Gospel Story Finder

I sat on our front steps and thought my very hardest. The Twenty-fourth of July parade was just a week away, and I still didn’t know how I could win the fifteen-dollar prize for the best-decorated bike. There just had to be a way.
“Alex,” Mom called, “are you going over to help Sister Wilson this morning?”
“Yeah,” I answered, getting to my feet. “If she calls, tell her I’m on my way.”
As I walked over to Sister Wilson’s, all I could think about was winning the bike prize. I was saving money to buy my own bike. In fact, I’d already saved twenty dollars, but I still didn’t have enough for a bike. I really needed one, too, so I was in a real jam.
“Hello, Alex,” Sister Wilson called as I went up her walk. “Are you ready to go to work?”
I nodded. Sister Wilson was down on her hands and knees, pulling weeds from her flower bed. She had on her old straw hat and brown cotton work gloves. I don’t know why she wore them. The glove fingers had holes in them, and the band on her hat was gone. The hat brim was so ragged around the edge that her face was always freckled with bits of sunshine.
Once I asked her why she didn’t get a new hat and new gloves. She chuckled and said, “Oh, these will do me just fine. Besides, new ones cost too much.”
Sister Wilson was a widow, and she didn’t have much money. That’s why she couldn’t pay me for working. I didn’t mind, though, because she always gave me cookies and punch and told me stories.
“Are we pulling weeds today?” I asked.
“I am,” she answered, “but I have another chore for you.” She took me around the side of the house and back to the garage. She didn’t have a car, so she used the garage to store things in. The sunshine poured in as she opened the garage door.
“I want to get rid of a lot of this stuff and straighten up what’s left,” she said. “And I need a big strong boy like you to help me. Just bring everything outside and set it in the driveway, and I’ll look it over and tell you what to throw away and what I want to keep.”
I couldn’t believe all the good stuff Sister Wilson had in her garage. I found a real old army helmet, one like they used in the army way back before Dad was born. There was a leather bag full of marbles—real old ones. They looked like they were made out of hard clay. There was even an old record player with a big wide horn on top that looked like a giant morning glory. I laughed when I saw that.
I’d emptied most of the garage when I saw some handlebars poking out from behind a pile of boxes. When I pulled the boxes out, I saw a huge red bike with a wire basket fastened to it right behind the seat. The bike had big thick tires and wide fenders. It was kind of old-fashioned looking, not like any of my friends’ bikes.
Just then Sister Wilson came around the corner of the house. “Looks like you found Old Red,” she said with a grin.
“Old Red?” I asked.
“That’s what my husband always called it,” she explained. “When we had the drugstore down on Main Street, Brother Wilson used it to deliver prescriptions and things to folks who couldn’t get to the store. That bike’s been all over town, and it’s almost as old as I am.”
“I’ve never seen a bike quite like this, Sister Wilson.”
She laughed again. “No, I don’t suppose you have. I’ll bet it’s a lot bigger than your bike, isn’t it?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I don’t have a bike. I’m hoping to buy one, though, as soon as I make some more money. And I’m going to try to borrow a bike to ride in the parade and maybe win the prize for the best-decorated bike.”
Sister Wilson pressed her lips together and straightened her hat. “There should be a tire pump in all this junk,” she said. “Let’s find it and pump up those tires and see if Old Red has any get-up-and-go after all these years.”
The pump was hidden way back in the corner under some old hip boots, so by the time we found it, we’d cleaned out the whole garage. I pumped up those old fat tires, and they still held air!
We found a wrench and put the seat all the way down. Then we oiled the chain and everything and pushed Old Red into Sister Wilson’s backyard. I had to roll it over to the back step so I could climb on. As soon as I had my leg over the bar, I pushed away from the step. I thought I was going to ride across the lawn, but all I did was fall over.
I tried again, and I fell over again. I don’t know how many times that old bike fell on me, but I finally got so I could turn the pedals and hold onto the handlebars without tipping over. The only problem then was that I needed to look at my feet to pedal, and while I was looking at my feet, I ran right into Sister Wilson’s apple tree.
I pushed that old bike back to the step and tried again. One time I ran into the back fence and scratched my face on the rose bushes. My pants got caught in the chain a couple of times, too, but I didn’t quit until I could ride Old Red all over the back lawn without falling or bumping into something.
“I hope I didn’t bang Old Red up too much,” I said as I pushed the bike back to the garage.
“Oh, I’m not worried about that. Nothing will hurt Old Red. I just hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”
The rest of the day I worked with Sister Wilson. Everything she wanted to keep was put back into the garage, and the rest of it was carried out to the curb for the garbage truck. When we were finished, Sister Wilson gave me some molasses cookies and milk and told me about when Brother Wilson rode Old Red around town.
The night before the Twenty-fourth of July, I was sitting on the front porch feeling real sad because I still hadn’t found a bike to ride in the parade. Mom poked her head out the front door and said, “Sister Wilson wants you to go over to her place for a few minutes.”
I walked over and knocked on her door.
“Hello, Alex,” she said with a smile as she opened the door. “Are you ready for the parade tomorrow?”
I shook my head. “I couldn’t find a bike. Everyone is riding his own bike in the parade.”
“How would you like to ride Old Red?” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
I followed her to the garage. She opened the door and said, “Do you think Old Red will win you anything?”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Right in the middle of the garage was Old Red. It was all cleaned and fixed up fancier than I’d ever seen a bike. The wire basket behind the seat was made into a little covered wagon with a sign on the back that said: CROSSING THE PLAINS ON OLD RED. The back wheel had colored paper on it that made it look like a wagon wheel. Right in front of the handlebars was a big paper ox head, and the handlebars kind of looked like its horns. Some paper legs were fixed on both sides of the front wheel so that when the wheel turned it looked like the ox was running. I’d never seen anything like it.
“Do you think this will win you a prize?” Sister Wilson asked again with a laugh.
“You mean it’s for me?” I gasped.
“I surely wasn’t planning to ride it,” she said, still chuckling. “You’ve been helping me so much that I thought maybe I could help you.”
The next morning I pushed Old Red down to Main Street where the parade started and where the judges were. As soon as I got there, I knew Old Red was going to win. The other bikes looked nice with their paper streamers and colored wheels, but not one of them was as fancy as Old Red.
Mr. Peters gave me the blue ribbon and a check for fifteen dollars. He said I should ride Old Red at the front of the parade, right behind the flags. I was sure proud. Everybody stood and clapped and talked about what a fancy bike I had.
After the parade I took my check down to Bob’s Market to cash it. Later, when I rode Old Red up to Sister Wilson’s house, she was out on her front porch snapping green beans. “Well, congratulations,” she said and smiled.
I climbed off Old Red, leaned it against the porch, and placed a big brown paper sack in Sister Wilson’s lap.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“It’s for you,” I said. “It’s your part of the prize.”
She reached into the sack and pulled out a pair of brown gloves and a yellow straw hat with a blue ribbon around it. “But, Alex, you were going to use the money to help buy your bike.”
“I know,” I said, “but I decided I could wait for my bike. You need the gloves and hat. Your old ones are worn-out. I still have enough money to pay my tithing and some left over that I can save for my bike. Besides, just winning and riding at the head of the parade was good enough for me.”
Sister Wilson shook her head and thought for a minute. “You know, Alex, I was proud to see someone riding Old Red again. That old bike’s been pretty lonely out there in the garage by itself. I sure hate to put it back there.”
“Well, where do you want me to put it then?” I asked.
“This bike needs someone to take care of it and ride it and keep its tires pumped up and keep it from squeaking. Would you like to have Old Red?”
My mouth dropped open. I didn’t know what to say. “But, Sister Wilson, won’t you need it?”
She laughed. “I don’t ride bikes anymore, and Brother Wilson surely doesn’t need it. In fact, I’m sure he’d want you to have the bike.”
“But I couldn’t just take it. I mean, it’s your bike.”
Sister Wilson nodded her head. “I’ll tell you what. I have a few chores around here that need doing. If you’ll help me with those for the next couple of weeks, I’m certain you’ll have earned Old Red. Is that fair?” I nodded my head. “And in the meantime, you take care of it for me.”
I was so excited that all I could do was nod my head again as I climbed on my very own bike and rode home.

