Gospel Story Finder

In Portugal, in the city of Funchal, on the Madeira Island, lived a lady named Ascenção Frango, who had been a nun for twenty years. She ran a home for poor children and orphans. Early in her life as a nun, she learned that she had cancer in her throat. Having a strong feeling that she had not finished her work on earth, she prayed with great faith and was healed. When her church decided to close the children’s home, she used her own money to keep it going for four years—until the children living there were either adopted or old enough to be on their own.
When she heard of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, she and a friend attended out of curiosity. The meeting was held on the dirt floor of a Church member’s garage. But the Spirit she felt there impressed her, and the elders began teaching her the discussions. She read the Book of Mormon, gained a strong testimony of its divinity, and soon asked to be baptized. A year later she obtained her temple recommend and could hardly wait to enter the Swiss Temple to make sacred covenants with Heavenly Father.

A recently married daughter of a friend wrote her mother, describing how she and her husband were managing to save money on their meager income. She excitedly explained: “I’ve discovered that often prepared foods are too costly for our budget, so I make most things from ‘scratch.’ The other night at Relief Society I even learned how to make milk, buttermilk, condensed milk, cottage cheese, yogurt, and creamed cheese from the powdered milk we had stored. It’s fun to see how much I can save by doing things myself.”

President Monson, the entire worldwide membership of this Church joins in that great anthem with this wonderful choir, and we say, “We thank thee, O God, for a prophet.” Thank you for your life, for your example, and for that welcoming message to another general conference of the Church. We love you, we admire you, and we sustain you. Indeed, in this afternoon’s session we will have a more formal opportunity to raise our hands in a sustaining vote, not only for President Monson but also for all the other general officers of the Church as well. Because my name will be included on that list, may I be so bold as to speak for all in thanking you in advance for those uplifted hands. Not one of us could serve without your prayers and without your support. Your loyalty and your love mean more to us than we can ever possibly say.
In that spirit my message today is to say that we sustain you, that we return to you those same heartfelt prayers and that same expression of love. We all know there are special keys, covenants, and responsibilities given to the presiding officers of the Church, but we also know that the Church draws incomparable strength, a truly unique vitality, from the faith and devotion of every member of this Church, whoever you may be. In whatever country you live, however young or inadequate you feel, or however aged or limited you see yourself as being, I testify you are individually loved of God, you are central to the meaning of His work, and you are cherished and prayed for by the presiding officers of His Church. The personal value, the sacred splendor of every one of you is the very reason there is a plan for salvation and exaltation. Contrary to the parlance of the day, this is about you. No, don’t turn and look at your neighbor. I am talking to you!
I have struggled to find an adequate way to tell you how loved of God you are and how grateful we on this stand are for you. I am trying to be voice for the very angels of heaven in thanking you for every good thing you have ever done, for every kind word you have ever said, for every sacrifice you have ever made in extending to someone—to anyone—the beauty and blessings of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I am grateful for Young Women leaders who go to girls camp and, without shampoo, showers, or mascara, turn smoky, campfire testimony meetings into some of the most riveting spiritual experiences those girls—or those leaders—will experience in their lifetime. I am grateful for all the women of the Church who in my life have been as strong as Mount Sinai and as compassionate as the Mount of Beatitudes. We smile sometimes about our sisters’ stories—you know, green Jell-O, quilts, and funeral potatoes. But my family has been the grateful recipient of each of those items at one time or another—and in one case, the quilt and the funeral potatoes on the same day. It was just a small quilt—tiny, really—to make my deceased baby brother’s journey back to his heavenly home as warm and comfortable as our Relief Society sisters wanted him to be. The food provided for our family after the service, voluntarily given without a single word from us, was gratefully received. Smile, if you will, about our traditions, but somehow the too-often unheralded women in this Church are always there when hands hang down and knees are feeble. They seem to grasp instinctively the divinity in Christ’s declaration: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these … , ye have done it unto me.”
And no less the brethren of the priesthood. I think, for example, of the leaders of our young men who, depending on the climate and continent, either take bone-rattling 50-mile (80 km) hikes or dig—and actually try to sleep in—ice caves for what have to be the longest nights of human experience. I am grateful for memories of my own high priests group, which a few years ago took turns for weeks sleeping on a small recliner in the bedroom of a dying quorum member so that his aged and equally fragile wife could get some sleep through those final weeks of her sweetheart’s life. I am grateful for the Church’s army of teachers, officers, advisers, and clerks, to say nothing of people who are forever setting up tables and taking down chairs. I am grateful for ordained patriarchs, musicians, family historians, and osteoporotic couples who trundle off to the temple at 5:00 in the morning with little suitcases now almost bigger than they are. I am grateful for selfless parents who—perhaps for a lifetime—care for a challenged child, sometimes with more than one challenge and sometimes with more than one child. I am grateful for children who close ranks later in life to give back to ill or aging parents.
And to the near-perfect elderly sister who almost apologetically whispered recently, “I have never been a leader of anything in the Church. I guess I’ve only been a helper,” I say, “Dear sister, God bless you and all the ‘helpers’ in the kingdom.” Some of us who are leaders hope someday to have the standing before God that you have already attained.
Too often I have failed to express gratitude for the faith and goodness of such people in my life. President James E. Faust stood at this pulpit 13 years ago and said, “As a small boy … , I remember my grandmother … cooking our delicious meals on a hot woodstove. When the wood box next to the stove became empty, Grandmother would silently … 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 … [that] I sat there and let my beloved grandmother refill [that] box.” Then, his voice choking with emotion, he said, “I feel ashamed of myself and have regretted my omission for all of my life. I hope someday to ask for her forgiveness.”
If a man as perfect as I felt President Faust was can acknowledge his youthful oversight, I can do no less than make a similar admission and pay a long-overdue tribute of my own today.
When I was called to serve a mission back before the dawn of time, there was no equalization of missionary costs. Each had to bear the full expense of the mission to which he or she was sent. Some missions were very expensive, and as it turned out, mine was one of those.
As we encourage missionaries to do, I had saved money and sold personal belongings to pay my own way as best I could. I thought I had enough money, but I wasn’t sure how it would be in the final months of my mission. With that question on my mind, I nevertheless blissfully left my family for the greatest experience anyone could hope to have. I loved my mission as I am sure no young man has ever loved one before or since.
Then I returned home just as my parents were called to serve a mission of their own. What would I do now? How in the world could I pay for a college education? How could I possibly pay for board and room? And how could I realize the great dream of my heart, to marry the breathtakingly perfect Patricia Terry? I don’t mind admitting that I was discouraged and frightened.
Hesitantly I went to the local bank and asked the manager, a family friend, how much was in my account. He looked surprised and said, “Why, Jeff, it’s all in your account. Didn’t they tell you? Your parents wanted to do what little they could to help you get started when you got home. They didn’t withdraw a cent during your mission. I supposed that you knew.”
Well, I didn’t know. What I do know is that my dad, a self-educated accountant, a “bookkeeper” as they were called in our little town, with very few clients, probably never wore a new suit or a new shirt or a new pair of shoes for two years so his son could have all of those for his mission. Furthermore, what I did not know but then came to know was that my mother, who had never worked out of the home in her married life, took a job at a local department store so that my mission expenses could be met. And not one word of that was ever conveyed to me on my mission. Not a single word was said regarding any of it. How many fathers in this Church have done exactly what my father did? And how many mothers, in these difficult economic times, are still doing what my mother did?
My father has been gone for 34 years, so like President Faust, I will have to wait to fully thank him on the other side. But my sweet mother, who turns 95 next week, is happily watching this broadcast today at her home in St. George, so it’s not too late to thank her. To you, Mom and Dad, and to all the moms and dads and families and faithful people everywhere, I thank you for sacrificing for your children (and for other people’s children!), for wanting so much to give them advantages you never had, for wanting so much to give them the happiest life you could provide.
My thanks to all you wonderful members of the Church—and legions of good people not of our faith—for proving every day of your life that the pure love of Christ “never faileth.” No one of you is insignificant, in part because you make the gospel of Jesus Christ what it is—a living reminder of His grace and mercy, a private but powerful manifestation in small villages and large cities of the good He did and the life He gave bringing peace and salvation to other people. We are honored beyond expression to be counted one with you in such a sacred cause.
As Jesus said to the Nephites, so say I today:
“Because of your faith … , my joy is full.
“And when he had said these words, he wept.”
Brothers and sisters, seeing your example, I pledge anew my determination to be better, to be more faithful—more kind and devoted, more charitable and true as our Father in Heaven is and as so many of you already are. This I pray in the name of our Great Exemplar in all things—even the name of the Lord Jesus Christ—amen.

