Gospel Story Finder

Fifty-one years ago I heard William J. Critchlow Jr., then president of the South Ogden Stake who would later become an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve, speak to the brethren of the general priesthood session of conference and retell a story concerning trust, honor, and duty. May I share the story with you. Its simple lesson applies to us today, as it did then.
“[Young] Rupert stood by the side of the road watching an unusual number of people hurry past. At length he recognized a friend. ‘Where are all of you going in such a hurry?’ he asked.
“The friend paused. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ he said.
“‘I’ve heard nothing,’ Rupert answered.
“‘Well,’ continued [the] friend, ‘the King has lost his royal emerald! Yesterday he attended a wedding of the nobility and wore the emerald on the slender golden chain around his neck. In some way the emerald became loosened from the chain. Everyone is searching, for the King has offered a reward … to the one who finds it. Come, we must hurry.’
“‘But I cannot go without asking Grandmother,’ faltered Rupert.
“‘Then I cannot wait. I want to find the emerald,’ replied his friend.
“Rupert hurried back to the cabin at the edge of the woods to seek his grandmother’s permission. ‘If I could find it we could leave this hut with its dampness and buy a piece of land up on the hillside,’ he pleaded with Grandmother.
“But his grandmother shook her head. ‘What would the sheep do?’ she asked. ‘Already they are restless in the pen, waiting to be taken to the pasture, and please do not forget to take them to water when the sun shines high in the heavens.’
“Sorrowfully, Rupert took the sheep to the pasture, and at noon he led them to the brook in the woods. There he sat on a large stone by the stream. ‘If I could only have had a chance to look for the King’s emerald!’ he thought. Turning his head to gaze down at the sandy bottom of the brook, suddenly he stared into the water. What was it? It could not be! He leaped into the water, and his gripping fingers held something that was green with a slender bit of gold chain [that had been broken]. ‘The King’s emerald!’ he shouted. ‘It must have been flung from the chain when the King [astride his horse galloped across the bridge spanning the stream, and the current carried] it here.’
“With shining eyes Rupert ran to his grandmother’s hut to tell her of his great find. ‘Bless you, my boy,’ she said, ‘but you never would have found it if you had not been doing your duty, herding the sheep.’ And Rupert knew that this was the truth” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1955, 86; paragraphing, capitalization, and punctuation altered).

Let me conclude with a little parable. Have you ever heard the parable of the eagle? It’s a classic. It seems a certain man went through the forest seeking any bird of interest he might find. He caught a young eagle, brought it home and put it among his fowls and ducks and turkeys and gave it chicken’s food to eat even though it was an eagle, the king of the birds.

Five years later a naturalist came to see him and after passing through his garden said, “That bird is an eagle, not a chicken.”

“Yes,” said the owner, “But I have trained it to be a chicken. It is no longer an eagle. It is a chicken, even though it measures fifteen feet from tip to tip of its wings.”

“No,” said the naturalist. “It is an eagle still; it has the heart of an eagle and I will make it soar high up to the heavens.”

“No,” said the owner, “it is a chicken, and it will never fly.”

They agreed to test it. The naturalist picked up the eagle. “Thou dost belong to the sky and not to this earth; stretch forth thy wings and fly.” The eagle turned this way and that and, then, looking down, saw the chickens eating their food and down he jumped.

The owner said, “I told you it was a chicken.”

“No,” said the naturalist, “it is an eagle. Give it another chance tomorrow.”

So the next day he took it to the top of the house and said, “Eagle, thou art an eagle; stretch forth thy wings and fly.” But again the eagle, seeing the chickens feeding, jumped down and fed with them.

Then the owner said, “I told you it was a chicken.”

“No,” asserted the naturalist, “it is an eagle and it still has the heart of an eagle. Only give it one more chance, and I will make it fly tomorrow.”

The next morning he rose early and took the eagle outside the city, away from the houses, to the foot of a high mountain. The sun was just rising, gilding the top of the mountain with gold, and every crag was glistening in the joy of that beautiful morning.

