Gospel Story Finder

Of course, our arms are full, although for the time being the birth mothers’ arms are empty. How shall they embrace—and be embraced—in safety? The answer to that question requires more time than I have available. A partial response comes in the pleas of a three-year-old whom we have taught to pray for her and her sister’s birth mothers. A few months ago she told us: “Mommy loves me. Daddy loves me. Lizzy loves me. Everyone loves me.” Pressing her cheek next to her mother’s, she promised, “I will not break your heart.” Then, with an eye to eternity that sobered us, speaking of her birth mother, she said, “I will not break her heart either.”

I believe in the power of a child’s prayer. I believe in a loving Father’s equity that promises that all arms will be full, if we will wait patiently on the Lord. I know that sometime in eternity our daughters will finish the process of their birth mothers’ healing. These finishings will be intimate restorations.

Growing up, I didn’t believe there was a God. My life was full of turmoil, and in my darkest days I was depressed enough that I wanted to end my life. That was when the missionaries came knocking on my door. The gospel was exactly what I needed; I was drawn to it like a magnet.
My trials didn’t end after I joined the Church, but I was in a better position to resist the influence of the adversary. For the first time, I knew what happiness felt like.

One day, when I was on the bus on my way home from work, I started to learn the truth. My friend Elaine’s brother, Liam, got onto the bus that day and, being a friendly type of person, sat beside me and started to talk to me. I offered him a cigarette. He said he didn’t smoke. He could have stopped there, but he didn’t. He told me why he didn’t smoke. He had joined the LDS church.
Liam told me a lot about the LDS church that day, and I was impressed. I was also impressed at the change it had made in his life. I wanted to know more. Unfortunately, Liam left two days later to work in Canada. So I waited and prayed and prayed and waited.
Roughly two months later, as I sat watching TV on a sunny May evening, out of the corner of my eye I saw two missionaries pass by my house on the street. I had no idea they were LDS. I just felt the urge to talk to them. I asked my mom if I could bring them in and ran to the door to call them. They were totally shocked! They hadn’t had an investigator for months, and here was one tracting them.
I totally wrecked their door approach. They walked up to me and said, “We’d like to share a brief message with …”
“Come in,” I said before they could finish.
They did and they taught me a spiritual first lesson. At the end of the discussion, I knew they spoke the truth. I loved hearing about Joseph Smith. I, too, had prayed for truth. I hadn’t had a vision, but like Joseph Smith, I had found the true church. I debated about asking if I could possibly join their church. During the second discussion, they challenged me to be baptised. I challenged them to stop me!
I had one problem. I had heard people talking about gaining a spiritual witness. I have to admit my prayers had racing stripes on them. I used to pray and hop straight into bed, put on some music, and go to sleep. The missionaries told me to pray and wait for an answer. That’s what I did. One night I prayed and didn’t close my prayer. I stayed on my knees waiting. Then I sat on the side of my bed waiting. Then I woke up at about 5:00 A.M. with an urge to read the Book of Mormon. I opened the book and began reading Alma 32 about faith. It was my answer! [Alma 32]
Of course, it wasn’t all easy sailing. My mom threw a fit when I told her, and the family stopped speaking to me. My mom even threatened to throw me out unless I “lost” the Mormons. I was scared of losing my family, and they knew it, so they put on the pressure. I knew the Church was true, so I took my chances on their love for me. My dad and mom and sister did everything they could to stop me from leaving the house on the day I chose to be baptised. But I left after trying once more to make them understand.
On the way to the church, I shook like a leaf and cried and cried. I was still shaking when I stepped into the font, but when I heard Elder Gooch say the words, “Ashley Catherine Moran, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ … ,” I forgot all my problems. Later, when I was confirmed a member of the Church and received the Holy Ghost, I lost all my fear and entered into the straight and narrow path.
My family still loves me. They have even befriended some members. I want them to know true happiness, to know as I do, that they are children of God. I am happier than I have ever been. I know who I am and I know that God lives. I love my Savior, and Joseph Smith is a prophet. We have a prophet on the earth today, and if I follow his counsel I will stay close to my Father in Heaven. The Book of Mormon is scripture for this last dispensation. It’s all true!

