Gospel Story Finder

We all need a standard, something to compare our behavior with, to help us decide what a practical goal of goodness is. And most of us choose people to compare ourselves with. I learned long ago that it matters who you choose for that comparison. Let me tell you how I learned.
Years ago, before adolescence hit me, I read a book called Gospel Ideals. It was a collection of excerpts from the talks of President David O. McKay. One chapter described how you would know when you were in love and, therefore, how you should view and treat women. His lofty words more than touched my heart: I felt a confirmation that they were true. Without telling anyone, I took David O. McKay’s words as one of my standards of goodness. Five or six years later, I was playing basketball with a very fine team in a league in a city. … Up to that point, I had never had a date. And I had no sisters, so what I thought I knew about girls and how to treat them came mostly from the visions I got from Gospel Ideals. I remember riding home one night from a game. … I sat in the back seat of the car. They talked about girls. … I can remember, as I listened to them, the thought coming into my mind: “I have been wrong. Those ideals about girls and how you should feel about them, how you should treat them, they are unrealistic.”
Luckily, in a few years I learned that they were wrong and President McKay was right. Or perhaps, in fairness to those young men, I learned that what I thought they had said, what I thought they had felt, what I thought they actually did, were not the true standard of goodness.

An example from Church history is that of Reddick Newton Allred. He was one of the rescue party sent out by President Brigham Young (1801–77) to bring in the Willie and Martin handcart companies. At the Sweetwater River near South Pass, Captain George Grant asked Reddick Allred to remain there with a few men and wagons and be ready to help when the rescuers returned with the handcart pioneers.
The rescuers found the Willie company mired in the snow, freezing, starving, and dying. Some of the rescuers continued to search for the Martin company, while the others helped the Willie company make that heartrending pull up and over Rocky Ridge. Soon after they made camp, Reddick Allred and his men came to deliver essential assistance and supplies.
Allred then waited for Captain Grant to return with the Martin company. Week after week passed with no sign of them. As blizzards howled and the weather became life threatening, two of the men decided it was foolish to stay. They thought the Martin company had either wintered over somewhere or perished. They decided to return to the Salt Lake Valley and tried to persuade everyone else to do the same. Allred refused to budge. President Young had sent them out, and Captain Grant, Reddick Allred’s priesthood leader, had told him to wait there.
Those who returned took several wagons, filled with needed supplies, and started back to the Salt Lake Valley. Even more tragic, they turned back 77 wagons that were coming from the valley to help. Some of these wagons returned all the way to Big Mountain before messengers sent by President Young met them and turned them back around.
Finally, more than three weeks after Reddick Allred had assisted the Willie company, Captain Grant arrived with the Martin company. These pioneers were even more destitute and had suffered dozens of deaths. Captain Grant’s rescue team was small and low on provisions—and still more than 200 miles (320 km) from the Salt Lake Valley. Once again, because Reddick Allred had stayed true to his assignment, even in the most trying circumstances, he was able to provide life-sustaining assistance and supplies.

Rosa Clara and Charles Loge set up house and continued their work in the branch. One of the new missionaries, Elder John Hyde, was ill with cancer of the mouth. His health worsened, and the only place he could be cared for was in a public institution. Rosa Clara Loge worried about the lonely, ill, and pain-wracked missionary. Finally, she and Charles arranged for Elder Hyde to be taken from the institution to the Loge home, where the courageous sixteen-year-old girl nursed him until his death.

Grandpa has a red truck. He hauls lots of things in his truck. On Monday, Grandpa hauls hay for the cows. On Tuesday, Grandpa drives 5 pigs to the fair. On Wednesday, Grandpa hauls orange pumpkins on a dusty road. On Thursday, Grandpa takes 2 dogs to the vet. On Friday, Grandpa hauls firewood through a muddy field. On Saturday, Grandpa’s truck is very dirty. Kade and Karlie help Grandpa wash his truck. Kade sweeps the back with a broom. Karlie sprays the truck with a hose. Kade wipes the windows with a rag. Karlie scrubs the tires with a scrub brush. On Sunday, Grandpa takes Kade and Karlie to church in his clean red truck.