Sister Eyvonne Black and her husband, Russell, served as missionaries in the Dominican Republic. Their service enabled hundreds of people to find hope through studying the word of God. They organized more than 100 literacy classes, using the Book of Mormon as their text. While learning to read, the students learned of Jesus Christ. Many were baptized and, with faith centered in Christ, began to “hope for a better world” (Ether 12:4).

My family sat in father’s hospital room in a hospital in Boise, Idaho, and waited anxiously. The doctors hadn’t yet diagnosed father’s sickness, but we all knew he was terribly ill. After father had been sick for a month, mother called my brother Rich home from Brigham Young University to give father a blessing. We had done everything medically possible to help father, and this was our only hope.
We were all gathered together, and I had my own prayer in my heart. I had been on my knees more in that last month than I ever had in my entire life. I hadn’t slept much and didn’t feel physically well. My nerves were worn, and I was always restless. Although I did not know the nature of father’s illness, I had this horrible feeling that he was going to die.
After a few minutes, Rich laid his hands on father’s head and began the blessing. We were all hoping that Rich would promise a restoration of father’s health; however, Rich never once promised father that he would recover. He did tell father that peace would be with him and his family and that we would be comforted.
I left the room with tears in my eyes. My brother Keith drove me home. I went to my bedroom to be by myself and think. While sitting there I felt something good come over me, and I knew that I would be okay. I still felt that father wouldn’t live, but I felt a reassurance that I hadn’t experienced before.
Within the next week the doctors discovered that father’s illness was bone cancer. I again felt nervous and afraid. The months that followed were like a horrible nightmare. I cried myself to sleep at nights and wondered if the pain from the whole ordeal would ever go away.
Six months after the blessing, father died in his hospital bed. I was at home when he died, and my brother Steve called from the hospital to tell me of his passing. I went to my room and began to cry. I didn’t know how to feel. I only felt empty.
As I lay on my bed thinking of what my future would be like without my father, I began to feel cheated. I was only 14 years old at the time, and I didn’t think it seemed fair that I should have to give up my father when I was so young. I felt a deep sense of loss.
Then a peaceful, calm feeling came over me. It was similar to the feeling I had experienced the day of father’s blessing months before. This peacefulness was accompanied by a sense of relief. I felt father’s spirit, and I knew his love was still with me and always would be. I realized that night that although my father could be taken away physically, his spirit and love would never be taken from me. I knew that my father wasn’t gone forever. His inspiration and guidance would continue to be with me throughout my life.
Now, five years later, I realize even more the love that both my Heavenly Father and my earthly father have for me. I have often felt my earthly father near. I have felt the reassuring comfort of his spirit many times and know he has not left me alone.