Recently a mission president asked me to speak to a troubled missionary who was having extreme homesickness problems. His intense yearnings were causing poor performance, a waste of time, a lack of concentration, and a dislike for his present assignment. I took the occasion to tell him that some of the right kind of homesickness could be desirable, but it must be kept under control. Let me say at the outset, yearning is defined as “to have a strong or deep desire; be filled with longing” (American Heritage Dictionary, second college edition, 1982). This missionary seemed very sincere in wanting to do better. Proper yearnings for home can be beneficial.
Not just children but all of us will want to think of home under joyous or trying circumstances. We let ourselves become homesick for love, acceptance, security, understanding, and guidance that generally are taught and shared there. Home should be the place in which a person can unburden his soul and find renewed strength to face the world; where there is comfort, joy, and understanding; where best friends live; and where we can learn to be our best selves.
There is a certain kind of yearning for home we should never want to lose. Home should be an anchor, a port in a storm, a refuge, a happy place in which to dwell, a place where we are loved and where we can love. Home should be where life’s greatest lessons are taught and learned. Home and family can be the center of one’s earthly faith, where love and mutual responsibility are appropriately blended. Thinking of home with its pleasant and happy memories can make us stronger during our present and future days here upon the earth.
President Benson has always loved his childhood home. He loves Whitney, Idaho, his birthplace. He loves the homestead where all eleven children were born and reared by noble parents.
Over a lifetime of worldwide travel, he yearned to return often to his home, and he did so. His heart has always been in Cache Valley. He loved going back and visiting with family members still there and seeing the friends of his birth, his neighbors, his teachers, his bishops, his kin who had such an impact for good on his life. He calls them “the finest people in all the world,” and Whitney “the ideal farm community.”
It revitalizes President Benson to go back to his roots, to go back to the land that nourished him and built character in him and provided him the sacred beginnings of a life devoted to God, family, and country. Truly, President Benson loves his childhood home.
I am concerned for people today who do not have a longing for or thoughts of home. It is unfortunate that among us we have people who have never experienced home life that has been and is desirable so that there can be an anxiousness under control for thoughts toward home. Our responsibilities are to share the warmth of our homes by being good neighbors and friends.
To know who we are is important, but to know where we are in relationship to our earthly home and heavenly home is essential if we are to receive all the blessings our Father in Heaven has for those who love him and keep his commandments. Our eternal home is our ultimate destination. A proper yearning for home can prevent our getting lost in detours or paths that lead us away.
It is reported that one summer at a Young Women’s conference in Alberta, Canada, three hundred girls were camped in tents scattered among tall pines. It rained every day and was very cold and wet. Even so, there was no murmuring in the camp. The last day of the conference, the leader addressed the young women under cloudy skies. Despite the unseasonable cold, there was a feeling of warmth among them for this their temporary home. Maybe because of the cold they were all drawn together and felt warm from the inside out.
The speaker began her remarks by asking, “Where are you going following this outdoor conference?” The united chorus of three hundred young women resounded through the tall pines. “Home!” they cried out. “Where?” they were asked again, and they responded with even greater conviction: “Home!” They knew where they wanted to go most of all and were anxious to get there.
The most attractive home that we will ever share will be that abode with our families with appropriate relationship to our Heavenly Father and his Son, Jesus Christ. Even the prodigal son could not resist the pull of home. He spurned his father, his home life, and his heritage, lavishly wasting his inheritance on riotous living. When he had nothing and was reduced to living off the spoils that only swine would eat, his thoughts turned homeward. Could there have been moments, as he gleaned the fields for husks to eat, when he longed for the security, safety, and acceptance he’d had before? Might he have been deeply homesick? Repentant, and hoping his father would accept him as a servant, he finally returned home. His father rejoiced, welcoming him back with open arms and complete acceptance. He no doubt knew that welcoming his wayward son was crucial if he hoped to ever return to his heavenly home. (See Luke 15:11–32).
Over the years I’ve counseled with many whose homesickness threatened to interfere with their missions, marriages, and families.
But I’ve come to see that being homesick isn’t all bad. It’s natural to miss the people you are closest to. It’s normal to long to be where you feel secure, where those you love have your best interests at heart. It’s understandable to want to return to the place where you learned how to walk and talk, where you felt loved even when friends turned away, and where you were accepted, regardless of the situation. There’s no place on earth that can take the place of a home where love has been given and received.
Recently we’ve witnessed the tragic devastation that Hurricane Andrew left in its wake in southern Florida and Louisiana. Tens of thousands of people have lost their homes. Armed forces personnel have raised tent cities to try and at least provide these victims with shelter. But the sobering fact is that, at least for a time, many of these people literally cannot go home. I cannot imagine how they must yearn for what they so recently had.
