Gospel Story Finder

One Sunday evening after a fireside, my four-year-old son’s Primary teacher came to me and asked, “Did I tell you what Brandon did a few Sundays ago?” Almost apologetically, I responded that I hoped he had not caused a problem. Sister Brown smiled, then described the experience to me.
A lovely little girl in Brandon’s class did not have complete hair growth on her head due to a serious burn she had received as a baby. Through the years, because of her disfigurement, this little girl had suffered considerable thoughtlessness and cruelty from other children. Consequently, she was bashful and had a difficult time attending her Primary class alone. But this particular Sunday she had finally mustered enough courage to come. She sat next to Brandon.
As she sat down, Brandon reached over and gently placed his hand on Carmen’s face. He held her cheek for a moment, exchanging an understanding smile with her. Sister Brown related that it was one of the most touching moments she had ever experienced—that one child could be so sympathetic to another’s need to be loved and accepted.
When I returned home that evening, I gathered my son in my arms. “Sister Brown told me about the time you were so kind to Carmen and put your hand on her cheek to help her feel better,” I said. Brandon smiled shyly. “Oh, I remember that time,” he said quietly.
“It makes me especially proud of you when you are kind to others. Carmen is a pretty girl, and very special to our Heavenly Father.”
“I know. But why don’t the other kids think that?” His look told me that he really did not understand.
“They don’t think that because her head looks different.”
Brandon turned to me and said, “But mom, I didn’t see her head.”
The very essence of the gospel is contained in his statement. How great are the lessons little ones teach!

Some years ago when one of my daughters was a small, exuberant child we were all sitting around the fireplace as families do at the happy Christmas season. It had been a good, satisfying, full holiday, and the stress of the hustle and the bustle of the day was behind us, leaving the warm after-glow of this happy day. Fathers, mothers, cousins, aunts, and uncles all chatted quietly by the fire, and into this large group of people who loved each other bounded my child with the exclamation, “Look who’s here, everybody!”

Our curiosity was piqued by this enthusiastic announcement. We looked beyond her with interest and inquired, “Who is it?”

And she returned our questioning glances with sparkling eyes and a face wreathed in smiles and announced, “Me!”

It was not what we had expected, somehow, but I shall never forget that moment. This little bit of a girl taught her older kinfolk an important lesson. In a sense she was saying what the central figure represents: “There is no one more important than the individual.” The individual human being is the most important entity on the face of the earth.

Baptized at age 15, Chen Hsin Shun learned early to exercise his faith during economic challenges and to make sacrifices for the Church. While he was preparing to serve a mission, his family’s business failed and his father asked him to help support the family. He told his father, “Trust my God for three months, and see if He doesn’t bless the family while I’m on a mission.” His father agreed to try the experiment, and Elder Chen prayed diligently for blessings. About a month and a half into his mission, he received a letter from his father saying he wouldn’t need to come back early because the family’s business had signed a lucrative 10-year contract. Today Brother Chen serves as a high councilor in the Kaohsiung stake.

The sign at the entrance to Manzanilla High School near Sangre Grande, Trinidad, is clear. “No” it says in big red letters, and it itemizes what is forbidden by the dress code: Absolutely no short pants, skirts, or tops; and absolutely no thin straps, halter backs, strapless vests, or bare backs.
Some students balk at the restrictions, but for 17-year-old Michelle Ramnauth they’re no problem at all. “There’s nothing in the school dress code that isn’t already clear in For the Strength of Youth,” she says. And many people at the school know what For the Strength of Youth is, thanks to Michelle.
She explains: “After lunch every day we have 20 minutes for silent reading, and we can read any book we would like. So I would bring For the Strength of Youth and read it. One day I left it sitting out and some of the more mischievous boys took it.” But then they actually read it. “And that turned out to be good because they used to curse a lot, but now when they are around me they respect my standards and don’t do that anymore.”
In fact, word spread through the school that Michelle followed the “rules” in her church book, and that meant she had high standards. “If the way I conduct myself in school agrees with For the Strength of Youth, that’s exactly how I want it to be,” she says. “Some people think that means I’m too proud to talk to them, but that’s not it. When they’re telling dirty stories or using bad language, I just don’t want to be around that influence. They’re being disrespectful, I would say. But I have two or three genuine friends who are now trying to change their ways because they respect me and appreciate me for who I am. So I would call them my true friends, and I’m happy if I can be a good example for them.”

Many years ago when our family was young and we lived in Rexburg, our seven children were sometimes almost too "active in the Church." I would often remember the words of our bishop from a few years earlier. He would shake his head and smile at our lively little crowd trying to hold still on a Church bench and say, "the Hafen children - curtain climbers, rug rats, and house apes!" Your family might seem that way sometimes. We can't help seeing each other at our worst, and our best, in the closeness of family life. In the worst moments, we may wonder how we can keep living with each other. But in the best moments, we can't really imagine living without each other.