Chi Yun blew the cloud out of her mouth. Surely it was cold enough now in northeast China to make the cloud turn to ice. But it wasn’t. However, the thought of her breath turning to drops of ice made her giggle, and the muted sound filled the miniature ice pagoda. “Even the sounds are cold in Harbin,” she said and giggled again.
Humming a melody Papa had taught her, she slid across the ice floor. The sun, about to go down, sparkled through the side of the pagoda, making the ice bricks look like diamonds.
“We must go.” Papa interrupted her thoughts.
Chi Yun hated to leave. There was something magical about being alone inside walls of ice. But she knew that she would be back. Tonight the colored lights, frozen into the ice blocks, would be turned on to make rainbows of ice.
Her own name, Chi Yun, meant “rainbow in the sky.” Mama always said that Chi Yun was her rainbow that made all the storms worthwhile. Mama said that everyone needed a rainbow to carry in his heart so that dark, stormy days would be better.
“Come,” Papa called again.
“Yes, Papa.” Chi Yun left the dreamy ice pagoda and entered the smoggy world of Harbin.
Papa was already walking away. Chi Yun hurried to catch up to him. All around were palaces, cathedrals, animals, and dragons of ice.
At the edge of the park, they exited through the ice fence. Taxis honked, and bicycles jingled past trolleys that buzzed along electric cords. Chi Yun almost forgot about the magic of the ice carvings, but the cold air filled with Chinese voices more animated than usual reminded her that she was not the only one excited about the Ice Lantern Festival. Near the gate, vendors were setting up boothes of bing tanghulu (a sugared fruit on a stick), bear paws, salmon, nose of camel deer, and, of course, ice cream.
But Papa was starting up the road on his bicycle. There was no time for treats. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be left behind.
Chi Yun jumped on her bicycle and pedaled after Papa. It was frightening to travel the crowded streets, but today she kept her thoughts on the ice festival so that she wouldn’t think about the fear.
They rode past the Songhua river from which the blocks of ice had been cut to make the sculptures. At one hole, people in bathing suits were diving from stacks of ice blocks into the water. Chi Yun shuddered to think about it, but Papa had told her stories of the summers when he yearned for the cold winter swim and how much fun it was.
When they reached their small apartment, Mama was waiting. “Is it finished?” she asked. “Is it beautiful?”
Chi Yun was surprised that Mama was excited. Usually Mama was much to busy to be excited. “Oh, yes, Mama! Papa has built for his company the best ice pagoda of all. You will be proud.”
“We must hurry,” was all Papa said. “The lighting ceremonies are to begin soon.”
They ate quickly, then bundled and rode their bicycles back to the park. It was dark and without any magic at all. Chi Yun huddled close to Mama while Papa hurried ahead to the pagoda. Outside the gate, vendors shouted, crowds pushed, and taxis honked. It was difficult to even think of bing tanghulu in the shadowy dark.
But after a speech that Chi Yun could not hear, a rainbow of lights suddenly punctured the night. Red, blue, yellow, green began to blink in the ice with a brilliance that chased away the darkest of shadows. The magic was back!
Chi Yun walked around with Mama to see the beautiful sculptures. When they came to the replica of the old Russian church, Mama took her picture there. Chi Yun’s heart skipped as they passed the huge dragon, now alive with color. It had been magical this afternoon—now there was no word to describe its beauty. Soon they arrived at the pagoda. Papa was greeting visitors and telling them about how he had made it and about his company.
Waiting until no one else was inside, and closing her eyes, Chi Yun walked through the small door to where she had danced in the afternoon. She made her way to what she thought was its center, then opened her eyes. The sight took her breath away. She was enfolded in a rainbow.
She tried to memorize every ice brick and colored light so that the sight would still be hers long after it melted. She savored the chill around her and the scent of bear paws floating on the cold air. It was like a dream in which every happy dream she’d ever dreamed had come true. “It’s perfect!” she whispered aloud. “And when it is no longer perfect, this ice rainbow will still be in my heart. Its light will chase away the dark!”
“That’s right,” a voice behind her said.
Chi Yun jumped. She’d heard no one enter. She turned and saw Mama standing in a halo of yellow and red lights. “Always seek the light and keep it within your heart,” Mama said.
Chi Yun ran to Mama and hugged her tightly. “I will. This will be my rainbow memory.”
“Like you are mine, my little Chi Yun!” Mama smiled, adding, “And now it is time for bing tanghulu.”

Normally, ten-year-old Tatiana was asleep well before her babushka (great-grand-mother). However, tonight she was worried. No matter how hard she had tried, Tatiana could not get Babushka’s eyes to smile.
Tatiana snuggled deeper into her bed on the living-room couch and wrapped the blanket more tightly around her. She even covered her ears to see if that would help muffle the sound of Babushka’s snoring. Tatiana knew she was lucky to share the living room with only Babushka. Most nights, her snoring didn’t bother Tatiana. But tonight she wanted to think, and the snoring made it hard to concentrate. She peeked out from under the blanket to see the dim outlines of the flowers on the ceiling. She thought Mama was very clever to put wallpaper on the ceiling.
However, the flowers did not make Babushka’s eyes smile. In fact, Babushka thought the wallpaper was a waste of money. Tatiana remembered scrubbing the beets to help her make borscht. While Babushka had stirred the soup, she said, “Yanichka (Little Tatiana), you could have had new shoes and a dress for less than the wallpaper cost. I want you to have the things that you love.”
“But I do love having a garden to look at when I lie on the couch,” Tatiana had replied.
Tatiana did not remember when Babushka had stopped smiling with her eyes. But once Tatiana had noticed it, she did everything she could think of to make her great-grandmother happy. She worked hard at school, helped peel potatoes, cleaned the bathroom without being asked, drew pictures of mountains and trees, sang happy songs, and tried to obey. Everyone noticed and smiled at Tatiana. Babushka smiled too, but only with her lips. She still was not truly happy.
Although she thought she would never go to sleep, the night seemed short when the sun peeked through the window and awakened her. How lovely Sundays were—everyone could sleep until it was light. And today Tatiana was going to her friend Katya’s apartment, where some American men and some neighbors would be holding a church meeting. Tatiana had never been to church before; in fact, no one at home ever talked about God at all since it had been forbidden for so many years. But now that Ukraine was an independent nation and had new laws, people were going back to church. Tatiana had been afraid her parents would not let her go, but she had begged for permission. They gave their consent, somewhat reluctantly, saying that going to church would not likely hurt her.
Then, before she left, Papa had pulled her aside. “Yanichka, remember when we saw the puppet show of Peter Pan in Donetsk? Remember when Tinker Bell was dying, and we had to clap to show that we believed in fairies?”
“Yes, and I cried.”
“Right!” Papa said. “I told you the story played with your emotions. The author made you cry on purpose. Religious teachers will work on your emotions, too. They want to make you think you believe what they say.”
“Papa, I won’t believe what they say just because they say it is so. I will pay close attention to what I know is true.”
“Good!” Papa patted Tatiana’s hand. She knew what Papa had said was important—she could not remember ever having such a serious talk with him before.
It was different with Mama. They often had important talks, and this time Mama wanted to warn Tatiana, too.
“Zaichik (Little Rabbit), you must not make any promises. They will try to get you to do so. Don’t make any promises. You come talk to me.”
“OK, Mama. No promises.”
“But you must be polite, always courteous. And here”—Mama reached in her apron pocket and pulled out a kopeck (a coin)—“they will pass a box to put money in. You must have money for the box.”
Tatiana patted her pocket that held the kopeck as she ran down the stairs. Soon she was welcomed into Katya’s apartment. She was surprised to see about fifteen people in the room. The Shushkevich family had borrowed a few stools and had pushed their own furniture against the walls to make room. Some people were sitting on the floor talking quietly and happily. The Americans were there. They were about twenty years old, and Tatiana thought Elder Samson looked very kind.
Elder Tanner stood up and called for everyone to be quiet; he talked with a foreign accent. “Brothers and Sisters, it is good to be together again. Let’s sing ‘Count Your Blessings,’ and then Brother Shushkevich will give the opening prayer.”
Tatiana was surprised that Katya’s papa knew how to pray, and she wondered why they called him “Brother Shushkevich.” But she liked the song. Part way through it, a nice warm feeling came over her; she felt as if she had been away from home and had just returned. As the meeting continued, no one tried to work her emotions. She wasn’t asked to make any promises, and nobody passed a box for her kopeck.
After the last hymn and prayer, Tatiana ran back up the stairs and down the corridor to her own apartment.
“Mama, I liked church. May I go again?”
“Perhaps. I’ll talk to Katya’s mama first.”
Tatiana decided not to plead; it didn’t seem wise. However, as the week progressed, she thought of ways to persuade Mama to let her go.
The next Sunday morning, Tatiana awoke early. She could hear Babushka snoring softly across the room and her parents talking quietly on the other side of the wall. Tatiana knew that they were still in bed. It made her feel safe, and she snuggled deeper under her blanket.
Suddenly Tatiana had a wonderful thought. She slipped out of bed and hurried to her parents’ room. “Mama, Papa,” she whispered. “I just have to go to church today—I want to take Babushka with me! Please say yes.”
Later Tatiana led Babushka into Katya’s living room and helped her to a chair. Elders Samson and Tanner came to welcome them. Babushka was pleased and smiled politely at them. Several neighbors came to greet Babushka before the meeting started. Then Elder Samson announced the song: “I Am a Child of God.”
Good! Tatiana thought. I learned it last week. I can sing, too.
The music swelled. Everyone sang in unison and with enthusiasm. The music reverberated around the room and into Tatiana’s heart. She looked at her great-grandmother and was surprised to see that she was crying. Alarmed, Tatiana reached for her hand. Babushka took her hand, squeezed it, and smiled. Then Tatiana saw something wonderful: Babushka’s eyes were smiling! Tears ran down her cheeks, but her eyes smiled.
Babushka leaned toward Tatiana. “I remember! I remember when I went to church as a little girl. I always loved going to church. It is good—so good.”

