Gospel Story Finder

Some years ago, while visiting the members and missionaries in Australia, I witnessed a sublime example depicting how a treasury of testimony can bless and sanctify a home. The mission president, Horace D. Ensign, and I were traveling the long distance from Sydney to Darwin, where I was to break ground for our first chapel in that city. En route we had a scheduled stop at a mining community named Mount Isa. As we entered the small airport at Mount Isa, a woman and her two children approached. She said, “I am Judith Louden, a member of the Church, and these are my two children. We thought you might be on this flight, so we have come to visit with you during your brief stopover.” She explained that her husband was not a member of the Church and that she and the children were indeed the only members in the entire area. We shared lessons and bore testimony.

Time passed. As we prepared to reboard, Sister Louden looked so forlorn, so alone. She pleaded, “You can’t go yet; I have so missed the Church.” Suddenly the loudspeaker announced a 30-minute mechanical delay of our flight. Sister Louden whispered, “My prayer has just been answered.” She then asked how she might influence her husband to show an interest in the gospel. We counseled her to include him in their home Primary lesson each week and be to him a living testimony of the gospel. I mentioned we would send to her a subscription to the Children’s Friend and additional helps for her family teaching. We urged that she never give up on her husband.

We departed Mount Isa, a city to which I have never returned. I shall, however, always hold dear in memory that sweet mother and those precious children extending a tear-filled expression and a fond wave of gratitude and good-bye.

Several years later, while speaking at a priesthood leadership meeting in Brisbane, Australia, I emphasized the significance of gospel scholarship in the home and the importance of living the gospel and being examples of the truth. I shared with the men assembled the account of Sister Louden and the impact her faith and determination had made on me. As I concluded, I said, “I suppose I’ll never know if Sister Louden’s husband ever joined the Church, but he couldn’t have found a better model to follow.”

One of the leaders raised his hand, then stood and declared, “Brother Monson, I am Richard Louden. The woman of whom you speak is my wife. The children [his voice quavered] are our children. We are a forever family now, thanks in part to the persistence and the patience of my dear wife. She did it all.” Not a word was spoken. The silence was broken only by sniffles and marked by many tears.

During the week of April 5 through 9 of this year, my community education class sponsored a Marriage Awareness Week at Brigham Young University. We set up a table near the west entrance of the Wilkinson Student Center and put out an assortment of books, videos, pamphlets, and tapes—all describing the importance of marriage in America. Many students and faculty members stopped by our booth during the week, and some were more enthusiastic than others about our endeavor.
While I was with my students at our Marriage Awareness Week booth, one young coed briefly stopped for a moment and then asked, somewhat in jest, “Do we really need something like this at BYU?” My students and I tried to convince her that, yes, indeed, we do need a Marriage Awareness Week, and particularly at BYU. I would like to tell you why I feel so during the few minutes I speak at this BYU devotional this morning and share with you my renewed testimony that, in light of recent trends, “marriage is,” indeed, “ordained of God” (D&C 49:15).

Kevin:
A few months later, we were sitting in fast and testimony meeting, and Kendra said to me, “I think you should go up and share your testimony about prayer because of what it did for Dad.”
Kendra’s stepdad had just had a massive heart attack. We called on the ward to pray for him and our family during that time. Thankfully, he pulled through.
“I think you should do it,” I said. She got up and bore her testimony. It was so amazing. After this, things just started to unfold for her.
Kendra:
At the beginning of 2018, I kept hearing the name “President Monson.” At this time, I didn’t know this was the prophet. One night the missionaries came over and asked how I was doing.
“I’m doing fine,” I said, “but a person’s name keeps coming to my head, and I don’t know who it is.”
“What’s the name?” They asked.
“President Monson.”
“Kendra, that’s not just any name,” they said. “That’s the name of the prophet who just passed away. You should look at some talks he gave and see what the Lord wants you to learn from him.” I looked at some of his messages, and they were really touching and helped me. From there, it just seemed that the gospel kept coming back to me.
When we would go out to eat before, I would usually order a sweet tea, but Kevin would say, “You don’t need a sweet tea; get something else.”
One day I went to a fast food restaurant for my lunch break and ordered a sweet tea. A few minutes later, an employee said, “At the very moment you ordered a sweet tea, the machine broke.”
She said it would take about an hour to fix the machine. I only had 30 minutes for lunch. I just ordered a soda instead. At that point I laughed and said, “All right, I get it now!”
I wanted to join the Church, but I also didn’t want to make my mom mad. My mom played a big role in my decisions while I was growing up. She was a minister, so I constantly listened to her instead of going to church and learning for myself.
I was a little hesitant when we set a date for my baptism. The missionaries came over, and we talked about it.
Finally, I asked my daughter, Aryanna, “Do you want to be baptized?”
She said, “Mom, I’m ready whenever you are.”
She told me that when she went to church, all the girls ran and greeted her. They took her to Primary classes and were always friendly. They wanted her to be part of things. She became really good friends with one of the girls. That’s what she enjoyed about it.
At Aryanna’s baptism, she cried tears of joy. When I saw her, I thought, I’m where I need to be.
Kevin:
I know Heavenly Father brought the gospel to our family because He loves and cares about us so much.

