off. If you get three days off in a row, the next day you have to do the clearing, washing, and wiping all by yourself.”
Marnie, Melissa, and Stephanie are in the same class at school. “It’s a combined class with twenty-one other students,” Marnie explained. “Having sisters in your class is neat. We don’t always do our homework together, though, because we don’t always have the same homework. Sometimes,” she added, “being in the same class can cause problems. Like today: I expected Melissa to bring home her social studies book because she always brings her books home.”
“And Marnie usually ‘forgets’ her books,” Melissa put in.
“Well, we have a social studies test tomorrow,” added Marnie, “and not one of us brought our book home to study, because we all thought that someone else would bring hers.”
“In Primary Melissa and I aren’t in the same class, but sometimes our teachers let us sit together during opening exercises and Sharing Time. I like Primary. One of my favorite lessons that I learned in Primary was from a talk that one of our leaders gave. She said that once when she was little and had gone out trick-or-treating, some teenagers took her bag of candy away from her. Her brother saw how sad she was and gave her his bag of candy. I thought that was a good lesson.” And it’s a lesson that Marnie Payne lives by.

A similar feeling to the one I experienced is described by Elfriede Pawlowski in the book Behind the Iron Curtain. She had been struggling with “an evil power” that seemed to try to prevent her from accepting the gospel. Then one day in branch meeting, this dark power tried to overcome her again. She later wrote:
I prayed fervently that the Lord would free me from this power so I could understand the gospel. . . . Then something happened that I will never forget. A new skin almost seemed to be drawn over me. It began with the top of my head and went down over my shoulders and over my entire body right down to the tips of my toes. At first, I was somewhat frightened, but a feeling of freedom came over me, a lightness, and a deep feeling of gratitude. [Elfriede Pawlowski, “If God Is for Us, Who Can Be Against Us?” in Behind the Iron Curtain, 72]

My family has a few of these recorded "spiritual treasures." I'd like to share one with you today. Over the years, it has been an important source of inspiration for me and my family. It's the story of Geertje and Pieter Janse.

It begins on December 23, 1911, in the town of Middleburg in the Netherlands. My grandmother Adriana Janse, only 11 years old at the time, was skipping down the path to her home, excited about the arrival of the holidays. Not paying attention to where she was going, she bumped into a nice-looking young man who had gold fillings in his teeth and was chewing gum--sure signs that he was an American.

When Adriana told her mother about the American who was knocking on the doors of the neighborhood, her mother, who was cleaning the stove at the time, told Adriana she wasn't interested in buying anything. The missionary must have had a good door approach, however, because eventually my great-grandmother Geertje found herself talking to the elder while keeping her sooty hands behind her back.

During the course of the discussion, Geertje professed that, as a good member of the Dutch Reformed Church, she was among the saved and had the mark on her forehead, probably referring to Revelation 14:1, where the believers have the name of God on their foreheads. Then, forgetting about the soot on her hands, she "placed her forefinger on her forehead," leaving "a very black, sooty mark," much to her embarrassment.[5]

Despite this awkward introduction, Geertje was intrigued by the missionary's message. My great-grandmother Geertje was a deeply religious woman who was a seeker of truth. She invited the missionary back.

With each visit of the missionaries, the Spirit worked on her, and eventually she desired to be baptized. Unfortunately, her husband, Pieter, my great-grandfather, did not approve. He had become convinced that it was an evil thing his wife was trying to do. He became spiteful and often angry, going so far as to tell Geertje that if she joined the Mormons, he would drown himself in the neighborhood canal.

However, it's clear from the accounts left to us that Geertje was a formidable woman who knew her own mind. May 6, 1912, was set for the day of the baptism. It was rainy and cold. Pieter was still angry, but Geertje, after praying, received a witness that she should go forward. As she left to go to the baptism, she met Pieter coming home from work. He quietly said, "So you are going to do this; so I wish you luck."[6] She thought perhaps her husband was reconciled to her choice.

As the first to commit to baptism in the town, Geertje had the honor of being the first baptized. Family records indicate that as she stepped into the cold water of the canal, she gave a loud shout.

Meanwhile, back at home things were not going well. Pieter was clearly distraught. When my grandmother Adriana served dinner, he swept it off the table onto the floor and ordered the children to bed. My grandmother remembers lying in bed in fear--she'd never seen her father "so ugly and hateful."[7]

Three times that night, Pieter left the home, walked to the canal, and removed his hat and coat in preparation for jumping in to drown himself. Each time, the thought of his children stopped him. On the third time, a woman's shout startled him. Again, thinking about his children, he went home to check on them. It was then that he knew that he could not do such a terrible thing.

The historian in me is skeptical that Pieter heard Geertje's shout from what was likely some distance away. The great-grandson part of me, on the other hand, loves this part of the story. Perhaps as a blessing for Geertje's faithfulness, the Lord intervened in this way, bringing Pieter to his senses.

Three weeks after my great-grandmother's baptism, my grandmother Adriana was baptized. And finally, four months after Geertje, Pieter entered the waters of baptism. Don't you just love happy endings? If this were Hollywood, snappy music would start playing, and the credits would roll at this point.

But the nice thing about real historical stories is the way they have of complicating storybook endings. Pieter lost his job at the lumberyard because of his new religion. Then war broke out in Europe. The family decided to gather to Zion. But it was a hard time for them, a strange place and new language. They weren't always treated kindly, even in Zion.

Still, Geertje and Pieter remained true to the faith that they had embraced in Holland. They passed on to my mother a commitment to faith that she in turn passed on to me, and which I seek to pass on to my children.