He picked up the eagle and said to it, “Eagle, thou art an eagle. Thou dost belong to the sky and not to this earth. Stretch forth thy wings and fly.” The eagle looked around and trembled as if new life were coming to it. But it did not fly. The naturalist then made it look straight at the sun. Suddenly it stretched out its wings and, with the screech of an eagle, it flew.

An example of focusing on serving others when challenged is President Hinckley, as a discouraged missionary in England. He wrote, "I was not well when I arrived. Those first few weeks, because of illness and the opposition which we felt, I was discouraged. I wrote a letter home to my good father and said that I felt I was wasting my time and his money." His father's advice was "forget yourself and go to work." He followed his father's counsel and would later call this his "day of decision" that would lay a positive course for the rest of his life.[13]

President Thomas S. Monson shared with us the story of the first President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Thomas B. Marsh. He related to us, in his talk in October 2009 General Conference, the following:

“I believe most of us are familiar with the sad account of Thomas B. Marsh and his wife, Elizabeth. Brother Marsh was one of the first modern-day Apostles called after the Church was restored to the earth. He eventually became President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
While the Saints were in Far West, Missouri, Elizabeth Marsh, Thomas’s wife, and her friend Sister Harris decided they would exchange milk in order to make more cheese than they otherwise could. To be certain all was done fairly, they agreed that they should not save what were called the stripping’s, but that the milk and stripping’s should all go together. Stripping’s came at the end of the milking and were richer in cream.
Sister Harris was faithful to the agreement, but Sister Marsh, desiring to make some especially delicious cheese, saved a pint of stripping’s from each cow and sent Sister Harris the milk without the stripping’s. This caused the two women to quarrel. When they could not settle their differences, the matter was referred to the home teachers to settle. They found Elizabeth Marsh guilty of failure to keep her agreement. She and her husband were upset with the decision, and the matter was then referred to the bishop for a Church trial. The bishop’s court decided that the stripping’s were wrongfully saved and that Sister Marsh had violated her covenant with Sister Harris.
Thomas Marsh appealed to the high council, and the men comprising this council confirmed the bishop’s decision. He then appealed to the First Presidency of the Church. Joseph Smith and his counselors considered the case and upheld the decision of the high council.
Elder Thomas B. Marsh, who sided with his wife through all of this, became angrier with each successive decision—so angry, in fact, that he went before a magistrate and swore that the Mormons were hostile toward the state of Missouri. His affidavit led to—or at least was a factor in—Governor Lilburn Boggs’ cruel extermination order, which resulted in over 15,000 Saints being driven from their homes, with all the terrible suffering and consequent death that followed. All of these events followed because of a disagreement over the exchange of milk and cream.”

Several years ago I picked up the desk pen in my office at Brigham Young University to sign a paper that had been prepared for my signature, something I did at least a dozen times each day. That document committed the University to a particular course of action we had decided to follow. All the staff work had been done, and all appeared to be in order. But as I went to sign the document, I was filled with such negative thoughts and forebodings that I put it to one side and asked for the entire matter to be reviewed again. It was, and within a few days additional facts came to light which showed that the proposed course of action would have caused the University serious problems in the future.

I recently learned about an experience in the life of Elder James E. Talmage that caused me to pause and consider how I love and serve those around me. As a young professor, before he became an Apostle, in the height of the deadly diphtheria epidemic of 1892, Elder Talmage discovered a family of strangers, not members of the Church, who lived near him and who were stricken by the disease. No one wanted to put themselves at risk by going inside the infected home. Elder Talmage, however, immediately proceeded to the home. He found four children: a two-and-a-half-year-old dead on the bed, a five-year-old and ten-year-old in great pain, and a weakened thirteen-year-old. The parents were suffering with grief and fatigue.