Light spilled through the open door onto the cobblestone street outside. Behind the marble counter a 13-year-old boy slapped and pounded a fistful of dough into a flat circle and drizzled it with olive oil.
“Funghi o qualcos’altro? (Mushrooms or something else?),” he asked Casimiro.
“Funghi,” replied Casimiro, and Annalisa nodded her head in agreement. While on their way home from Mutual they had not been able to resist the yeasty, spicy aura hanging about the street near the neighborhood pizzeria and had stopped in for pizza.
The boy deftly smeared a ladleful of tomato sauce on the flattened dough and almost as quickly chopped up a fresh curd of mozzarella cheese, still dripping milk from the bowl it was snatched out of. He dashed coarse salt and pepper over the two pizzas and slipped a large wooden paddle under them one at a time. Taking a large straw broom from against the wall, he swept away the embers near the fire in the back of the oven. Without hesitation the wooden paddle soon deposited the pizzas on a fine layer of ash on the floor of the brick oven.
Near the door of the pizzeria, three of Casimiro’s neighbors were discussing in tones growing warmer every minute the merits of their favorite calcio (soccer) teams.
“The fire in the oven isn’t the only thing that’s cooking this evening,” chuckled Casimiro to Annalisa as they watched their pizzas roast and grow bubbly through the pizza oven’s open door.
Soon the mozzarella was running in milky rivers between crusty mountains of browned pizza dough, and the wooden paddle swished them from the fire. Still piping hot, the two pizzas were folded over, wrapped in paper, and held out to Casimiro and Annalisa. Each plunked 250 lira, about 50 cents, on the counter and turned to leave the pizzeria.
Outside the door the conversation had turned from soccer to the irresponsible driving habits of youth because a young girl crossing the street had just narrowly avoided being hit by a small motorbike. Casimiro and Annalisa dodged the discussion just as one of the participants began offering Casimiro the opinion that “in the old days, youth had more respect.”
Waving back at the men and laughing as they hurried down the cobblestones toward their homes, Casimiro and Annalisa finally bit into their steaming pizzas. Mutual had been over for about half an hour, and their parents would begin wondering where they were.

I feel blessed to have been raised in the gospel and to have had many good examples of missionary service within my own family. My family members have served teaching missions all over the world.
I am autistic and serving a mission was something I presumed I would never be able to do. Then an insightful bishop discussed the possibility of a service mission with me and my family. Upon hearing about service missions and what they entailed, I immediately felt that it was something that I wanted to do; it could be such a wonderful blessing in my life.
At times, my life has felt challenging, living with autism can be frustrating and lonely. To be able to represent and serve the Lord as service missionary has made me feel included, valued, and loved. I have made many new friends within the mission and feel a great sense of belonging.
I was set apart as a service missionary in October 2021. I have received much support and excellent training from my service-mission leaders, Elder and Sister Crew.
So far, I have been involved with The Billion Graves Project linked to FamilySearch. With support I have transcribed information from headstones and uploaded this, for other people to access. I have transcribed information from many Commonwealth war graves and uploaded many poignant epitaphs. I have also taken photographs of headstones in local cemeteries and been involved in uploading them to FamilySearch for other people to access and use. Being engaged in this work has led to my greater appreciation of temple and family-history work. I feel a closer connection to my own ancestors.
I am shortly due to begin serving in a local food and clothing bank and look forward to serving and meeting new people in my local community.
My family and I consider it a sacred privilege that I have been called to a service mission in the Lichfield Stake. As I diligently serve and represent the Saviour in this way, other people will feel the love that He has for them. I hope others will want to serve a mission through my example. I feel that I am being blessed with a greater understanding and appreciation of Jesus Christ as my personal Saviour, as I emulate His example and serve people as He did.

It was just a few days before Christmas in Western Australia, and all the missionaries were excited about the scheduled mission Christmas party. But no one could have been as excited as I was. It had been two weeks since I had received any mail from home, so I was sure I would receive my Christmas package at the mission party.
In our mission, all mail went to the mission office and was forwarded from there. A short mail strike had just ended, so the office staff had decided to hold everyone’s mail and bring it to the party as early Christmas presents. Anyone who knows how much letters and packages mean to a missionary will appreciate the intent behind this plan.
There were 108 missionaries in our mission, but only 107 got mail that day. It was difficult watching everyone with their Christmas packages, cards, and letters, but I tried to appear as though I was having a good time. My parents had told me in an earlier letter that a package was on its way. So I kept telling myself that it must have been delayed by the mail strike.
The day after the party was the last mail delivery day before Christmas. Once again I was disappointed when no mail arrived from home. I began to focus on Christmas day and the dinner my companion and I had been invited to enjoy at the home of some Church members. I knew this family from my first area of service and always looked forward to the quality and quantity of the food they typically prepared for the missionaries.
On Christmas Eve, we received a call from the zone leaders, who informed us that the mission president had decided no one was to leave their area on Christmas Day. They instructed us to cancel all plans to do so.
I was devastated. It just did not seem fair that all of these things should make my Christmas so miserable. I kept thinking, Here I am dedicating my life to the work of the Lord and this is the “thanks” I get.
Since we had no telephone in our apartment, my companion and I had to impose on our landlady to phone our regrets to the family. Sensing our disappointment at having to cancel our plans, she invited us to join her for Christmas dinner. We gladly accepted the invitation.
Upon returning to our apartment, I lay staring at our borrowed 12-inch aluminum Christmas tree. It sure didn’t look like any of the trees we had back home. This isn’t what Christmas is all about, I kept thinking until I fell asleep.
I awoke Christmas morning to find a Christmas present under our little tree. It was addressed to me from my companion. Overwhelmed by shame, I pretended I didn’t see the gift. I suggested that we get dressed and go do some contacting at the city park. As we rode our bikes to the center of town, we did not see a single person. There were no children to race us on our bicycles and no cars to contend with at the intersections. The normally bustling park was completely deserted. With little reason to stay in town, we headed back to our apartment. Along the way, we stopped at the only shop open for business. My companion began visiting with the shopkeeper, so I tried to discreetly select a gift.
This was not easy since the store catered mainly to convenience shopping. I did manage to make my purchase, and we returned home.
I made up an excuse to keep my companion occupied while I placed the box of chocolate-covered hazelnuts under the tree. Unfortunately, he saw me and suggested that I open my gift from him.
I will never forget the embarrassment I felt as I unwrapped the present. Inside the homemade wrapping paper I found several little items, including a mechanical pencil and some erasers.
There was little monetary value to the gifts, but the value of the lesson I learned can hardly be measured. At that moment, I recognized that I had been right the previous evening. This isn’t what Christmas is all about. It’s not about packages, presents, and decorations. Christmas is about thinking of others and giving of oneself.
I had become so wrapped up in self-pity that I had completely forgotten the true meaning of this special day.
My companion, though, just as far away from home as I was, had remembered the purpose of Christmas. He went to the effort of buying, wrapping, and putting the gift under the tree without my even knowing. He quietly gave me the joy I seemed unable to find on my own. My sad attempt to make up for my thoughtlessness was just that, a sad attempt.
I have come to look upon that Christmas experience as one of my favorites. My missionary companion gave me one of the greatest gifts anyone could receive—an understanding of the true meaning of Christmas.
I still have the pencil given to me those many years ago. Each time I use it, I am reminded of the real gift he gave me that morning.