We later had four children, and I remember the joy in knowing that each of them was sealed to us because they were born in the covenant. Our children were the first grandchildren, and although my parents and siblings never joined the Church, they grew very close to each of my children. For many years we lived near each other, and my parents were able to see our children participate in school and youth sports events. They attended each of our children’s baptisms.
By the time our children reached their teens, however, my work assignments had moved our family to another state. But even during those years, my parents stayed close to our children through visits and frequent letters.
As my parents reached middle age, my mother encountered early-onset Alzheimer’s. My father was determined to faithfully serve as her caretaker, even when her condition required full-time care. Even through these latter years, my father reached out to me through weekly, and, in some periods, daily, phone calls and letters. I had always had a close relationship with both my parents, but during the last 10 years of my father’s life, we became particularly close. I realized then too that he was equally successful in drawing near to my three siblings in the same way—even given the differences in interests and faiths we chose as we all grew older.
Photograph by Del Benson
My parents and my family lived on opposite coasts of the United States during those last years, and they made two cross-country visits, even though my mother’s Alzheimer’s had advanced to the point where assisting her on a long-distance flight was very difficult for Dad.
At this same time, one by one my children all decided to stop attending church. Two eventually had their names removed from Church records. This has certainly been the trial of both my wife’s and my life. And even though he wasn’t a Latter-day Saint, my father was pained and confused by our children’s choices as well. He was a privately religious man, and he joined us through those years in praying for them.
In 2005 my father passed away after being diagnosed with cancer, and my mother passed away three years later. My wife and I rejoiced in acting as their proxies in providing temple ordinances after their deaths.
I’ve long prayed to understand how best to relate to our children now that they’re adults, some with their own spouses and children, none of whom are LDS. We are emotionally close to all four of our children, and we are grateful that they often reach out in love to us.
I eventually received a very clear answer of how I must conduct myself, possibly for the rest of my life, regarding these adult children. I needed to do what my father had done with me. In spite of the different lives we lived and the different religious perspectives we had, my father was determined to draw closer to me as a father and a friend while I experienced the pain of seeing my children choose different lifestyles and beliefs from mine. I realized I must follow the example of my father, who taught me how to treat children of a different faith: love them completely, just as the Savior would.