Watching their older sisters gain their testimonies has been a big boost to the development of their own faith. Erin remembers her first year at girls’ camp. She felt lonely, and the bugs were horrible. She wasn’t having a very good time, but her older sister, Lindsay, was there to help.
“She was being so positive and was trying to help me have a good time. I remember my first testimony meeting. I was too afraid to get up, but she got up and talked about her feelings about the gospel and how much we share together. We were both crying. It really strengthened my testimony. Even though it was five years ago, it still is a really big faith builder for me.”

“Mom, can I look for buried treasure?” Cindy asked.
Her mother looked up from the book she was reading and said, “Of course, but stay around the camp.”
“I will.” Cindy loved camping with her family and looking for buried treasure. She picked up a small shovel and a blue bag.
As she walked around the camp, she found a gray feather. “I wonder what bird lost this?” she said as she put it into her blue bag.
A few feet farther away, she saw something shiny sticking out of the dirt. With her shovel, she dug up a small stone. Cindy rolled the stone in her hands and said, “Jesus made this.” She put the stone into her blue bag with the feather.
Cindy noticed tiny purple flowers growing everywhere. She knew that she was not supposed to pick the flowers, so she got down on her knees and smelled their sweet fragrance.
Cindy walked some more. In a clump of tall grass, she spotted a baby rabbit and said, “I wonder where its mother is?” She didn’t put the baby rabbit into her bag, either.
Then she noticed something strange in the dirt. She began to dig. In seconds she dug up a rusty tin can. It wasn’t pretty like the other things she had found. She was going to bury it again, then remembered what her parents and Primary teachers had taught her about choosing the right. She knew that the right thing to do was to put it into her bag, take it back to camp, and throw it into the trash bag.
Cindy began to sing her favorite Primary song, “Choose the Right Way.”* As she sang, she continued to enjoy the treasures Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ had put all around her.

Corrie ten Boom, a devout Dutch Christian woman, found such healing despite having been interned in concentration camps during World War II. She suffered greatly, but unlike her beloved sister Betsie, who perished in one of the camps, Corrie survived.
After the war she often spoke publicly of her experiences and of healing and forgiveness. On one occasion a former Nazi guard who had been part of Corrie’s own grievous confinement in Ravensbrück, Germany, approached her, rejoicing at her message of Christ’s forgiveness and love.
“‘How grateful I am for your message, Fraulein,’ he said. ‘To think that, as you say, He has washed my sins away!’
“His hand was thrust out to shake mine,” Corrie recalled. “And I, who had preached so often … the need to forgive, kept my hand at my side.
“Even as the angry, vengeful thoughts boiled through me, I saw the sin of them. … Lord Jesus, I prayed, forgive me and help me to forgive him.
“I tried to smile, [and] I struggled to raise my hand. I could not. I felt nothing, not the slightest spark of warmth or charity. And so again I breathed a silent prayer. Jesus, I cannot forgive him. Give me Your forgiveness.
“As I took his hand the most incredible thing happened. From my shoulder along my arm and through my hand a current seemed to pass from me to him, while into my heart sprang a love for this stranger that almost overwhelmed me.
“And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world’s healing hinges, but on His. When He tells us to love our enemies, He gives, along with the command, the love itself.”
Corrie ten Boom was made whole.