Here is a picture of the family in Utah. The account left by my grandmother has been one of those building blocks of my faith. I confess that there have been times in my life, when facing adversity, that I've been tempted to wimp out. Living by faith isn't always easy. But the memory of the sacrifices made by Geertje and Pieter give me pause. I picture in my mind the strong face of Geertje Janse and think that perhaps I can do it after all.

Nearly a year ago, in Pasadena, California, Sister Janice Burgoyne was dying of cancer. She had shared generously of herself and was dearly loved. Her Relief Society sisters were bringing her meals, cleaning her house, caring for her two young sons, helping her husband plan a funeral. It was hard for Janice to receive so much help, knowing that her sisters would find that piece of old toast behind the couch. She worried her sisters would know more than her heart. But because her sisters knew her heart, it didn’t matter. They provided car pools, tutored homework, played her piano, changed bedding. And they did it day after day after day, without complaint, with boundless charity. Such sharing forever changed those sisters. Before she died, Janice turned to a Relief Society sister and asked with gratitude and awe, “How does anyone die without Relief Society?”

As a young child, I believed we had a prophet and that he spoke the truth; but I’m not sure I understood that the prophet was speaking to me personally. When I was a young wife and mother, my husband spent two years in the air force. We lived in military housing on Long Island, New York. While tending our young children, I often visited with neighbors who had come from all over the country. One day as a neighbor and I were talking about our beliefs, she became curious about what was different about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I told her briefly about the Restoration, and I explained that the restored Church of Jesus Christ has a living prophet today. This really seemed to pique her interest, and she wanted to know what the prophet had said. As I started to tell her about the Doctrine and Covenants and modern revelation, she said, “But what has he said lately?” I told her about general conference and that the Church had a monthly publication with a message from the prophet. Then she got really interested. I was so embarrassed to admit that I hadn’t read the current message. She concluded our conversation by saying, “You mean you have a living prophet and you don’t know what he said?” In that situation I hadn’t shown what it meant to sustain.

Otavalo, a beautiful city in northeastern Ecuador, is even more beautiful in my memory because of an experience I had there while serving in the Ecuador Quito Mission. One afternoon in September 1996 my companion and I were walking to a teaching appointment. Suddenly, some children ran out of a small, humble house, crying, “A blessing! A blessing! Give us a blessing!”
We were astonished and didn’t know what to think. We considered ignoring them and continuing on, but something prompted us to find out what was happening. We feared something terrible had taken place.
The children quickly ran back inside the house. We followed them and found a lady who was as surprised to see us as we were surprised to see her. We explained what had happened, and smiling, she told us, “The children were just playing.” We talked for a few minutes, took her name as a referral, then left.
Two days later we returned and discovered she was a member of the Church. She hadn’t gone to church for a long time, she said, mostly because she hadn’t felt anyone had encouraged her. Her children were not members of the Church. We sensed that she wanted the gospel of Jesus Christ to be part of her and her children’s lives.
We shared the message of the gospel with her children, and they were baptized two weeks later. At the baptismal service, one of the children began to cry with joy. He said his mother had changed, and he was very happy the Lord had sent the missionaries to their house.
Little did those children know that when they so playfully asked for a blessing, the Lord would answer them—in abundance. Today, the family continues to be strong and faithful in the Church.

“When Robert Reeve, one of my ancestors, and Alexander Wright went to general conference in 1862, they heard their names read out to go to the Cotton Mission in southern Utah. They went and stayed thirty years,” Elder Rex C. Reeve said, adding, “Later my grandfather, William Arthur Reeve, and my father, Arthur Reeve, moved north to Hinckley, Utah, to operate a farm owned by one of the Apostles. In a few years they got their own farms, and so I was born in Hinckley.
“I enjoyed Hinckley a great deal. The people there were faithful and devoted.” Elder Reeve chuckled and added, “Anyone who can survive down there can survive anywhere, because there are rattlesnakes, sagebrush, greasewood, alkali, wind, heat, and very little moisture.
“My father was a big man, six feet four inches tall. He was probably as fine an athlete as any in the state. He could run, pole-vault, and throw the discus. He played on the team that won the first Church M-Men basketball championship. He was also on the all-state basketball team. He might have had a promising athletic career, but his dad died, and as the oldest of eleven children, he had to leave school to help raise his brothers and sisters. Dad was a great soul, very generous, and he worked in the Scouting program for forty years.
“My mother was only five feet two inches tall. A very capable individual, she had been a schoolteacher before I was born, and she was an elocutionist (one who excels in public speaking). Before I started school, she taught me all the things that are taught in the first, second, and third grades. When my two brothers and two sisters came along, she didn’t have as much time to spend teaching me, and then I was just ordinary in school.
“During the Depression, my grandfather came to live with us. He had crossed the plains eighteen times, bringing people to Utah from Missouri. He would get an assignment to do this just as you might be assigned to work on the welfare farm. I sat at his feet and listened to his stories about hauling rocks for the temple, crossing the plains, and hunting bears. He was a good hunter—he had to be to survive.
“This grandfather was a stake clerk, and he would go around the stake to audit the books. He would travel in a horse and buggy maybe forty miles to a town where a ward was, audit the books, stay overnight, then go twenty-five miles to another town. One time when he was in Oak City, he had a feeling that he should return home that night. He hitched up his horse and buggy and drove twenty-six miles to his home, getting there just as the sun was coming up. He hurried into the house and asked his wife what was wrong. She told him that their youngest daughter was near death. He blessed the little girl, and she was made well.
“My mother’s mother really made an impression on me. When I was nine, she had a stroke and could no longer speak. I remember her lying on a bed in my aunt’s home. The doctor thought that she should have a stimulant, so he had some coffee prepared to give to her. She had never drunk coffee, and I can still see the fire in her eyes as she let the doctor know that she wasn’t going to drink any then, either! He got the message, and she didn’t get the coffee.
“My other grandmother, my dad’s mother, was a visiting teacher to a family during a flu epidemic after World War I. The whole family was sick with the flu; three of them had already died. My grandmother went into their home and took care of them and even dressed the bodies of the dead members in preparation for their funeral. I have always been impressed with what a faithful visiting teacher she was.
“I myself came down with smallpox, a deadly disease in those days. I was isolated in the granary, which had a stove. Pillows were tied on my hands so that I couldn’t scratch the big pox that covered my body. The Lord blessed me so that today I don’t have any pockmarks. I also had diphtheria, another deadly disease, and the Lord spared my life then too.
“I loved school and had some wonderful teachers. One of them was ElRay L. Christiansen, who later became a General Authority. He would tell us about different pieces of music and make them live for us. I still have a great love for opera and classical music.”
Elder Reeve believes that children must be acquainted with Heavenly Father. If He is the center of their lives and they love Him and talk with Him, then He can take them through any trial or problem. It might not all be pleasant, but they can survive.
“God is real. He lives, and He loves you. He loves every child; He doesn’t have favorites. He is as close to you as you will let Him be by how you live, how you mind your parents, and how you keep His commandments.”

