Gospel Story Finder

In these capacities, the Lord pours out revelation upon His stake presidents. A stake president living in the southern United States shared the following experience with me:
“In October 2007, a sister came to visit with me to obtain her temple recommend. During the interview, I asked her if her husband was going to visit with me for his recommend after she finished her interview. She told me that her husband had not been to the temple in over 20 years and that they had never been sealed in the temple in their 40 years of marriage. I felt a strong prompting to visit with this brother immediately. So strong was the prompting that I left my office, found him on the other side of the building, and brought him back to my office for an interview. After an interview, during which time we were joined by his bishop, he was given a temple recommend. This was a very emotional experience for all of us, especially his wife. I received an invitation later that week to attend their sealing in the temple.
“In early 2008, about four months after this couple was sealed, this brother got up in the morning to go to work and collapsed and died in their home. I am forever grateful that I listened to the promptings of the Spirit and encouraged this brother to do what he so needed to do in his life.”

Things will be different this year, I thought as Christmas was approaching. We had been confined to our home for nine months, and there was uncertainty what would happen later. What could we offer our children during these special days? In the Dominican Republic, the Christmas season is celebrated from the beginning of December until January 6, culminating in an iconic celebration of the “Dia de los Reyes” that commemorates the arrival of the three wise men to the manger where the Savior of the world, Jesus Christ, was born.
I told the children that during Christmas we would not be able to spend time with their grandparents. We would stay home; we would have our Christmas dinner by ourselves, and everything would be fine. My mother heart was beating very hard as I promised my children the same thing that Jesus promised His disciples when He ascended into heaven.
Christmas day arrived, and we prepared our traditional dinner with a lot of love and with the restrictions established by the government and health authorities. Despite all my worries and sadness for not being able to spend time with our relatives, the Lord prepared a way so that, even when distanced, we could be together. Technology played a leading role, and we could see our family in various parts of the world. We felt a spirit of gratitude and kindness knowing that no matter where we are or what situation we are going through, even in the midst of a pandemic, our Heavenly Father cares for each of His children.
Sister Estrella belongs to the Villa Esfuerzo Ward, Santo Domingo Dominican Republic El Almirante Stake.

Mother took me to many of her meetings. I felt like the ward “mascot.” All the sisters in the ward took good care of me and made me feel very special. I loved Primary, too, because the teachers were so kind. As I look back on it, I think that they probably treated all the children in their classes with great love and patience, but they made me feel very loved. Because of them, my memories of Primary always stir wonderful and warm feelings within my heart.

On a dark December night 36 years ago, a Lockheed 1011 jumbo jet crashed into the Florida Everglades, killing over 100 people. This terrible accident was one of the deadliest crashes in the history of the United States.
A curious thing about this accident is that all vital parts and systems of the airplane were functioning perfectly—the plane could have easily landed safely at its destination in Miami, only 20 miles (32km) away.
During the final approach, however, the crew noticed that one green light had failed to illuminate—a light that indicates whether or not the nose landing gear has extended successfully. The pilots discontinued the approach, set the aircraft into a circling holding pattern over the pitch-black Everglades, and turned their attention toward investigating the problem.
They became so preoccupied with their search that they failed to realize the plane was gradually descending closer and closer toward the dark swamp below. By the time someone noticed what was happening, it was too late to avoid the disaster.
After the accident, investigators tried to determine the cause. The landing gear had indeed lowered properly. The plane was in perfect mechanical condition. Everything was working properly—all except one thing: a single burned-out lightbulb. That tiny bulb—worth about 20 cents—started the chain of events that ultimately led to the tragic death of over 100 people.
Of course, the malfunctioning lightbulb didn’t cause the accident; it happened because the crew placed its focus on something that seemed to matter at the moment while losing sight of what mattered most.

As Joseph contemplated those dreary months of imprisonment in Missouri, he must have recalled the night, when confined in a dungeon, he rebuked the guards. He and his brethren were trying to get a little sleep, but were kept awake by the awful blasphemies and obscene jests of their jailers, who were recounting the dreadful deeds of robbery and murder they had committed among the Mormons. These were no idle boasts, for these awful atrocities had actually been committed. Suddenly, Joseph rose to his feet and, in a voice that seemed to shake the very building, cried out:

Silence, ye fiends of the infernal pit! In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you, and command you to be still; I will not live another minute and hear such language. Cease such talk, or you or I die this instant! [HC 3:208]

The effect must have been electric in its suddenness. Some begged his pardon while others slunk into the dark corners of Liberty Jail to hide their shame.

The power of Jesus Christ, whose name he had invoked in his rebuke, was upon him. His hands and feet were in chains, but these the guards did not see. They saw only the righteous anger in his shining face, and felt the divine power in his voice as he rebuked them.