Consider an illustration. I once received a call that informed me that a missionary had been disobedient. I immediately had a negative feeling which was followed by this thought." He is a problem missionary."  As I had this natural thought, I had another negative feeling. I felt the virtue drain from me. Because I was sensitive to my feelings, I asked why? Inspiration followed. I was taught that I must never define anyone as a problem. A problem is something to be acted upon. People must not be acted upon. That revelation changed me, and the change in me, changed all our missionaries. The change came because I was sensitive to all negative feelings and all positive feelings.

“Missionary work?” Sue Ann Yazzie, a 17-year-old Navaho from Shiprock, New Mexico, brushed long, black hair from her shoulders and smiled. Her warm, brown eyes sparkling, she said, “The best way to get someone interested in the Church is to be friends with him.”

A member of the Church for two years, Sue Ann talked about her conversion: “Even before I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I believed that when we die, we will be able to see friends and relatives who have died before us. I lost faith in the church I was attending when the minister said, ‘If you think you will be able to see your dead ancestors when you die, you’re mistaken.’ It was then that I asked the Lord which church was true. I promised I would keep the commandments if He would help me.”

Sue Ann wanted to attend high school off the reservation. When she was asked to participate in the Indian education program in Richfield, Utah, she accepted. In Richfield, the Indian students live in a dormitory and attend local schools.

When one of the employees in the dormitory invited Sue Ann and several of her friends to a family home evening, she wasn’t really interested. “At the time, I wasn’t sure if I liked the Mormon Church. I didn’t know very much about it. But I went just to keep my friends company. That was when I first became interested in the Church. I liked what I heard.

“Later, when I read the Book of Mormon, many of the parts seemed familiar. When I was younger, my grandmother told me many of the Navaho legends. I first heard the story of the great white god, who will one day return, from her,” she said.

I recently lost my leg in a train accident.
I was sitting in the train when I felt my phone leave my hands—someone robbed me. Without thinking, I ran after the man through a train car that didn’t have doors. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but suddenly I was below the train, yelling for help.
I woke up in the hospital a few days later. I learned that I had lost my right leg. During my stay in the hospital, I cried many times. But my family, friends, and Church family were always with me, helping me.
I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ also helped me. Before each surgery, I always said a personal prayer that everything would be alright and that I wouldn’t be afraid. Every time I felt hopeless, the Lord was there.
I continue to get better and am striving to press forward with the Savior’s help.
Every time I felt hopeless, the Lord was there.

Our family recently acquired a personal computer, and I enthusiastically set about learning to use it. Having artistic interests, one thing that I found fascinating was a paint program. The first day I had great fun using circles and lines of varying sizes to create simple pictures. The magic of computers was mine!
A couple of days later, as I was exploring the various functions of this same program, I discovered a wealth of type styles and sizes that I could call up and reproduce on the screen. Then I found some preset designs and borders. Now I could make signs and posters. I had arrived!
Eventually, I found in the manual some detailed pictures that could be created with my program. I tried but found it impossible to reproduce them because of the clumsiness of drawing with the mouse attachment. I decided that I must lack some basic coordination gene and resolved to stick to what I already could do.
Then I learned about a command that would magnify an area of any picture so that it could be added to or taken from one small dot at a time. With this knowledge I finally, painstakingly created a picture that was the equal of any example in the manual.
I am still learning new ways to use my computer. But, more importantly, my experience with it has convinced me of the need to continue daily in learning new ways to make the gospel a living, directing force in my life.

