Gospel Story Finder

About this time, President Joseph F. Smith and his counselors in the First Presidency suggested to members of the Church that they hold a family home evening once each week. Accordingly, my father would gather us around a little table after supper to read the Book of Mormon. We read it from cover to cover that year. Because Mother had taught me to read, I was privileged to take my turn in reading aloud. What excitement I experienced as we approached the Third book of Nephi and the coming of the Savior! With feelings of sadness we continued through the books of Mormon, Ether, and Moroni. These feelings were strongly reinforced by my father.

Father told me the story of Grandfather Durham, who had been inspired to compose a melody called “The Nephite Lamentation.” Thomas Durham had been promised in a patriarchal blessing that he would hear music as it was sung in the heavens. My father related how one night my grandfather had a dream. In it he saw twenty-four men by a stream. They looked very sad. Their leader arose and addressed them. Then he heard a melody played on what sounded like a trumpet. The impression came to him that it was a dream concerning Moroni and the last twenty-four Nephites. He awoke. In the late hours of the night he went to his little organ and played the tune he had heard and wrote it down. Later, a choir in the Parowan Ward in southern Utah sang the tune to the words of “O My Father.” It was published in modified form in the old Primary songbook as arranged by Henry E. Giles.

Hearing this music and reading the Book of Mormon in these early years with my parents made a forceful impression upon my mind as to the reality and truth of the Book of Mormon.

I hope that each of you will watch and listen carefully to what your parents say and do. I pray they will teach you well. I also hope that the music you hear in your home will be uplifting and inspiring, because we believe that “if there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.” (A of F 1:13.) The place to begin with good things is at home with your family.

Finally, let us all remember the commandment: “Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” (Ex. 20:12.)

“Shortly after we were married, we began looking for a church. We had promised each other we would have a Christian home. Our neighbors had a daughter who had just joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She asked us if we’d like to talk to the missionaries. As soon as they walked onto our porch, we knew these men were different. There was a spirit about them.”
Another homecoming, this one leading to serious study, fasting, prayer, and finally the realization that Heavenly Father was welcoming them into the only true church.
“All the pieces fit. Everything was right. And since then our love for God has grown, our faith has grown, and we’ve seen the truth in action in the lives of Latter-day Saints everywhere we’ve lived.”

My amazing mother has had dementia-Alzheimers for over 10 years now. My dad’s lovingly taken care of her and attended to her every need at home until the last four years, when she needed to go to a memory care facility. He feeds her every meal because her capacity is so diminished. But she’s been a bright, multi-talented woman all her life…and a wonderful mother. I want to tell you a little about her…

She was an incredible pianist and taught for just $2 a lesson…just so children who couldn’t really afford it could learn to play.
Mom was an awesome seamstress! She’d stay up late making something special for homecoming or other dances. By the time my sister Alicia came along 8 years later—our folks had some money to buy her clothes. But Mom sewed all of mine…through most of college. And she did a great job!
She drove us great distances to music lessons so we could develop our talents—and even joined me playing violin in the orchestra at a Catholic girls’ convent, which my violin teacher conducted.
Mom was such a good homemaker…she was a great cook…and so clean, you could lick her floors and think they tasted good!
As an adult, she was a substitute teacher, a volunteer, and she took voice lessons. She was a renowned choir director in our California stake for decades…and put on more beautiful programs than you can count—both religious and secular. And, after they retired and moved to Utah from California …Mom played the violin in a local symphony orchestra.
She would do anything to help anyone, always serving. And she and my dad served a senior couple mission to Ireland—even though she was a bit nervous. But she was faithful and found she could do that, too…and her sweet personality won many Irish hearts. I love her dearly…and that’s the way I always think of her in my mind. Gentle and fun…never overbearing. Always kind.
Even though Mom still looks much the same…her memory is gone…along with her recognition of most of her family members. She doesn’t speak and can’t really do anything for herself. It is so very sad—yet we are thrilled she is still with us…and she’s still wonderful, beautiful Renée. I often wonder—why her? And, sometimes, I think--why us? Or why me?
But maybe, instead, we should ask the question Elder Maxwell asked when he was diagnosed with leukemia: “Why not me?” And ask…What am I to do? What am I to learn? What am I to change? Whom am I to help?
In time, we all realize that “there are beautiful sunrises even after devastating sunsets.” Heavenly Father continues to pour down blessings, even when we’re in the midst of our trials. And we, too, have seen that in our family.