Hamilton was a small boy with short legs. He wished that he were as tall as his daddy so that he could look over the fence and see his friend’s new puppy.
He wished that he were as tall as his mommy so that he could see all the good things to eat on the pantry shelves.
When he went to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, he wished that he were as tall as they were so that he could get out some games without having to bother them.
“Grandpa,” he said, “I wish that I were tall. Then I could see as much as you and Grandma and Mommy and Daddy.”
Grandpa looked at Hamilton.
“I see what the trouble is,” he said. “You have short legs. What you need are tall ones.”
“How do I get tall ones?” Hamilton asked.
“Let’s make some,” Grandpa told him.
Grandpa found two long boards and two short boards. He took some nails out of a glass jar and nailed the short boards to the long ones.
Then he showed Hamilton how to put his feet on the short boards and hold on to the long boards and walk around.
“These are called stilts,” Grandpa said. “When you walk on them, you will have tall legs.”
Hamilton was very happy. Now he could see in Grandma and Grandpa’s toy closet without having to bother them. Now he could find the bread and peanut butter in the pantry all by himself. And now he could look over the fence and see his friend’s new puppy.
“Arf!” said the puppy, wagging his tail very fast. Now he could see Hamilton too!

Many years ago I attended a large gathering of Church members in the city of Berlin, Germany. A spirit of quiet reverence permeated the gathering as an organ prelude of hymns was played. I gazed at those who sat before me. There were mothers and fathers and relatively few children. The majority of those who sat on crowded benches were women about middle age—and alone.
Suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps these were widows, having lost their husbands during World War II. My curiosity demanded an answer to my unexpressed thought, so I asked the conducting officer to take a sort of standing roll call. When he asked all those who were widows to please arise, it seemed that half the vast throng stood. Their faces reflected the grim effect of war’s cruelty. Their hopes had been shattered, their lives altered, and their future had in a way been taken from them. Behind each countenance was a personal travail of tears. I addressed my remarks to them and to all who have loved, then lost, those most dear.
Though perhaps not so cruel and dramatic, yet equally poignant, are the lives described in the obituaries of our day and time when the uninvited enemy called death enters the stage of our mortal existence and snatches from our grasp a loving husband or precious wife and frequently, in the young exuberance of life, our children and grandchildren. Death shows no mercy. Death is no respecter of persons, but in its insidious way it visits all. At times it is after long-suffering and is a blessing; while in other instances those in the prime of life are taken by its grasp.
As of old, the heartbroken frequently and silently repeat the ancient question: “Is there no balm in Gilead?” “Why me; why now?” The words of a beautiful hymn provide a partial answer:
Where can I turn for peace? Where is my solace
When other sources cease to make me whole?
When with a wounded heart, anger, or malice,
I draw myself apart, Searching my soul? …
He answers privately, Reaches my reaching
In my Gethsemane, Savior and Friend.
Gentle the peace he finds for my beseeching.
Constant he is and kind, Love without end.
The plight of the widow is a recurring theme through holy writ. Our hearts go out to the widow at Zarephath. Gone was her husband. Consumed was her scant supply of food. Starvation and death awaited. But then came God’s prophet with the seemingly brazen command that the widow woman should feed him. Her response is particularly touching: “As the Lord thy God liveth, I have not a cake, but an handful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruse: and, behold, I am gathering two sticks, that I may go in and dress it for me and my son, that we may eat it, and die.”
The reassuring words of Elijah penetrated her very being:
“Fear not; go and do as thou hast said: but make me thereof a little cake first, and bring it unto me, and after make for thee and for thy son.
“For thus saith the Lord God of Israel, The barrel of meal shall not waste, neither shall the cruse of oil fail. …
“And she went and did according to the saying of Elijah. …
“And the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail.”
Like the widow at Zarephath was the widow of Nain. The New Testament of our Lord records a moving and soul-stirring account of the Master’s tender regard for the grieving widow:
“And it came to pass … that he went into a city called Nain; and many of his disciples went with him, and much people.
“Now when he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow: and much people of the city was with her.
“And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not.
“And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.
“And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. And he delivered him to his mother.”
What power, what tenderness, what compassion did our Master and Exemplar demonstrate. We, too, can bless if we will but follow His noble example. Opportunities are everywhere. Needed are eyes to see the pitiable plight, ears to hear the silent pleadings of a broken heart; yes, and a soul filled with compassion, that we might communicate not only eye to eye or voice to ear, but in the majestic style of the Savior, even heart to heart.
The word widow appears to have had a most significant meaning to our Lord. He cautioned His disciples to beware of the example of the scribes, who feigned righteousness by their long apparel and their lengthy prayers, but who devoured the houses of widows.
To the Nephites came the direct warning: “I will come near to you to judgment; and I will be a swift witness against … those that oppress … the widow.”
And to the Prophet Joseph Smith, He directed: “The storehouse shall be kept by the consecrations of the church; and widows and orphans shall be provided for, as also the poor.”
The widow’s home is generally not large or ornate. Frequently it is a modest one in size and humble in appearance. Often it is tucked away at the top of the stairs or the back of the hallway and consists of but one room. To such homes He sends you and me.
There may exist an actual need for food, clothing—even shelter. Such can be supplied. Almost always there remains the hope for that special hyacinth to feed the soul.
Go, gladden the lonely, the dreary;
Go, comfort the weeping, the weary;
Go, scatter kind deeds on your way;
Oh, make the world brighter today!