I have known other men and women who, for one reason or another, could not go home or who had no home to go to. I have felt their pain and seen their tears. It is, at best, a heartbreaking situation.
In another application, I have also known men and women who have jeopardized the privilege of returning to their heavenly home. Some were dealing with problems that made them ineligible to enter the temple and make the eternal covenants that bind us to our eternal home. I have felt their heartache and their longing for opportunities that, at least for a time, were beyond their reach.
The ramifications are poignant and endless. Perhaps we’ve all had these overwhelming thoughts come to mind: What if I am unworthy? What if I could never go home?
If he could have his way, Satan would distract us from our heritage. He would have us become involved in a million and one things in this life—probably none of which are very important in the long run—to keep us from concentrating on the things that are really important, particularly the reality that we are God’s children. He would like us to forget about home and family values. He’d like to keep us so busy with comparatively insignificant things that we don’t have time to make the effort to understand where we came from, whose children we are, and how glorious our ultimate homecoming can be!
We are literally the children of our Heavenly Father. We kept our first estate. During our experience in premortality, we lived with and were cared for and taught by a loving Father. Among other things, we were schooled in what had to be a perfect spiritual and educational environment. And we rejoiced when told of the plan whereby we could prove ourselves. Hence the day arrived when it was our turn to experience a period of probation and testing, a period during which a veil would be drawn over our memories so that we would be free either to walk by faith and by the Spirit or to forsake our spiritual heritage and birthright.
Now we’re here. And I’m sure we would all agree that this second estate has lived up to its billing. It is a time of testing, of probation. The challenges and duties and responsibilities, at times, seem to overshadow almost everything else. Sadly, it’s easy to become so encumbered by the press of daily life that we lose our focus.
One definition of the word focus is “directed attention” or “emphasis” (Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary). Perhaps as much as anything in this day and age of mass media, instantaneous worldwide communications, and modern conveniences that seem to help us pack more into each day than would have been considered possible just a few decades ago, we need to focus on and direct our attention to the things that really matter. And simply, what really matters is a personal testimony of Jesus Christ, an understanding of who we are and what we’re doing here, and an absolute determination to return home.
What young musician, finally scheduled to debut in a capacity concert hall after years of agonizing rehearsal, would, while en route to the performance, stop to join a long line forming at the latest hit movie, forgetting the thousands of people waiting to hear her?
What world-class runner, after training for well over a decade, would find himself in the Olympic finals, only to stop running halfway through his race to watch the high-jump finals taking place on the other side of the field?
These examples may seem preposterous—but how much more tragic it is for someone who, equipped with a testimony of the truth and a knowledge of the purpose of life, becomes more absorbed in life today than in life forever. Who’s just a little more concerned about his or her status and standing in mortality than in eternity. Whose focus is not directed to God the Father and his Son, Jesus Christ, with whom it is possible to have a glorious connection and bond.
I fear that, at times, we run the risk of acting like seasoned, conditioned athletes who are more interested in what kind of jogging suits we’ll wear than in buckling down to train for the race. C. S. Lewis had an intriguing way of evaluating this dilemma: “We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. … We are far too easily pleased” (A Mind Awake: An Anthology of C. S. Lewis, ed. Clyde S. Kilby [New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1968], p. 168).
The prophet Mormon put it another way: “Why are ye ashamed to take upon you the name of Christ? Why do ye not think that greater is the value of an endless happiness than that misery which never dies—because of the praise of the world?” (Morm. 8:38).
When we have a yearning and don’t know what it is for, perhaps it’s our soul longing for its heartland, longing to be no longer alienated from the Lord and the pursuit of something much higher, better, and more fulfilling than anything this earth has to offer.
After Joseph, son of Jacob, had been reunited with his brothers, he asked them to return home to Canaan to bring his father, Jacob, to him in Egypt. As the brothers were preparing to depart, Joseph said to them simply, “See that ye fall not out by the way” (Gen. 45:24).
Might our Heavenly Father have given us much the same counsel as we departed his presence to begin our earthly sojourn?
May our yearning for home be the motivation we need to so live that we can return to our heavenly home with God our Father on a forever basis, I humbly pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When my daughter ‘Ofa, graduated from BYU–Hawaii few years ago, I asked her the question most parents ask their children when they graduate from college: “Now that you’re graduated, what are you going to do with your life?” She smiled with confidence and said, “What else do you expect? I came here to learn. Now I’m ready to serve. I’m going to serve a mission.” She served an honorable mission in the Auckland New Zealand Mission, and she is now attending BYU–Provo and serving faithfully in her YSA ward.