When Peter returned after completing his mission, he quickly began the routine of work and visits to the hospital as he continued with corrective surgery. At this time, he was called to serve a stake mission. In this capacity he met the secretary to the stake mission president, Marjorie Clegg of Tooele, Utah. They became good friends, and Peter started arranging dates for her with his friends. Finally, after having had too many dates arranged for her, Marjorie asked him to please not arrange any more dates for her. Peter asked her for a date for himself. Based on a foundation of friendship, the relationship grew into love, and they were married.
Except for the very first time Marjorie met me, she never seemed to notice my burns. I’m very much aware of people noticing that I’m different. I’ve never noticed that Marjorie ever thought me any different on the outside than she found me on the inside. She makes me feel very handsome. I love her not only because she’s my sweetheart, but because she’s my very best friend. She is the girl I prayed for who would take me for what I am on the inside. That’s what I needed because I couldn’t get very far using the outside.

I recently asked a doctor of family medicine how much of his time was devoted purely to correcting physical disorders. He has a large practice, and after thoughtfully considering, he answered, “Not more than 20 percent. The rest of the time I seem to be working on problems that very much affect the physical well-being of my patients but do not originate in the body.
“These physical disorders,” the doctor concluded, “are merely symptoms of some other kind of trouble.”
In recent generations one after another of the major diseases has yielded to control or cure. Some very major ones still remain, but we now seem able to do something about most of them.
There is another part of us, not so tangible, but quite as real as our physical body. This intangible part of us is described as mind, emotion, intellect, temperament, and many other things. Very seldom is it described as spiritual.
But there is a spirit in man; to ignore it is to ignore reality. There are spiritual disorders, too, and spiritual diseases that can cause intense suffering.
The body and the spirit of man are bound together. Often, very often, when there are disorders, it is very difficult to tell which is which.
There are basic rules of physical health that have to do with rest, nourishment, exercise, and with abstaining from those things which damage the body. Those who violate the rules one day pay for their foolishness.
There are also rules of spiritual health, simple rules that cannot be ignored, for if they are we will reap sorrow by and by.
All of us experience some temporary physical sickness. All of us now and again may be spiritually ill as well. Too many of us, however, are chronically spiritually sick.
We don’t need to stay that way. We can learn to avoid spiritual infections and maintain good spiritual health. Even though we have a serious physical ailment, we can be spiritually healthy.
If you suffer from worry, from grief or shame, from jealousy, disappointment, or envy, I have something to tell you.
Somewhere near your home there is a vacant corner lot. Although adjoining yards may be well tended, a vacant corner lot somehow is always full of weeds.
There is a footpath across it, a bicycle trail, and ordinarily it is a collecting place for junk. First someone threw a few lawn clippings there. They would not hurt anything. Someone added a few sticks and limbs from a nearby yard. Then came a few papers and a plastic bag, and finally some tin cans and old bottles were included.
And there it was—a junkyard.
The neighbors did not intend it to be that. But little contributions from here and there made it so.
This corner lot is like, so very much like, the minds of many of us. We leave our minds vacant and empty and open to trespass by anyone. Whatever is dumped there we keep.
We would not consciously permit anyone to dump junk into our minds, not old cans and bottles. But after lawn clippings and papers, the other things just don’t seem all that much worse.
Our minds can become veritable junk heaps with dirty, cast-off ideas that accumulate there little by little.
Years ago I put up some signs in my mind. They are very clearly printed and simply read: “No trespassing.” “No dumping allowed.” On occasions it has been necessary to show them very plainly to others.
I do not want anything coming into my mind that does not have some useful purpose or some value that makes it worth keeping. I have enough trouble keeping the weeds down that sprout there on their own without permitting someone else to clutter my mind with things that do not edify.
I’ve hauled a few of these away in my lifetime. Occasionally I’ve tossed these thoughts back over the fence where they came from, when it could be done in a friendly manner.
I’ve had to evict some thoughts a hundred times before they would stay out. I have never been successful until I have put something edifying in their place.
I do not want my mind to be a dumping place for shabby ideas or thoughts, for disappointments, bitterness, envy, shame, hatred, worry, grief, or jealousy.
If you are fretting over such things, it’s time to clean the yard. Get rid of all that junk! Get rid of it!
Put up a “no trespassing” sign, a “no dumping” sign, and take control of yourself. Don’t keep anything that will not edify you.
The first thing a doctor does with a wound is to clean it out. He gets rid of all foreign matter and drains off infection—however much it hurts.
Once you do that spiritually, you will have a different perspective. You will have much less to worry about. It is easy to get all mixed up about worry.
Somewhere there is a message in the protest of a man who said: “You can’t tell me worry doesn’t help. The things I worry about never happen.”
Many years ago I was taught a lesson by a man I admired very much. He was as saintly a man as I have ever known. He was steady and serene, with a deep spiritual strength that many drew upon.