Elder Talmage dressed the dead and the living, swept the rooms, carried out the soiled clothing, and burned filthy rags covered with the disease. He worked all day and then returned the next morning. The ten-year-old died during the night. He lifted and held the five-year-old. She coughed bloody mucus all over his face and clothes. He wrote, “I could not put her from me,” and he held her until she died in his arms. He helped bury all three children and arranged for food and clean clothing for the grieving family. Upon returning home, Brother Talmage disposed of his clothes, bathed in a zinc solution, quarantined himself from his family, and suffered through a mild attack of the disease.

When I was a little girl, I lived in the small town of Eau Claire, Wisconsin. In town was a school for the deaf. Each school year, deaf children from the surrounding farming communities would live with families in town so that they could go to school. One year, Tom, age ten, and Bernie, age eleven, lived with our family. We didn’t have much money, but we had a lot of love to share.
The boys came with a limited amount of clothing, but it did include a warm jacket and hat for the bitter Wisconsin winters. However, neither boy had mittens or gloves. It just so happened that Mom was famous for her hand-knit mittens. She had made them for years as gifts for family, friends, and neighbors.
Mom asked the boys if they would like to have a pair of her mittens for themselves, and they both smiled and nodded. She had them trace their hands on a piece of paper and choose a color for their mittens. They both chose red. The mittens were completed in a few evenings, and Tom and Bernie wore them to school the following day.
After school, they returned home and excitedly told Mom that some of the other children at the school also needed mittens. They asked her if she would make some for them. Mom agreed and asked the boys to have each child who needed mittens trace his or her hands on a piece of paper and write the color of mittens wanted.
Tom and Bernie came home from school the next day with 137 pieces of paper, all requesting red mittens! Mom looked a little surprised, but she was undaunted. It was the end of September. She figured how long it would take to knit each pair and decided that she could have all 137 pairs finished just before Christmas.
At this point, I became involved in the plan. Yarn did not come ready to use, as it does now. It came in skeins that needed to be wound into balls. I spent many evenings for the next few months with my elbows propped up on several books, a skein of yarn stretched between my wrists, and Mom winding the red yarn into balls.
December 22 was a crisp winter day. Outside a light snow was falling. On this day, Tom and Bernie proudly took 137 pairs of red mittens to school. Mom had made it!
Many years have passed since that day in December. Dad died, my brothers grew up, and Mom eventually moved to Oregon. Through the years, Mom lost track of Tom and Bernie. When she grew old and became ill, she moved back to Wisconsin to live with my brother John. Shortly afterward, she died.
We held a small graveside service for family members in the cemetery, where she would be buried next to Dad. It was December 22—a crisp winter day. At the cemetery, a light snow was falling.
As the short service ended, I noticed two figures coming toward us in the distance. I didn’t recognize the man or the boy, who looked to be about ten. As the two came closer, I noticed that the boy was wearing a pair of red mittens. Then the man smiled, and my brother and I recognized him. It was Bernie!
“I read about your mother’s death in the newspaper yesterday,” he said. “I had to come. She was very important in my life.”
I noted the red mittens on the boy’s hands. “Surely those aren’t the same red mittens that Mom knitted for you?” I asked in surprise.
“They are,” he assured me. “My five sons have all worn them, too. They are a symbol of a loving, caring, and sharing woman whom I have never forgotten. I will treasure these red mittens forever.”

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.

A little girl was critically ill. She needed a special kind of blood for a transfusion to save her life.
Her brother had the same type of blood. The doctors asked him if he would be willing to give his blood so his sister might live. Without hesitating, the young boy answered, “Sure!”
After the blood transfusion was completed, the brother turned to the doctor and asked softly, “Now, sir, when will I die?”
It took only a moment for the doctor to realize the young boy had thought that giving blood to his sister would kill him. But he was willing to die for her.