On 24 March 2024, the Notse Branch was organized. Presiding at the creation of the branch was President Kelvar J Lundeen of the Benin Cotonou Mission, assisted by his counselor, Comlan Amegandji. Attending the meeting was the king’s special representative, Togbe Afanwubo III, who helped make the branch creation possible.
Following the organization of the branch, brother Kodjo Pascal Adokou was called and set apart by the mission president as president of the Notsé Branch. The saints in Notsé then witnessed the ordination of their very first Melchizedek Priesthood holders. Brother Thimothée Atchavi was first ordained an elder and was followed by brother Fovi Kedagni. These brothers were then called and set apart as the first and second counselors in the branch presidency. “A new page in the history of the Church in Togo is being written with the creation of this Notse Branch,” noted President Amegandji.
“March is a period full of blessings to me. A baby boy was given to me at the beginning of the month, we got a building for our brothers and sisters in Notsé and now we’ve become a branch! God is always on my side!” exclaimed President Adokou.
Isaac Valentin, a friend of the Church attending the meeting said, “It’s a good thing to know that this Church that I have visited as a young boy in Lome is now available in Notsé. We are not going to stop participating after the branch creation ceremony, but we will keep on coming to the church until we become a full-time member.”
Despite the blazing sun and intense 35°C heat of the day, all participants in the ceremony stayed until the group photo. President Lundeen and his counselor spent time teaching the new presidency how to lead in the Lord’s way. With joy and fellowship, the members, friends, and missionaries departed, leaving with eager hearts to meet again on Sunday for a sacrament meeting with the newly called leaders.

It wasn’t enough for Manila, Philippines, institute students to just learn the word—they wanted to go out and share it. So they put together a musical show, emphasizing the scriptures and education, that was designed to help parents and youth apply gospel principles in their lives.
The students gave up their summer free time to rehearse and perform, but said it was worth it to see the audience reaction—some were touched to tears. The group toured Metro Manila and the nearby provinces with their variety show. “All our efforts have been paid off by the wonderful feelings we’ve had,” said one participant.