He knew just how to minister to others who were suffering. On a number of occasions I was present when he gave blessings to those who were sick or otherwise afflicted.
His life had been a life of service, both in the Church and in the community.
He had presided over one of the missions of the Church and looked forward to the annual missionary reunion. When he was older he was not able to drive at night, and I offered to take him to the reunions.
This modest gesture was repaid a thousandfold.
On one occasion when we were alone and the spirit was right, he gave me a lesson for my life from an experience in his. Although I thought I had known him, he told me things I would not have supposed.
He grew up in a little community. Somehow in his youth he had a desire to make something of himself and struggled successfully to get an education.
He married a lovely young woman, and presently everything in his life was just right. He was well employed, with a bright future. They were deeply in love, and she was expecting their first child.
The night the baby was to be born there were complications. The only doctor was somewhere in the countryside tending to the sick. They were not able to find him. After many hours of labor the condition of the mother-to-be became desperate.
Finally the doctor arrived. He sensed the emergency, acted quickly, and soon had things in order. The baby was born and the crisis, it appeared, was over.
Some days later the young mother died from the very infection that the doctor had been treating at the other home that night.
My friend’s world was shattered. Everything was not right now; everything was all wrong. He had lost his wife, his sweetheart. He had no way to take care of a tiny baby and at once tend to his work.
As the weeks wore on his grief festered. “That doctor should not be allowed to practice,” he would say. “He brought that infection to my wife; if he had been careful she would be alive today.” He thought of little else, and in his bitterness he became threatening.
Then one night a knock came at his door. A little youngster said, simply, “Daddy wants you to come over. He wants to talk to you.”
“Daddy” was the stake president. A grieving, heartbroken young man went to see his spiritual leader. This spiritual shepherd had been watching his flock and had something to say to him.
The counsel from this wise servant was simply: “John, leave it alone. Nothing you do about it will bring her back. Anything you do will make it worse. John, leave it alone.”
My friend told me then that this had been his trial, his Gethsemane.
How could he leave it alone? Right was right! A terrible wrong had been committed, and somebody must pay for it.
He struggled in agony to get hold of himself. It did not happen at once. Finally he determined that whatever else the issues were, he should be obedient.
Obedience is a powerful spiritual medicine. It comes close to being a cure-all.
He determined to follow the counsel of that wise spiritual leader. He would leave it alone.
Then he told me, “I was an old man before I finally understood. It was not until I was an old man that I could finally see a poor country doctor—over-worked, underpaid, run ragged from patient to patient, with little proper medicine, no hospital, few instruments. He struggled to save lives, and succeeded for the most part.
“He had come in a moment of crisis when two lives hung in the balance and had acted without delay.
“I was an old man,” he repeated, “before finally I understood. I would have ruined my life,” he said, “and the lives of others.”
Many times he had thanked the Lord on his knees for a wise spiritual leader who counseled simply, “John, leave it alone.”
And that is my counsel to you. If you have festering sores, a grudge, some bitterness, disappointment, or jealousy, get hold of yourself. You may not be able to control things out there with others, but you can control things here, inside of you.
I say, therefore: John, leave it alone. Mary, leave it alone.
You may need a transfusion of spiritual strength to be able to do this. Then just ask for it. We call that prayer. Prayer is powerful, spiritual medicine. The instructions for its use are found in the scriptures.
One of our sacred hymns carries this message:
Ere you left your room this morning,
Did you think to pray? …
When your soul was full of sorrow,
Balm of Gilead did you borrow
At the gates of day?
O how praying rests the weary!
Prayer will change the night to day;
So when life gets dark and dreary,
Don’t forget to pray.
(Hymns, no. 31.)
All of us carry excess baggage around from time to time, but the wisest ones among us don’t carry it for very long. They get rid of it.
Some of it you have to get rid of without really solving the problem. Some things that ought to be put in order are not put in order because you can’t control them.
Often, however, the things we carry are petty, even stupid. If you are still upset after all these years because Aunt Clara didn’t come to your wedding reception, why don’t you grow up? Forget it.
If you brood constantly over some past mistake, settle it—look ahead.
If the bishop didn’t call you right—or release you right—forget it.
If you resent someone for something he has done—or failed to do—forget it.
We call that forgiveness. It is powerful, spiritual medicine. The instructions for its use are found in the scriptures.
I repeat: John, leave it alone. Mary, leave it alone. Purge and cleanse and soothe your soul and your heart and your mind.
It will then be as though a cloudy, dirty film has been erased from the world around you; and though the problem may remain, the sun will come out. The beam will have been lifted from your eyes. There will come a peace that surpasseth understanding.
A great significant message of the gospel of Jesus Christ is exemplified by the title given to Him: the Prince of Peace. If we follow Him, we can have that individually and collectively.
He has said: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” (John 14:27.)
If you, my brother or sister, are troubled, there is at hand, not just in Gilead, a soothing, healing balm.