Several years ago a husband and wife, both active members of the Church, came to me professionally with very serious marital problems. Both said, “How could this be happening to us? We have a temple marriage. We have kept the commandments. We pay our tithing, keep the Word of Wisdom, attend the temple regularly, and serve the Lord faithfully in our Church callings. It just isn’t fair! Why aren’t we blessed with a happy marriage?”
I opened the Doctrine and Covenants and had them read verses twenty and twenty-one of Section 130.
“There is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—
“And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.”
I told them that they had been blessed for keeping the laws they had obeyed but that the Lord could not bless them with a happy marriage unless they kept the laws that apply to happy marriages.
“For example,” I said, “you say you keep the law of tithing.”
“Actually,” the husband replied, “we probably pay a little extra.”
“Good. And do you receive the blessings associated with that law?”
“Yes, we have been richly blessed concerning that law.”
“You say you keep the Word of Wisdom?”
“Exactly.”
“And do you receive the blessings promised to those who are obedient to that law?”
“Yes. The Lord has blessed us each with health and enough energy to do the many things we have to do.”
“In exactly the same way, the Lord will bless you with a happy marriage if you keep the laws that govern happiness in marriage,” I told them.
They inquired what those might be, and I referred them to section 121 of Doctrine and Covenants. There the Lord provides instruction in the exercise of righteous leadership (see D&C 121:34–46) and to chapter twelve of Romans [Rom. 12] where Paul outlines the laws governing unity in any unit of the Church.
They candidly acknowledged that despite the guidance offered in Doctrine and Covenants 121, they did not in fact exercise their joint leadership responsibilities “only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned; By kindness, and pure knowledge … without hypocrisy and without guile.” (D&C 121:42.) Rather, they engaged in constant power struggles over who was right and who was wrong and used all kinds of strategies to “win” in the family arena.
They admitted that contrary to Paul’s counsel in Romans 12 their expectations of each other were all too “conformed to this world” (Rom. 12:2); that each was given to thinking of himself and his own opinions “more highly than he ought to think” (Rom. 12:3); that there was insufficient positive appreciation for the ways they were different (Rom. 12:4–6); that there was a shortage in their home of mercy, cheerfulness, love, and kindly affection, “preferring one another” (Rom. 12:8–10). They acknowledged that they had not always rejoiced when their partner rejoiced or wept when he or she wept (Rom. 12:15), that they were often not “of the same mind one toward another” (Rom. 12:16), and that they did not strive as much as they possibly could to “live peaceably” with each other (Rom. 12:18). Finally, they confessed that they had never mastered the rule to “avenge not yourselves” instead of giving “place unto wrath” (Rom. 12:19), or to “be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good” (Rom. 12:21).
In short, I told them, they were in some ways in the situation of those who “pay tithes of mint and anise and cumin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith: these ought [they] to have done, and not [left] the other undone.” (Matt. 23:23.)
To answer your questions directly, then, you need to know that you can be assured of a rewarding, enduring heaven-bound marriage if you obey the laws that govern this part of life. They are among the highest and most challenging laws in all of the gospel; no other reward is so great as that promised by the Lord to those who keep them.
“For strait is the gate, and narrow the way that leadeth unto the exaltation and continuation of the lives, and few there be that find it, … But if ye receive me in the world, then shall ye know me, and where I am ye shall be also.” (D&C 132:22–23.)