It was family home evening, and Dad was teaching the lesson. I slouched into a comfortable chair and glanced around the room at my sisters and brothers. We were there, prepared to listen—halfway—before rushing back to the really important things in our lives.
Suddenly Dad disappeared into the kitchen. I raised my eyebrows at Anna, my sister. She shrugged, silently communicating, “How do I know what he’s doing?”
He came bouncing out of the kitchen with an apron on, a large mixing bowl and an old cookbook in his hands. “Today for our lesson, we are going to make a cake. Then, for a treat, we will eat it.”
That sounded good to me. I could always handle a few extra snacks between meals.
“But,” Dad said, “we’re not going to use this cookbook.”
“Why not?” asked my sister Katie.
“Well, this book was written a long time ago,” he said as he checked the copyright date in the front. “1979. I’m sure they knew how to make a 1979 cake, but I really doubt the authors know anything about making a cake right now, in this century. The pressures that we’re under, the technology, it’s all really different.”
“But cake making doesn’t really change,” protested Anna.
“No book,” said Dad. He threw the cookbook squarely onto the kitchen table. “This is our cake, and we’re going to make it our way. We don’t need anyone to tell us how to make it. Let’s go around and each person can pick an ingredient to put in the cake.”
He started with me. “Um, OK, flour?”
“How much?”
“Two cups?” I hazarded a guess. “Really, Dad, I think it would be better if …”
He held up his hand to silence my protest as Mom rushed to get the flour and add it to the mixing bowl.
Joe was next. “Butter? One stick?”
We went around the circle. We added salt, sugar, milk, and eggs. I breathed a sigh of relief when Katie added baking powder. She bakes more than I do, and I had known it needed some kind of leaven, but I was unsure what.
It was Anna’s turn. “Cocoa powder,” she declared. I smiled. Chocolate cake is my favorite. This cake was turning out to be OK after all.
When we were all finished, it looked like cake batter and smelled good, too.
“Let’s grease and flour the pan,” suggested Katie.
“One moment,” said Dad. “I just thought of something that would be really good to add.” He handed the bowl to Mom and came back with some … was that Worcestershire sauce?
Amidst howls of protest, Dad added two large tablespoonfuls of the black sauce to our batter. We all looked on in shock and dismay.
Dad smiled benignly. “Were you going to grease and flour that pan?” he asked Katie.
“I guess so,” she replied uncertainly.
Dad looked at our crestfallen faces. He said, “I know most successful cakes don’t have Worcestershire sauce in them. In fact, if we looked in the instructions, there might be some kind of warnings against adding things like Worcestershire sauce. But,” he said with a sneer, “that cookbook is old-fashioned and ancient. We don’t need anyone telling us what to do. It’s our cake. We can do what we want with it. Also, I hear that everyone who is anyone is putting Worcestershire sauce into their cakes these days.”
Dad popped the cake into the oven and removed his apron. In stunned silence, we returned to our seats. Dad sat down, too. When he began to speak, the sneer was gone. He held up a set of scriptures, and his tone was reverent.
“When you pictured the cake we were going to make, you probably pictured something wonderful, maybe a chocolate cake with white frosting. You did not picture something disgusting.
“Right now I want you to picture the life you have ahead of you. Picture the ingredients you know you need to return to your Father in Heaven. Picture serving a mission. Picture marriage in the temple. Picture the career of your choice. Picture yourself making good choices and being a force for good in the world. These are the positive ingredients you put into life.
“But there are certain things that do not belong in a successful life, just as Worcestershire sauce never belongs in a cake, like drug use, sexual immorality, or dishonesty. No matter how Satan tries to disguise them, they are guaranteed roads to failure.
“Of course, our cake would have turned out better if we had read and followed the instructions.”
He held up his scriptures. “Your life will turn out better if you follow the teachings in here. It’s true that the scriptures were written a long time ago. It’s true that some of the values may seem old-fashioned to some of your friends. But, like Anna said, cake making doesn’t really change much over time, and neither do the rules for living a happy and successful life. Also, we have living prophets and apostles. They are the experts, just like the authors of the cookbook are experts. We all would do well to follow their teachings.
“If you keep sight of your eternal goals, you won’t let people talk you into putting destructive ingredients into your life. But if you just drift along, adding whatever yucky things are ‘in’ at the moment, you won’t make the cake—or the life—that you picture for yourself.”
We were quiet for a moment. Then Mom said, “Of course, we do have repentance.”
“That’s true,” said Dad. “Unlike cakes, lives get second chances.” The timer buzzed. Reluctantly, Katie went to the kitchen and removed the cake from the oven. It smelled terrible. Were they really going to make us eat that?
“Let’s go have a treat,” said Mom. As we got up to leave, my brother Joe put his hand on my dad’s shoulder.
“Good lesson, Dad,” he said.
We were pleasantly surprised to find another cake, white with chocolate frosting, that Mom had made using the cookbook. We all had a small bite of the nasty cake, however, just to see what it tasted like. It was as disgusting as it smelled.
For the price of a few wasted ingredients, Dad made a huge impact. For years now, I have remembered his lesson, and I have always been blessed when I have tried to avoid the undesirable ingredients of life.