The room was cluttered. There were papers on the floor and the chairs were tipped over. When Kevin entered, he switched on the light and noticed some chalk marks on the chalkboard, but he didn’t read them.
“I wonder what there is I can do that will be of any help?” he thought. He sat down in the corner of the meetinghouse classroom and stared at the chalkboard again. “Your Quorum—Your Responsibility.” Wow! Was that ever pertinent to his new calling. Kevin chuckled to himself. “Somebody must have known I would come in here after I talked to the bishop.” Being called as the teachers quorum president in the Third Ward was no pat, easy assignment, especially since the bishop said to him as he left the office, “You were called by the Lord, Kevin. Now go and strengthen your quorum so that there is no weak link.”
Kevin stood up and crossed to the windows where he got a clear view of the church parking lot. “There’s Steve’s house on the other side of the parking lot … he’s inactive. That reminds me of Jim and Mark who come to priesthood meeting only when their dad is home from work. And Lee who lives right across the street from me thinks activity night means basketball and won’t come if we suggest anything else.
“They’re a great quorum, though. There’s Bill. If he’s ever given anything to do, he’ll do it twice and ask for more. And George—he’s the best example of organization I’ve ever met. My head feels just like that parking lot on conference Sunday—packed with jam-ups. How can I do anything about anything? How can I strengthen that quorum?”
These feelings of a newly called teachers quorum president tumbled out of his mind as he thought of his new calling. His feelings are probably duplicated over and over throughout the Church even if the situation is different in every case.
Perhaps some of the following suggestions given by the Aaronic Priesthood general committee, using quotations from General Authorities, can guide and encourage quorum presidencies and members as they ponder their responsibilities in that very fundamental unit of the Church—the quorum.
“The vitalizing of Aaronic Priesthood quorums and the awakening of the Melchizedek Priesthood quorums will affirmatively affect all other programs in the Church.” (President Spencer W. Kimball, June Conference, 1974.)
“You are a member of the appropriate quorum, and by your actions you either sustain or degrade it.
“The quorum will be as strong as the individual member. We all have the obligation and responsibility to honor our priesthood, to be worthy citizens of the priesthood quorum.” (Elder Boyd K. Packer, Seminar for Regional Representatives of the Twelve, Oct. 4, 1973.)

Toward the end of his talk President Monson gave us all an invitation. He said, "Ask yourselves, ‘Have I rescued anyone recently?' "

A week later I was in a meeting where we discussed President Monson's talk on rescuing, and one Area Seventy related that he had always tried to visit less-active members when he presided at stake conferences. The next day I flew to Portland to conduct an auxiliary training session. I asked Elder Brinkerhoff, the Area Seventy who hosted me in that city, if we might be able to visit a less-active member following the training session. He immediately thought of a couple he had been home teaching. He said, "Last Sunday they came to sacrament meeting in our ward for the first time."

We visited their home. They were a pure-hearted couple who, for some unknown reason, had become less active. The wife looked at me at one point and said, "Brother Osguthorpe, you probably don't know this, but we went to sacrament meeting for the first time last week." I asked her about her impressions of the meeting. I found it important that she did not mention the messages that had been given from the pulpit; she focused on the members and their friendship. She said, "I was surprised at how many friends we had in this ward even though this was our first time at sacrament meeting. So many people came up to us and were so glad to see us." Then she got tears in her eyes. "I just didn't know we had so many friends."

Elder Brinkerhoff then let them know how much it had meant to him that they had attended, and I asked the wife, "So why do you think Elder Brinkerhoff cares so much?" And again with tears in her eyes, she responded, "Because he loves us."

Elder Brinkerhoff had been meeting with this couple for some time. He had been extending all three types of invitations--invitations that challenge, invitations that befriend, and invitations that rescue. And the couple had finally begun to respond to the invitations. When Elder Brinkerhoff extended these invitations, perhaps it did not always look like teaching. Maybe the couple didn't always feel like he was presenting formal lessons. But in the truest sense, this was gospel teaching at its very best. They were learning key doctrines. They were responding to invitations to action. And they were experiencing the promised blessings.

I decided to try the scripture-anecdote-testimony combination in my next speaking assignment to see if it might improve my effectiveness. I spoke about the temple and the joyous experience my family and I shared when we were sealed together. Next I explained the importance of temples and quoted a scripture to emphasize my point. Finally, I bore my testimony of temples and the eternal blessings they provide.
The congregation didn’t stand and applaud my talk at the end of the meeting, but they didn’t fall asleep either. As a matter of fact, several people complimented me on my talk—something that was usually done only by my wife and the bishop. I felt good about the talk I had given.