The company I was working for closed. I moved to Mexico City, and because I liked to work, I applied for a temporary job with an international editorial company. They wanted me to take an inventory, which was something of a specialty with me. I did the inventory in two weeks. They offered me a permanent job at good pay, and I accepted.
I didn’t speak English at that time. Our director, a man from Texas who didn’t speak any Spanish, said to my boss, “This boy is doing good work. If he knew English, we would pay more. We would send him to New York for training, and he could eventually be a manager here.”
When my boss told me that, I asked, “All I have to do is learn English?”
I was married by then. My wife spoke English because she was born in the Church colonies in Mexico. The first time I tried to speak a few words in English, someone told me not to try. It was not my gift.
Now I was motivated by the thoughts of improving my job position and having opportunities such as traveling to New York. I went to a language school and told them I wanted to learn to speak English as soon as I could.
They asked, “How much do you know?”
I said, “Not a word. Not even ‘Good morning.’”
They said, “We have an intensive course: two weeks, 16 hours a day. Eight hours here with teachers and eight hours in your home with tapes. It costs $1,000.”
I said, “I can do that. I will ask for my vacation, and I can study 16 hours a day for two weeks.”
I went to my boss and said, “I’m going to learn English in two weeks, and you have to pay only $1,000.” He laughed and said, “It is not possible. I learned in two years.”
I told my boss, “Ask the director to give me two weeks’ vacation and pay for the course. If after these two weeks I cannot talk to him in English, then you can take the fee out of my salary.”
He gave permission.
I went to the school. Every 45 minutes for eight hours, they changed teachers. They drilled and drilled the vocabulary, sentences, and conversations.
After eight hours in school, I went into the streets looking for English-speaking tourists to talk to. Then I listened to eight more hours of tapes.
The main reason I went to school was not to learn English. I really wanted to be a manager and go to New York City. Because I was highly motivated, learning English wasn’t hard for me. I enjoyed every second of it.
When I finished the 224 hours of study, I could communicate somewhat in English. I knew that the test was communicating with my director. If I couldn’t, I would have to pay back the $1,000. So I made up a plan. I would talk to him about all that I had learned. When I entered his office, I talked and talked for 20 minutes without letting him say a word. He said, “That’s enough. Send him to New York.” And I went to New York!

In Belfast, in quieter times, I had two roommates—girls of another faith whom I had met through a mutual friend. None of us had any extra money. Carol and Anne were both midwifery students, and I was saving for a postgraduate nursing course.
Our apartment was dismal, faded, and hard to bear, but we could find no other place within our means.
Nevertheless, Carol and Anne decided to call the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and offer to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. Of course, I agreed to help with the work and the financing as did Carol’s sister Marian.
I had seen some of the miseries of the slums. The most appalling thing I remembered was a little girl in a torn summer dress sitting on the cold, windy sidewalk molding a lump of filthy clay because she had no other toy. I could not now find and help that child, but I could try to help some others.
Our Christmas tree was two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The room was decorated with a few streamers and a dozen balloons. The food was simple—fried potatoes and sausages, grilled tomatoes, cookies, and orangeade. Fancy food is almost unknown to ghetto children, and we were afraid they would not eat anything unfamiliar. Besides, we couldn’t afford it. The 12 gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games. And, remembering the girl on the sidewalk, I bought a package of clay.
The children arrived semiclean and in their best rags. Eleven, twelve, thirteen! One of the girls had come with her toddler sister, who had refused to stay at home. That presented a problem.
In those days my annual project for the Relief Society bazaar was dressing little plastic dolls in sturdy clothes for girls to play with. Several such dolls were in my room. I quickly wrapped one of them in the last scrap of tissue paper for our extra guest and hurriedly put it under the tree.
Most of the children stood in a group at the door, but one determined boy about eight years old examined all the gifts through the paper.
“If you don’t mind, Missus,” he declared, “I’ll have this game of blow football for me and me mates.”
Carol smiled but was firm.
“We’re giving out the presents at the end of the party. Right now we’re going to play some games.”
We played their games; they played our games. We told stories; they related past experiences. We sang songs and grew decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”
“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
We served the simple food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating.
“Ye’ve left food on your plate,” objected our blow football elf to his neighbor.
“I can’t eat it, but,” she replied, “for I’ve never had this much food on me plate at once.”
“Give it here, then, for ’tis a shame to waste good food.”
He ate several children’s leavings and then conceded defeat. He could not prevent a few scraps from going to waste.
We gave him the blow football game. We gave the 12-year-old, would-be sophisticate the plastic beads.
We gave the doll’s feeding set to a seven-year-old Raggedy Ann.
“It’s no use to me, Missus. I ain’t got a doll.”
So the Relief Society lost another plastic doll. This time it was wrapped in writing paper, and we pretended it had fallen behind the tree.
“Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced with satisfaction. “I felt right to home.”
“Indeed it was grand, Missus,” seconded another voice. “For whenever we’uns wanted something, one of you ladies was near.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more. The sophisticate, I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the toy car for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?”
I produced them, wondering. She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”
She saw me looking and she explained: “’Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

President Smith then explained:
“This custom of holding fast meetings on Thursday was continued in Nauvoo and also after the coming of the members of the Church to the Rocky Mountains. I can remember the time when certain business houses closed their doors each fast day and placed on the doors, ‘Closed for fast meeting.’ …
“The change from the first Thursday to the first Sunday of the month came about in this manner. Hyrum M. Smith, who later became a member of the Council of the Twelve, was a missionary in Newcastle, England, in the year 1896. On the Thursday of the fast meeting, members of the Church in that land had to get excused from their employment with a loss of pay. Some of them were workers in the coal mines. When these came from the pits, they had to go home, bathe, and change their clothes. This was a loss both of time and compensation. Hyrum wrote to his father, President Joseph F. Smith, and asked why, under such circumstances, the fast day had to be a Thursday and not a Sunday. President Smith took the letter to the meeting of the First Presidency and the apostles and presented it there. The following is an excerpt from the minutes of the meeting held November 5, 1896:
“‘President Joseph F. Smith introduced the subject of fast meetings, suggesting that a change of the time from the first Thursday to the first Sunday in each month would probably be beneficial. This was endorsed by President George Q. Cannon, and after other brethren had spoken on the subject, it was decided that the Tabernacle services would be dispensed with on the first Sunday of each month, and that the saints in this city as well as in the country wards, should have the privilege of meeting in their meeting houses at 2 o’clock p.m. to observe fast day.’” (Improvement Era, Dec. 1956, p. 895.)