“I actually struggled for months to know the right time. I pondered and prayed every night. A few months later, my bishop asked if I had my patriarchal blessing. I said no, and he said, ‘OK! Let’s do an interview after church today!’ After talking with my bishop, I felt ready to receive my patriarchal blessing. I realize now that my bishop’s question was an answer to those prayers I felt weren’t being answered.”
Makaya S., Texas, USA, received blessing at 15

At the age of twenty-seven, I was diagnosed with eye cancer. When I thought all was lost and without any purpose in living, two missionaries came to my home. I had always been God-fearing, so I listened to the lessons. I struggled to make up my mind, but after three months I was baptized. My life with this disease has not been easy. I walk with my cane everywhere. I continue with medication and treatment. I have remained true to what I have come to know as the Lord’s self-reliance principles. I support myself with a business selling sheets and household items, plus help from the government and the generous members of our Church.
I can say today that my strength comes from the knowledge I have of Jesus Christ. I thank those missionaries who came to me. The Church is my family. I invite everyone to know Jesus Christ who brings hope and love to our lives.

He continued to work on the farm and later went to the University of Utah. During his years at college he played football, played piano for a dance band, and was elected president of his senior class. His professional plans were made as his graduation drew near, but shortly before receiving his diploma he received a letter from President Wilford Woodruff, calling him to serve a mission in Great Britain. It was a major decision—and he struggled with it, as must some young men today. His ultimate decision, however, was to set aside his plans and accept the call.

I was born into a Latter-day Saint family and grew up following the Church standards as outlined in the pamphlet For the Strength of Youth. I didn’t drink, smoke, or swear; I dressed modestly, and I tried to keep the Sabbath day holy. This made me something of an oddity in my small New England town.
Though I did have a few friends who had similar standards, I had many more friends who did not. In my high school I was frequently teased about my standards and the fact that I was a Mormon. I was also the only person in my high school who could boast of living on a dairy farm, which didn’t add to my popularity. I was known as “the good Mormon farm girl,” wholesome to the core.
When I was 16 I had the opportunity to go to Ecuador for the summer as an exchange student. I looked forward to this opportunity to live in an exotic location, but some of my excitement was reserved for meeting new people who wouldn’t know I was a Mormon. I decided that it wasn’t necessary for the people of Ecuador to know that I was LDS. I could still live the standards—but quietly and unobtrusively.
In Ecuador I attended an orientation with other exchange students from all over the United States. I quickly made friends, some that I would see almost every day that summer because we were staying with host families in the same city. Others I saw throughout the summer at parties and field trips. It felt wonderfully liberating to meet people who didn’t know my family’s entire history. They didn’t know I was a farm girl or that I was Miss Squeaky-clean. For the first time in my life I felt popular and accepted.
After orientation I met my host family. The very first thing we did, before I even unpacked, was to walk to a liquor store. My host sisters informed me that they were giving a big party that night in honor of my arrival, and they wanted me to pick out the booze. They were surprised to learn that I didn’t drink and pressured me about it. I finally had to admit that I was Mormon.
My stay in Ecuador marked the beginning of the most intense test of living Church standards I had ever faced. I was frequently pressured to drink alcohol. I met several handsome, fun young men who were anxious to get to know me a little too well. The other exchange students quickly learned that I was a Mormon, and they had quite a bit to say about it, much of it negative. One girl, who was known for her partying, teased me frequently about my moral standards. She suggested that I thought I was better than others because of these standards.
Though I never seriously considered abandoning my standards, I did begin to question why I was making these choices. I felt like it wasn’t good enough anymore to say, “Because of my religion, I don’t do such-and-such” or “That’s how I was raised.” I knew I needed a testimony of my standards if I was going to continue to uphold them. I wanted a stronger testimony of the restored Church.
I started reading the Book of Mormon on my own for the first time, and I finished it in 13 days. The Spirit testified to me that the powerful testimonies of those ancient prophets were true. I was filled with joy and gratitude that I had the privilege of being a member of Christ’s Church. This precipitated a complete change in my attitude toward Church standards. My newfound testimony of the Book of Mormon gave power and substance to my beliefs. I felt proud of my standards, and it became easier to live them.
Nothing had really changed as far as how I lived, but my feelings were different. Nothing about me had outwardly changed, and yet I was a new person. I even noticed that my new friends responded to this change in me, perhaps without realizing it. They seemed to have greater respect for me.
One day I was alone with the girl who had been making fun of me in front of the other exchange students. She confided that she wished she had been raised to have the same standards I had. She said she wished she had never had a drink and had never been unchaste. She was not the only one to tell me that.
When I was a senior in high school, a good friend who had gone on to college was visiting at Christmas break. She told me that she wished she had been taught my standards as a child because it would have been much easier to keep from getting into trouble. She told me to hold on to my standards no matter what because they would keep me safe.
A couple of years later when I was in college a girl I had known in Ecuador came to visit. She told me she wished she had been raised a Mormon because then she might have avoided the burdensome sins she’d committed. I felt very sad for my classmates, and on both occasions I cried with them over the pain they’d suffered. They’d had to learn the hard way that “while you are free to choose for yourself, you are not free to choose the consequences of your actions” (For the Strength of Youth [2001], 4.)
At first it surprised me a little to think that other teens were envious of my standards. Hadn’t so many of them made fun of me in high school? Didn’t teens want fewer restrictions instead of more? However, it soon began to make sense. My standards did keep me safe, and everyone wants to feel safe. Living the standards as outlined in For the Strength of Youth had spared me a great deal of pain. Also, more importantly, because I was exercising faith by living those standards and reading the Book of Mormon, I was worthy of the companionship of the Holy Ghost. It was through the Holy Ghost that I was able to obtain one of my most valued possessions: my testimony of the Book of Mormon and the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