Let us remember that after the funeral flowers fade, the well wishes of friends become memories and the prayers offered and words spoken dim in the corridors of the mind. Those who grieve frequently find themselves alone. Missed are the laughter of children, the commotion of teenagers, and the tender, loving concern of a departed companion. The clock ticks more loudly, time passes more slowly, and four walls do indeed a prison make.
Hopefully, all of us may again hear the echo of words spoken by the Master, inspiring us to good deeds: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … ye have done it unto me.”
The late Elder Richard L. Evans left for our contemplation and action this admonition:
“We who are younger should never become so blindly absorbed in our own pursuits as to forget that there are still with us those who will live in loneliness unless we let them share our lives as once they let us share theirs. …
“We cannot bring them back the morning hours of youth. But we can help them live in the warm glow of a sunset made more beautiful by our thoughtfulness, by our provision, and by our active and unfeigned love. Life in its fullness is a loving ministry of service from generation to generation. God grant that those who belong to us may never be left in loneliness.”
Long years ago a severe drought struck the Salt Lake Valley. The commodities at the storehouse on Welfare Square had not been their usual quality, nor were they found in abundance. Many products were missing, especially fresh fruit. As a young bishop, worrying about the needs of the many widows in my ward, I said a prayer one evening that is especially sacred to me. I pleaded that these widows, who were among the finest women I knew in mortality and whose needs were simple and conservative, had no resources on which they might rely.
The next morning I received a call from a ward member, a proprietor of a produce business situated in our ward. “Bishop,” he said, “I would like to send a semitrailer filled with oranges, grapefruit, and bananas to the bishops’ storehouse to be given to those in need. Could you make arrangements?” Could I make arrangements! The storehouse was alerted, and then each bishop was telephoned and the entire shipment distributed.
The wife of that generous businessman became a widow herself. I know the decision her husband and she made brought her sweet memories and comforting peace to her soul.
I express my sincere appreciation to one and all who are mindful of the widow. To the thoughtful neighbors who invite a widow to dinner and to that royal army of noble women, the visiting teachers of the Relief Society, I add, may God bless you for your kindness and your love unfeigned toward her who reaches out and touches vanished hands and listens to voices forever stilled. The words of the Prophet Joseph Smith describe their mission: “I attended by request, the Female Relief Society, whose object is the relief of the poor, the destitute, the widow and the orphan, and for the exercise of all benevolent purposes.”
Thank you to thoughtful and caring bishops who ensure that no widow’s cupboard is empty, no house unwarmed, no life unblessed. I admire the ward leaders who invite the widows to all social activities, often providing a young Aaronic Priesthood lad to be a special escort for the occasion.
Frequently the need of the widow is not one of food or shelter but of feeling a part of ongoing events. Elder H. Bryan Richards of the Seventy once brought to my office a sweet widow whose husband had passed away during a full-time mission they were serving. Elder Richards explained that her financial resources were adequate and that she desired to contribute to the Church’s General Missionary Fund the proceeds of two insurance policies on the life of her departed husband. I could not restrain my tears when she meekly advised me, “This is what I wish to do. It is what my missionary-minded husband would like.”
The gift was received and entered as a most substantial donation to missionary service. I saw the receipt made in her name, but I believe in my heart it was also recorded in heaven. I invited her and Elder Richards to follow me to the unoccupied First Presidency council room in the Church Administration Building. The room is beautiful and peaceful. I asked this sweet widow to sit in the chair usually occupied by our Church President. I felt he would not mind, for I knew his heart.
As she sat ever so humbly in the large leather chair, she gripped each armrest with a hand and declared, “This is one of the happiest days of my life.” It was also such for Elder Richards and for me.
I never travel to work along busy Seventh East in Salt Lake City but what I see in my mind’s eye a thoughtful daughter, afflicted with arthritis and carrying in her hand a plate of warm food to her aged mother who lived across the busy thoroughfare. She has now gone home to that mother who preceded her in passing. But her lesson was not lost on her daughters, who delight their widowed father by cleaning his house each week, inviting him to dinners in their homes, and sharing with him the laughter of good times together, leaving in that widower’s heart a prayer of gratitude for his children, the light of his life. Fathers experience loneliness as well as mothers.
One evening at Christmastime, my wife and I visited a nursing home in Salt Lake City. We looked in vain for a 95-year-old widow, whose memory had become clouded and who could not speak a word. An attendant led us in our search, and we found Nell in the dining room. She had eaten her meal; she was sitting silently, staring into space. She did not show us any sign of recognition. As I reached to take her hand, she withdrew it. I noticed that she held firmly to a Christmas greeting card. The attendant smiled and said, “I don’t know who sent that card, but she will not lay it aside. She doesn’t speak but pats the card and holds it to her lips and kisses it.” I recognized the card. It was one my wife, Frances, had sent to Nell the week before.
We left more filled with the Christmas spirit than when we entered. We kept to ourselves the mystery of that special card and the life it had gladdened and the heart it had touched. Heaven was nearby.
We need not wait for Christmas; we need not postpone till Thanksgiving Day our response to the Savior’s tender admonition: “Go, and do thou likewise.”
As we follow in His footsteps, as we ponder His thoughts and His deeds, as we keep His commandments, we will be blessed. The grieving widow, the fatherless child, and the lonely of heart everywhere will be gladdened, comforted, and sustained through our service, and we will experience a deeper understanding of the words recorded in the Epistle of James: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.”