Once, following a serious illness, I presided at a stake conference. To conserve my energy, I planned to leave the chapel immediately after the priesthood leadership session. However, following the benediction, the Holy Ghost said to me, “Where are you going?” I was inspired to shake hands with everyone as they left the room. As one young elder stepped forward, I was prompted to give him a special message. He was looking down, and I waited for his eyes to come up and meet mine, and I was able to say, “Pray to Heavenly Father, listen to the Holy Ghost, follow the promptings you are given, and all will be well in your life.” Later the stake president told me that the young man had just returned early from his mission. The stake president, acting on a clear impression, had promised the young man’s father that if he brought his son to the priesthood meeting, Elder Hales would speak with him. Why did I stop to shake everyone’s hand? Why did I pause to talk to this special young man? What was the source of my counsel? It’s simple: the Holy Ghost.

During Primary opening exercises, Sister Ashbourne, the Primary president, held up a painting of Jesus Christ.
Dustin liked that picture of Jesus. His family had the same picture in their home. It had a special place over the piano.
A white cardboard mat surrounded the picture. “We’d like everyone to sign his or her name on the mat,” Sister Ashbourne said. “That way we’ll frame Jesus with our love. We’ll take it to each classroom so all the children and teachers can sign it.”
Dustin struggled with his handwriting. A third grader, he was learning cursive writing, but a learning disability slowed his progress. His hand shook each time he had to write in cursive. He was nervous about the idea of signing the mat.
The Primary presidency brought the picture to Dustin’s class. Sister Beeker, his teacher, passed the mat to the children. Each one took a turn signing it. When it was Dustin’s turn, he hesitated.
“I don’t write very well,” he whispered to Sister Beeker.
“You can print your name if you feel more comfortable,” she said.
Dustin looked down at his feet. He didn’t want to admit that his printing was not much better than his cursive writing.
“Do you think Jesus cares how good your handwriting is?” Sister Beeker asked gently.
Dustin thought about it. He knew that Jesus loved everyone. “No,” he admitted.
His teacher nodded encouragingly. “That’s right. Do you know what Jesus does care about?”
Dustin shook his head.
“He cares that you’re here in church. He cares that you love Him and honor Him. He cares that you treat others kindly.” She handed the pen to Dustin.
Dustin smiled at Sister Beeker. “Thank you,” he said. He wrote his name the best he could and gave the mat back to his teacher.
The following week, Sister Ashbourne showed the painting in the mat and frame to the entire Primary. “We’ll hang it right here,” she said, pointing to the front wall of the room, “where we can see it every week.”
Dustin looked at Jesus’s face, which seemed to shine with love, and he felt a warm glow in his own heart.

As we think about eternal values and wise choices, let me share an experience of some who exemplified a righteous standard.

Our son-in-law, who is a bishop in a student ward and also a teacher of English on this campus, was assigned a six-week seminar last summer. After talking it over, he and our daughter, Susan, decided she would stay at home with their five children and see that they all had their summer lessons and also care for their yard in his absence.

One hot summer afternoon she brought the children to Salt Lake City to see us. While visiting with us she mentioned that everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. Then, having shared her problems and having touched base with home, she felt she could go on. About an hour after she left, the phone rang. Susan was calling from her home in Provo. We could barely hear her teary, squeaky voice on the other end, and we thought perhaps there had been an accident. But she simply wanted us to know that the students in their ward, in spite of their busy schedules, had come over while she was in Salt Lake City and weeded their entire yard.

Commitment to righteousness is not just saying—it is doing!

Forgive me for a personal conclusion, which does not represent the terrible burdens so many of you carry, but it is meant to be encouraging. Thirty years ago last month, a little family set out to cross the United States to attend graduate school—no money, an old car, every earthly possession they owned packed into less than half the space of the smallest U-Haul trailer available. Bidding their apprehensive parents farewell, they drove exactly 34 miles up the highway, at which point their beleaguered car erupted.
Pulling off the freeway onto a frontage road, the young father surveyed the steam, matched it with his own, then left his trusting wife and two innocent children—the youngest just three months old—to wait in the car while he walked the three miles or so to the southern Utah metropolis of Kanarraville, population then, I suppose, 65. Some water was secured at the edge of town, and a very kind citizen offered a drive back to the stranded family. The car was attended to and slowly—very slowly—driven back to St. George for inspection—U-Haul trailer and all.
After more than two hours of checking and rechecking, no immediate problem could be detected, so once again the journey was begun. In exactly the same amount of elapsed time at exactly the same location on that highway with exactly the same pyrotechnics from under the hood, the car exploded again. It could not have been 15 feet from the earlier collapse, probably not 5 feet from it! Obviously the most precise laws of automotive physics were at work.
Now feeling more foolish than angry, the chagrined young father once more left his trusting loved ones and started the long walk for help once again. This time the man providing the water said, “Either you or that fellow who looks just like you ought to get a new radiator for that car.” For the second time a kind neighbor offered a lift back to the same automobile and its anxious little occupants. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry at the plight of this young family.
“How far have you come?” he said. “Thirty-four miles,” I answered. “How much farther do you have to go?” “Twenty-six hundred miles,” I said. “Well, you might make that trip, and your wife and those two little kiddies might make that trip, but none of you are going to make it in that car.” He proved to be prophetic on all counts.
Just two weeks ago this weekend, I drove by that exact spot where the freeway turnoff leads to a frontage road, just three miles or so west of Kanarraville, Utah. That same beautiful and loyal wife, my dearest friend and greatest supporter for all these years, was curled up asleep in the seat beside me. The two children in the story, and the little brother who later joined them, have long since grown up and served missions, married perfectly, and are now raising children of their own. The automobile we were driving this time was modest but very pleasant and very safe. In fact, except for me and my lovely Pat situated so peacefully at my side, nothing of that moment two weeks ago was even remotely like the distressing circumstances of three decades earlier.
Yet in my mind’s eye, for just an instant, I thought perhaps I saw on that side road an old car with a devoted young wife and two little children making the best of a bad situation there. Just ahead of them I imagined that I saw a young fellow walking toward Kanarraville, with plenty of distance still ahead of him. His shoulders seemed to be slumping a little, the weight of a young father’s fear evident in his pace. In the scriptural phrase, his hands did seem to “hang down.” In that imaginary instant, I couldn’t help calling out to him: “Don’t give up, boy. Don’t you quit. You keep walking. You keep trying. There is help and happiness ahead—a lot of it—30 years of it now, and still counting. You keep your chin up. It will be all right in the end. Trust God and believe in good things to come.”