When I was visiting a friend once, I realized the journal’s potential for encouraging spiritual and emotional growth. After hours of discussion with a philosophy student who wanted to argue about the gospel, I wrote a long entry about my beliefs. Putting it on paper was like testifying. That night, as I wrote, I realized how open and honest I was with my journal—probably more candid than I was with any friend.
Writing out my ideas gave me a chance to analyze them. Sometimes, in writing, I realized that my attitudes were based on selfishness or faulty judgement. Other times I was glad to realize that my ideas were good.
Sometimes I found myself laughing out loud at my reactions to the traumas of each day. Once on a bad day I wrote “PHOOEY” in letters 15 spaces high. It helped.
I started titling each entry. One of my favorite titles—and favorite entries—came when I was trying to develop greater faith. That title was “Doubt Creeps in and Janet fights Back.” Some titles reflect a calmer attitude. One in Janet 3, “Days and Nights and Things I Love,” leads into a paragraph I love to reread:
“I love nights that are chilly and clear, when I can see the stars and talk aloud under them. And I love early mornings, being up, being alive, and being outside on a day that is only starting. I love new beginnings that are just getting organized. And clean sheets, clean nightgown, clean body, clean hair, and a reason to be happy. I love the world when my soul brims with hope.”
My soul doesn’t always brim with hope. Sometimes it brims with frustration. When that’s the case, I can look back to the rejuvenating entry I wrote that September night. I can find encouragement from another entry, written soon after that one: “When I can understand what I’m going through, I find that endurance becomes easier.”
Not every entry is profound or even interesting. But each, in its own way, traces my daily conversion to the gospel, my struggles with myself, and my delight with the discovery of living “… for the Lord gives unto the faithful line upon line, precept upon precept to try you and prove you herewith.” (see D&C 98:12). Each helps the others assume clearer perspective. Not only does each entry reflect my life, but it affects and becomes part of my life.
It was during Janet 4, when my best friend moved, that I wrote: “I hurt too much to write.” And it was during Janet 5, after I had written a thoughtless letter that hurt a friend, that I wrote in my journal: “Through the many confusing voices that ring through my mind, one calming voice pervades and tells me the whole matter will be of no consequence.” After writing about that “calming voice,” I listened to it more carefully. The “voice” was right; when I later asked the friend to forgive me, he said he already had.
One day, when I felt that life was cruel to me, I started what has become a tradition. I wrote an entry titled “Things I Am Thankful For.” It amazed me that day, as it still does, how varied and plentiful are my blessings, and how obscure and sometimes even humorous are my trials.
Through moves from one side of the United States to the other, through vacations, at each peak and plateau, the volumes of my journal have been a constant friend, on a bookshelf or in a suitcase along with my copies of the scriptures. They have become a vehicle for working out personal challenges of each day.
I thought, at the beginning of the journal keeping, that I would neatly record my most profound thoughts, making them more accessible when I had to give sacrament meeting talks. Once or twice I have used a journal for that, but that is only part of the full benefit. The journal isn’t a reference book about my life, nor does it map my life. It isn’t a status chart; it’s a dynamic artwork, though it is rough.
The Janet series is vigorously continuing in its 15th volume. Some volumes span a year, and others a few months. I am the only person who has read all of them, and I may keep it that way—for a few decades, at least. The volumes have graduated from inexpensive notebooks to actual hardback books with blank pages.