It was kind of a ritual. Win or lose, after a football game we’d all pile into my old green car and head for our favorite pizza restaurant. The place was always crowded, especially after a victory. That night, everybody was there after we defeated our rival school team.
By the time the football team arrived, the room was crowded with people. I managed to find a seat in the corner and started looking for Dave, my older brother.
Dave always seemed to be in the center of the action. His easy-going personality made people want to be around him. In the short time we had lived in Colorado, he’d been elected student-body president of our high school.
I wasn’t as popular as Dave in high school, but he often let me tag along with him and his friends—especially when I grew to be bigger than he was. It made me proud to be called “Dave’s big little brother.” As the crowd grew at the restaurant, I finally spotted Dave at a table near the center of the room. Suddenly, somebody yelled, “Hey, everybody, it’s Dave’s eighteenth birthday. He’s a man now.”
“Yeah, now he’s legal,” someone else added. At the time, the law in Colorado stated that if you were eighteen, you could legally buy and drink beer. For the handful of Mormons in our school, turning eighteen was just another birthday. For most of our classmates, though, becoming “legal” was a big event.
Slowly, people began to crowd around Dave’s table, and soon everybody was joining in a rowdy chorus of “Happy Birthday to You.”
“Close your eyes, Dave,” somebody yelled out. A path was cleared as a huge glass of foamy, golden beer was brought forward and thrust into Dave’s hands. The whole place erupted into wild cheers. From off in the corner, I watched Dave and wondered what he would do. He had always been my example. He’d always been faithful. Of course, he’d never faced a situation like this before. I watched him look around the room at the crowd surrounding him. I don’t think he saw me watching him back in the corner.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Dave rose to his feet. He picked up the glass of beer and raised it slowly in the air. My heart was pounding with anticipation, and I imagined Dave’s was, too. Somebody yelled for quiet, and the place grew silent.
“I just want to thank everyone for thinking of me on my birthday,” Dave said, as he looked toward his raised glass. “But come on, you guys. You know me better than that. Thanks, anyway.” As Dave lowered the glass and sat down, a moan rumbled through the crowd. Somebody muttered something about Mormons not having any fun.
Later, I located Dave and we walked out into the crisp autumn air toward my car. “Dave, I was worried for a minute that you might crack under the pressure and do something stupid,” I said.
He just shrugged and said, “There wasn’t any big pressure because I didn’t have to make any decisions tonight. I’d already decided a long time ago that I was going to keep the Word of Wisdom. It’s a lot easier that way.”
I just smiled. As we drove home, I was as proud as ever to be Dave’s big little brother.

Another wonderful experience occurred when an outstanding brother, a high official in the United States Army in charge of all public relations for all of Europe and a member of our mission, was called upon to preside over one of the branches of the Church. In all humility he replied that he felt incapable of assuming such a great responsibility because he did not have the understanding he needed of the scriptures, and he was afraid that people would approach him for help and he would not be able to respond. He felt this to be a real obstacle in fulfilling his calling.
Upon reviewing this situation, his feeling of inadequacy, and the feeling we had that he had been called of our Heavenly Father, we recommended that he make a comprehensive study of the scriptures—commencing with the Doctrine and Covenants, because that is the framework for organization in the Church—for fifteen to twenty minutes a day. This good brother, a former all-conference football champion from Utah State, committed himself wholeheartedly. He began to gain more light and understanding, and very soon he found himself being led to the understanding he needed to direct the branch and the work effectively. Study became a very real thing to him, for now he was studying with an intent to know, and was not just reading the passages. Each night prior to retiring, no matter what the hour—ofttimes with his wife—he would follow his program and then contemplate seriously the thoughts he had studied before going to bed.
An interesting thing occurred one night when he came home very late from an important meeting. Because of the lateness of the hour he went directly to bed; then, as he recalled the story, he tossed and turned for nearly an hour before he realized he had not studied the scriptures. So he got out of bed, read for a few minutes, and then fell fast asleep. It was interesting to note that within a matter of a few short weeks a new confidence and reassurance came into his life, giving him more light and knowledge, more power and authority, and a greater possibility to lead his members—all for just taking a few minutes a day in study of the words of God.