We were still living in our home country, Argentina, when my husband and I started our family. We were returned missionaries and knew it was a blessing to be married in the Lord’s temple. We were excited to walk the path back to Heavenly Father together.
We knew that the plan of salvation included trials, but we trusted that we would be able to overcome anything through faith and prayer. But we did not expect adversity to come upon us without stopping. Trial after trial seemed to rain down upon us.
One afternoon I was alone, feeling very sad and crying inconsolably because of our trials. I didn’t know what to do. Every time I tried to stop crying, I only felt more depressed and anguished.
I then thought about the many men and women who shared with me how valuable prayer had been for them during difficult moments. I had a testimony of prayer, but my mind and spirit were so tormented that I thought I wouldn’t be able to find the words to say.
In tears, I knelt by my bed and with all of my heart, I asked Heavenly Father for comfort and peace. I didn’t ask for a solution or even for the trial to disappear. I just asked for peace.
While I was praying, I heard a knock on my front door. I opened it, with tears still in my eyes, and saw a sister from Relief Society. She told me she was working in the area and had stopped by on her motorcycle. All I could do was hug her. She said, “I don’t know why, but I felt I needed to stop by and see you.”
We sat at my kitchen table and she helped me calm down. After talking with her for a few minutes, I finally started to feel that I wasn’t alone and that Heavenly Father had heard my prayer.
It is a blessing to be able to talk to my Heavenly Father through prayer. He listened to me in my hour of need and sent one of His children to help me. I’m grateful this sister heard the inspiration of the Spirit and followed it.

One day I was fasting because I was troubled by many difficulties, and I opened the July 2007 issue of the Liahona. I decided to read From the Life of President Spencer W. Kimball, the episode called “Resist Evil Influences,” which I don’t usually read because it is in the children’s section. This story helped me flee from the bad influences that surrounded me that day, and I was fortified by the message. I encourage everyone to read all the sections of the Liahona.
The Liahona is a light and a protection for me. It is the first tool I use to proclaim the gospel to my friends.
Arlette Azi, Ivory Coast

Some people called him “Old Man Christiansen”; others called him “Deaf Christiansen.” I usually called him the “Willow-Whistle Man.”

It’s true that Mr. Christiansen was old—he and his wife were both over eighty. And if he could hear anything at all, he never acknowledged it. To make matters worse, he could speak no English. However, enough people in our town understood his Danish so that he got along fine. If he needed anything special, his daughter would get it for him.

Most of us were emigrants from Denmark and hadn’t been in this country very long, so Danish was the language that we spoke at home. But when I tried to talk to Mr. Christiansen in my best Danish, he always said, “I can’t understand English.”

Every spring I’d see him come past our place, going toward the mountains. Later I would see him coming back, carrying a bundle of willow branches. I knew what was coming, and I could hardly control my anticipation. I knew that it would be but a short while before Mr. Christiansen would knock on our door and present me with a willow whistle that he had just made.

Usually I didn’t wait for him to bring it. As fast as I could, I’d run over to his workshop in back of his house. I’d watch him cut the willows to the size that he wanted, then cut a notch marking the place where the sound would come out. He made an angled cut for the mouthpiece. Next, after he’d cut through the bark all the way around, he’d tap the bark gently all over with the knife handle. Then, at the right moment—known only to him—he’d hold the willow branch firmly and twist off the bark. The insides of the whistle had to be shaved a little to allow for air movement. When he finished the whistle, he smiled and handed it to me. I blew hard, and a wonderful sound came out.

I loved watching him, and I loved the special smell of the bark and the slick feel of the wood as he took off the bark and shaved the inside wood. I was always amazed at how quickly he could finish one, and I was especially pleased that the first whistle that he made each spring was mine. I hoped that someday Mr. Christiansen would invite me to go with him to hunt for the willow branches.

He had five grandsons, and, of course, he made a whistle for each of them. You can be sure that the day that they came to get their whistles, there was a lot of whistle blowing and tooting. They would run all over the yard, blowing like fury.

From the sixteen-year-old to the four-year-old, each had powerful lungs, and they really gave it all they had. Then I’d get my whistle and join them, each of us trying to blow the loudest and shrillest blast. It’s a good thing that Mr. Christiansen was so hard of hearing.