I had to do a school project about how I can make the world a better and more beautiful place. I couldn’t come up with an idea, but then I felt the Spirit and thought of an idea. Sharing the gospel would make the world a better place. I drew a poster showing a family being taught by the missionaries. Jesus wants us to share the gospel with everyone before He comes again. When we share the gospel, we prepare the world for Jesus to come.

My testimony didn’t come to me by way of a great revelation or by some overpowering, indescribable feeling. I always thought I would have to experience one of those things to know the Church was true.
I was struggling with my testimony between my eighth- and ninth-grade years. My parents had always taught me the right things, and I had been riding on their testimonies. At this time, doubts started to accumulate in my mind, and questions I couldn’t answer found their way to the surface.
Hanging around friends who didn’t obey the commandments made it harder for me to find the truth. As I struggled through the year, I lost the sense of who I was and what was important. I was aggravated all the time. I only wanted to be around my friends. My life was plagued with wrong decisions and their consequences. I was praying and reading my scriptures, but I didn’t seem to be getting an answer when I asked if the Church was true.
I don’t know exactly what happened to me, but I finally realized my lifestyle was not good. An awful sense of guilt rushed through me as I realized how many people were affected by my actions. However, I couldn’t seem to get away from my friends. When I hit high school, things didn’t get much better.
Taking seminary was one of the best things I could have done. It helped me see what I was doing, and that I was getting nowhere in life. I still desperately wanted to find out if the Church was really true.
Later in the year, I became best friends with a girl in my ward. My friend played a major part in helping me find myself. Over the summer we went to Especially for Youth and girls’ camp. I began really seeking the truth instead of expecting it to be handed to me on a silver platter. I was able to share my testimony with friends at EFY. Ordinarily I wasn’t the strong one. I didn’t even know I had it in me. It was then I knew I had known all along the truthfulness of the Church.
Friends can either make or break you, and I found that out. I merely had to find myself and start living the principles Heavenly Father had laid out for me to follow.
So it wasn’t some big, shocking conviction, it was merely a look inside myself and a calm assurance that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only true church. My life is so much better because I made the decision to follow the Lord.
In recent years, my testimony has only strengthened. I have come to rely on the Lord for everything. There are still trials ahead, but I know I can face them if I have faith and trust in the Lord.