We were nearly halfway through the journey from Utah to our homestead in New Mexico. For several days we had found no water, and our barrels were low. The men were becoming anxious. We knew from the map that we were coming into Indian territory.
When we reached the edge of the reservation the wagons stopped for our leaders to consult. Because of his experience with Indians, Papa was chosen to go ahead and see what arrangements he could make. As we slowly drove on, we had a feeling that we were being watched.
“I hope the village ahead has plenty of water,” Papa said.
“I hope they are friendly,” Mama replied.
“I’m prepared to take care of that even if they’re not,” Papa assured her.
“How?” Mama asked.
“I have a trick up my sleeve,” he answered, but he would tell her no more.
In a few moments we saw a cluster of huts up ahead. And about the same time two little girls with black braids ran from the shadows toward the village.
“Messengers,” Papa observed.
“What do we do now?” Ed asked.
“Wait,” Papa said and pulled the horses to a stop. He jumped down, climbed in the back of the wagon, and came out carrying his unfinished basket and a hank of straw.
“You children stay in the wagon,” he instructed firmly. And we settled in a spot where we could watch what was going on.
Papa sat down on the ground and began weaving. It seemed to me like a silly time and place to finish his basket, but I had learned that patience answers many questions, so I watched and waited.
Before long five or six braves came riding up on their ponies and formed a circle around Papa.
“You cannot cross Indian land,” one insisted.
Papa said nothing but kept on with his work.
“Go back,” another brave said, pointing in the direction we’d come from. “Do not cross Indian land.”
Papa nodded to acknowledge he had heard but he stayed where he was. Nothing moved but his hands. I had watched him make many baskets, and I knew that his fingers could fly as fast as frightened quail. Now he was weaving slowly, exaggerating the in and out movements as he laced the wide strips between the twisted upright ribs.
The belligerent expression on the Indians’ faces changed to curiosity. One by one they slid off their ponies and came closer. After they had watched awhile, Papa handed the basket to one of the braves, who copied the motions he had been watching. The Indian smiled at his handiwork. Then the basket was passed around the circle, with each brave taking a turn at the weaving and all of them becoming excited and pleased.
Papa began a new basket and handed some straw to one of the Indians to start one too. Before long each brave was sitting cross-legged on the ground, busy on a basket. Papa had motioned to Ed and me to climb down from the wagon, and we slipped out quietly and stood by his side. Other Indians came one by one and soon quite a crowd was watching the activity.
I turned to look toward the village and saw a large squaw coming toward me with a loop stretched open between her hands. Smiling, she came closer and closer, holding the noose high as if to place it over my head and around my neck. To choke me, I thought, and began to shake with fear. Please, Heavenly Father, save me, I silently prayed. My hands tightened on Papa’s arm, and he sensed my fright.
“It’s all right, Dora,” he assured me. “She won’t hurt you.”
By now the squaw was close enough so that I could see she was holding a beautiful necklace of dried berries and seeds. She placed it over my head saying, “Pretty, pretty.” I guess she had never seen yellow hair before.
All of a sudden I felt that she was a special person, and I wanted to do something for her. I climbed into the wagon and found the mirror I had brought rolled up in my sweater so it wouldn’t break. It was a round one with a handle. I handed it to the squaw and when she looked at it and saw her face reflected back, she was delighted. She showed it around with great pride, pointing to her image and laughing.
While the braves worked and the others watched, Papa spoke to them in gentle tones. “We want to be friends and will do you no harm. We are moving to New Mexico and would like to cross your land. We have our food and supplies with us. We need to stop tonight to rest our horses and fill our water barrels. We will leave tomorrow. Other wagons are behind waiting to hear your answer.”
At this point, five more braves and the chief rode up at a gallop. They began to talk rapidly in their own language with the weavers, who jumped up, showing off their baskets. After some discussion the chief turned to Papa and asked, “What are you teaching?”
“Basketmaking,” Papa said. “How to make baskets.”
“Basket,” one brave repeated, pointing to what he had done.
“You are good,” the chief said. “You can camp here tonight. There is plenty of water.” Then he motioned for Papa to mount one of the ponies, and they rode back together to get the rest of the camp to join us.
Soon after we left the Indian reservation, Sister Owens in the next wagon became ill, and we camped for several days.