And then, wonder of wonders, one spring day Mr. Christiansen asked me to go along with him to search for willow branches. I felt especially honored because, as far as I knew, no one had ever accompanied him on these treks—not even his grandsons.

We walked about a mile toward Cottonwood Canyon, to where several clumps of willows grew along a fork in Cottonwood Creek. Pointing to the left, Mr. Christiansen told me to go look for suitable willow branches. He started up the creek to the right. I began cutting willows and soon had an armful. But when he came back and looked over my pile, he said, “No good—throw them all away.”

I started to protest. In fact, I made quite a long speech in Danish.

“You know I can’t understand English,” he told me with a faint smile.

When we got back to his workshop, I watched him go over the willow branches that he’d gathered, carefully selecting the best ones. And as before, he handed me the first whistle that he made.

I resolved that one day I’d learn to select the proper willow branches and make whistles for myself, and, if I became good enough, I’d make some for my friends too.

The next spring Mr. Christiansen didn’t gather any willow branches. During the winter both he and his wife had become very ill, and their daughter had moved them to her place. Mr. Christiansen passed away in early February. Mrs. Christiansen was alive in the spring, but she was still very ill.

Their house stood vacant. The blinds had been pulled down, and the walks hadn’t been swept. Through the window of Mr. Christiansen’s workshop, I could see his tools all hanging neatly, just as he’d left them. The barn was empty. It was as if the buildings were silently dreaming of the past and wanted no one to interrupt their dreams.

Yes, I did go out to try to find some good willow branches, and I even brought two home and tried to make them into whistles—but it didn’t work. For one thing, my heart wasn’t in it. I kept thinking of Mr. Christiansen standing near the fork in Cottonwood Creek the year before and saying, “You know I can’t understand English.” I missed him a lot!

I was too young then to realize how fortunate I had been. There was a difference of about seventy-five years in our ages, yet we had been good friends. And though few words had ever been spoken between us, I had learned a valuable lesson from him: In anything worthwhile that you attempt to do in this life, you must first prepare yourself mentally. Then you must obtain the correct equipment and materials for the job. Whether you are running a business or finding the correct willow branches for whistles, it still makes good sense.

Carly pretended to study her long division, but her mind was on Sara. What do you do for a friend whose mother had died?
Carly and Sara had been best friends since they were in preschool. They’d learned to ride bikes together, taken tap-dance lessons together, and done almost everything together. Carly felt as welcome in Sara’s house as she felt in her own.
But two months ago, Sara’s mother had died. Carly knew her friend was still hurting because Sara had a funny kind of look on her face all the time—the kind that made Carly want to cry.
She wanted to buy Sara a special gift, but she didn’t have very much money. Maybe she could do some extra chores and earn some money that way.
Carly hurried home after school, eager to ask her mother.
“I know you want to help,” Mother said after Carly explained her plan. “But the kind of hurt Sara has won’t go away by buying her a present.”
“I know,” Carly said. “I just wanted to remind her that I love her.”
Carly thought more about that. How could she best show Sara that she cared? She recalled the blessing her father had given her when he confirmed her a member of the Church: “I bless you with the power of understanding. Use it to bless the lives of others.”
Understanding. Carly understood some things that Sara should know.
The next day, Carly wrote her testimony on the inside cover of a copy of the Book of Mormon. She tucked it inside her backpack.
As usual, Carly and Sara sat next to each other in the cafeteria at lunch. “I have something for you,” Carly said. She handed Sara the Book of Mormon.
Sara gave Carly a strange look. “What’s this?”
“It’s one of the scriptures we have in our church. We use it along with the Bible.”
Sara opened the book to the page where Carly had written her testimony. She read it, then looked up at her friend. “You never talked about your church before.”
Embarrassed, Carly nodded. “I know.”
“Why are you giving this to me now?” Sara asked. “Because of Mom dying?”
Carly nodded again. “Reading the Book of Mormon makes me feel good inside. I want you to have that feeling too.”
“What kind of feeling?”
Carly hesitated. She had never tried to explain the feelings she had when she read the scriptures. “The kind that makes you feel good right here.” She placed a hand over her heart.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period.
The next day, Sara asked Carly more questions about the Book of Mormon. A soft happiness enfolded Carly. She knew she had given Sara the right gift.