My father and mother were sheep farmers in New Zealand. They enjoyed their life. As a young married couple, they were blessed with three little girls. The youngest of these was named Ann. One day while they were on holiday together at a lake, 17-month-old Ann toddled off. After minutes of desperate searching, she was found lifeless in the water.
This nightmare caused unspeakable sorrow. Dad wrote years later that some of the laughter went out of their lives forever. It also caused a yearning for answers to life’s most important questions: What will become of our precious Ann? Will we ever see her again? How can our family ever be happy again?
Some years after this tragedy, two young missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to our farm. They began teaching the truths found in the Book of Mormon and the Bible. These truths include the assurance that Ann now lives in the spirit world. Because of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, she too will be resurrected. They taught that the Church of Jesus Christ has once again been restored on earth with a living prophet and twelve Apostles. And they taught the unique and remarkable doctrine that families can be bound together forever by the same priesthood authority Jesus Christ gave His chief Apostle, Peter.
Mum instantly recognized truth and received a witness of the Spirit. Dad, however, wrestled for the next year between doubts and spiritual nudges. Also, he was reluctant to change his way of life. One morning following a sleepless night, while pacing the floor, he turned to Mum and said, “I will be baptized today or never.”
Mum told the missionaries what had happened, and they immediately recognized the flicker of faith in my father that would now be either lit or extinguished.
That very morning our family traveled to the nearest beach. Unaware of what was happening, we children had a picnic on the sand dunes while Elders Boyd Green and Gary Sheffield led my parents into the ocean and baptized them. In a further act of faith, Dad privately committed to the Lord that come what may, he would be true all his life to the promises he was making.
One year later a temple was dedicated in Hamilton, New Zealand. Shortly thereafter our family, with someone representing Ann, knelt around the altar in that sacred house of the Lord. There, by the authority of the priesthood, we were united as an eternal family in a simple and beautiful ordinance. This brought great peace and joy.
Many years later Dad told me that if not for Ann’s tragic death, he would never have been humble enough to accept the restored gospel. Yet the Spirit of the Lord instilled hope that what the missionaries taught was true. My parents’ faith continued to grow until they each burned with the fire of testimony that quietly and humbly guided their every decision in life.
I will always be thankful for my parents’ example to future generations. It is impossible to measure the number of lives forever changed because of their acts of faith in response to profound sorrow.
I invite all who feel sorrow, all who wrestle with doubt, all who wonder what happens after we die, to place your faith in Christ. I promise that if you desire to believe, then act in faith and follow the whisperings of the Spirit, you will find joy in this life and in the world to come.
How I look forward to the day I will meet my sister Ann. I look forward to a joyful reunion with my father, who died over 30 years ago. I testify of the joy to be found in living by faith, believing without seeing, but knowing by the power of the Holy Ghost that Jesus Christ lives. With all my heart and soul, I choose to follow Jesus Christ and His restored gospel. This blesses every aspect of my life. I know that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, our Savior and our Redeemer. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Jeff Wright swung the empty fruit basket and smiled at his buddy Pete Adams. “That’s the last of the apples,” Jeff declared, “and we still have two streets to do on our route. Shall we call it a day or go back to the Scout hall for a refill?”
“Not all the way back there, please!” Pete groaned. “We’re on the edge of town now, and I’ve just about had it.”
“We’ve done OK so far,” Jeff remarked, “but I hate to miss the chance of selling a few more apples before we report back. If we want that camp built next summer, we’ll need all the money we can get.”
Squaring his shoulders, Pete agreed. “OK, let’s go get a refill. When we’re at camp next summer, we’ll think it was worth it.”
“Let’s take the shortcut through the McAuley farm,” Jeff suggested.
To the left of the barren field they were crossing was an orchard with tangled grass and weeds springing up among the trees.
“Do you see what I see?” Pete asked. “Look at all those trees thick with apples just begging to be picked!”
“Probably all wormy, too,” Jeff replied. “It’s not likely that Mr. McAuley has sprayed them.”
“Why doesn’t he look after the orchard?” Pete asked.
“Oh, people in town say that he’s just lost interest in the farm. It’s too much work for him on his own, and he probably couldn’t afford help even if he could find pickers. He’s as independent as all get-out, though. Folks used to offer to help him, but I guess they got fed up after he became so hard to get along with.”
“Seems like an awful waste of good apples,” Pete observed as they reached the lane leading to the road. “Especially right now. We could have filled our baskets!”
“Not with rotten apples, thank you!” Jeff said wryly. “It was a good farm years ago, but after his son was killed in a tractor rollover, the old man became a recluse.”
“Speaking of the old man,” Pete said, pointing toward a woodpile behind the barn, “is that him?”
“Yeah.” Jeff stood still, watching the gaunt figure chopping into a log as if every stroke of the ax was too much for his strength. “He looks terrible, Pete. Let’s go see if we can help him.”
As the boys approached, Mr. McAuley stopped chopping and mopped his face with a bandanna.
“Mr. McAuley, can we do that?” Jeff offered. He introduced himself and Pete and explained why they happened to be in the area.
As they took over the wood chopping, after only a mild protest from Mr. McAuley, they told him more about the Scout camp project. But when the farmer invited them to fill their baskets with his apples, Pete blurted, “But aren’t they—”
“Wormy?” Mr. McAuley finished the question. “No.” Seeing Pete’s embarrassment and Jeff’s questioning look, he added, “Tom Sims sent his sprayers over when they did his orchard, so the fruit should be good.”
“Are you going to have the crop picked, then?” Jeff asked.
“I meant to,” Mr. McAuley replied. “But I’ve had the flu, and it’s about knocked me flat.” He piled small branches into the wheelbarrow while the boys chopped seasoned apple limbs into stove-size pieces.
After the firewood had been stacked, Mr. McAuley led the boys into the big farm kitchen where they got a good fire going in the black potbellied stove. Soon they were drinking steaming mugs of hot cider.
Jeff watched the color creep back into the old man’s face, but all the boy said was, “I’ve been thinking about all those apples going to waste. I noticed that you have plenty of apple hampers in the barn, Mr. McAuley. If Pete and I talked our troop into coming out after school and weekends for a while, we’d get most of them picked for you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that, Jeff! I couldn’t afford to pay them, and—”
Both boys brushed that aside. “I’ll ask my dad to see about a trucker to take the apples to the storage sheds,” Jeff continued. “It’d be a neat project, right, Pete?”
His friend nodded eagerly.
The old man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know, boys, I’d almost given up since my son was killed. Nothing seemed to matter after that, what with his mother gone so long and just me left.”
“But, sir, you can’t quit on life,” Jeff said kindly. “My dad always says that you can’t stay still. You have to go forward or backward. There’s no in-between.”
“Well, this old man is going forward again, thanks to you two. I’ll let you help me with this fall’s crop, if the other lads agree. Then I’ll get the farm in shape in the spring again.”
“Good!” the boys said in unison.
“Go pick a basket each of the best apples, and finish your route,” Mr. McAuley told them.
Their baskets filled, Jeff and Pete went back to the house to thank the old man and tell him that they’d be back later with their troop buddies.
As they started down the lane, Mr. McAuley shouted. “Jeff! Pete! I’ve just had a great idea!”
They waited, puzzled at the old man’s excitement.
“You’ve helped me to see things more clearly today, boys, made me see that I have to start over. Now, I can do something for you in return! There are four or five acres of scrub land behind the orchard, with a little creek running through it.” He grinned. “It’d make a perfect campsite for a troop of Boy Scouts! It’ll need a good cleanup before summer, but—”
Whoops and yells cut him off as the boys raced off to finish one project and get started on another!