Some of the braves rode over from the reservation to get help with their baskets. Papa didn’t have much straw left to give them, but they had already decided that bear grass would do just as well. Papa showed them how to do a braided edge around the top of their baskets. He took out a pocketknife to trim the ends, and a little Indian boy who had come with his father looked so pleased with the knife that Papa let him keep it. Later that day the boy’s father returned with a strange-looking three-pronged stick that he gave to Papa, explaining how he could use it to find water for digging a well.
“I can probably use this later,” Papa said as he fastened it securely to the wagon.
After we left this place the weather became hotter and the land drier. We had one more stop for supplies before we came to a stretch of desert, and Papa was able to replenish our ice supply. We had left Salt Lake City with a hundred-pound block of ice in a tub to keep our meat cool. Since it was wrapped in newspapers and burlap bags, it melted slowly and lasted quite a while. Ice was harvested from frozen streams and lakes just before the spring thaw and packed in sawdust in dirt-covered sheds. Most towns had a supply that lasted until the next winter, so we were able to buy it as we needed it along the way. That day we were very glad we had some.
The desert sun was hot. Heat waves curled up in ghostly spirals. We choked on the dust stirred up by the wagons and animals. Papa chipped off pieces of ice for us to suck on. They tasted so good that soon all the other children were coming to our wagon for ice chips.
“You’ll give it all away and then we won’t have any,” Caroline complained to Papa.
“Now, now,” he replied. “They don’t have any, and we can share.”
Our trip was nearly over when the wagons drew up in a long line by the homestead office in Harmony, New Mexico. After the families finished their business inside, they drove away to locate their new home. As our friends left one by one, they called to the rest of us, “See you in church.” We had passed the meetinghouse so we all knew where to go on Sunday.
Our wagon was the last to leave. Mr. Talbot, the officer in charge, went with us to show us our land and then take us to our temporary living quarters. The family in our house had not moved out yet, but an arrangement had been made for us to live in a dugout on a neighbor’s property. With great eagerness we set out on the last dozen miles of our trip to find our new place.
When we first saw the piece of land, I must say it didn’t look like the Garden of Eden I was expecting. Mr. Talbot pointed to a stick with a red rag tied to it. “Your property begins right there at that stake,” he told us, “and extends half a mile east, north, west, then south to make a square.”
“Half a mile, hon,” Papa said to Mama. “That’s four Salt Lake City blocks. Sixteen square blocks in all!”
Papa slowed the horses to a walk as he looked over the piece of land. “Seems pretty level,” he said. “Won’t take any clearing either. Not much here but weeds and cactus.”
“It’s a good piece,” Mr. Talbot said. “Needs a little work is all.”
Papa stopped the wagon and jumped down. He kicked the dirt with his boot, picked up a handful and let it trickle through his fingers. “Good sandy loam for growing things,” he said.
“Here’s the gate and back there’s the house,” Mr. Talbot explained. “It’s not very big. You’ll have to add on. The Evans should be out in a month or so.”
We could see the lone building surrounded by a tangle of weeds. It was just the right size for a playhouse.
“Papa’ll build a new one and let us have that one to play in,” Caroline said to Ed and me.
“Goody!” I squealed and jumped up and down at the thought.
Papa climbed into the wagon and we started off to find the dugout we were going to live in. When we saw it, it looked like a playhouse too. A steep roof sloped down to the ground on two sides. At one end was a door and dirt steps that led down to a room that had been dug out of the ground. A window in the opposite end gave the only light.
“Who are our neighbors?” Papa asked.
“Neighbors?” Mr. Talbot seemed puzzled.
“Up there where the smoke’s coming out of the chimneys,” Papa explained.
I looked in the direction he pointed and saw some more slanty roofs with gray wisps puffing up into the sky.
“Oh,” he laughed. “That’s just some of the old Indians who stayed here when the others moved onto the reservation.”
“How come?” Papa asked.
“They’re pretty old and didn’t want to go, so the new owners let them stay. They won’t bother you any—can hardly move around even.”
“How many are there?”
“Just five. All squaws. Each one has a brave assigned to her, who comes down once a week with supplies.”
“Do they live together?”
“No, each one has a separate house. Just leave them alone. They’re perfectly harmless.”
Ed was looking at me in a way that meant here was a new adventure that needed to be explored, and I was looking back at him as though to say I’d have to think about it first.
We soon unpacked our wagon and Papa hooked up the smokestack of the stove to the chimney, ready for Mama to start cooking. It was hard to believe we were here at last.
Before dinner we knelt down to thank the Lord for our safe arrival at our new home.