I’m not a baby anymore. I’m a Star A in Primary, and I can tie my shoes and count to ten! When I was a baby, I couldn’t do those things, but now I’m getting BIG.
I have two sisters. Their names are Katy and Jennifer. Sometimes they forget that I’m getting big and call me Baby Benjamin. When I tell them, “I’m not a baby anymore,” they always say that they’re sorry. Mom says that when I was born, my sisters loved me so much that they wanted to hold me and rock me all the time and that they got so used to calling me Baby Benjamin when I was little that it’s hard for them to stop now. So sometimes I have to remind them.
Like last week. We were in the garden, and Katy and Jennifer were helping Mom pull weeds, and I was pulling up the rhubarb. Mom lets me eat a stalk of it right out of the garden before it’s cooked into jam. She says that she doesn’t know how I can stand to eat it plain, but I like it. And I never, ever eat any of the leaves. I know that they could make me very sick. But the stalk won’t. It’s a pretty color—sort of red and green—and it tastes real sour! It makes me shiver and pucker up like I’m going to give someone a great big kiss. Mom always laughs when she sees me eating it.
Anyway, I was sitting in the dirt eating my rhubarb when Katy and Jennifer started talking about the hat contest again. The teenagers in our ward were going to have a Children’s Day for all the kids in Primary. Katy was going, and Jennifer was going, and so was I.
There was going to be a hat contest, and Katy decided to wear one of Dad’s old golfing caps. Jennifer chose a sun hat that looks like a pioneer hat. I looked and looked, but I couldn’t find the right hat to wear. Jennifer said that I could wear Dad’s baseball hat, but I wanted to choose my own. I was still thinking about it when I climbed into bed that night. And that’s when a good idea just popped into my head. I decided that I wouldn’t tell anybody about my good-idea hat until the hat contest. It would be a surprise.
When Children’s Day finally came, I got up early and put my hat in a big paper sack. Katy and Jennifer kept asking me to show them my hat, but I told them that they would have to wait.
I had to wear my Sunday shoes because my sneakers didn’t have any shoelaces in them. Katy and Jennifer had tried to find new laces for me before we left, but Mom said that we were all out. I told them not to worry about it, because I thought my shoelaces were just taking a vacation.
When we got to the meetinghouse, Katy and Jennifer put their hats up on a shelf. They wanted to put mine up there, too, but I didn’t want anybody to see my hat until the contest. I had to hold on to my bag with one hand while we played games and ran races and ate cupcakes, but that was OK.
Then it was time for the contest. Katy and Jennifer put their hats on.
“Do you want me to help you put your hat on, Benjamin?” Jennifer asked.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I can do it myself.”
Katy and Jennifer went into the room where the hat contest was going to be, and I went with them. All the other kids had their hats on already, so I decided that it was time for me to put mine on too. I reached into my bag and pulled out three small stalks of rhubarb with lots of leaves on them. Katy’s eyes got very big.
Jennifer looked surprised, too, but not the kind of surprised that I was expecting. “Oh, Benjamin,” she said. “You were supposed to bring a hat! This is a hat contest!”
“This is my hat!” I told her, and I put my rhubarb hat on my head.
“So that’s where your shoelaces went,” Katy said. “You used them to tie the stalks of rhubarb together! Look, Jennifer, it really is a hat!”
The tied-together stalks stuck straight up in the air, and the big leaves sort of hung down all over my head.
Katy and Jennifer were still giggling when Sister Brown started to call the names of the winners. Danny Lopez won the prize for the biggest hat, and Jamie Jones got a prize for having the hat with the most flowers on it. When I heard Sister Brown call my name for the most unusual hat, I was surprised. She shook my hand and gave me a coloring book, and Katy and Jennifer just kept saying, “I can’t believe it! Benjamin’s rhubarb hat won a prize!”
When we got home, I held out the coloring book for Mom to see.
“What’s this?” Mom asked.
“A prize!” I told her.
“He won it for his hat,” Katy said. And between the three of us, we told Mom all about my rhubarb hat.
“Oh, Benjamin,” Mom exclaimed with a big smile, “I’m so proud of you! But where is your hat? Let me see it.”
Nobody said anything for a minute, then Jennifer spoke up.
“He can’t.”
“Why not?” Mom looked at me, puzzled.
“Well-l-l-l”—I gulped and grinned—“I ate it on the way home!”

On one of my many business trips across Africa, I was fortunate to have met a family in Nairobi, Kenya, with whom I have become friends—the Alumande family. At that time—in 2010—Brother Alumande was bishop of the Upperhill Ward; today he is the stake patriarch. Brother Alumande strives to lift where he stands by serving and loving those around him and by inviting his family to do the same. I have met his grandchildren, Amari (age 8) and Jabari (age 4), and I can see that they have been taught to be kind and to serve their friends and neighbors. They have learnt this through the example of their grandfather. With his permission, and the permission of those involved, permit me to tell about a recent experience that happened during the past (2017) Christmas season—an experience involving his family and others not of our faith.

Most recently I visited the Alumande family at their home, and while we were sharing a gospel lesson—and already well into it—a woman and her young son entered the house. They were excited, reaching out and greeting everyone enthusiastically and happily. They suddenly realized that we were having a lesson, and as Brother Alumande explained what we were discussing, they agreed to stay and join our conversation. I later learnt that this sister has been facing severe health challenges and other problems, during which time Brother Alumande and his family have been reaching out with love, kindness, and service to her and to her children. They shared gospel lessons with the family and invited them to various Church services and activities. Brother Alumande’s grandchildren, Amari and Jabari, have become friends with this sister’s children and enjoy playing together—and have learnt to share whatever little they may have. It is easy to see the sense of care and kindness instilled at such a young age to the Alumande grandchildren because they have been taught, in word and in deed, the principle of love and service to one another.