The organ music was solemn and low, and a reverent hush fell over the congregation as the pallbearers entered carrying the simple pine box. A few garden flowers had been lovingly placed on top, and nestled among them was an old mandolin, its worn but polished surface gleaming dully in the dim light. The flickering candles made the large room seem gloomier, although sunlight seeped in here and there between the rough-hewn logs.
The organ seemed out of place in this rugged wilderness. There were few luxuries in this early western settlement, and the small organ, brought all the way across the plains on a wagon, was highly treasured.
Amanda watched little puffs of dust rise from the floor as the pallbearers walked slowly down the isle.
“The coffin is so small,” she whispered to her mother.
“Your great-grandfather may not have been very tall in stature, but he was a giant in spirit,” Mother whispered back.
Amanda nodded, and bitter tears stung her dark brown eyes. Grandpa’s death was hard for her to understand. He had been lighthearted, always spreading laughter wherever he went. And music. How he loved music!
“Manda, the world would be a sad and sorry place without music,” he had said to her often. “It’s helped me more times than I can recollect, both before and after I left Denmark.”
“Tell me a story about Denmark, Grandpa. Please?” she used to plead.
“All right, but you know you’ve heard them all before.” His eyes would twinkle as the tale would unfold. “When I was a young lad in Alborg, my family tended sheep in the fields surrounding the town. The country was lush and green in the daytime, but at night everything was veiled in shadows. I had the evening watch alone. Sometimes the sheep were restless, so I always took along my old mandolin. I’d sing a quiet song, and it would settle them down. It would ease my mind a bit too. Tending sheep can be mighty lonely. My mandolin has always been a comfort to me, Manda. I’m glad you have learned to play it. Someday I want you to have it.”
A sharp nudge from her older brother brought Amanda back to the present. Bishop Madsen stepped up to the tall box that served as a pulpit and announced the opening song and prayer. Then Amanda’s mind wandered again as the service began. She could see herself bumping around in the back of the covered wagon, gazing wistfully behind them as the trial disappeared into dust. She’d missed her home and the friends she’d left behind. Grandpa hadn’t seemed to, though. He’d sat in front, constantly looking ahead.
“Let’s sing a song,” he’d suggest. Amanda would be the first to join in.
Come, come, ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear;
But with joy wend your way.
Though hard to you this journey may appear,
Grace shall be as your day …
Their voices had been carried by the warm Nebraska wind, and soon all the settlers in their company had raised their voices to sing along.
The most precious moments had been at night around the campfire. The wagons had been pulled together into a circle, and the moon had loomed large in the prairie sky, softly shining on tired, sunbaked faces.
The trek to Utah was long and hard, Amanda thought. Grandpa had made it then. Why did he have to die now?
The bishop had finished speaking, and he turned toward Amanda.
“Amanda, we all know how much you and your great-grandfather loved to sing together. Do you think you could come up here and sing one of his favorite songs for us?”
Amanda froze in her seat. I could never sing without Grandpa, she thought. Then she looked at the mandolin lying among the flowers. It had helped Grandpa while he tended sheep. Maybe it would help her now.
She rose slowly and walked over to the casket. Her hands trembled as she lifted the mandolin from its bed of flowers. Several people in the crowd nodded encouragement. Amanda cleared her throat, placed her fingers on the strings, and began: “Come, come, ye Saints, …”
The song went beautifully until she came to the last verse. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her voice started to quaver.
Bishop Madsen stepped quickly to Amanda’s side, beckoning the congregation to join in. Instantly the little log church was filled with music.
And should we die before our journey’s through,
Happy day! all is well!
We then are free from toil and sorrow, too;
With the just we shall dwell! …
Amanda sat down, still holding the mandolin. Mother put her arm around Amanda’s shoulder and said, “Grandpa’s mandolin can become as much a part of you as it was a part of him. Take good care of it.”
Amanda smiled. It was already a great comfort to her.