The second month that we went home teaching, Brother Johnson had just bought a new horse. And so we walked out to the corral and took a look.
“Mort, how much you pay for that mare?”
“About a thousand dollars. Why?”
“She’s a fine horse. How come you spent so much money for her?”
“She’s got a good line.” Then he stopped and looked at the old man. “Why are you asking me a question like that? You been around horses most of your life.”
“I never had a horse worth a thousand bucks. What will you do with her, sell her to the glue factory?”
“You know I’m not going to do that.”
“Yep, I know that.” He looked at the mare for a while and then turned to Brother Johnson and said, “Mort, how long did your dad serve as a bishop?”
“About ten years, I guess. Why?”
“You come from a good line, Mort. As far as the Lord is concerned, you’re registered stock. But you’re no good to the Lord the way you are now. It’d be less of a waste to sell that horse to the rendering plant as for you to keep away from church any longer. The Lord wants you back in harness, Mort.”
Brother Johnson took the toothpick out of his mouth and dropped it on the ground. “You may be right,” he said simply.

Brother Yáñez says he now has a strong testimony of the Word of Wisdom and the law of tithing. When the missionaries were teaching him, he was keeping his business open seven days a week to pay for Paola’s U.S. $1,000-per-month treatment. The law of tithing “was very hard for me to accept,” he says, but he decided to keep the Sabbath day holy and test the promise in Malachi 3:10 by paying tithing. When he closed his store on Sundays, he says, “those who used to buy on Sunday bought on Saturday—and they bought more.” Today he is much better off financially than he was when he operated his business seven days a week.

An elder in our mission has had some pretty serious health problems. He has a skin allergy, bronchial problems, and sinus problems. When I arrived in the mission, he was sleeping in for fear of coming to a weakened condition and catching the flu. Then when he came in for lunch, he was sleeping for a couple of hours to keep from catching a cold or the flu. His companion was frustrated and called me.

I called the elder’s doctor. He said, “Well, his condition is bad, but it’s better than it was when he came into the mission field. It’s not going to change much no matter how many hours he works.” I called the elder into the office and suggested that I would rather see him sick with the flu legitimately than always worrying about it. I discussed with him the principle of suffering in silence, of simply going to work and doing what the Lord had called him to do. I said, “The doctor says your condition isn’t going to change no matter how much or how little you do. We’ve done and are doing all we can do. Why don’t you learn to bear your health problems without mentioning them to anyone else or showing any signs of being ill.”

Bless his great heart, he took the counsel and put it into practice. He has become one of the top missionaries in the mission. He was made a training senior companion and then a district leader, all within about six weeks. What a great missionary he is now. He discovered how to suffer in silence and do the work. He is a great example of self-denial.

The gym was quickly filling up with people when a hush came over the once-noisy room. The choir from the Czech Republic started to file onto the stage.
I sat forward in my chair searching for the red-haired girl whom Mr. Lauritzen, my choir director, had described to me a few minutes earlier.
“There is a Latter-day Saint girl in the choir,” he had said. “She has red hair and her name is Iva.” I had signed up to host someone from the choir at my house for the night, and once I had heard about Iva, I immediately wanted her to stay with me.
I soon discovered a few red-haired girls in the choir, but one stood out to me. She was on the front row, and somehow I felt that she was Iva.
“What is your name?” I asked the girl after the program.
“Iva,” she said.
“Hi, my name is Cindy.” I paused not knowing what to say next. “Would you like to stay with me?”
“No, I am sorry. I am staying in the dorm.”
I felt bitter disappointment. I had to think quickly because there was no way that she was staying in that dorm if I had anything to do with it.
“I’m a Latter-day Saint!” I blurted desperately.
She looked at me in shock. “You are? Well, then I want to stay with you,” she said excitedly.
She was the only Latter-day Saint in her choir, and I understood how she felt because I am the only Church member in my school. Since there are not very many Latter-day Saints in either the Czech Republic or in my hometown, Collegedale, Tennessee, the chances of her staying with an LDS family were very slim. It was not even likely for us to meet.
Iva chattered away in her own language to her friends, explaining to them that she wanted to stay with me.
She turned to me regretfully and said, “It’s too late. The girl that I needed to talk to has already left.”
Once again, something came in the way of her staying with me. I was not about to give up. After I said a silent prayer, I turned to my choir director for help.
“Mr. Lauritzen, Iva was staying in the dorm, and now she says that it is too late for her to stay with me.”
“Well, I know how to fix this. Iva, why don’t you talk to your conductor?”
After Iva’s conversation with her conductor, she smiled at me. “It is fine. I can stay with you.”
I blew out a sigh of relief as we headed toward the exit. As I drove the short distance to my house, Iva told me something.
“While I was still in the Czech Republic, I prayed that I would be able to stay in a Latter-day Saint family’s home. I cannot believe that I am really doing this.”
We arrived at my home at 11:00 P.M., and my mom met us at the front door. “Mom, this is Iva.” I paused, “She’s a Latter-day Saint.”
“I can’t believe what you just said,” my mom replied as if she were in a dream.
“I am so glad to be able to stay in your home,” Iva said with gleaming eyes.
“It’s nice to have a Church member stay with us,” my mom added.
Iva agreed as they embraced.
Later, when we had snuggled underneath the soft covers of the twin beds in my room, Iva pulled out her Czech Book of Mormon.
“Iva, I have an idea. Why don’t you read from your Book of Mormon aloud while I follow along in my English one.”
Iva seemed to like the idea and soon the room was filled with the sound of her soothing voice speaking in the tongue so foreign to me. Soon after we put up our books, we fell asleep.
Iva left early the next morning. Her choir was headed for Memphis. I do not know if we will ever see each other again, but we will keep in touch. Iva and I were almost complete strangers brought together by shared beliefs. Although we were with each other for too short a time, I know we will always be friends and I will never forget her or the blessing that she brought into my life.