About seven years ago, Marie Holley and Margaret Adamson moved into our ward in North Dakota. Both had doctoral degrees in nursing, and they had been hired to design a graduate degree program in the College of Nursing at the University of North Dakota. It was a challenging task, and they began it with vigor. We felt fortunate to have two such talented people in our ward.
Then, just six months after moving into our midst, Marie found that she had a rare form of cancer. Doctors felt she had only a few months to live.
But the doctors did not know about Marie’s strong desire to live. For almost three years, she fought her disease with her will and with every medical treatment doctors could prescribe. Finally, she grew so ill that she had to retire from work.
When Marie became too weak to take care of herself at home alone, she hired someone to come in to make lunch, give her baths, and do housekeeping tasks. I was Marie’s visiting teacher, and my companion and I helped in every way we could. Her friend Margaret came every day after work to be her night nurse.
In the spring of 1983, Margaret became ill from her long hours of working and caring for Marie. At this point, the Relief Society became involved. We set up a schedule, and Relief Society sisters faithfully signed up to come and stay with Marie during the day—every day. Until then, we had thought of compassionate service as something we did in an occasional time of need. Now it became an important part of our daily lives.
As the summer went on, Marie’s health grew worse. When doctors could offer no more help, Marie became eligible for the Hospice program. The Hospice is an organization of volunteers from the community who give basic nursing care for terminally ill patients who wish to die at home. The Hospice volunteers took over the nursing, so we Relief Society sisters organized ourselves to be Marie’s home companions.
At first, the Hospice volunteers were uneasy about having the Relief Society sisters help Marie. They had found that well-meaning friends of the terminally ill are often unreliable. Our Relief Society sisters were also uneasy about working with the women from the Hospice. In our area, many people think of the Church as a cult, and we wondered what the volunteers would think of us and our beliefs.
We also had other concerns. Our Relief Society had never been asked to care for a dying sister. Many sisters wondered what they should say and do. So we prayed. We held meetings and taught the sisters what to do in an emergency and how to give pain-killing shots.
We began to live by the calendar. Often we didn’t know the volunteer who would be on the shift before or after us, but Marie would always introduce us. The Relief Society sisters and the Hospice volunteers first became acquaintances and then friends. The Hospice women marveled at how busy we were—many of us were young with small children—and that we all still came to spend time with Marie. The volunteers began to admire us.
After several months, Marie became suddenly worse and went into a coma. Our bishop, who was also a physician, notified Marie’s family. The Relief Society sisters and Hospice volunteers flocked to Marie’s bedside to say goodby and to tell Marie how much we had grown to love her. It was an emotional time as we prepared to let her go.
But Marie didn’t die. Two days later, she came out of the coma. She hadn’t been ready to go, she said.
Some of the Hospice volunteers expressed anger and frustration. In a meeting with the Relief Society sisters, they asked, “Why does God allow her to suffer on and on and on?” They also asked us how we could be so calm as we watched Marie’s great mind and life being wasted.
This gave us an opportunity to explain something about the plan of salvation. The Hospice volunteers sat silently as we told about why we are here, the purpose of our lives, and the promise of what lies before us in eternity. We explained that death is just another beginning, not an end. The meeting ended on a thoughtful, spiritual tone.
Several months later, after fourteen months of our constant care, Marie finally died. Her funeral was not a sad occasion. Marie had not wanted it to be. Instead, it was a calm, peaceful “goodbye for now,” with the assurance that we would see her again.
Most of the people who attended the funeral were not Latter-day Saints. Many were Hospice volunteers. Many others were from the university. The audience listened attentively as the principles of the gospel were explained, as Marie had requested. After the funeral, I heard many interesting comments:
“Why, it was the most beautiful funeral I’ve been to! It was so well organized, I had to keep reminding myself that all you people were volunteers.”
“I remembered all the things Marie has told me before, and it all fit together. Your beliefs are so logical.”
“I wish I could really believe as you do. No wonder you feel so comforted.”
“I’ve lived in this town for many years, yet I’ve never had the courage to come into your church. I am so glad I came today.”
“I’ve been reading the books Marie gave me, and I was so interested to hear where we came from and why we are here.”
We discovered that Marie had given each nonmember who had cared for her a copy of the Book of Mormon and a copy of Elder LeGrand Richard’s book, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, with a challenge to read them both. “After I’m gone, someone will come and explain them to you and answer your questions,” she had told her friends.
During Marie’s illness, seventy-five people had helped—forty-five Relief Society sisters, twenty-two Hospice volunteers, and eight part-time employees. Through caring for Marie, so many strangers have become friends. She has planted the seeds of the gospel in the hearts of many people. Now it is up to us—her friends—to nourish those seeds so that the Lord might reap the harvest.

Michael was more than six feet tall, with long arms, skinny legs, thick glasses, and hair that looked as though it had been styled by a brisk wind. Michael had a passion for reading. In middle school, I’d often pass the library on my lunch break and see him with his nose in a book. We had some classes together, but I didn’t consider him a friend. I suppose the only token of friendship we shared was an occasional hurried hello or nod in the hallway between classes.
Often, I heard others say things about Michael that were anything but complimentary. He was an easy target because he was different. He was tall but not athletic. And he was always reading. I didn’t really care about him, and from what I could tell none of my peers did either.
But I began to see Michael differently one day when I least expected it—at work, teaching second-graders the basics of basketball.
Every Saturday during the fall and winter, I coach basketball and soccer for first- and second-graders. I’ve learned how to develop patience and a positive attitude because, if I’m not enthusiastic, they won’t be.
One second-grade girl in particular really knew how to test my ability to have a positive attitude. She tested the other coaches as well. We were getting ready for the day’s activities when one of the other coaches let out a huge sigh and said, “Oh, brother! She’s here.” Another coach said, “It’s going to be a long day whenever Wendy is here.”
Standing in the doorway was Wendy. She was autistic and didn’t fit in well with other children. Wendy often yelped and grunted, and she couldn’t stand still for very long. She had the habit of touching other children’s hair, which made them uncomfortable and caused disruption. Sometimes she pushed and even slapped other people, both children and coaches. I had to agree. It was going to be a long day.
Wendy walked to the middle of the gym floor, lay down, and started crying. It looked as though one of us was going to have to spend our whole day on “Wendy Patrol.”
Then something unexpected happened. In came Michael. He walked to Wendy and gently picked her up. In a voice hardly above a whisper, he calmly said, “Come on, Wendy, I’ll do the warmups with you so you won’t be alone.”
Michael was Wendy’s big brother. For the rest of the morning, he never left Wendy’s side. He was so patient and caring. I could tell that Michael loved his little sister and wanted her to fit in and be happy. Maybe he wanted those same things for himself.
I started to think about Michael’s trials. All day at school, he heard put-downs and snide comments from people who thought they were being clever. And then I thought about his home life, dealing with a sister who had a difficult condition. Yet these trials brought out the best in him. He was compassionate and Christlike.
It was at that point I recognized Michael for what he was—a hero, a true hero, right there in a small school gymnasium early on a Saturday morning.
My attitude toward Michael changed. I am grateful I was able to see a side of him I didn’t know existed. I’m grateful, too, that when Michael made eye contact with me that Saturday morning, I gave him a sincere smile. I tried to be his friend after that.
There are heroes like Michael among us. We all need heroes close by, people we can learn from and model our lives after. If I watch them long enough and pattern my life after theirs, perhaps I can one day be somebody’s hero, too.