Several years later, I volunteered for service in the United States Marine Corps. At the beginning of basic training, I found myself standing at attention in front of my barrack’s bunk along with 54 other Marine Corps recruits. I met my drill instructor, a battle-hardened veteran, when he kicked open the door to the barracks and entered while screaming words laced with profanity.
After this terrifying introduction, he started at one end of the barracks and confronted each recruit with questions. Without exception, the drill instructor found something about each recruit to ridicule with loud, vulgar language. Down the row he came, with each marine shouting back his answer as commanded: “Yes” or “No, Sergeant Instructor.” I could not see exactly what he was doing, because we had been ordered to stand at attention with our eyes looking straight ahead. When it was my turn, I could tell he grabbed my duffel bag and emptied the contents onto my mattress behind me. He looked through my belongings, then walked back to face me. I braced myself for his attack. In his hand was my Book of Mormon. I expected that he would yell at me; instead, he moved close to me and whispered, “Are you a Mormon?”
As commanded, I yelled, “Yes, Sergeant Instructor.”
Again I expected the worst. Instead, he paused and raised his hand that held my Book of Mormon and in a very quiet voice said, “Do you believe in this book?”
Again I shouted, “Yes, Sergeant Instructor.”
At this point I was sure he would scream disparaging words about Mormons and the Book of Mormon, but he just stood there in silence. After a moment he walked back to my bunk and carefully laid down my Book of Mormon. He then walked by me and went on to ridicule and disparage all the remaining recruits. I have often wondered why that tough drill instructor spared me that day. But I am grateful I was able to say without hesitation, “Yes, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” and “Yes, I know the Book of Mormon is true.” My testimony of the special messages found in the Book of Mormon is a precious gift given to me through the Holy Ghost.

Walter C., age 15, Jaén, Peru
For a long time I was the only member in my school. My closest friends seemed to understand me, but other school friends made fun of me. One day I prayed and felt the need to talk with one of them who encouraged the others to make fun of me. I explained that I didn’t feel angry at him, but I asked him to give me the respect he’d like to have. After hearing our conversation, one of my teachers always defended me when he saw something happen. I know that the Lord will be with you as you talk with these people.

Indexing also affected my family. My father works in the Church’s Family History Department. When he saw me doing indexing, I could see a spark of excitement go through him. I learned more about his work, and we spent quality time together. Later, I taught my mom how to index and helped with workshops for ward members. After I had finished my 10-hour value project, I found myself still indexing. In about two and a half months, I was able to get over a thousand records done.

When I first went into high school, some of the friends I made would swear or make inappropriate jokes. I politely let all of them know that I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and would appreciate it if they would not use that language around me. They all respected my values, and if they ever let a bad word slip out, they would quickly apologize for what they said.
Brooke O., 16, New Hampshire, USA

When a friend invited me to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 2020, I reluctantly agreed. At first, I didn’t feel it was the place to be, but I continued to attend sacrament meeting. Eventually, I was baptized.
I did not understand, however, the concept of having a testimony as spoken of by other members of the Church. The sister missionaries and I had read some scriptural verses together, but I had never opened the Book of Mormon on my own. Despite great efforts by members of the Church to welcome me and keep me active, I soon began coming late to church, skipping meetings, and going back to a worldly state.
Then came one day when I felt a mood swing with a troubled heart. I felt I had been too unstable, worldly, and antagonistic toward the things of God. I recognized I was not on the right track. While in this mood, I glanced toward the scriptures on my bed.
I called upon God to say something to me. I said a little prayer and waited to hear anything at all. I needed some comfort and clarity.
Then I heard something. I do not know whether the sound came from inside my mind or inside my ears, but I heard the words “Helaman 3:27.” I knew that the book of Helaman was in the Book of Mormon, so I took the scriptures and went to the table of contents to locate that book.
What I read next was a message from God to me specifically for that moment of my life: “Thus we may see that the Lord is merciful unto all who will, in the sincerity of their hearts, call upon his holy name.”
This passage changed my perception about my actions and about the Book of Mormon. I realized that my actions and insincerity toward God had been wrong and that I needed to call upon Him and repent. I know that God will not deny me His mercies and blessings so long as I am sincere in calling upon Him and following Him.
That’s how my testimony came of the Book of Mormon—a book I had showed no interest in reading. I know that God lives, that He speaks to us today, and that the Book of Mormon is true.