“Dad was the bishop during the war years. He was very involved in community affairs, being a member of several community boards, and even running for mayor. I can remember Dad coming home one time during the war and saying, ‘Guess what I have? Some real butter!’ That was a big thing for us. Getting a new pair of shoes or a new pair of pants was a big thing too. We never felt that we were poor, though. We always seemed to have enough.

Some years ago, as our youngest son, Clark, was approaching his 12th birthday, he and I were leaving the Church Administration Building when President Harold B. Lee greeted us. I mentioned to President Lee that Clark would soon be 12, whereupon President Lee asked him, “What happens to you, Clark, when you turn 12?” This was one of those times when a father prays that a son will be inspired to give a proper response. Without hesitation Clark said to President Lee, “I will be ordained a deacon.”

The answer was the one President Lee had sought. He then counseled our son, “Remember, it is a great blessing to hold the priesthood.”

One day Grandpa’s best friend, Carlos Sanchez, wiggled his bushy eyebrows and said, “Well, Hitty, I’ve got one today that will stump you! Riddle me this: How can you hatch a chicken from a boiled egg?”
Mehitabel frowned as she thought. Suddenly she smiled at Mr. Sanchez. “I know! If you grow a patch of boiled peas, then scatter them around the boiled egg, the chicken will come out of the shell to eat the peas.”
The listeners clapped their hands and nodded their heads. Mehitabel had given a very clever answer.
Grandpa slapped his knee and chortled, “That Mehitabel! You just can’t beat her!”
After Mehitabel ate the ice-cream cone Grandpa’s friends had bought her, she went off with her jump rope. She always tried to go ten times around the duck pond without a miss.

He grew up, coming and going through my door. After Jim’s 19th birthday and a year in Provo, he announced his intention to serve a mission. I was thrilled but a little surprised. He had never spoken of a testimony. His group of friends were split—some were going in the military, a few were planning on missions, and a few others struggled with worthiness problems.
Jim went back to Okinawa again, this time to receive a mission call. In a few month’s time he was on my doorstep again, on his way to the Missionary Training Center. We acknowledged how ironic it was for him to leave the Far East to come to the United States for a mission. During this visit, Jim began to talk. We talked about Japan, about his two dates, about his friends and their plans, and we discussed his recent trip to the Tokyo Temple to be endowed. We laughed, reminisced, and speculated about our future lives when he returned as an “R.M.”
Secretly, I worried about him. How was this quiet, private young man, who was just now conversing openly with me after a five-year friendship, going to survive on a mission? I couldn’t imagine him tracting, speaking in church, or teaching a discussion. Would he be an ever-silent companion? I hoped for understanding, sensitive, and gregarious companions for him. When the departure day arrived, I hugged and waved him off to the MTC with a prayer in my heart—for his growth and for his survival.
Jim’s letters were few and far between, but they were treasures. I finally got to know some of his thoughts. He began to share some of his feelings and his testimony with me. Missionary work was hard. He hoped he could “do the job.” He liked some companions and struggled with others. He was always full of faith. His letters proved the adage, “Still waters run deep.”
Fate and time brought a move for us and a relocation for Jim’s parents. We both moved to the state of Washington. His mother, when we communicated, helped fill in the gaps between Jim’s infrequent letters. She gave me news of transfers, of companions, of a new assignment: zone leader. I tried not to be surprised. I matched the depth of the well-written letters with the emergence of this “new” personality who trained elders and taught successful discussions.
When Jim returned from his mission, I was privileged to join his family at the airport to welcome him. As I drove to the airport, I reviewed our friendship and Jim’s growth and maturation. I speculated about his appearance and his demeanor.
He was the last person to emerge from the jetway, which caused extra anxiety for his waiting family. Finally, he appeared—taller than I remembered, and thinner. His naturally curly hair was darker and was cut so short that there was no curl. He wore the missionary uniform: dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, black “mailman” shoes. The suit was very worn and looked like it could stand on its own and still hold the shape of Jim’s body. He was bent a little from the weight of his carry-on luggage.
When he saw us, he smiled a little, then dropped his head as he walked the last few feet of the walkway. When he raised his head again, his eyes were red and he was weeping. He dropped his bags and embraced his mother in a tight hug and cried openly as he kissed her, then held her in his arms for a full minute more. He released her to repeat this exchange with his brother, sister, and his father.
It is a rare privilege to observe such an exchange of pure love among people. I thought, this is how it must be to return to our heavenly parents after completing our earthly missions. What a sweet experience to return, knowing you’ve served faithfully.
Jim then turned to me, and without hesitation, embraced me in a bear hug. As we parted, we both wiped tears from our eyes. And he said, “Thanks for being here.”
I spent another two hours with Jim that morning before we had to head in different directions. During that time, I watched him start a conversation with the man next to him while waiting for his luggage. Within 15 minutes, he had given the man a Book of Mormon and a pamphlet and had parted as a friend. I saw him spend a few private tender moments with his younger brother and sister as he sensed their need and focused on them individually. He gave half of his lunch to his little brother, when the ten-year-old complained of being hungry still.
Jim related a few mission experiences: of singing a duet in church with his companion, of a Sunday when he had 17 investigators at church on the same day, and of the mission farewell the night before. He had been amazed that so many of the missionaries had wanted to gather to say good-bye to him. Jim wept again as he expressed his concern for a companion who had recently lost his dad to a sudden, unexpected death. Here was compassion, love, humility, confidence, and power. Sitting before me, in his grayed shirt, wrinkled tie, and well-worn coat, was someone who had been seemingly magically transformed. His smile was the only trace of the shy, quiet boy who hesitated to pray in front of someone.
We send our young men and women out to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. We ask them to study, to work hard, to endure, and to serve. And in the end, these children return to us whole, ready to teach and inspire by their loving and humble example. And, having been touched by divine light, we are, none of us, the same again.