Gary and Jennifer Tucker had a dream. They both wanted an eternal family. But Jennifer had almost lost hope. The path to achieving that dream leads through the temple, something for which Gary wasn’t ready.
Then their bishop was inspired with an idea that would help the Tuckers—as well as many others in the Three Forks Ward, Bozeman Montana Stake—achieve the dream of an eternal family. A few years ago Bishop Aaron Baczuk was in a meeting for bishops and new converts in the stake. The Area Seventy who was presiding asked a new member, “Have you been to the temple to perform baptisms for the dead?” He had.
Bishop Baczuk had never considered taking unendowed adults to the temple. The following week he made an appointment with the Billings Montana Temple for adults in his ward to perform baptisms for the dead. The visit to the temple was a success, and in the months that followed, elders and high priests in the ward accompanied more unendowed adults to the temple. “It proved to be a very spiritual experience for them, compounding their desire and commitment to receive their endowments,” says Bishop Baczuk.
To prepare, adult members work with the bishop to become worthy to attend the temple. Then they take the temple-preparation class. Their interest in the class really peaks after they perform baptisms for the dead. They find that talking about the temple in class is one thing, but actually feeling the Lord’s Spirit in the temple is another.
“Having the option to take someone to the temple who may not be prepared for additional covenants but can still have an experience participating in ordinances is huge,” says Bishop Baczuk. “I think it fits with the sentiment the Church is trying to convey in its temple-preparation booklet: ‘Come to the temple!’”1
Three Forks Ward elders quorum president David Boyd says attending the temple to perform baptisms makes a goal tangible: “They begin to see the possibility that they can receive their own endowments. Many of them have not even stepped foot on temple grounds before, so these adult baptism trips give members that opportunity.”
Many recently activated members in the ward perform baptisms for the dead before receiving their own endowments. “It was never a question of worthiness,” says Bishop Baczuk. “It was a question of preparedness. Some were worthy and prepared to do baptisms but were not prepared mentally or spiritually to take on the covenants of the endowment.” For the men, it’s also a time to prepare to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood.
Family history also propels the temple work. Ward members, such as Larry and Carolyn Isom, work in the ward’s family history center to provide hundreds of family names. These three efforts—the temple-preparation class, family history, and worshipping in the temple—work together. Those doing family history get excited to provide names for those going to the temple. Members going to the temple are excited to do temple work for their own ancestors and for those of their fellow ward members. And being in the temple motivates the members to prepare to return to the temple.
In the past few years, 22 members of the Three Forks Ward have taken the temple-preparation class, and 14 of them began attending the temple regularly to perform baptisms for the dead. Then, upon finishing the class, 13 of those 14 received their own endowments. Some of them were single or widowed, but others, like Gary and Jennifer Tucker, were sealed as a family.
Gary joined the Church in 1992, a couple of months before he and Jennifer were married. She was already a member. But working long hours and associating with the wrong friends made it hard for Gary to stay active in the Church, even with his wife’s support. He says he spent many years “chewin’ and cussin.’”
When their daughter, Cody, was born, Sister Tucker tried to raise her in the gospel by taking her to church, even though Brother Tucker didn’t want any Church materials at home. Although he encouraged his family to attend church, he didn’t attend. When Cody turned eight, she was baptized by a missionary, not by her father. Brother Tucker says, “I’m very happy I was there, but that’s a huge regret—watching instead of participating in it.”
In the following years, fellowshipping helped Gary return to Church activity. Jennifer would invite ward members or the missionaries over for dinner, knowing that would give them a chance to talk with Gary. He is grateful to those members and missionaries for being a good influence on him.
Dale Price, for example, home taught Jennifer’s mother and got to know Gary and Jennifer that way. When Brother Price visited with Brother Tucker, they didn’t talk about the gospel at first. They talked about a common interest: hunting. The Prices also sat with the Tuckers at ward activities, brought them food from their food storage when Brother Tucker was out of work, and gave them honey produced by their own honeybees. Honey is the Tuckers’ favorite topping on toast. That little gift, as Brother Price describes it, was “to sweeten the relationship.”
Counsel from their stake president also helped the Tuckers. President David Heap asked stake members to do “seven small and simple things”: (1) Read the scriptures personally every day; (2) read the scriptures at least five days a week as a family; (3) have personal prayer every morning and night; (4) have family prayer every morning and night; (5) attend church every Sunday as a family; (6) hold family home evening every Monday night; and (7) attend the temple every month.
Gary could see that these things would help his family be closer—something he very much desired—so the Tuckers began having family prayer, scripture study, and home evening. These efforts helped prepare Gary to be receptive to his bishop’s invitation to prepare to go to the temple.
In January 2006 the Tuckers were attending a fireside at the bishop’s home. Bishop Baczuk pulled Gary aside and talked to him about the temple. Right there, Gary gave the bishop his can of chewing tobacco so it wouldn’t continue to be a temptation to him. He had many questions for the bishop then and in subsequent interviews. The bishop emphasized living the covenants that Gary had made at baptism so he could be worthy of the Spirit.
The Tuckers began taking the temple-preparation class, and Jennifer began attending the temple with her ward each month to perform baptisms for the dead. Gary was working on becoming worthy to go. Their daughter, Cody, who was 11 then, was excited to be able to go to the temple soon to perform baptisms. By the time she turned 12, Gary was able to go to the temple with her. It was the first time either of them had been in the temple.
Cody says, “It was wonderful. It’s very peaceful there. My dad went, so that was even a bigger deal.” Gary says he felt “unbelievable peace and joy that first time.”
The next Sunday in the temple-preparation class, Gary was a different person. “A light had gone on,” says Sister Elna Scoffield, who has taught the class for several years. Gary stayed after class to ask questions. He had felt the Spirit at the temple and wanted to return—not just to perform baptisms but to receive his endowment and to have his family sealed to him.
The next month the Tuckers again attended the temple with the bishop and other ward members.
In the weeks before Brother and Sister Tucker received their endowments and were sealed, they felt the adversary’s opposition. Gary was making progress, but he still had doubts about his worthiness to be in the temple. Their dream of an eternal family was close, but it felt just out of reach. The Tuckers knew they had to pray together more often, asking for strength. “We always received it in the form of calming peace and reassurance that all things are in the Lord’s hands,” says Sister Tucker. “Even up to the time we walked inside the temple, His calming Spirit was with our whole family.”
After Gary and Jennifer received their endowments, they knelt in the sealing room with their children, Cody and Garrett, dressed in white. When six-year-old Garrett saw his mom crying, he reached up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. Gary and Cody were crying for joy too. Even the sealer was emotional.
The Tuckers say their family now enjoys stronger relationships and better communication. Gary says, “We are happier. My wife and I are closer, and our children see that.” Gary feels like he’s a better example to his family members who are not members of the Church, and he hopes that other families in his ward will want the same blessings that the Lord has given the Tuckers through the temple.