When Sister Grassli was about eight years old, she was asked to give a talk in Sunday School. She practiced and practiced her talk about pre-earth life. “I talked about how Jesus Christ and Satan presented their plans and about how Christ’s plan was chosen. Satan got mad and said, ‘I’ll get them!’ I thought at the time, Well, he’s not going to get me! Even now I remember that decision. That feeling of determination that I had as an eight-year-old girl has stuck with me.

“That’s an important decision for adults as well as for children to make,” said Sister Grassli. “And giving talks and doing the things we are asked to do in the Church helps us grow and gain stronger testimonies.

“My message to the children of the world is that the teachings of Jesus have all the answers to all the problems of life. If we always follow His teachings, then no matter how hard life gets, we will be safe and happy. Even if there is unhappiness in our lives, we can have inner peace by living the gospel.”

Other experiences may not be so dramatic but are nevertheless real and heartwarming. I recall an elderly couple whose frame home, situated at the end of a dirt lane, had not seen a coat of paint for too many years. These were neat and tidy people; they were concerned about the appearance of their small house. In a moment of inspiration I called, not upon the elders quorum or upon volunteers to wield paint brushes, but rather, following the welfare handbook, upon the family members who lived in other areas. Four sons-in-law and four daughters took brushes in hand and participated in the project. The paint had been provided by a dealer located in our area. The result was a transformation not only of the house but of the family. The children determined how they might best help mother and dad in their old age. They did so voluntarily and with gladness of heart. A house was painted, a family united, and respect preserved.

We see great blessings as we follow direction from prophets. I remember a very significant example that occurred less than three weeks after my wife, Jill, and I were married. We attended a devotional where the President of the Church at the time, Spencer W. Kimball, spoke about marriage.1 It seemed as if he were speaking directly to us. That one talk helped us set some patterns as we began our marriage and family, and it has helped us avoid the pitfalls the Lord inspired him to warn against. I have reflected over the years how blessed we were to receive that guidance at such a crucial time for us. Now, 47 years later, we are still being blessed because of that counsel we received as a young married couple.

When I was just a small boy, my mother was elected to be the treasurer of Rich County. She had no babysitter, so I often spent time in her office. The office had a huge walk-in vault that had been out of use for many years. One day while playing in the office, I learned how to open the vault. I mentioned to my mother that I had operated the vault. She didn’t give my achievement much thought.
Years later, my younger brother and his friend accompanied mother to the office as I had years before. In the course of the day, the two little boys locked themselves in the vault. My mother discovered the accident but could not open the vault. Soon, men with cutting torches, drills, and the other equipment were trying to open the vault in which the two little boys were entrapped. It was airtight, with only enough oxygen to last the two boys for a couple of hours. The vault stood up for its designed purpose to resist any kind of forced entry. It was impenetrable. In desperation, mom went into another room to kneel in prayer. During her prayer the brief incident of years ago when I mentioned I knew how to open the vault came into her mind. She quickly ran out of the building and up to my school to find me.
We both ran back to the county building, making our way through the many observers and uniformed rescuers to the vault. We prayed to remember the combination, which came back to me to allow me to open the door. All the workers clapped their hands when the huge vault door finally came open.
I know that my mother’s ability to remember that brief incident which happened many years previously, came from God. I know that He helped me remember the combination to the locked safe.

The youth of the Huntsville Utah Stake couldn’t all go to the Nauvoo temple for last year’s dedication, so they decided to bring the temple to them. As part of their youth conference on temple work and worthiness, the youth and their leaders built a replica of the Nauvoo Illinois Temple. It was about one-fifth the size of the original Nauvoo temple, and the youth worked on it in rotations, between workshops, speakers, and activities. The youth and their leaders also completed more than 1,000 ordinances for the dead in the Ogden Utah Temple.

They learned how to saw wood and staple fabric, but more importantly they learned how they could lay strong foundations for their testimonies of the temple and their worthiness to go there.