At the age of 50, my mother developed cancer. I recall our family prayers and our father’s tearful pleadings. He took her to Los Angeles in search of better medical care, but it was to no avail. I remember with clarity the return of my brokenhearted father as he stepped off the train and greeted his grief-stricken children. We walked solemnly down the station platform to the baggage car, where the casket was unloaded. We came to know even more about the tenderness of our father’s heart. This has had an effect on me all of my life.
I also came to know something of death—the absolute devastation of children losing their mother—but also of peace without pain, and the certainty that death cannot be the end of the soul.

When Isaac was five years old, his grandfather, who was visiting from Mexico, gave him a chess set and taught him the rules of the game. Isaac caught on so quickly that he was soon competing in tournaments. At first he wasn’t taken seriously. “We went to tournaments, and they thought he was too small,” his mother, Astrid, remembers. “No one wanted to play with him.” Now tournament organizers from several states know him and welcome him.

On Sunday morning of the Auckland Papatoetoe Stake April 2021 conference, while the chapel was still fairly empty, members of the Massey Park Ward filled the seats behind the pulpit to prepare for our final choir practice. In less than half an hour, we were going to perform the prelude song, to invite the Holy Spirit and to set the tone for our last session of conference.
At the piano, I waited for my cue. Our conductor, Brother Moroni Westerlund, readied our singers then waved in our choir’s first note—and my heart sank. We had practiced for months, but still, this song had not come together the way it should have.
Over my piano accompaniment, I could hear so many unsure voices. I heard parts fading out as sections gave in to their insecurity, and in my mind, I prayed: “But Heavenly Father, we tried so hard.”
As we proceeded with our last run through, I reflected on all our preparation for this day. Our bishop had eagerly accepted this stake choral assignment, with complete faith in his ward. Our music coordinator, Sister Benjy Maugatai, recruited her conductor and pianist, and then organised our music and called all our practices. We chose hymn arrangements that were beautiful but simple, because we knew that only a handful in our ward could read notes, and many had never even sung in a choir before.
But they showed up. Despite their many other commitments, our choir eventually got so big, they could barely fit on the stand and we had so many practices.
It was clear from early on we weren’t going to be a very polished choir, but for Brother Westerlund, as long as our singers were happy and trying their best, “Just let them sing,” he would say.
We completed our discouraging final rehearsal, and I looked at Brother Westerlund. He just smiled then addressed the choir one last time.
“We’re performing this music not to show off our skills,” he said, “but to share our testimony. While you sing, remember that someone in the congregation needs to feel your spirit and your faith. That is our true assignment here today.”
It wasn’t long before the chapel was packed, right to the back of the hall. While stake and area leaders took their seats, Brother Westerlund gestured for our choir to stand.
I started the piano introduction for our prelude hymn, and when the choir’s first note rang out, I could not believe my ears. It was a full, bold, harmonious sound! I looked up from my sheet music in awe. “Who is singing?”
Sure enough, it was our same group of beaming, faithful ward members, but as clear as the ray of sunshine that slipped through the chapel’s curtains just then, I also heard a host of unseen, accomplished singers bolstering the choir. Our prelude was beautiful. Our next two songs were just as lovely, and so was the sweet spirit that permeated our entire meeting.
I wasn’t the only one who recognized a miracle that day. Desmond Maugatai—one of our tenors—later said to me, “I can testify, when we started singing, I heard two new voices, one near my left shoulder, one on my right, and they were not anyone I know in our choir.”
Twelve-year-old Kayla Tagavaitau relayed a similar experience to her mother. It had been her first time in a ward choir, and after the conference she said, “Mum, it felt like when we were singing, the angels were singing with us.”
I’ve been a part of many church choirs over the years, but this one confirmed to me a pattern I have often noticed. When we do our best to learn the music, when we try our hardest to commit to practices, when we don’t give, up even through setbacks and frustrations, when we labour diligently, despite our weaknesses and, “after all we can do,” (2 Nephi 25:23), Heavenly Father can make up for our shortcomings, “that by his grace [we] may be perfect in Christ” (Moroni 10:32).
He can even send His angels to sing with us.

Many of the LDS kids in Alice attend St. Philip’s, a private school run by another church. Like most Australian schools, St. Philip’s has a strict dress code. Everyone must wear uniforms, and there are even rules about jewelry—only one pair of earrings, no bracelets, no rings.
That was the rub for the Mormon kids—no rings. Like many Latter-day Saints worldwide, they like to wear CTR rings. But they were told to remove them, even though exceptions had been made before for jewelry with “religious significance.”
“I’d explain why it was important to me,” says Lavinia Archibald, 16. “But one of my teachers kept saying to take it off or she’d confiscate it.”
The LDS students and their parents (including branch president Mark Webster) talked to the principal, who knew the LDS youth as some of his best students. He talked to the faculty, explained that CTR stands for “choose the right,” and gave his approval for Latter-day Saints to wear the rings.
“Now the teacher is fine about it,” Lavinia says. “She’ll have you reach your hand out, then say, ‘Ah, you’re allowed.’”

Eddie and Christina (left) became friends with Brent and Jessica (center) and their family when they moved into the ward. Brent was later baptized by Eddie.
When a new family moved into their ward, Eddie and Christina Brouse decided to get to know them. After church, Christina approached Brent Vickers and struck up a conversation. Soon, Brent’s girlfriend, Jessica Espinoza, joined them. Because they both had newborn sons, Christina and Jessica instantly bonded.
Eddie said, “Brent is this tall guy that some people might find intimidating, but I just felt that he was such a nice guy. I remember thinking that this is someone that I really want to get to know better.”
As the Brouse and the Espinoza/Vickers families became friends, they often invited each other over for dinner. One evening, Brent and Jessica explained Brent’s history with the gospel. Brent had received the missionary lessons a few years prior because Jessica was already a member of the Church, and though he had enjoyed meeting with the elders, he decided not to be baptized at that time.
With the encouragement of Jessica and the Brouse family, Brent decided to meet with the missionaries again. He progressed far enough in the missionary lessons that he and Jessica decided that they needed to be married. The Brouse family was supportive of this decision and continued to support Brent as he met with the missionaries. Brent and Jessica were married in July 2019 by their bishop, Eddie Brouse.
Taking safety precautions during the COVID-19 pandemic, the families were able to get together again. Jessica mentioned to the Brouses that Brent thought that he was ready to be baptized. Brent’s smile confirmed this statement.
Christina said, “We immediately called the sister missionaries and told them that Brent wanted to be baptized. That was on a Wednesday, and by Saturday, he was baptized.”
She continued, “On the day of his baptism, Brent gave us the biggest hug. I remember being so grateful that they had allowed us to be a part of this journey with their family.”
Shortly after Brent was baptized, Jessica expressed interest in going to the temple. After talking with ward leaders and participating in their ward’s temple preparation class, Jessica was able to receive her endowment in the Orlando Florida Temple after COVID-19 restrictions lifted.
Jessica’s parents were also able to renew their temple recommends and be in the temple with Jessica. Jessica and Brent’s older son Eli was also able to receive the Aaronic Priesthood.
As Brent started taking the new-member lessons and participating in family history work, he was able to find the names of his family members to take to the temple. Brent’s father recently passed away, so Brent is preparing to do his father’s temple work.
Jessica prepared the family history work for her biological father and other family members to make sure they received their temple ordinances. Jessica’s son Eli was proxy for his grandfather’s baptism.
The Brouse family exemplified how natural it can be to share the gospel. The Brouses’ daughter Abbie said, “Being friends with them first was what helped us to share the gospel with them.” Christina agrees, “Talking to them about the gospel was so easy because we love them so much, and we wanted nothing more than to see them get closer to the Lord.”