Permit me to illustrate this point. A young man of faith practiced diligently and became a champion swimmer. He excelled to the point that scholarship offers from many universities were extended. One by one he turned them down. His father asked, “Son, why won’t you accept one of these free-ride scholarships?”

“I can’t,” the boy answered. “I’m going on a mission. It would not be honest for me to accept one and then drop it before the year is gone.”

Angrily the father shouted, “How foolish can you be? You are throwing away an opportunity of a lifetime!”

“I am sorry, Dad,” the boy added respectfully, “but I take seriously what the Lord said about his coming again. And, when he does come, I don’t want to be found in the swimming pool practicing the backstroke.”

After Sister Teh and I dated for a little while, it became obvious that I wanted to spend eternity with her. Naturally, I made it a subject of earnest prayer and fasting. No particular change in my feeling followed. I did not feel a burning in my bosom. I did, however, continue to feel good about my decision, so I persevered. Sister Teh got the same answer, so here we are. Since that experience, I have arrived at many of my decisions in a similar fashion (see D&C 6:22–23).
Contrast that with experiences I now have concerning specific assignments from the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to call a new stake president. As I approach this assignment in the spirit of prayer and fasting, I have been blessed with distinct impressions that help me know who should be called. The impressions come sometimes before, sometimes during, or sometimes even after the interview process. I always feel a burning in my bosom. I have since recognized that as the way the Holy Ghost guides me in such assignments.

“This happened during the Vietnam War, when we lived in Colorado Springs. Your grandpa, who was flying in Vietnam, was gone, and I was staying busy just trying to keep up with all the kids.
“I was singing in a chorus made up of officers’ wives at the Air Force Academy. During a break at one of the rehearsals, a friend told me about a service project she was doing for wounded servicemen who were recovering at the Fort Carson Army Hospital.”
Grandma explained how her friend would go regularly to read magazines and books to the servicemen. Some of them had birthdays coming up and she wanted to take cakes to them, but she was discouraged because she couldn’t find anyone to help her, and she couldn’t bake them all herself. Grandma volunteered immediately to help her bake some cakes.
The very next day her friend called and asked if she was really serious about helping and could she have one ready to go that afternoon.
Grandma told me, “I was pretty busy myself that day with family and Church responsibilities, but I felt like I should help. I made a chocolate cake from scratch and topped it with white frosting and chocolate swirls.” I knew exactly which cake she was talking about. She had made it before for family gatherings, and it was one of my favorites.
That afternoon Grandma’s friend came by to pick up the cake and take it to the hospital. Two hours later, she called and said, “I thought you would be interested in what happened with your cake. I took it to a 36-year-old sergeant, a veteran of many years in the army. He was recovering from wounds received in Vietnam. He looked like a typical, tough drill sergeant without a kind word in his vocabulary. When I took the cake into his room, handed it to him, and wished him a happy birthday, he looked up at me with a stunned expression on his face. Then the tears started rolling down his cheeks.”
The sergeant told Grandma’s friend that this was the first birthday cake he had ever had. Nobody had ever cared enough to bake him one.
As Grandma listened to her friend, she was amazed that one small act of service could have such an effect. Grandma closed the binder and said, “Tell your seminary class that I’m glad I took time to bake that cake.”

In addition to overcoming these obstacles to charity, we might be more loving by considering at least the three following emphases:
First of all, we can focus more on the atonement. Once again, Enos was an example of a strong desire to understand the atonement. He described his desire as a “wrestle … before God,”[6] and he said that his father’s teachings “sunk deep into my heart,”[7] and that his “soul hungered.”[8] Even after being forgiven he wondered “Lord, how is it done?”[9] What a great model for us to follow in striving to make the atonement more real in our lives. Could similar words describe our search for a deeper understanding of the atonement? I know that I could make better use of things that we have already been provided to help us to “always remember him.” The weekly ordinance of the Sacrament is designed to help us remember Christ’s sacrifice. My use of that reverent time could greatly be improved. We could also improve our focus on the scriptures, which are designed to testify and instruct regarding the Savior. In Lehi’s dream it was the iron rod, which represents the word of God that led Lehi to the tree and fruit which represent God’s love. Studying the scriptures and the teachings of modern day prophets will help bring us to Christ. The reason that we refer to the Book of Mormon as another testament of Jesus Christ is that if we read it with real intent it can bring us closer to Christ and to an understanding of His love for us. Worshipping more regularly in the temple also helps us focus more on the atonement. I need to take more time to ponder the love Jesus has for me and for my brothers and sisters.
Secondly, we can reflect on the service and love that we have received from others and be inspired to reach out to those around us. I remember as a youth getting a phone call before school on my 17th birthday from Bishop Angell. The conversation was very brief, but I still recall being impressed that he would think to call me and wish me a happy birthday. I am trying to repeat that thoughtfulness as a bishop now, almost 30 years later.