Mobile phones are expensive in Chile, but I set a goal in 2016 to earn enough money to buy one. For an entire year, I bought candy and alfajores* wholesale and sold them to my friends at school. I saved everything I made. I didn’t go out to lunch, and I didn’t go to the movies.
I didn’t want to ask my parents for a phone. I wanted to be able to say I earned it myself. My dad encouraged me. “Carol, keep it up,” he would say.
I learned a lot. Nothing is free. Goals take effort, but we should never give up. When we earn things and realize how much work it takes to get them, we value them more.

When I was 16 years old, I was a printing apprentice. A fellow apprentice was totally engrossed in motorcycles. In those days, we rode British motorcycles, and he had an AJS-350.
One sunny summer’s day, he said to me, “Would you like to come for a ride on my motorcycle?” That seemed to be a good idea. In those days we didn’t wear any protective clothing, and thus very lightly clad, I became the passenger on his motorcycle. He weaved through the streets of Norwich and then came to a long, straight road. He leaned back and said to me, “Have you ever traveled at 100 miles an hour?”
I said, “No.”
He said, “Well, you’re going to.”
I said, “We don’t have to.”
He began to rev the motorcycle, and the motorcycle roared forward. The skin on my face pulled tight, and the clothing blew as we went past 98 to 100 miles an hour. I had accepted an invitation that put someone else in control of my safety. In fact, it put me in a dangerous situation. I determined that day that never again would I let somebody else control my life.

A few months ago, I was at my neighbor’s house. We were having a lot of fun playing. Later in the day, he asked me if I wanted to watch a movie, and I said yes. As my friend got the movie ready to watch, I saw what it was rated and knew that it was one I should not watch. I offered a silent prayer to Heavenly Father about what I should do. I said to my friend, “I think I need to go home now.” As I walked home, I thought about what I had done. I had obeyed my parents and Heavenly Father. I knew that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer and helped me make a good choice.
Marshall Klein, age 9Trabuco Canyon, California

Katy Ballenger knows a lot about serving others. Katy has spent countless hours volunteering at Primary Children’s Medical Center and the Shriners’ Hospital in Salt Lake City. She has also given many hours of service to various groups at her school and to elderly neighbors. Katy enjoyed all of her service activities so much, she decided to show her classmates how they could get involved. She formed a club at her school called HUGS (Help Us Give Service), which links students with opportunities to serve.
Katy, a Laurel in the Butler First Ward, Salt Lake Butler Stake, has been recognized by many local and national volunteering organizations for her many accomplishments. She has also had the chance to speak to several groups, including a recent meeting of the national “Community of Caring” organization.
“Although I’m not speaking in a church setting, I always pray to have the Spirit with me when I talk about the importance of service,” says Katy. “When I spoke to the ‘Community of Caring’ people, the Spirit was very strong, even though it wasn’t a church meeting. It was so neat.”

Summertime is family reunion time. Last year everyone gathered at the Jacobson home. Over forty came, and tents were set up all over the yard. Ginger and a cousin slept on the trampoline. At every reunion the family goes for a bike ride or a walk. This time they went along a nearby river trail. On the path is a large tree with lots of branches. Everyone climbed the “family tree” and a picture was taken that now holds a place of honor in the well-filled family album.