Without safety ropes, harnesses, or climbing gear of any kind, two brothers—Jimmy, age 14, and John, age 19 (though those aren’t their real names)—attempted to scale a sheer canyon wall in Snow Canyon State Park in my native southern Utah. Near the top of their laborious climb, they discovered that a protruding ledge denied them their final few feet of ascent. They could not get over it, but neither could they now retreat from it. They were stranded. After careful maneuvering, John found enough footing to boost his younger brother to safety on top of the ledge. But there was no way to lift himself. The more he strained to find finger or foot leverage, the more his muscles began to cramp. Panic started to sweep over him, and he began to fear for his life.

Unable to hold on much longer, John decided his only option was to try to jump vertically in an effort to grab the top of the overhanging ledge. If successful, he might, by his considerable arm strength, pull himself to safety.

In his own words, he said:
“Prior to my jump I told Jimmy to go search for a tree branch strong enough to extend down to me, although I knew there was nothing of the kind on this rocky summit. It was only a desperate ruse. If my jump failed, the least I could do was make certain my little brother did not see me falling to my death.
“Giving him enough time to be out of sight, I said my last prayer—that I wanted my family to know I loved them and that Jimmy could make it home safely on his own—then I leapt. There was enough adrenaline in my spring that the jump extended my arms above the ledge almost to my elbows. But as I slapped my hands down on the surface, I felt nothing but loose sand on flat stone. I can still remember the gritty sensation of hanging there with nothing to hold on to—no lip, no ridge, nothing to grab or grasp. I felt my fingers begin to recede slowly over the sandy surface. I knew my life was over.
“But then suddenly, like a lightning strike in a summer storm, two hands shot out from somewhere above the edge of the cliff, grabbing my wrists with a strength and determination that belied their size. My faithful little brother had not gone looking for any fictitious tree branch. Guessing exactly what I was planning to do, he had never moved an inch. He had simply waited—silently, almost breathlessly—knowing full well I would be foolish enough to try to make that jump. When I did, he grabbed me, held me, and refused to let me fall. Those strong brotherly arms saved my life that day as I dangled helplessly above what would surely have been certain death.”

I know, for instance, that I stand before you here today primarily because I have a wonderfully fine father. He is as honest and honorable as any man I have ever met. He’d walk ten miles to pay you ten cents he owes you. If he says he’ll do it, he’ll do it. You don’t have to write it down. His word has been his bond all his life. He loves to talk about religion. He is open minded; he will talk to anybody about religion. He never joined a church—hasn’t yet, anyway. I’m still working on him. I found out some time ago why he hasn’t joined a church: he never met a Protestant minister he thought was better than he was. He may have lacked a little bit in humility, but I never met a Protestant minister I thought was better than my dad either. He is an open-minded man, willing to talk about religion or anything else. I grew up that way.

Also I had a wonderfully fine grandmother. Her name was Lucy Ellen Mason Garvin. We call her Mama Lucy. Mama Lucy believed in the Bible with all her heart. She knew it was true. She lived in a small town of Rennick, Missouri, population 167. I’ve always suspected that number included the horses and the cows. But in that small town of 167 back there in central Missouri there were four churches. That was a religious place, and every summer when I had the opportunity to spend a week with her just before school started, there was always a religious revival going on in one of those churches. We went every night. I loved to hear those old revival preachers; they called them evangelists. Of course, they don’t know what an evangelist is. That meant a traveling preacher to them. They could preach hellfire and damnation with the best of them. In fact, they would preach so convincingly that you would look under your chair sometimes to see if there weren’t a fire under there. Then they would invite all to “come to Christ” to be saved, to confess Christ. I wanted to do that. I thought that would be important to me or would make a difference to me if I did it. My grandmother would never let me do it because my father had never joined a church, and she thought maybe he wouldn’t want me to do that. She didn’t want to get in Dutch with him, and so I never was able to go confess Christ. I never did. Some of my friends did, but it didn’t seem to make a whole lot of difference to them. They still put potatoes in the exhaust pipes of cars. I don’t know whether you ever did that or not. And we’d make mud pies and put them on the headlights. Someone would come out and turn on the headlights—nothing. Of course, there wasn’t very much light even if there wasn’t a mud pie on the headlight because the headlights on the cars back in that day and time were so people could see you; you couldn’t see a thing with them. And you had to be a mechanic to make a car run, back in those days. (One farmer said to his friend, “How much do you get out of your car?” And his friend said, “About four times a mile.”)