Illustration by Brandon Dorman
I loved to read, and the summer I turned 12, I visited the nearby library often. One day, a large book caught my eye. I found it was about genealogy, which was a new word for me. Intrigued, I took the book home.
Once home, I looked through it carefully. The old pictures of people who had lived a long time ago, along with their births, marriages, and where they lived, sparked my interest because I didn’t know much about my own family. I wondered what my ancestors were like and where they came from. I decided to find out.
“Mamí,” I asked my mom while she was fixing dinner, “where were you born?”
“Well, in Mexico, of course.”
“Yes, but what part of Mexico?”
“In Coahuila. It’s a state.”
“Oh. What’s it like?”
I wanted to find out more about her family, her parents, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, cousins, as well as her grandparents. She came from a large family and told us stories from her childhood, but she didn’t know all the details. She said, “If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask Papá Héctor.”
Papá Héctor was my mom’s father. Before we moved to Texas, USA, I had seen him only a few times, and he was very reserved and seemed a little stern. Since we’d moved to Texas, Papá Héctor started visiting us every Saturday morning.
Whenever he showed up, my brothers and sisters and I would greet him quickly and then leave. But I knew the only way to find out more about our family was to ask Papá. One Saturday morning when he was watching a TV program, I sat next to him on the sofa and blurted out, “So how have you been, Papá Héctor?”
“Good, good.” He barely looked at me.
I stared at the floor, not knowing what to say next, and then started again, “I wondered if I could ask you something.”
This time he turned to look at me, somewhat surprised, as he answered, “Sure, what do you want to know?”
I explained that I wanted to know more about our family. That’s how he started telling me about where he was born and his life in a little mining town up in the Sierra, about his parents and siblings and all the fond memories of his childhood and youth. As the weeks went by, little by little he started opening up more and more. We became the best of friends.
I discovered that behind his stern appearance he actually had a great sense of humor! He also had an amazing memory and rattled off every person’s full name, with exact birth, marriage, and death date, as well as the official names of places. He made sure I learned how to write them in Spanish correctly.
I learned that Papá Héctor had been the presidente municipal (mayor) of his town twice—and other things I never imagined. My mother was surprised. “I don’t get it,” she said. “He talks more with you than he ever did with me.”
I think he was flattered that I would be so interested in his life. I waited impatiently for Papá Héctor to arrive every Saturday morning. Since he had started talking more, he smiled more often and would sometimes burst out laughing. My younger brothers and sisters all agreed he was much more fun, and we sat around him to listen to his stories. He told us of his childhood pranks, his travels, and how he and my grandmother had fallen in love.
Pretty soon I had not only a rough sketch of our family tree, but I also had a visual image of each person he described to me. They were no longer unfamiliar names of people I’d never met, but somehow they became real. Each person he described now had a place in my heart.
The missionaries taught my family the gospel two years later. My grandfather didn’t approve of our new religion, but he still showed respect for my decision to join the Church. Papá Héctor died suddenly when we were away on vacation, and I never had the opportunity to say good-bye.
I’m grateful that I took the time to get to know him, and I’m grateful for his friendship and for the wonderful heritage he left me. Knowing a little more about my family and ancestors has given me great joy and a sense of identity. It makes me feel proud of my roots, of our customs, warm culture, and beautiful language. And I suspect that he, too, must feel proud.