From the beginning of her gymnastics training, Angel’s dream has been to represent Canada in the Olympics. Even though she didn’t compete on Sundays, she was still able to achieve success in other important competitions held on different days. She was named the Canadian champion on floor exercises and the western Canadian all-around champion. And even though a knee injury eliminated her chance of trying out for the Canadian team for the Rio 2016 Games in Brazil, she still has her sights set on the 2020 games in Tokyo.

As a small boy on the farm during the searing heat of the summer, I remember my grandmother Mary Finlinson cooking our delicious meals on a hot woodstove. When the wood box next to the stove became empty, Grandmother would silently pick up the box, go out to refill it from the pile of cedar wood outside, and bring the heavily laden box back into the house. I was so insensitive and interested in the conversation in the kitchen, I sat there and let my beloved grandmother refill the kitchen wood box. I feel ashamed of myself and have regretted my omission for all of my life. I hope someday to ask for her forgiveness.

It was a cold, rainy day, and my friends and I were playing kickball. One of the players was a girl who gets teased a lot and does not have many friends. She didn’t have a coat although it was raining hard. She was soaked! It looked as if she had just jumped into a swimming pool! Her nose was red and she was shivering. I felt sorry for her, so I took off my coat and let her borrow it until recess was over. Even though I was cold on the outside, I felt warm and cozy inside.

Trent and Carley each tried to be like Jesus Christ at a school carnival.
Carley played a game at the carnival in which if you threw a ball into a certain cup, you won a fish. She won “seven or a lot of fishes.” Another boy, about six years old, won only one fish, and he dropped it. Carley gave him one of hers “because it was the right thing to do.” The boy was very happy, which made Carley feel very good.

Annie Van Komen of Salt Lake City, Utah, took an unusual vacation last summer. Annie went with her father, who is a doctor, to South America to treat children in a large La Paz, Bolivia, hospital. Annie went armed with homemade blankets and slippers made by the Young Women in her stake, to give to the children.
“It took a real effort by the girls in my stake to make all the gifts I took. They wouldn’t have meant nearly as much if we had bought them at a store,” says Annie.
Annie acted as her father’s assistant during much of the trip. Although she spent most of her time in Bolivia giving to others, she feels she gained even more.
“Something like this makes you really grateful for your situation. You really appreciate all the things you have,” says Annie.

Today I asked Father to teach me to chop and split wood. He replied that Mother would not have wanted me to do a man’s work. That is true. Mother always wanted me to be a lady. But Father has too much to do. He can get no man to help with the farm and no woman to help in the house because we are Mormons. I explained that I keep running out of wood for the range, and if we want hot meals, I must learn to handle an ax.
So he taught me. It is harder than it appears, and tonight my hands are blistered badly. I intend to wear my second-best Sunday gloves tomorrow when I chop.