It is inspiring to learn how Parley Pratt came to know of the book about which he wrote the words of this hymn. In August of 1830, as a lay preacher, he was traveling from Ohio to eastern New York. At Newark, along the Erie Canal, he left the boat and walked 10 miles (16 km) into the country where he met a Baptist deacon by the name of Hamlin, who told him “of a book, a strange book, a VERY STRANGE BOOK! … This book, he said, purported to have been originally written on plates either of gold or brass, by a branch of the tribes of Israel; and to have been discovered and translated by a young man near Palmyra, in the State of New York, by the aid of visions, or the ministry of angels. I inquired of him how or where the book was to be obtained. He promised me the perusal of it, at his house the next day. … Next morning I called at his house, where, for the first time, my eyes beheld the ‘BOOK OF MORMON’—that book of books … which was the principal means, in the hands of God, of directing the entire course of my future life.

“I opened it with eagerness, and read its title page. I then read the testimony of several witnesses in relation to the manner of its being found and translated. After this I commenced its contents by course. I read all day; eating was a burden, I had no desire for food; sleep was a burden when the night came, for I preferred reading to sleep.

“As I read, the spirit of the Lord was upon me, and I knew and comprehended that the book was true, as plainly and manifestly as a man comprehends and knows that he exists.”

Parley Pratt was then 23 years of age. The reading of the Book of Mormon affected him so profoundly that he was soon baptized into the Church and became one of its most effective and powerful advocates.

After high school I joined the army reserve. My commanding officer gave me the opportunity of becoming a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army. He was very gracious but also very large and imposing. People didn’t turn him down. I asked if I could go home and think it over.
I prayed that night, and into my mind came the baptism prayer found in Doctrine and Covenants 20:73: “Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
I went back the next morning and told my commanding officer that I had decided to accept a commission—but that I would be commissioned by Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. I explained that I was going to serve a mission for my church.
The feeling of having that prayer answered was wonderful, and I have felt it again and again as I have prayed about important decisions. I seem to have always known that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know me and love me. My conversion must have begun when I first attended Primary and felt the Spirit there. It continued in my Aaronic Priesthood quorums and in the mission field. It still continues today.

Let me conclude with a parable: Once there was an army. It was strong, handsome, and fairly well trained. The soldiers knew their duty. They were assigned to be watchmen on the towers. They were to sound the alarm to warn the people when the enemy approached. In times of relative peace, however, it isn’t always easy to remain alert in such an assignment. To help spend the time, the soldiers often invented games to amuse themselves; some of these games required great skill. One game was particularly engrossing, and many soldiers became quite proficient at it. Someone suggested that they start a tournament to determine who in all of the army was the best player. The tournament became the talk of the whole village and even beyond. In fact, game players from all over the land actually began to join the army simply so they could compete in the tournament. Each year great honors were given to the champions, parades were held in tribute to their achievements, and children dreamed of the day when they, too, could join the army to participate in the tournament. Of course the enemy was not disappointed by the tournament’s acquired popularity; it was one of the enemy, in fact, who proposed the competition in the first place.

My brothers and sisters, we are the army of Zion. We can make a difference, but we must stay alert as watchmen on the tower and not be distracted by the games or purposes of the world.

Many of these experiences would not have been as powerful had it not been for the background and history of the people and places provided by our guides, Yosie and Dov. They stayed with us wherever we went, and after three weeks our impact on them seemed to be equally as important. Yosie said, “When you sing, I am at peace.”

Dov became our translator in concerts, and at first, he only repeated what Dr. Woodward said. However, by the end of our tour, he was taking almost 20 minutes telling our audiences about the Mormons. He explained that we don’t drink coffee, tea, or alcohol. He talked about Joseph Smith and the gospel. He was bearing testimony without knowing it! His last words to us were, “I am a Jew and will always be Jewish, but there is a light about you that I don’t quite understand.” As he reads and studies the Book of Mormon, we pray he will come to understand more about that light.