When I first accepted employment, I came to a decision that accounts in great measure for any success I may have had as a single parent: giving prime time to the children. Prime time meant every evening, with few exceptions. Since I was away all day, I decided that I should be home at night. This was a marked change from former days when my husband’s position as a television network executive involved us both in a busy business and social schedule in and out of town. Time and again as I had appeared to be all attention during a conversation, I had been worrying about the children’s homework or how dinner was progressing at home.
As we had traveled, I had thought about where the children were. At length, after Ralph’s death, I concluded that the next year would be different. I was needed at home more in the evenings when the children were there.
All decisions that shaped our future were not mine alone. The children had choices to make, too. They learned to cook through trial and error and became quite adept at cleaning the house. With their mother at work during the day, they went places by themselves on foot, bicycle, or bus. “Ask not what your mother can do for you, but what you can do for your mother,” became the watchword in our home. All children worked at summer jobs as soon as they were old enough. We even caught the littlest one selling his carefully scrubbed rocks from door to door in the neighborhood. Self-sufficiency, they soon learned, was the way to live.
Although I found myself widowed at a relatively young age, I was blessed with a generous measure of faith and hopefulness. I tried to convey this feeling to my children. The entire family felt a strong sense of opportunity and of the Lord’s hand in our lives.
Friends and family members also contributed their suggestions and ideas for our welfare. There was valuable advice and assistance regarding summer jobs, schools, scholarships, and many other things. Friends were there in times of illness, trouble, and teenage crises. They included us in family activities, fathers and sons’ outings, and other events. Our bishops and priesthood leaders were always available for counsel. Being on the receiving end of so much kindness is often difficult, but it has taught me and my children that blessings from the Lord are not just dropped on our heads. They are brought to pass through the hearts and hands of others.
A woman in the role of single parent, whether widowed or divorced, has a very special calling, and she will be held accountable before the Lord for what she does with her stewardship. Although her spouse is absent, she stands nonetheless commissioned by the Lord to perform the charge he issued to all parents: “And they shall also teach their children to pray, and to walk uprightly before the Lord” (D&C 68:28; see also D&C 68:25–27 and D&C 68:29–32). She may feel at times that she carries a disproportionate share of that responsibility, yet she has the Lord’s assurance that he will prepare a way for her to accomplish her task. (See 1 Ne. 3:7.)
The principal lessons a parent must teach are those of spiritual values. Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Council of the Twelve has suggested that when children are interested or teachable we should immediately take advantage of that moment and teach them. (See Boyd K. Packer, Teach Ye Diligently, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1975, page 110.) When they are spiritually hungry, feed them. Without really knowing it, I followed this precept. We discussed gospel concepts freely while preparing the salad, walking to school, or sitting around the dinner table. It was not unusual for us to talk about the Atonement or the Second Coming any more than it was for us to talk about what was happening in the government or in the school classroom.
Through the years, I have proved the following scripture many times: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Prov. 3:5–6).
We view eternity through the small window of mortal time: “For now we see through a glass, darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12). The day will come when we shall each see our lives with clear vision and an eternal perspective. We shall then have a full knowledge of what we understand by faith now: That the Lord does not leave us alone when we seek him, that he is never in debt to us, and that he always compensates. By showing us our weaknesses and providing an opportunity to turn them to strengths, he exchanges our dross for gold.

Perhaps most important, the Christmas experiences of the prophets teach us to increase our testimonies of Jesus Christ as we make Him the center of our celebrations. In 1876 the St. George Utah Temple was nearing completion. The dedication ceremony for the basement, main room, and sealing room was scheduled for January 1, 1877.8 With Christmas just seven days before the dedication, many in St. George worked frantically to help ensure the temple was completed in time.
President Wilford Woodruff, who served as the first president of the temple, recorded in his journal that on Christmas day the men were busy at work with buzz saws and that 40 women spent the whole day in the temple sewing carpets. They laid carpet and put up curtains.9
Although they nearly didn’t finish in time, their offering that Christmas season was worth the effort. This work was their Christmas celebration. With 2,000 people present on January 1, President Woodruff gave the dedicatory prayer for portions of the temple—over 30 years after Latter-day Saints had been forced to abandon the Nauvoo Temple.