From my personal chronology of courage, let me share with you an example from military service.

Entering the United States Navy in the closing months of World War II was a challenging experience for me. I learned of brave deeds, acts of valor, and examples of courage. One best remembered was the quiet courage of an 18-year-old seaman—not of our faith—who was not too proud to pray. Of 250 men in the company, he was the only one who each night knelt down by the side of his bunk—at times amidst the jeers of the curious, the jests of unbelievers—and, with bowed head, prayed to God. He never wavered. He never faltered. He had courage.

Whilst reluctant to be overly personal, I am the product of such a home. For most of my childhood and teenage years, my mother raised us on her own in poor circumstances. Money was carefully rationed. She coped with an inner loneliness, desperate at times for support and companionship. Yet despite all of this, there was a dignity about my mother, a tremendous source of determination and sheer Scottish grit.

Thankfully, her later years were more blessed than the beginning. She married a new convert, a widower; they were sealed in the London England Temple and later briefly served there as ordinance workers. They were together for almost a quarter of a century—happy, content, and fulfilled until overtaken by mortality.

Since my childhood I have heard members of the Church bear testimony of the Book of Mormon. I thought the words “I know it is true” were just traditional words that every member recited. It wasn’t until I entered the mission field to serve in Nigeria that I learned the truth behind the words.
One night my companion and I were returning home. We were riding our bicycles on a dark, untarred road that had deteriorated because of rain. Due to the water and the condition of the road, my companion crashed and fell off his bike. His clothing, his scripture bag—everything he had—was stained and wet.
When we finally reached our apartment, we carefully cleaned and dried everything damaged in the accident—except for the two copies of the Book of Mormon that remained in his bag after our day of proselytizing. I thought we didn’t need to worry about those copies because we had so many more in our apartment.
Several months after the incident, I was looking for a way to fix my torn hymnbook cover. I came across the stained copies of the Book of Mormon we had abandoned on a shelf and saw that the covers would be good for fixing my hymnbook. But as I was about to cut the covers off the books, I was pierced in my heart: “Is this not the book you are preaching about? Is this the way to treat it? What would your investigators think?” I sat down and pondered for a long time. Then, instead of cutting the covers, I cleaned them with soapy water, dried them, and carefully placed them back on our bookshelf.
From this experience I came to know that for a long time I had been living on a borrowed testimony of the Book of Mormon, even though I had attended seminary and institute. I have since come closer to this book, and I value it much more. I realize that our conviction of the sacredness of the Book of Mormon comes as we get to know it through experiences of the heart. By reading, pondering, and applying the teachings of the Book of Mormon, I have come to know it is true.

Some years ago an interesting account appeared in a New Zealand newspaper about a family—a man, woman, and their two young children—and their ocean voyage.
In a well-stocked 35-foot sloop they departed on an extended trip. After a few days out, their boat struck a reef off New Caledonia. The four occupants managed to get into a life raft with some water, food, and a radio before the yacht was lost. After some anxious hours, their radio distress signal was picked up in New Caledonia, and before long, they were reached by an air/sea rescue helicopter.
When the four family members were safely ashore and being interviewed by reporters, the woman kept repeating, “We’ve lost everything! We’ve lost everything! Everything we had was in that sailboat. All of our money, our clothes, and our possessions are gone. And the yacht was not insured. We’ve lost everything!”
As Earl Nightingale, a well-known philosopher, reported this story, he went on to comment on the lack of proper preparation of which this family was guilty. Reefs in the South Pacific are well charted. Insurance is always available and learning skills of sailing should be part of training processes before venturing out into open seas.