Tuesday, June 8, 1982, dawned bright and clear in London, England. It was destined to be an historic day. A spirit of excitement permeated the very air and filled expectant hearts with keen anticipation. The President of the United States of America had arrived in Great Britain and soon would be addressing Parliament. Crowds gathered for the occasion, filled the streets and overflowed the nearby park. Uniformed policemen maintained order while famous Big Ben chimed its proud and clarion call which marked the appointed hour.
My wife, Frances, and I stood midst the milling crowd. Then, suddenly, Parliament’s doors swung open, the Prime Minister and the President greeted the throng, entered their limousines, and the motorcade drove slowly away. The crowd gave a mighty cheer, then began to disperse. Frances and I walked from the sunbathed street into the semi-dark, yet welcome, refuge of Westminster Abbey.
A reverence filled this world-famous edifice, as it should. For here, kings are crowned, royalty wedded, and rulers, whose mission of mortality has ended, are honored then buried. We walked along the aisleways, thoughtfully reading the inscriptions which marked the tombs of the famous. We remembered their achievements, recalled their deeds of valor, and marked their well-earned places in the world’s history. Then we paused before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, one of many who fell in France during the Great War. From an unmarked grave, the body of this fallen youth had been brought to London to forever lie in honor. I read aloud the inscriptions: “They buried him among the kings because he had done good toward God and toward His house.” “In Christ shall all be made alive.”
Toward the doorway we walked. Still visible in the park beyond were the remnants of the crowd. The immortal words of Rudyard Kipling coursed through my mind and spoke to my soul:
The tumult and the shouting dies,
The captains and the kings depart;
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice:
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget.
(“Recessional”; see also Hymns, no. 77.)
One final marker to see, one more inscription to read. As a Scouter, I had come from America to view the plaque of honor dedicated to the memory of Scouting’s founder, Lord Baden-Powell. We stood before the magnificent marble memorial and noted the words:
Robert Baden-Powell, 1857–1941
Founder of the Boy Scouts
Friend of all the World
On that day during this year which commemorates the 75th anniversary of Scouting and the 125th anniversary of its founder, I pondered the thought, “How many boys have had their lives blessed—even saved—by the Scout movement begun by Baden-Powell?” Unlike others memorialized within the walls of Westminster Abbey, Baden-Powell had neither sailed the stormy seas of glory, conquered in conflict the armies of men, nor founded empires of worldly wealth. Rather, he was a builder of boys, one who taught them well how to run and win the race of life.

Before I was baptized, I felt embarrassed about myself because of my wheelchair. After I was baptized, however, I began coming to the ward every Sunday and participating in young single adult activities. I even went to stake dances, dancing in my wheelchair to every song. I also joined a network for Samoans with spinal injuries.
I realized I had healed from feeling that I needed to hide. Through the Church, I gained the confidence to go among people again.
Before he was baptized, Posenai felt embarrassed to be in a wheelchair. But after his baptism, he says, “I gained the confidence to go among people again.”

One such occasion occurred while I was spearheading an effort in Blackfoot, Idaho, to get a new Bingham County ordinance that would help reduce teenage smoking. At the time, an alarming twenty-seven percent of Idaho teens were smoking. We discovered that tobacco companies were placing their products near candy to encourage teens and children to steal, which, of course, produced more addicted customers. In turn, tobacco reps were offering to replace that stolen product for free. You can imagine how this stirred up a group of PTA moms!

So we drafted a county ordinance that would move tobacco products behind the counter, ban tobacco vending machines, and require licensing, inspections and fines. After our first meeting, it was apparent the commissioners were willing to pass the county ordinance, despite opposition from some local retailers. However, I had an uneasy feeling for some reason, and I started doubting things.

So I followed the counsel in the ninth section of the Doctrine and Covenants in order to receive a confirmation regarding our efforts. First I studied it out logically and resolved that I was still on track. Then I prayed to ask the Lord if this was right thing. I paused to listen, but I did not get a burning, or a feeling that it was right. Instead I had a hard time focusing on my question. My mind wandered and I had to keep reminding myself what I was asking. I did not hear a "no." I just had no feeling at all. Then as I practiced the "pause principle" and knelt in absolute silence, a new idea came into my mind. The idea was to abandon our attempt for a county ordinance and try for a new state law instead.

This made perfect sense, when it came from the Lord. I would have never attempted this on my own, but I was filled with a peaceful reassurance to move forward. The Lord had communicated His will to me through the Holy Ghost and I knew He would help me with the large task that was ahead. I spent the next year researching, writing a bill, finding legislators who would sponsor it, and enduring a battle with the national tobacco lobby, after which the state legislature adopted a new Idaho statute called the "Prevention of Minors' Access to Tobacco."

I know the Lord was guiding this entire process. One year after the law was adopted, minors' access to tobacco in Idaho was reduced by fifty percent. Practicing these few powerful verses helped prepare me to recognize the voice of the Lord so I could hear the confirming answer, which came first as a stupor of thought, followed by a better idea.