Let’s go, guys. Time to get up,” a loud voice said, unconcerned that my exhausted body needed more rest. “Yeah,” I moaned in my most convincing tone. I rolled 90 degrees and half opened one eye to see what time it was. The illuminated digital clock read 4:35 A.M. in bright red. Dad’s portly figure towered at the bedroom door. The hallway light surrounded him, giving him the aura of a heavenly messenger dressed in white. Dad’s message, however, was not exactly prophetic: “We’ve got cows to milk. You guys awake?”
“Okay, okay,” Steve said slightly annoyed.
I closed my eyes, then felt my nose with my hand. It must have been ten degrees colder than the rest of my body, which was warmed by a stack of six blankets. I snuggled, eyes closed, listening to the wind howl outside the bedroom window. I heard the bathroom door open. “Let’s go, Steve,” I said to my brother as I slowly rolled to the edge of my bed. I flipped back the covers, sat up, and quickly pulled my pants over the insulated socks and long johns I wore all night. I grabbed one flannel shirt and slipped it on, then imitated the procedure with a second.
I heard the back door close as I headed downstairs. Steve was right behind me. In the coatroom I donned another pair of pants over the ones I had on, then two more flannel shirts of a quilted style, and a dirty green army jacket. Snowmobile boots, a heavy winter cap over my ears, a thick scarf, and sheepskin gloves completed the outfit. I took a deep breath and looked at Steve. He glanced back, in almost identical clothing. We pulled open the door and stepped out into eight inches of swirling, drifting snow.
Steve’s voice was muffled by the scarf over his mouth, but I detected a sarcastic tone as he talked, “Sure is a lovely morning.”
“Yeah,” I replied, pointing to the thermometer by the milk house. “Let’s check the temperature.”
Out of habit, we walked single file, stepping in Dad’s boot tracks. The barn lights shone brightly through the windows. I could see Dad’s reflection and knew he was throwing hay to the cows. Half asleep and shivering I was barely aware of what I was doing. Dad, however, was bustling around feeding and checking each cow to make sure she had made it through the night okay. We both stopped at the telephone pole, and Steve scraped the ice off the thermometer as I adjusted my view of the mercury. “It’s only twelve below,” I mumbled, “five degrees warmer than yesterday morning.”
As we stepped in the barn and untied our scarves, the warm air penetrating our nostrils was filled with the sweet aroma of oat straw and alfalfa hay. Johnny, our dog, ran to greet us. We each took a second to say good morning to him. Then, without speaking to each other, we moved to do our preassigned chores. In sleepy silence Steve and I prepared to milk as Dad fed the cows. The clanking of neck chains and hooves on concrete was drowned out when I turned on the radio.
As we milked I watched Dad and wondered what it would be like without him. He never missed a morning in the barn. He was never late, and he never complained. No matter what happened (and things inevitably would go wrong, especially in cold weather) he always handled it with cool, efficient professionalism. I wished I could be as patient as he was. He always shared a positive attitude, explaining that things were never as bad as they could be.
The next words were spoken half an hour later when Dad said he needed to check the heifer barn to make sure the water wasn’t frozen. We heard on the radio the wind chill outside was about 55 below. He left but returned in five minutes. We watched as he got the propane torch. “Not too bad,” he shouted cheerfully on his way back out the door.
“I’ll bet that water is frozen solid. He just doesn’t want us to get perturbed at the cold.”
“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “that’s Dad.”
At 6:45 Steve and I were almost done milking. Dad returned. “Took you awhile, Dad. Everything okay up there?” I asked.
“No problem. Everything’s fine,” he said reassuringly.
I looked at Steve in disbelief. His face said without words exactly what I was thinking. “Right, Dad!”
We assembled in a circle and made sure each one knew what needed to be done before breakfast. After deciding who would do what, we dispersed. It took an extra 30 minutes on cold winter mornings to make sure every water line, calf, cow, tractor, and truck was safeguarded from the elements. I took some shortcuts while cleaning the feeder, hoping Dad wouldn’t check. It was a dumb thing to hope, but my fingers were numb and my nose resembled a circus clown’s. Of course Dad checked and discovered my slothfulness. As I refroze my fingers finishing what I hadn’t done before, I imitated Laman and Lemuel and murmured against Dad’s thoroughness.
At 7:20 we sealed up the barn and braved the bitter cold again on our way to the house. Around the breakfast table we discussed the things to do today and decided who would be responsible for each. The list seemed long, especially when I thought of the icy cold weather.
I expressed my disgust at the arctic conditions and complained to Dad about all the trivial things he wanted done. He smiled and explained the importance of each of the “trivial” jobs. I nodded in agreement, my face indifferent. Strangely, I looked forward to the next eight hours. I didn’t realize it then, but Dad was teaching me each day invaluable lessons about responsibility and preparedness. I was in the eighth grade.
Twelve years have passed since that cold January morning. We don’t milk cows anymore, but Dad hasn’t changed a bit. He still shares a positive attitude even after a crippling accident that has left him disabled. The lessons he taught us surface in my conversations and experiences all the time now. At last I understand what he has taught me by his example. I love my dad.