The next year we enrolled in junior high school. But the building could not accommodate all the students, and so our class of the seventh grade was sent back to the Hamilton School. We were insulted. We were furious. We’d spent six unhappy years in that building, and we felt we deserved something better. The boys of the class all met after school. We decided we wouldn’t tolerate this kind of treatment. We’d go on strike.
The next day we did not show up. But we had no place to go. We couldn’t stay home, because our mothers would ask questions. We didn’t think of going downtown to a show. We had no money for that. We didn’t think of going to the park. We were afraid we might be seen by the truant officer. We didn’t think of going out behind the school fence and telling shady stories because we didn’t know any. We’d never heard of such things as drugs or anything of the kind. We just wandered about and wasted the day.
The next morning, the principal, Mr. Stearns, was at the front door of the school to greet us. His demeanor matched his name. He said some pretty straightforward things and then told us that we could not come back to school until we brought a note from our parents. Striking, he said, was not the way to settle a problem. We were expected to be responsible citizens, and if we had a complaint, we could come to the principal’s office and discuss it.
There was only one thing to do, and that was to go home and get the note. I remember walking sheepishly into the house. My mother asked what was wrong. I told her. I said I needed a note. She wrote one. It was very brief. It was the most stinging rebuke she ever gave me. It read as follows:
“Dear Mr. Stearns,
“Please excuse Gordon’s absence yesterday. His action was simply an impulse to follow the crowd.”
She signed it and handed it to me.
I walked back over to school and got there about the same time a few other boys did. We all handed our notes to Mr. Stearns. I do not know whether he read them, but I have never forgotten my mother’s note. Though I had been an active party to the action we had taken, I resolved then and there that I would make my own decisions on the basis of my standards. I would not be pushed in one direction or another by those around me.
That decision has blessed my life many times. It has kept me from doing some things which could at worst have resulted in serious injury and trouble, and at the best would have cost me my self-respect.

When I had left Hawaii, some friends saw us off. One of them happened to be an inactive Mormon, and when he said goodbye, he added, “If you ever get in a bind and need help, call my church. They’ll help you.”
I knew absolutely nothing of Mormons except that they had a fine Tabernacle Choir. I did not like the idea of begging for help, least of all help from some strange church that I’d never even visited; but I was desperate, and there seemed no other choice. In searching the telephone book, I found an endless number of Mormon churches and listings, so I picked one that was called a mission home. I thought that a mission home would be more apt to be compassionate. A young elder answered the phone, and I told him pretty much the same thing I had told the three ministers: that I did not need money, but I was in desperate need of advice. His reply was that he was quite new to the area and he himself could not help me, but if I would give him my name and phone number, he would have someone else call me. I hung up, half-suspecting never to hear from them again.
To my surprise, within ten minutes I received a call from a lovely lady who listened to my story and then agreed that I could use some assistance. She told me to get all my luggage together, call a taxi, and meet her in thirty minutes at the Berkeley bus terminal. After she described her car and what she would be wearing, she added, “By the way, are you a member of the Church?”
“Here it comes again,” I thought cynically, but into the phone I simply said, “No, I’m not.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, “I just wondered. See you in half an hour.”
I hurried my things together, cleaned up the children, checked out of the hotel, and headed for Berkeley. I was surprised, and a bit suspicious, at the woman’s willingness to help a total stranger, but at this point I was willing to take advantage of any offer.
Her first move was to treat us to lunch. Then I learned that she was the wife of a man named O. Leslie Stone, a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy who was then the stake president there. She got us settled into a boarding house and promised to get me the names of some potential babysitters. All this, in spite of the fact that I emphasized to her my strong bitterness toward churches of any kind, and my intention to stay that way. I couldn’t get over it!
She didn’t seem to care that I was so antagonistic, nor did she try to convert me or criticize me. She even seemed to act as though I was doing her a favor by letting her help me. A Bible verse kept echoing through my mind: “By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.” (John 13:35.)
Over the next few days, Sister Stone came every day. She did, indeed, find me a babysitter, a woman from her church. Also she helped me find and get moved into a small, furnished apartment, and she gave me the name of a man to see about a temporary job. Still she didn’t preach to me. It amazed me; and still that same scripture kept flitting in and out of my thoughts, “if ye have love one to another.”
In the apartment I rented, I found a small Mormon book entitled, Articles of Faith, by James E. Talmage. I never knew if Sister Stone secretly placed it there, or if it had been left by the former tenant. At any rate, I began reading it after the children were in bed at night; not because I was interested, but because there was nothing else to do.
During those first few weeks, not a Saturday went by that Sister Stone didn’t stop and ask if we would like to go to church with her on Sunday. When I would politely refuse, she never pushed the issue; but still she regularly asked. At the same time, I became more and more engrossed in the book. I had never heard of such things as I found in that book, though I had studied the Bible faithfully most of my life. Much of what I read I either wondered about or outright disagreed with, so I started jotting down notes of such items as I came across it.
One Saturday when Sister Stone came by, I still refused to go to church with her, but I did tell her that I had some questions about it, and that if she would send her pastor to talk to me I’d discuss them with him. In just a few days I was visited by a man named Marvin Turner and his wife, who said they were stake missionaries and had come to answer my questions. Almost defiantly I brought out my written questions, seven pages in all, and told them that if they could answer them I would listen to whatever they wanted to teach me. Brother Turner’s response was that he did not have all the answers, but he knew that through the Church he could find me logical, reasonable answers. Through the patience and tenderness of the Turners, I finally reached the time when I was willing to pray about the truthfulness of those things that they taught me. I consented to go to church with them. Some time later, I was baptized. However, when I moved to southern California, I lost track of my new friends. I remarried and had other children.
That was many years ago. Now I sit in sacrament meeting and watch while one of my sons passes the sacrament and another one blesses it; I watch the faith and testimonies of each of the children grow; and my thoughts turn toward people who have joined the church as a result of different ones spreading the gospel; and I think too of our kindred dead who have had their baptisms and endowments and sealings done through our genealogy work.
Ultimately my thoughts turn toward a gracious Sister Stone and a sharing, loving Turner family somewhere among the vast number of Saints who, I have no doubt, are still serving the Lord through loving and caring. I ask myself how I can ever repay those people who cared so much for someone so rebellious long ago. And the answer comes to me loud and clear: “Go, and do thou likewise.” (Luke 10:37.)