Aside from providing a meetingplace for the little group of Saints, the new chapel has brought other blessings. Leonor Machua heard of the new meetinghouse just before leaving on a brief trip to Guayaquil, Ecuador. While in Ecuador she asked someone about the new building and the religion it represented. The stranger answered her questions and suggested she meet with missionaries once she returned home. A few days later she saw the missionaries on a street corner and accepted the invitation to be taught. Sister Machua was baptized immediately after the Saturday afternoon session of general conference in October 2009, the first person to be baptized in the new meetinghouse’s baptismal font.

Some ways to strengthen families are illustrated by the following example. I had an assignment in the Boise, Idaho, area. After training on Saturday afternoon, I stayed in the home of my niece and her family. That evening before the children went to bed, we had a short family home evening and a scripture story. Their father told about the family of Lehi and how he taught his children that they must hold fast to the iron rod, which is the word of God.9 Holding fast to the iron rod would keep them safe and lead them to joy and happiness. If they should let go of the iron rod, there was danger of drowning in the river of dirty water.
To demonstrate this to the children, their mother became the “iron rod” that they must cling to, and their father played the role of the devil, trying to pull the children away from safety and happiness. The children loved the story and learned how important it is to hold fast to the iron rod.
After the scripture story it was time for family prayer. Their mother reminded the children to pray for the bishop, who was having serious eye problems. Three-year-old Brooklyn offered the prayer that evening. She thanked Heavenly Father for their blessings, and then she fervently asked Him to “bless the bishop because his eyes are broken.”
The next morning we got to sacrament meeting and got seated. Brooklyn and her five-year-old sister, Kennedy, looked up on the stand and saw the bishop standing there. The girls pointed to the bishop and excitedly said to their mother, “Look, there’s the bishop.” Then a knowing look passed between these two little girls that seemed to say “We prayed for the bishop, and now he is better.” They prayed in faith, knowing that Heavenly Father would hear their humble prayers.

I hung my schoolbag in the closet and saw my reflection in the full-length mirror on the door. I stopped and looked at my loose ponytail, my wrinkled shirt, and my sagging socks. Words from my Primary teacher came back to me: “You are a special daughter of our Heavenly Father. He has many blessings in store for you in your future.”
I leaned forward and peered into the mirror, wishing I could see the future. What would I be like when I was 12 or 22? Would I be pretty? Would I be smart? Would I marry in the temple? Would I have beautiful children? These were my dreams, but were these the blessings God had in store for me?
“What are you looking at?” It was Mom’s soft voice.
In the mirror’s reflection I saw Mom standing behind me in the doorway.
“Me,” I said. “It’s just me in the mirror.”
Mom came and looked over my shoulder. “‘Just you’ is someone very special,” she said.
“That’s what my Primary teacher said. She said Heavenly Father has many blessings in store for me. What does my life have in store?”
“Come to my room. I want to show you something,” Mom said.
In her bedroom Mom opened a small box and lifted out a silver handheld mirror.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, fingering the letter B etched on the back.
“This was my grandmother’s mirror,” Mom said. “When I polish this mirror, I try to imagine what Grandma Beatrice saw when she looked into it. Maybe at first she saw a young girl, like you, dreaming of her future.
“I can imagine the light of happiness she saw in her eyes when she looked at her long braids in the mirror before her baptism. Did you know she wasn’t able to be baptized until she was 18 years old?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“And then after her marriage to Grandpa, she had a baby daughter who lived only two days. I imagine the eyes she saw in this mirror then were swollen with tears.
“Many years after that, she would have seen her joyful reflection as she prepared to go to the temple to be sealed to her husband and three children.
“As an older woman, she may have used this mirror to place a hat on her head before going to her Relief Society meetings.
“And finally, as a gray-haired widow, she may have seen the brave determination in her eyes as she lived for many years alone but faithful to the end.”
“Did Heavenly Father bless Great-Grandma?” I asked.
“Yes, He did,” Mom said.
“Was Great-Grandma happy with her life?”
“Yes. It wasn’t exactly as she planned. Some of it was very hard, but she put her trust in God, and those experiences helped her become more like Him.”
“I guess I don’t really need to see the future,” I said, placing the silver mirror gently back in its box. “I’ll just trust in Heavenly Father and follow Him.”
“I’m sure God has a wonderful life in store for you,” Mom said. “And if you follow Him, in the end, the face you see in the mirror will reflect His image. And that would truly be a dream come true.”

In secular history there is another great military leader who was known for her righteousness. She was Joan of Arc from France. Joan was born 600 years ago in 1412. She is famous because, as a teenager, she led the French army to victory during the Hundred Years War. Every description that I have ever read of her tells about how virtuous, honest, loving, kind, loyal, and courageous she was. Joan was also a devout Christian during a time described by one author as brutal, wicked and rotten. She also claimed to have visions which told her that she would lead France to victory. At the end of her short but illustrious military career Joan was betrayed and turned over to her enemies. In a corrupt trial she was tried for witchcraft and convicted. She was sentenced to be burned at the stake. As they prepared to execute her, those in charge gave Joan one last chance to save her life if she would simply deny that she had seen visions. Of course, Joan would not deny her spiritual experiences, even if it meant losing her life. According to one account, this was the last statement she made before she was burned to death.
“The world can use these words. I know this now. Every man gives his life for what he believes; every woman gives her life for what she believes. Sometimes people believe in little or nothing, and yet they give their lives for that little or nothing. One life is all we have, and we live it as we believe it, and then it’s gone. But to surrender what you are and live without belief is more terrible than dying, even more terrible than dying young.”
Thus, ended the life of one of the most inspirational military leaders in the history of the world. We might ask, why was she successful in battle? Why were soldiers willing to risk their lives to follow her in war? It’s because she lived according to what she believed. It’s because she was righteous. It’s because she kept the commandments.