Every night after the revival meeting, I wound up by sitting on Mama Lucy’s lap, and she read to me out of a great big old picture Bible. There were some of the wildest pictures in there that you have ever seen. Hell was a horrible place. There were fire and brimstone. People there were naked, and these characters with pitchforks were sticking them, and they had horns on their heads and forked tails. I knew I didn’t want to get in that place. I knew that. That was impressed upon me. And heaven was always a beautiful place. There were angels there. They were always female, and my grandmother was sure that no man would ever be worthy of this exalted station. When the elders told me about Moroni’s visit, and they said he was a man, I said, “Are you sure?”

When the elders knocked on my door, they found someone who was open minded, was willing to talk about religion, read all kinds of books on religion because I was looking for the truth and believed the Bible with all my heart (my grandmother had seen to that). I was a pushover for the missionaries, and I’m sure it was, to a great extent, the way I was raised.

Robert Gardner Jr. was baptized into the Church in January of 1845 in a frozen pond in the backwoods of eastern Canada. Faithful and industrious, he made his way with his family to Nauvoo and, after much hardship, arrived in the Salt Lake Valley in October of 1847. After entering the valley, they camped at a place called Old Fort, located a few blocks from this Conference Center. In his handwritten history, he recorded, “I unyoked my oxen and sat down on my broken wagon tongue, and said I could not go another day’s journey” (“Robert Gardner Jr. Self History and Journal,” Church History Library, Salt Lake City, Utah, 23).
Starting with nothing, Robert began to create a new life for himself and his family. The first years were hard, but gradually things improved as he and his brother Archibald began to develop mills on Mill Creek and the Jordan River. A few years later he suffered a reversal of fortune. The water powering his mill was taken upstream, leaving his portion of the stream dry. An attempt to build a six-mile (10-km) canal to the mill failed.
Again from his history: “The canal kept breaking until it proved a failure. The failure caused me to lose all my crops and my mill would not run. My stock was all gone and I was flat broke” (“Robert Gardner Jr. Self History and Journal,” 26).
If that was not test enough, his next entry in his history informs us he has been called on a mission to Canada. A few months later he left his family and with a contingent of missionaries traveled by handcart, steamboat, and railroad to his field of labor.
He completed this mission, returned to his family, and through hard work and diligence once again established himself and began to prosper.
Just a few years later Brother Gardner was entertaining some friends at his farm in Millcreek in the Salt Lake Valley. One remarked, “I am glad to see you so well recovered from being broke. You are nearly as well off as you were before you lost your property and went on your mission.”
Robert’s history records: “My reply was; ‘Yes I was well off once and it all went off, and I am almost afraid of another [mission] call.’ Sure enough, a few hours later some of my neighbors, who had been to a meeting in Salt Lake City called in and told me that my name was amongst a number of names who were called today to go south on a mission to make a new settlement and raise cotton. We were to start right away.”
He records, “I looked and spit, took off my hat and scratched [my head] and thought and said; ‘All right’” (“Robert Gardner Jr. Self History and Journal,” 35; emphasis added).
Robert Gardner knew what it meant to deal with change in his life. He followed the counsel of the Brethren, accepting calls to serve when it was not convenient. He had a great love for the Lord and demonstrated strong, unbending faith with amazing good humor and grace. Robert Gardner Jr. went on to become a leading pioneer in the colonization effort of southern Utah. It is he and countless pioneers like him who give us inspiration to carry on and confront fearlessly the many changes and challenges which come into our lives. As we move forward and “get on with our lives,” may we be obedient, faithful, and cheerful is my prayer in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Karen and Susan Jacobs of Walnut Creek, California, found it fun and rewarding. It started when Karen was in the fifth grade at the American School in Copenhagen, Denmark. She was looking for a subject for a rather ambitious American history report. The teacher called for footnotes, bibliography, note cards, and oral reports—everything. Her biggest challenge was to choose a subject. Her parents suggested that she do her report on the Mormon trek westward.
“Why not?” she said.
Once started it was an easier topic to write on than most, with all that help at home, her interest, and her background on the subject from Primary and Sunday School.
Few in the class knew much about the Mormons, and the oral report, filled with interest-raising points, created a lively discussion for months afterwards. She got an A grade too!

Don’t think of all the things you need to get done in your lifetime; think of what needs to be done now. You do your best, and Heavenly Father will make it work. For example, while I was preparing to teach a seminary lesson about President Thomas S. Monson, I was wondering how I could keep seven kids (all of whom are older than me) listening, learning, and interested. I decided to try and get as much participation as I could. It turned out fine! So just do your best at the work right in front of you.
Bethany F., 15, Kentucky, USA

I had a man about my age come in to see me a few days ago. He told me a story about a 1947 Chevrolet. It was a little after the Second World War. He was a young elder, I guess, or priest—I’m not sure which. Anyway, he and his friend were called in to see the bishop one night after sacrament meeting, and they both knew what was coming up. The bishop said to the first young man, “We’d like you to prepare to go on a mission.”
The young man replied, “All right, I’ll do it.”
And then the man who came in to see me was next. He went in and the bishop said, “We’d like you to prepare to go on a mission.”
And he said, “Bishop, I can’t do it because I am paying for a 1947 Chevrolet.” He said that at that time of his life, this was the most important thing to him. He said, “I just don’t see how I can do it.” Well, one thing led to another, and he never did go. He came in to tell me how throughout his life he had regretted that decision so much that every time he sees a 1947 Chevrolet (and that is occasionally nowadays) he gets a sort of unhappy feeling in his heart. He relates it to something that he had an opportunity to do but didn’t do.
There is a 1947 Chevrolet in each of our lives. There is some material thing that sooner or later will stand between what the Lord expects of us and what we know we should do. Then we have to make a decision, and may the Lord bless us that we may make a proper decision when our 1947 Chevrolet confronts us.