One day I was feeling down and I remembered something someone told me: “If you don’t know that Heavenly Father loves you, ask Him.” So I did just that. I didn’t hear a small voice say, “Yes, absolutely” or “Of course I love you,” but I did feel prompted to read my patriarchal blessing. So I pulled it out.
Before I read a single word, I was overcome with emotion. I felt the Spirit testify to me in my heart boldly that my Heavenly Father loves me and that my patriarchal blessing is not just a blessing about the future but also a blessing of love and comfort whenever I need it.

It wasn’t until she attended preschool that Alba first started learning English. Even though she was very young, she remembers how frustrating it was at times. But she picked up the language quickly.

When kindergarten started, Alba’s teacher knew she was bilingual, so she assigned her a seat next to a boy who couldn’t speak any English. She asked Alba to translate basic phrases for him such as “write your name here.”

One day, a mother who couldn’t speak any English stopped by the office. The staff could not find anyone in the whole school to interpret for her. When Alba’s teacher learned of the dilemma, she immediately recommended her five-year-old interpreter. From then on—from parent-teacher conferences to phone calls—the school asked young Alba for help whenever they needed an interpreter.

“At least three times a week they would call me out of class,” she says. “It was exciting for me. I felt special,” she said with a laugh, “and I could get out of class.”

Almost three years ago, our neighbor David Paddock was injured when he fell twenty to thirty feet from an avocado tree onto asphalt. His wife wrote beautiful messages about prayer and faith while waiting for him to recover from a coma. Our whole ward was praying and fasting for their family, and her blog was so special to us because we felt like we were going through a part of the experience together. With permission, I’m going to share with you Jenne Paddock’s words about what happened to her husband from her blog, because I found her messages concerning faith and prayer very inspiring. First of all, the “Injuries [he] sustained include broken pelvis, 3 broken ribs, collapsed lung, broken wrist, lacerated liver, burst adrenal gland, broken skull and facial bones and most importantly, diffuse brain injury.” Jenne wrote, “Something I would like to share is that I have never before in my life felt in such a real and palpable way the power of prayer. It’s something I’ve heard talked about often but in the past six days I have literally felt it around me, giving me clarity, holding my pieces together, comforting me. It comes to me from you, from Heavenly Father, surrounding me and filling in all my weak spaces. I really don’t know how to describe it but it is truly, magnificently powerful and real. Deep thanks to all of you praying for us and keeping us in your hearts. What you are doing matters and has made a difference. I know all my days will not be as peaceful as today, but when the next storm comes it will be this power and comfort that I will cling to and that will bring me through.” The expression that Jenne gave about feeling the prayers literally has stayed with me ever since I read it. This is a picture taken the year after the accident happened.