I suppose most kids dream about being rich. When I was little, I’d mooch along looking for money on the sidewalk. As I grew, so did my dreams. I’d think, “What if I see an unmarked envelope dropped into the weeds, and it’s stuffed with thousand dollar bills?” Since there would be no way to find the owner, I could keep the whole wad.
I quit looking for sudden wealth, because the most I ever found was a dime, which a bigger kid took away from me, and I began to think about relatives.
What if a great aunt or uncle died and, come to find out, they were not only secretly rich but—even more secretly—I’d been their favorite nephew, and they left me with a bundle.
But since my relatives ignored me, mostly, except to ask, “What are you studying in school?” I decided to treasure hunt.
I’d daydream about going out with a crew, and we’d find a Spanish galleon loaded with gold which had sunk off the coast of Quintana Roo, or I’d fancy myself fighting my way gamely up the Amazon River, where I’d stumble across an emerald mine.
By the time I was 16, I’d about given up my dreams of wealth, and then Mr. Boyd moved in next door.
Dad said the freeway took the elderly widower’s home, so he bought the house which had stood empty for a couple of months. It was a pleasant place, quiet, shaded by old trees and lilac bushes.
Mom said the rumor that got started about Mr. Boyd being rich had variations like a Bach prelude and was more fanciful. She said she was sure Mr. Boyd had as much money as the rest of us—just barely not enough—but I knew better.
To be sure, the car he drove wheezed like an elephant with the croup, and although he looked neat, with his bushy white hair and clear blue eyes, he sure didn’t dress like a millionaire, at least not like I’d dress if I had a bunch of money cornered.
Still, the vibes I got from Mr. Boyd convinced me he was an eccentric who had funds squirreled away in banks all over town. And when I found out he didn’t have any living relatives except for a lady cousin who lived in Arizona somewhere, I decided to become Mr. Boyd’s next of kin through adoption.
The way I had it figured, I would be underfoot in such a persistently helpful and noticeably warm-hearted way that I couldn’t help but be lovable.
I about wore out my eyes watching Mr. Boyd, waiting for chances to be helpful, although what I got in return were corner-eyed looks which told me he hadn’t been around teenagers for maybe 200 years. I could just feel the elderly man thinking I was a pill freak who roared around on a bike when I wasn’t lurking on street corners waiting to snatch purses from tottery old ladies.
That attitude irritated me. I wanted Mr. Boyd to notice I didn’t even own a motorcycle. I’m not big on them. And since he saw me in priesthood meeting every Sunday I felt he should know I wasn’t into drugs or alcohol. But since he never spoke to me, I couldn’t think of any clever way to tell him I could get a high—a near heaven kind of high—from listening to a Liszt rhapsody or looking at dew on rose leaves.
But for three months Mr. Boyd barely nodded to me except for the time I trimmed our side of the hedge, then went around and trimmed his too. Then he did say, “Thanks,” but nervously.
I sighed, because after he said “Thanks” he hurried into his house, and I noticed that the way I happened to be holding the hedge clippers looked a lot more threatening than lovable.
I decided I’d have to change tactics if I was ever going to make myself adoptable, so I began to wait for Mr. Boyd’s car to limp into his driveway. Then I’d dash over to carry his grocery bags, or what ever, into his kitchen. I’d try to make conversation with remarks like, “Awesome day, right? Sort of majestically inspirational,” and he’d look at me like I’d just stepped out of a UFO.
Dad was pleased with me because I was trying to be nice to Mr. Boyd, although of course he didn’t know about my plan. Dad said, “Your neighborly acts are very commendable, David, and don’t get discouraged if Mr. Boyd doesn’t warm up to you right away.” He’d remind me that adolescents take so much getting used to that by the time an adult gets used to them, they aren’t adolescents anymore. That didn’t cheer me up a whole lot.
Still, I went on playing it cool with one ear cocked for the sound of opportunity knocking, which I heard from half a block away one afternoon—a knock from Mr. Boyd’s car, which was then taken with a severe coughing spell at the corner, where it gave up the ghost.
My trigger-quick mind sent me rushing to his aid. While Mr. Boyd steered, I pushed his deceased automobile into his driveway. When the old man got out he said mournfully, “Guess the old crate’s done for.”
I almost asked, “Why not buy a new one?” but I was afraid that would let him know I knew he was secretly loaded. Instead, using my bright and most lovable tone of voice I said, “Let me work on your car, sir. I’m sure I can revive it.”
Actually, motorized objects and I have no special rapport, but Dad thinks an education should be well rounded. His notion had me taking a class in auto mechanics, so I was able to get Mr. Boyd’s car running again.
I had my head under the hood one afternoon, whistling loudly while I gave the spark plugs a final check, when Mr. Boyd went “Harrumph!” just behind my right ear. The sound startled me so much I gave a leap and banged my head smartly on the hood. I was still seeing afternoon stars when Mr. Boyd demanded, “Is that Rossini you’re whistling?”
Rubbing my dented head I said, “Yes, sir. The Thieving Magpie Overture.”
“Good gracious!” Mr. Boyd stared at me as if I’d sprouted an extra nose. “You mean you know opera?”
A bit miffed I said, “Why not? Dad’s a music professor at the university. Opera and classical music got piped into my bassinet.”
Then, for the first time, I saw Mr. Boyd smile. He said, “I thought kids nowadays never listened to anything but that loud noise you call stone.”
“Rock, sir. Anyway, some of that music is very good, Mr. Boyd. There are quite a few groups who really know about music, and I like them, but I prefer Beethoven, Vivaldi, Wagner …”
“Have you ever heard of Enrico Caruso?” Mr. Boyd interrupted, his blue eyes fixed anxiously on my face.
“Sure. Dad says Caruso was about the greatest tenor opera ever had.”
“Come inside.”
Mr. Boyd trotted toward his house. I followed, wondering what had gotten into him.
The living room of the house was cool, quiet, high ceilinged. Heavy furniture rested on a carpet with roses woven into a soft pattern. Mr. Boyd walked briskly to a corner and put his hand on a tall, boxy object.
“This,” he told me, “is a Victrola which still works.” After he explained that a Victrola is a sort of old-time stereo, he told me he had records for it that were priceless, and the most valuable of the old recordings were those done by Caruso.