Photograph from iStockphoto/Thinkstock
A week after graduating high school, I moved to the other side of the country to live with my older sister’s family for the summer before I started college in the fall.
I made a few friends, most of them older and in college. One Saturday night two of my new friends picked me up to go hear a good band that was playing at a local club.
As we parked, I started feeling a little nervous, but I didn’t want to object and ruin the evening. We entered the club, and the man behind the counter looked at my driver’s license. Without warning he swiped a black permanent marker across the knuckles on both of my hands.
I looked down in surprise. I realized he had marked my hands to show that I was too young to buy alcohol at the bar.
I was immediately uncomfortable. People were drinking and smoking.
I’m sorry to say that I didn’t have the courage to leave right then. After about 30 minutes, one of my friends asked if I was feeling OK. I told him I had a headache from the music and smoke. He offered to take me home, and I gratefully accepted.
I rushed into the bathroom at my sister’s house and scrubbed at those black marks until it hurt. I would be taking the sacrament with these hands the next day, and I desperately wanted them to be clean. However, two faint black lines remained visible on my raw, pink skin.
Before I went to bed, in prayer I asked forgiveness for not having the courage to leave—and more appropriately, for not having the courage to never go inside in the first place. I promised Heavenly Father I would never allow myself to get in that kind of situation again.
The next morning I was able to remove most of the rest of the marker, and my hands were almost completely clean when I took the sacrament. I thought of how sin is like those black marks. It takes effort and can even be painful, but we can repent and have our sins removed through the power of the Atonement and be clean from the black marks in our lives.

Some years ago my wife, Harriet, and I had a memorable experience in which we saw this promise fulfilled. We were in West Africa, a beautiful part of the world where the Church is growing and the Latter-day Saints are delightful. However, West Africa also has many challenges. In particular, I was sorrowed by the poverty that I saw. In the cities there is high unemployment, and families often struggle to provide for their daily needs and for their safety. It broke my heart to know that many of our precious members of the Church live in such deprivation. But I also learned that these fine members help each other to lighten their heavy burdens.

We eventually arrived at one of our meetinghouses near a large city. But instead of finding a people burdened and absorbed by darkness, we discovered a joyful people who were radiating with light! The happiness they felt for the gospel was contagious and lifted our spirits. The love they expressed for us was humbling. Their smiles were genuine and infectious.

I remember wondering at the time if there could possibly be a happier people on the face of the planet. Even though these dear Saints were surrounded by difficulties and trials, they were filled with light!

The meeting began, and I started to speak. But soon the power went out in the building, and we were left in complete darkness.

For a while I could hardly see anyone in the congregation, but I could see and feel the brilliant and beautiful smiles of our Saints. Oh, how I loved being with these wonderful people!

The darkness in the chapel continued, and so I sat next to my wife and waited for the power to be restored. As we waited, something remarkable happened.

A few voices began singing one of the hymns of the Restoration. And then others joined in. And then more. Soon, a sweet and overwhelming chorus of voices filled the chapel.

These members of the Church did not need hymnbooks; they knew every word of every hymn they sang. And they sang one song after another with an energy and spirit that touched my soul.

Eventually, the lights sparked back on and bathed the room with light. Harriet and I looked at each other, our cheeks wet with tears.

In the midst of great darkness, these beautiful, wonderful Saints had filled this Church building and our souls with light.

It was a profoundly moving moment for us—one Harriet and I will never forget.

Several years ago just before Christmas, my niece, Shelly, took hold of her mother’s hand and asked seriously, “Is it okay if I believe just one more year?”

Since that memorable happening several years ago, our family has established a family tradition. Each year on Christmas Eve, we gather together around the tree. With the lights low and the fire burning in the fireplace, we ask the question once again, the most important question of the year, “Is it okay if we believe one more year?”—not only believe in the traditions of childhood with Santa Claus, but more importantly in the message of the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, whose birthday we are celebrating. Do we believe in his mission, his atonement, his resurrection? Do we believe in his invitation to come and follow him?

Of course we are not really committing ourselves for only a year. We are pledged to follow the Savior forever. But we live life a day, a week, a month, a year at a time, and Christmas is a season to focus on the year ahead and reconfirm our discipleship.

Following the discussion and the commitment, someone reads aloud The Polar Express by Chris Von Allsburg, a story that tells how those who have faith can always hear the clear sound of a silver bell.

Following the story, we each receive a small new bell on a red satin ribbon to wear around our necks during the holidays. We listen for its clear sound as a testimony and commitment that we truly believe and will strive to live as we believe one more year. While the fire burns low, we then read from the Bible the glorious account of the Christmas story recorded by Luke telling of the birth of the Savior as announced by an angel, “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord” (Luke 2:11), and we believe.