Jason finished his brownie and joined the group gathering in the hallway. It was time for the scavenger hunt at Anna’s party.
“Here are your lists,” Anna said, handing out the sheets of paper to the three team captains.
Jason took his and said, “Come on, team!” Emily, Crystal, Rob, and Mark followed him into the kitchen. The other teams went into different rooms to examine their lists.
“We have to be ready to go when the whistle blows,” Jason said.
“What’s on our list?” asked Emily.
Jason studied the sheet. “These things shouldn’t be too hard to find,” he said. “A dog food coupon, half an English muffin, yesterday’s newspaper, a piece of junk jewelry, a sock—”
“Nobody’s going to give us one sock,” Rob interrupted.
“They will if the mate’s been lost,” said Crystal.
“As I was saying,” continued Jason, “a paper clip, a used postage stamp, a magazine, a thumbtack, a red button—”
“Wait!” Emily yelled. She reached into her jeans pocket and fished around for a moment. “Look!” She pulled out a button.
“We can’t use that,” Mark told her. “We have to get the stuff from houses. It’s the rules, just like staying together is.”
“Besides,” Crystal said, “part of the fun is getting the stuff.”
“OK,” said Emily. “I think my mom will want to sew it back on my blouse, anyway.” She put the button back into her pocket.
“What else?” Mark asked.
“Just a packet of ketchup like you get in restaurants and a brown shoelace.”
“This should be a cinch,” said Rob. “What area do we hunt in?”
“We have the section west of Ames Street and south of here.”
Emily sighed. “That’s kind of a poor area. I bet they won’t have half this stuff.”
“Don’t worry,” said Crystal. “Everyone has things like these. We’re not asking for microwave ovens!”
Wheeet! A whistle pierced the air.
“Let’s go!” Jason hollered, and they hurried for the front door, bumping into the other two groups. Everyone squeezed through the door and raced away.
The shoelace, newspaper, thumbtack, and paper clip were easy. One stop took care of them all. Two houses later they got the button, the dog food coupon, and the stamp. Next, someone gave them a worn-out green sock and suggested that they try the house across the street for the jewelry because the lady there was always having garage sales.
Not only did the lady across the street give them an old bracelet, but she also provided them with the packet of ketchup and an old Friend magazine.
Now they had just one item to get. But though they went to ten houses in a row, no one had an English muffin.
Finally they found themselves near the end of a dead-end street. The only house that they hadn’t tried was a tiny, shabby-looking one.
“Shall we try it?” asked Jason.
Emily shook her head. “They’re not going to have an English muffin in there. I don’t even want to go to the door.”
“I say we try it,” Jason said. “It can’t hurt to ask.”
“We’re already here, Em,” Rob coaxed her. “What do we have to lose?”
“I agree with Rob and Jason,” said Crystal.
There’s something forlorn about this house, Jason thought as he led the group to the door and knocked. For a minute he thought that no one was home. Then suddenly the porch was bathed in light, and the door opened slowly.
“Yes? Can I help you?” The frailest, oldest-looking woman Jason had ever seen stood in the doorway, wearing a much-mended robe.
She looks afraid of us, thought Jason. He smiled apologetically and said, “We’re sorry to bother you. We’re on a scavenger hunt and—well—we’re sorry to disturb you.”
As he and the others started to turn away, the lady quavered, “Wait! What do you need for your hunt?”
“Well …” Jason hesitated, wishing that she hadn’t asked. It was bad enough disturbing her, but asking for food …
“Half an English muffin,” Crystal reluctantly admitted, her face turning pink.
To their surprise, the woman invited them in. As they stepped into the clean but worn-looking front room, the old lady hurried toward the kitchen, saying, “I just might be able to help.”
Crystal followed the woman into her kitchen while the rest of the group waited in the front room. No one mentioned the patched furniture or the water stains on the ceiling, but they were all uncomfortably aware of the shabby room.
A moment later the woman came back and said, “Here you go, children.” She gestured toward Crystal, who followed her, carrying an English muffin.
“But—but”—Jason stammered—“you didn’t need to—”
“Go ahead. Take it,” urged the old lady. “I went on a few scavenger hunts in my day, you know. Now, you children hurry, or you might not win.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she held the door open. “Good luck!” she called after them.
When they were halfway up the street, Crystal said, “I tried to stop her. I feel terrible taking it. Do you know what she had in her kitchen? Hardly anything. That was her last English muffin. She got it out of her refrigerator, and all that was left in there were a few eggs. Her cupboard didn’t have a door, and there were only two cans of tomato soup, a box of oatmeal, and a box of instant rice in it. It was … pitiful!”
Rob said, “Maybe she just hasn’t been to the store yet.” But he didn’t sound like he believed it.
“Nobody’s groceries get that low,” Emily said, “unless they’re really poor.”
Even though no one was in much of a hurry now, Jason’s team still reached Anna’s house first. When the other teams returned and congratulated Jason’s team for winning, he explained why none of them seemed very happy.
Suddenly Emily exclaimed, “I have an idea! Maybe this scavenger hunt is just beginning.” After she told them her idea, everyone eagerly broke into teams again, this time carrying empty boxes.
“Sorry to bother you again,” Jason said to the lady who had given them the jewelry when she came to the door. “We’re on another hunt.”
“Two in one night?” she asked.
“Sort of. You see, while we were out before, we found an elderly woman who needs a few things.” After he had explained, the woman gave them some canned food and a blanket.
From house to house they went. People were generous with food, clothing, and other items. An hour later they returned to Anna’s. The other teams had done well too.
With half a dozen volunteers to carry sacks and boxes, Jason led the way to the old woman’s house. But when they got there, they found that all the lights were out.
“She must be in bed,” whispered Jason. “I don’t want to bother her again. Does anyone have a pen and paper?”
Crystal gave him both, and while the boxes were being stacked quietly just outside the door, Jason wrote: “Thanks for the muffin. We won!” He placed the note inside his sack, where the woman was sure to see it.
And he thought as they walked away that, because of her act of trusting kindness, they had all won.