Fourteen-year-old Juliano Garcia of the Guaiba Jardim Ward was thrilled with the prize he’d won. Although he’d only been a Church member for just under a year, he’d managed to win a scripture chase in his multistake seminary bowl. As he began to look through the pages of his prize, a booklet entitled The Holy Temple, he became fascinated with the pictures of temple baptismal fonts and celestial rooms. Juliano didn’t know much about the temple, but as he read in the booklet about baptism for the dead, his heart immediately turned to his deceased grandparents. “I thought about my grandparents, how great they were, and I thought that more than anything I wanted to go to the temple for them.” Juliano hasn’t been able to travel to the São Paulo Temple, but is now preparing to go in Pôrto Alegre.

As Juliano and other Brazilian teens continue to construct their own temple-worthy lives little by little, they do not doubt that when the doors of the new temples are ready to be opened, they will be ready to enter.

When the Angel Moroni appeared to 17-year-old Joseph Smith in 1823, he told the young prophet about the marvelous restoration that was about to take place, quoting from Malachi:
“Behold, I will reveal unto you the Priesthood, by the hand of Elijah the prophet, before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord.
“… And he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (see JS—H 1:38–39).

This prophecy is literally being fulfilled in the hearts of young Brazilians. “The Spirit of Elijah is working … especially on the young people, to do work for their ancestors. It’s something that we cannot explain,” says São Paulo Temple President Barbour.

Take 16-year-old Jeferson Montenegro of Canoas and Suelen Alexandre (15), José Meirelles (18), Priscila Cavalieri (18), Carlita Fochetto (14), and Carolina (16), Christiane (15), and Carlos Rodriguez (12), of São Paulo (pictured above). These young people volunteer in their family history centers for 10–20 hours each week, assisting Church members in their research, entering extracted names into the computer system, and searching for names of their own ancestors.

These teens aren’t unusual. Many Brazilian youth have found the names of hundreds of their ancestors and eagerly begun their temple work. Why? “I feel the influence of the spirit of Elijah,” says Jeferson. “It makes me feel a closeness with those who’ve gone before me.”

One day while running some errands, I saw a homeless man in front of the bank. I had seen him there before, and I had always tried to make sure that I smiled and said hello. Although I didn’t usually give him money, I wanted him to know that I’m not trying to avoid him and that I recognized him as a real person. When I got out of the car, I went to put change in the meter, but all I had was a “loonie” (Canadian dollar coin) and a bunch of pennies.
As I stood there and pushed the pennies around, making sure there wasn’t a nickel or dime, I heard the homeless man ask, “Do you have change?”
I told him I didn’t, not even for the meter. Then he surprised me by saying, “Oh, here. I’m sure I have a dime for you.”
I had just tried to shake off this homeless man because I didn’t have any change for him, and then he handed me a dime. But his gift was more than monetary. He also gave me a change of heart. His simple act was charity and service in its truest form. A homeless man begging for change gave his change to someone who needed it more at the moment. I thanked him and then, even though he wasn’t expecting it, gave him my loonie.