My testimony on the issue of reaching out beyond the walls of our own church increased 10 years ago when I was the managing director of the welfare program of the Church. At that time, we began seeing television documentaries about the drought conditions in Ethiopia. With sensitivity to the plight of the starving people in Africa and sensitivity to your desires to help, the First Presidency called a special fast in January and again in November of 1985. As a result, many millions of dollars were donated to help alleviate the suffering.
To determine how to spend the funds donated in the first special fast, Elder M. Russell Ballard and I went to Ethiopia to see the situation firsthand. We had some heart-wrenching, soul-stretching, and faith-promoting experiences. Neither of us will be the same again. Some of my most vivid memories are not of the terrible suffering we witnessed, which you saw on your television screens, but of the great outpouring of love and service from nations of the world. We saw doctors and nurses giving humanitarian service in deplorable settings. They were tired, but smiling.
We learned of a Catholic priest who had been laboring in the drought- and war-stricken province of Tigre for 11 years. He saw a need and was trying to help long before the television and news accounts made it fashionable.
We saw an Ethiopian man who was perhaps 80 years old stumble into the feeding station camp with a desperate, beaten look on his face.
He was obviously starving to death. However, on the way to the feeding station, he had passed a deserted village and had heard the cry of a baby. He searched until he found the baby sitting on the ground next to his dead mother. In spite of this man’s emaciated condition, he picked up the baby and carried him in his arms for 25 miles to the feeding station. The man had a look of glassy-eyed bewilderment, but his first words were not “I’m hungry” or “Help me.” They were “What can be done for this baby I found?”
I feel that the members of our church should be doing all we can to alleviate suffering. I am thrilled with the fact that our full-time missionaries now devote several hours of their week to community service. When followed properly, this program does not detract from the primary goal of missionaries, but enhances that goal.
An experience I had in Guatemala observing some welfare missionaries had a great impact on me. When the welfare sisters walked onto the church grounds, the atmosphere became electric. Men, women, and children alike ran to them and embraced them. I was told the sisters had helped them through a recent epidemic. They had helped deliver some babies and were present when some members of the families had died. They had brought food for both the soul and the body.
Knowing that we have been commanded to care for the poor and needy within and without the Church, what priorities should be placed on those two activities?
President Joseph F. Smith taught: “It is the first duty of Latter-day Saints to take care of themselves and of their poor; and then, if we can extend it to others, and as wide and as far as we can extend charity and assistance to others that are not members of the Church, we feel that it is our duty to do it. But first look after the members of our own household” (Gospel Doctrine, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1939, page 308).
I testify to you that in today’s environment there is room for both caring for our own and helping with the problems in the world’s society. Building the kingdom and improving the world are not mutually exclusive. In fact, they are compatible and complementary. When asked which of all the commandments was the greatest, the Lord said: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.
“This is the first and great commandment.
“And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself” (Matt. 22:37–39).
The greatest commandment, to love God, was not given priority at the expense or exclusion of the second commandment, to love our neighbor. I do not think a sincere love of the Savior is possible without a sincere love of mankind. Neither do I believe it is possible to have sincere love and concern for Church members to the exclusion of the rest of God’s children. Compassion knows no political or religious boundaries. We cannot do everything, but still we must do everything we can.
Something spiritual happens to a person when he reaches out to help someone else. President Spencer W. Kimball put it this way: “As givers gain control of their desires and properly see other needs in light of their own wants, then the powers of the gospel are released in their lives. They learn that by living the great law of consecration they insure not only temporal salvation but also spiritual sanctification” (Ensign, November 1977, page 77).
If individuals completely abdicate to the Church their responsibility of caring for the poor, this beautiful phenomenon does not occur. This is true whether the help is going to members or nonmembers. I say this because there may be a tendency to pay tithing and fast offerings and feel all has been taken care of. The greatest sanctification takes place with person-to-person help. Hence, the greatest compassionate service each of us can give may be in our own neighborhoods and communities. Wherever we live in the world, there is pain and sorrow all around us. We need to take more initiative as individuals in deciding how we can best be of service.
I am so pleased that the projects which went on throughout the world as part of the Relief Society sesquicentennial celebration in 1992 were local service projects. There was some thought given to having wards in more affluent countries reach out across the ocean and help other wards in impoverished nations. Instead, an inspired determination was that projects would be done on a local basis. If projects had been undertaken 5,000 miles away instead of in the sisters’ own backyard, they would have missed seeing firsthand the joy in the face of a lonely old man or woman in a nursing home, or the thanksgiving expressed by a woman met in a crisis center, or the tears of gratitude expressed by the invalid who had her home spring-cleaned for the first time in 10 years.
We don’t do these things for firsthand credit or to have the person’s profuse gratitude, but something very spiritual happens between the giver and receiver of personal service. Both are edified, and a spiritual bonding takes place. A love comes into the heart which is large enough to encompass not only the person served but all of God’s children.
All people need to give. This is true of both affluent Saints and the poorest of the poor. Poverty is a relative term. It means something much different in one country than in another. There is no common solution or program for every situation.
However, principles are universal. We cannot bring everyone to the same economic level. To do so would violate principles and foster dependence rather than independence. People living in each country have the primary responsibility for solving their own problems. They must sacrifice for each other in order that they can experience the sanctification which comes from giving.
During a trip to South America a few years ago, I spoke with a stake president whose stake had experienced over 50 percent unemployment of members during the previous three years. I knew the stake had received less than 200 dollars in assistance from the area office during that period. I asked him how the members had been able to survive without a large infusion of outside help.
His answer was that the families had helped each other—not just father, mother, sons, and daughters, but uncles, aunts, and cousins. When a cousin got a job, the money earned went to benefit everyone. In addition, ward members looked after each other and shared what they had, however meager. With tears in his eyes, he explained how close his stake members were to each other and to the Lord. Their spirituality had increased manyfold.
We could have poured money into this stake from more affluent areas and felt good about it. However, in so doing we would have robbed them of the opportunity to serve each other and to become sanctified in the process. The solutions to poverty are extremely complex, and the balance between too much aid and not enough is very elusive. Our compassion can lead to failure if we give aid without creating independence and self-reliance in the recipient.
On the other hand, there is a state of human misery below which no Latter-day Saint should descend as long as others are living in abundance. Can some of us be content living affluent life-styles while others cannot afford the chlorine to purify their water? I struggle constantly with this balance. I believe I have learned a divine truth, however. I cannot become sanctified without serving others, and I will be held accountable if I rob another of the opportunity to give service.
We cannot, as individuals, be spectators to the pain and suffering around us and sit idly by and expect sanctification to take place in our lives. There is a limit to how much we should rely on institutional welfare. We cannot allow organizational lines to set up a buffer between a person in pain and ourselves, if we are in a position to help.
Without this perspective, there is danger in setting up an organizational structure that does indeed provide more efficiency but which also becomes an organizational wall between ourselves and people in need. At the first sign of someone in need, we may release ourselves from reaching out because, after all, we are not their bishop or even their home teacher or visiting teacher. Often there is a cry for help that has your name preceding it, and you may be the only one who can hear the cry.
I trust we will continue to see humanitarian aid given by the Church as long as it effectively facilitates our individual desires to reach out to the poor and needy. However, the primary responsibility of the commandment to care for the poor is our own individual responsibility. We should give financial contributions when possible, but this alone is not complete. We must also give of ourselves. We can often give of ourselves when a financial contribution is not possible.
In this respect, I am as touched by what the Savior did on his way to deliver the Sermon on the Mount as by what he said in the sermon. On his way, he healed the sick and preached the gospel (see Matt. 4:23–24).
As I speak about “taking care of the poor,” I am referring to the broad array of affliction the people in the world are experiencing in our day. This includes supporting and comforting those suffering in mind, body, and spirit. Money cannot buy the pure love of Christ. It can be obtained only by sacrifice.
I realize that some of you—with the demands of your families, close friends, and Church callings—have little left with which to save the world. Sanctification comes from service rendered to our own families as well as to strangers. It has not been my objective to make you feel guilty, but to teach some principles of caring for the needy. You and only you know your own unique situation and can determine how you can use these principles at your particular age and circumstances.
My promise is that as you review these infinite needs in relation to your finite resources, you will be able to formulate a plan which will give the appropriate balance. I can also promise you that the things the gospel asks of us are not mutually exclusive but are complementary to each other. Speaking for myself and all of the Brethren, I give you our heartfelt love and gratitude for all you are and all you do.