Carefully he removed a brittle, black record from a paper envelope, cranked the machine with a handle, and then for the first time I heard the voice of Enrico Caruso. Was he something! Mr. Boyd said that since he could tell I appreciated good music I was welcome anytime he was home to come over and listen to his records.
I grinned. At last! Mr. Boyd was going to get to know me.
One evening I was sitting in front of his Victrola, enjoying the fringe benefits of Caruso, when Mr. Boyd came out of his bedroom carrying a photograph album. He looked edgy, old, and there was a loneliness in his eyes deeper than usual when he asked, like he expected me to back off, if I’d like to see his family pictures.
The truth is I wanted to back off. I had to remind myself sternly about the hard work I’d already put in to make myself lovingly adoptable before I could put the proper enthusiasm in my voice when I cried, “I’d enjoy that!” I jumped right up to sit beside the old man on what he called the “davenport.”
I don’t know where the evening went. Who would have dreamed that a peaceful-appearing man like Mr. Boyd could have lived a life of such high adventure?
He’d been raised in southeastern Utah. By the time he was my age he was already running the Colorado River in a canoe, and that was before they dammed those violent waters. He’d been sheriff of a county bigger than some states. He’d been member of a rescue posse that patrolled the wild Canyonlands, and he’d served as a stake missionary on the Navajo reservation.
He told me about so many exciting adventures that I had goosebumps all over. That evening he showed me only a few of his family pictures, but he did tell me that his wife had died ten years earlier, and that their only child, a son, had been pilot of a B-17 bomber during World War II, and that he had been shot down over Italy.
“Missing in action,” Mr. Boyd said. An old sorrow dimmed his eyes. “Thirty-three years have gone by, and never a word about what happened to our Dan.”
I don’t know if he knew there were tears on his cheeks, but I knew the lump in my own throat was still there when I went to bed that night.
From then on I hardly bothered to knock before I walked into Mr. Boyd’s house. A special feeling had developed between us. It was like, when we were together, he forgot he was 76, and I forgot I was 16. Each of us was so much aware of what thoughts and emotions were going on inside the other that what was outside didn’t matter.
I can’t remember when it finally began to dawn on me that Mr. Boyd not only didn’t have funds hidden in any banks, nor musty bills in his mattress, but that while his monthly pension check stretched far enough to cover his utilities and groceries, the covering was often skimpy.
The knowledge that my friend was anything but rich penetrated my skull for good the day I asked why he didn’t have a telephone. Smiling, Mr. Boyd said, “For one thing, son, all the people I’m interested in live no further than a brisk walk away. For another, if you let that company install a telephone they begin to expect you to pay for the use of it.”
Then one day, when Mr. Boyd and I were walking home from sacrament meeting, he cleared his throat in a way that warned me he’d been working to get up enough nerve to say whatever he was trying to get out. After another self-conscious “Harrumph!” he blurted, “Son, you got any plans to get married?”
That stopped me cold in my tracks. I squeaked, “Good grief, Mr. Boyd, I haven’t even been on a mission yet!”
He laughed in the hearty way he has that always makes me grin from the inside out. He said, “I planned to come at you slantways with that, not scare you to death, but what I’m trying to find out is if your future plans include a wife?”
I said, “Sure. But please,” I pleaded dramatically, “can I wait to get married until I find a girl?”
As we walked beside lilac bushes in bloom Mr. Boyd put his hand on my shoulder. He said, “Even nice girls can be picky. Maybe the one who waits for you won’t want a lot of old relics, but,” his steps slowed, “I have a few belongings of mostly sentimental value, like my records and Victrola, a copper kettle my great-grandmother brought across the plains in a handcart, similar things I wouldn’t want just anybody to have.”
I stopped to pick a lilac because I didn’t know how I could look at Mr. Boyd when he said what I expected him to say next, which he did.
“I’m making a will, David. I’ll leave my home to Cousin Bertha, but what I own that is really important to me I want you to have.”
I studied that lilac like it was going to help me pass a botany exam, which I’d have flunked because the lavender blossoms kept going blurry on me. I was remembering how I’d schemed to become Mr. Boyd’s adopted son so I would be his heir. Now I could hardly believe I’d ever been greedy and dumb enough to think that money could have as much value as a very special friend.
Pretending a ladybug on my sleeve needed loving care I lifted the orange insect off and placed it on the sidewalk, which gave me time to get hold of myself. But I guess Mr. Boyd thought I was trying to think of how I could tell him I wasn’t interested in his keepsakes, because when he spoke again it was in a slow, explaining sort of way.
He said, “I’ve never worried a great deal about working for material goods, David. I’ve tried to live by what Jesus told us in Matthew, ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven’” (Matt. 6:19–20). Mr. Boyd smiled. “So I haven’t laid up many earthly treasures. I’ve felt the most important work I could do here is to learn how to get back where I came from, and to send ahead what I could.”
I looked with affection at Mr. Boyd’s face, which was lined with age but beautiful with dignified peace. How much he had taught me about what’s important in life and about what doesn’t matter very much, like money.
As his officially unadopted son, Mr. Boyd had already given me many valuable gifts, like the way I was able to understand what he meant when he spoke of treasures, and when his face took on a look of quiet happiness I knew he was thinking about his wife and his son, Danny.
I stopped to pick a few more lilacs, then caught up with Mr. Boyd.
I said, “Sir, I want you to know I’ll be proud to take care of the material things you treasured on earth. And I promise I won’t marry a girl until I know for sure she’ll appreciate them as much as I do.”
Then, with what I hoped was a courtly flourish, I held out the lilacs to Mr. Boyd. There were many tender and loving phrases tumbling around in my head that I wanted to use, but all that came out was a humble, “Thank you.”