One of the best lessons on choice I learned was from my dad. Whenever the carnival came to town, I was eager for one more ride or one more something. One summer day my dad gave me a silver dollar. He said, “Go buy what you want.” That was a lot of money for me because the rides and refreshments only cost a nickel or fifteen cents back then. I remember going with my friends to the carnival. I priced everything—cotton candy, the rides, the side shows—and I figured out how many of each thing I could get. At the end of the day, I came home with my whole dollar. I had realized that it was my dollar, and it had become more valuable to me because it represented choice. By keeping the dollar, I still had the choice. Once it was gone, the choice was gone.

For instance, consider my friend Bob and his watchcare over an elder who smoked. Nearly every morning, Bob would see a fellow member of his quorum and pray with him to help him overcome smoking and then give him a pack of Lifesavers or package of gum to help him during the day. Later, Bob would see him and his wife with hands linked across the temple altar, sealed for eternity. What was it that changed and helped to bring this all about? The gospel and “the heart and a willing mind.”

Bertha came into my life when I was thirteen years old and just beginning junior high school. How well I remember that first day of school. The building was large with endless halls and rows and rows of student lockers. Most of the students had come on school buses from small farms and neighborhoods. This was certainly not a big city group, but we were still anxious to be popular and accepted. There were so many of us that we were going to be using a former elementary school across the street for additional classrooms. I alternated between excitement and panic at the thought of finding my way around from one classroom to another.
I had worked hard all summer baby-tending and getting up at 5:00 A.M. to pick strawberries and cherries so I could earn enough money to buy nice school clothes. But even in all my fine new clothes, I felt awkward and uneasy.
My friends and I grouped together, trying to act in a casual manner to hide the fear we felt but didn’t dare admit. We were in awe as the older students moved confidently through the halls laughing and teasing each other. It was a relief when the bell finally rang and we all gathered in the big assembly hall where it was announced that each new student was to be assigned for the day to an older “big brother or sister” to show them around. The name of each new student was called out, along with the name of his or her “buddy” for the day.
When my name was called along with Bertha Brown, I heard several of my friends gasp. I had no idea who Bertha Brown was, but it was obvious that some of them did. As soon as we were excused to go meet our “big sisters,” I was surrounded by girls telling me to hide quickly before Bertha could find me. It was clear that to be assigned to Bertha was the worst possible fate. I was so confused. Part of me said not to hide—that would be a mean thing to do. But another part of me wanted to be popular with the other girls, and that’s the side that won.
So the game began—the hiding, the giggling, and the running from imagined danger. We managed to escape from Bertha for the moment, but not before I caught a glimpse of her. It was true that she was not pretty. She was even a little scary to look at with her unkempt, dry hair. Her clothes looked like something a grandmother would wear, and her shoes were brown and ugly.
All day the big story was how poor little Sheron had to hide from Bertha. The one time that I really saw Bertha’s face she looked so sad. How could we be so mean to her? I thought. She hadn’t done anything to deserve it. There we were, a whole group of girls, running away from one lonely person. I knew that what we were doing was wrong. I didn’t want to play that awful game. What I really wanted was to talk to Bertha and tell her I was sorry. I knew that she must be embarrassed. But I wasn’t brave enough, so I let everyone else lead me. But oh, I was miserable!
Later that day I forgot about Bertha when I was called to Mrs. Jensen’s office. She had been my very favorite teacher in elementary school, and now she was a counselor at the junior high. I could hardly wait to see her. All the way to her office I imagined all kinds of wonderful things. Maybe she wanted me to be her special assistant. Maybe she had something important that she wanted me to do. I almost ran through the halls in my eagerness to see Mrs. Jensen. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her.
When I walked into her office, I could see tears in her eyes, and my heart nearly broke when she looked straight at me and said, “Of all the girls coming into seventh grade, I assigned Bertha to you because I thought that you were the one girl who would be kind to her!”
All the misery of the day came crashing down on me, and I sobbed as I realized that Mrs. Jensen did have an important assignment for me and I had failed her. I had failed Bertha. But, most of all, I had betrayed myself. The next day everyone else forgot about the game—and Bertha. I never did. I rarely saw her after that day. When I did catch a glimpse of her all alone, I wanted desperately to tell her how sorry I was. But I was too ashamed and too young in my understanding of compassion to know how much it would mean to her.
I never saw Bertha again after junior high, and yet she has been a very important part of my life. Even today I wish that I had found the courage to be her friend. How do you say you are sorry to someone that you have never spoken to and yet hurt so deeply that more than thirty years later you cannot forget?
I finally dealt with what I had done to Bertha one Easter when I was studying about the atonement of Christ. How grateful I am to the Savior for his sacrifice and for the realization that through his wonderful gift I can finally lay that burden down and find peace and forgiveness—not that I will forget, but that I can now use the lesson to improve my life and bless others.
Because of Bertha, I have never again knowingly been unkind to anyone, and I have tried to teach my children the same. I have a special place in my heart for those who don’t seem to fit in, for those who are lonely and forgotten. Because of Bertha, it is easier for me to see beyond the surface and understand the heart of those I meet. I have tried to make it up to her by the way I treat others, but I will always wish that I could see her and say, “I’m sorry, Bertha.”

One day I was in the bus line with my friend Mike.* We try to get in line first so we can sit in the very back of the bus. There is this girl named Savannah that is kind of rude to other kids. I’ve known her since second grade. Something I found out was that if you are nice to her, she’s nice back. Mike, on the other hand, thinks that if someone is rude to him, he should be rude back. I admit I’ve done that sometimes.
That day we were at the front of the line. When our line was heading to the bus, Savannah tried to sneak in front of everyone so she could sit in the back. When she was right behind us, we tried to tell her that she couldn’t cut, but she made an excuse that most people make. “We’re all going to the same place,” she said.
When we got to the bus, there was some shoving. Savannah got in first. She quickly ran to the back and put her backpack where she was sitting. “I got here first,” said Savannah. Mike and Savannah started arguing a bit. I told Mike that we could sit somewhere else, but he didn’t listen. I started arguing with Mike. Then I remembered a line from a movie that said when we have a choice between being right or being kind, we should choose to be kind.
So I asked Savannah nicely if we could sit in the seat next to her. Mike doesn’t like sharing seats, but he thought about it. “Only if you guys don’t bother me,” said Savannah. “Fine,” Mike said. On the way home, I had a good feeling inside. You should always be kind, even if it’s hard.