Paul McCauley was a happy devoted member of the Baptist church in the late 1960s. He loved his family and he worked hard to provide for them. He understood the value of spending quality time together as a family, so one year they took a long family vacation, in their station wagon, from the East to the West and back East again.
It was a foggy day when they arrived in Manti Utah on their way to Bryce Canyon and Arches. Paul said they came into town and there was a fog low to the ground. Because it was low to the ground, He saw what looked like a castle floating on a cloud. The Manti temple would look like it was floating because it sits on a hill and was above the fog.
He decided he needed stop and take a closer look at this floating Mormon castle, which he knew was a Mormon Temple because of all the road signs. He parked his car in the temple parking lot and headed towards the backdoor of the Temple in shorts and a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his tee-shirt. He said he headed to the backdoor, the wrong door, because he figured missionaries would try to snag his name at the front door - and if missionaries got hold of his name and address they'd never leave him alone.
There was a nice grounds keeper who saw Paul headed to the back door of the temple and said, "You are not a member, are you?"
The grounds keeper did his best to explain to Paul why he and his family could not tour the inside of the temple and he showed Paul to the visitor center.
Paul was just curious enough to know more that he went into the visitor center to see what he could find out about the church. At one point of the tour, he found himself in a small theater watching Man's Search for Happiness. So many of his questions were answered by just that one movie, and, maybe more importantly, he felt something powerful. So, Paul filled out a referral card, at the insistence of his wife, in spite of the fact that he did not really want missionaries knocking on his door.
A year passed after the McCauley's came home from their vacation and no missionaries showed up at their home. Paul had pretty much forgotten about Mormons. But, one night he came home a bit tipsy from the drink, and did something he'd done for most of his life before going to bed. He sat down, grabbed his scriptures, let them fall open to a page, and read on that page. On that night he said something remarkable happened. He said he clearly remembers the scriptures speaking to him, they said: "Paul, you are a drunken disciple." The message was clear, Paul knew he needed to get his life in order. He asked his sweet wife to "Call the Mormon missionaries" and two sister missionaries showed up knocking at the front door the next day.
One thing led to another, and the McCauleys were baptized members of the Church.