Recently in Mexico I had the opportunity of meeting a wonderful, mature missionary couple, Brother and Sister John Fossum, who commented, “Our greatest need is for trained leadership. Married couples with years of experience in church work could literally work miracles. We have twenty-two scattered branches without, as yet, an organization to train the branch leaders. We are so new and growing so rapidly, and leaders with experience are not available.”
The Fossums continued, “Many blessings have come to us as a result of our mission—blessings we always receive from the Lord whenever we serve without restraint.” They added, “People shrivel up and die in beds and rocking chairs. We didn’t want that kind of retirement; the Lord knew we wanted to go on a mission, and we received the call.”
Some couples, they continued, “imagine they can’t live without their families close by, and some fear for their own physical well-being. It was reassuring when our stake president set us apart, and he promised us that the Lord would look after our family and that we would have good health to the end of our mission.” They continued, “At our age it is difficult to live up to missionary schedules, but we have found it is possible, and it has its rewards.”
And then Brother Fossum said, “Fifty years ago I served a mission in Hawaii and learned to speak Hawaiian. It was difficult then, and it was difficult at our age to go through the Missionary Training Center and learn Spanish; but we did it and it has been a great learning experience. The spiritual treasures alone are worth the effort.”
Sister Fossum said, “It’s really hard on grandmas to be away from twenty-six grandchildren, but I’m coming through with flying colors—sometimes at half-mast, but they are flying!”
This dedicated couple concluded: “A mission for those of mature years is a rich, rewarding experience. It’s for those who want to live out their retirement and not just exist.”
To show what can be accomplished with such love and dedication, let me share with you again the words of the Fossums. They said, “To visit one of our branches we get up at 4:00 a.m. on Sunday to catch an early bus. Sister Fossum started a little music class with the sisters during the priesthood hour. She taught the basics of directing music and discovered a thirteen-year-old girl with a perfect sense of time, who now leads the singing in sacrament meeting. Now that branch has a chorister.”
Brother Fossum said, “I was invited to attend their branch presidency meeting to show how we do some things. A few months ago in this same branch, home teaching and visiting teaching were just words in a book. But now nine pairs of home teachers are making their visits, and they will soon have visiting teaching underway. These are incidental rewards. The great rewards come with the service we give and the love we feel for the humble new members that result in a change in their lives for the better—then we, too, are enriched.”

There are many stories that demonstrate the principle of "small and simple things," but the one I would like to share comes from an experience that my son, who is currently serving a mission in Brazil, shared with us relating to "small and simple things."

He said,
On Sunday there was a baptism for the other elders in our house. It was scheduled for after the great big stake conference. So after the meeting we all went to try and set stuff up for the baptism. The only problem was that there was no water in the font! The water wasn't working! So we tried to find a place we could get water and there were some faucets and hose lines we were running into the font but it was so slow and we were running with buckets to anyplace on the church grounds where we could get water! The cool part was that just about the entire ward saw what we were doing and helped! There were little kids that would grab a tiny cup and run into the bathroom and fill it with water then run to the font and dump it in... we had older members grab big water bottles and fill it up at the drinking fountain and throw the water into the font! Cupful by cupful, step by step, the whole ward filled that font just enough to baptize someone they had never met... Man it was such a sweet experience seeing everyone doing everything they possibly could to help us fill the font! Each cupful doesn't seem like it did anything but with everyone pitching in, the work will press forward! We don't always need to do everything, have that huge gallon tank full of water! We need to do our part and help the church grow.....one cupful at a time.

Brothers and sisters, I invite you to seek opportunities to bear your testimony in word and in deed. Such an opportunity came to me recently, at the end of a meeting with the mayor of a capital city in South America, in his chambers with a number of his cabinet officials. As we concluded with very cordial feelings, I hesitantly thought I should share my testimony. Following the prompting, I offered a witness that Jesus Christ is the Son of the living God and the Savior of the world. Everything changed at that moment. The Spirit in the room was undeniable. It seemed everyone was touched. “The Comforter … beareth record of the Father and of the Son.” I am so grateful I summoned the courage to bear my testimony.

I would like to show you an image I made. This is an image of Demetrius Tillis.

I had the privilege of teaching and baptizing Demetri on my mission 27 years ago. I served in several other areas after meeting Demetri, and when I left my mission, I had lost contact with him and didn't know where he was. Demetri was special to me, and I have wondered many times over the years where he was and what was happening in his life. In recent years, I tried using social media and other online methods to find him. Each time, I came up blank. As I was preparing for this talk, he came to mind again. I tried again to find Demetri on Facebook. This time I found a Demetri Tillis Jr. in Milwaukee, where I served. He only recently joined Facebook. I sent him a message, and he replied. I learned that he was Demetri's son. I learned that Demetri passed away in 1997. His son sent me the picture I just showed you. After 27 years, I was able to make contact with his family 2 ½ weeks ago. I know that God knows Demetri. And I know that God knows me and sent me this tender mercy to let me know.