In the basement of our Rexburg home on the night before our oldest son, Jon, left for his mission, we pulled together "the family slide show," the best and funniest pictures of our family over twenty years. At the end of the show, we knelt in prayer together, and spontaneous tears flowed. No more curtain climbers and rug rats-just imperfect young men and women, and their imperfect parents, who felt an honest love for each other. And those feelings have kept growing, as the constant stretching from family reality toward family ideals gives each of us the desire to live worthy of belonging to each other in time and in eternity.

Over the last five to ten years, Vickie and I have had the opportunity of living close to and serving loved ones as they wrestled their way through the twilight years of their lives. My wife and those of her family spent many, many evenings visiting her maternal grandparents, first in their home and then in care facilities prior to their passing.

Soon after that experience, my father suffered a series of strokes. For several years, we watched as my mother would faithfully drive the 20 or so miles from home to Rexburg each day where she would sit with my dad; read to him, show him pictures of their family, or just sit and hold his hand. Dad eventually lost the ability to express his love to mother in words, but his eyes spoke volumes as he would gaze upon her face and smile. We also saw him communicate his sorrows as he would look at mother at the end of the day and the tears would begin to flow, knowing she needed to go home.

Their faith in God and in the plan of salvation allowed them to live a life of service to one another and those around them, allowing them to face the debilitating effects of worn out bodies and eventually physical death, knowing that their Savior, our Savior, even the Lord Jesus Christ lived upon the earth, suffered for the sins and weaknesses of mankind and fulfilled the eternal demands of justice through His atoning sacrifice, preparing a way for you and I to be resurrected and reunited as eternal families.

Toward the end of World War II, my family was living in Czechoslovakia, where I was born. My father, a customs officer, was drafted into the army and sent to the western front of the war. As the war raged with more severity and the eastern front moved closer to our town, my mother, alone with her four children and in an effort to protect them, made the decision to leave our home and all our earthly possessions behind and head west, toward the home of her parents in East Germany.
It was the winter of 1944—one of the coldest, harshest winters of World War II. My mother instructed us to take only warm clothes and food but no other possessions. At this time, we were members of the Lutheran Church, not even aware that there was a restored Church of Jesus Christ. Considering this, it is interesting that she took most of our family records and family pictures on our flight west.
We were on one of the last refugee trains, and the journey, which would usually take one or two days, took us almost two weeks. I was only four years old. Traveling in a freezing train, stopping over in refugee camps, and heading out again—exhaustion, hunger, and fear were the continuous ingredients of this perilous flight.
One night the train stopped again at a train station, and, as usual, my mother stepped out in search of some food for us children. Often, kind people came to those stations and brought milk and bread and other food for the refugee children. But this time when my mother returned with some precious food for us, the train was gone, with all of her four children in it.
During this time of the war, many family members were separated from each other, never to be united again. There she was, in a war zone, without her husband, alone on deserted railroad tracks, realizing that she had just lost all of her children! Later she shared with us how lonely and devastated she felt. The physical stress of the effort to flee to the west and the emotional stress culminating in the apparent loss of all her children in a few minutes of time were overwhelming. She started to pray—the only source of solace available to her at that desperate time. I know today that the Light of Christ moved her to pray with faith, as a good Lutheran, and then to get up and look around to see if she could find the train somewhere else at the station. After a short period of terror and despair, she got on her feet and moved from one track to another and eventually found our train on a parallel track quite a distance away, where it had been moved during her absence.
With the protection of God and under the inspired leadership of our mother, we reached her hometown and were reunited with her parents in Zwickau, East Germany.

Christine (8) and Spencer (6) Harris and their family saved their money for a long time so that they could be with their grandparents in Rarotonga at the end of their mission. One of the Cook Islands in the Pacific Ocean, Rarotonga is part of the New Zealand Auckland Mission. It was a long distance to travel from their home in Seattle, Washington. In fact, the family flew on three different airplanes to get there. First they flew to California, then to Tahiti, and then on to the beautiful island of Rarotonga. They had not seen Grandma and Grandpa Harris for nearly a year and a half, so it was wonderful to be together again.
On the island, they explored the sites, including the wonderful beaches and warm, blue lagoons. Christine and Spencer liked to snorkel within the coral reef and see the thousands of colorful fish. They had fun collecting seashells and coral. The children also enjoyed eating the unusual, but delicious fruits and fresh coconuts on the island.
Meeting the many nice people to whom their grandparents had taught the gospel was heartwarming for the children and their parents. On Sunday, they attended church. Christine and Spencer found it comforting to sing the familiar Primary songs in the unusual setting of an open-walled church with exotic birds and chickens around it.
When the children found out that their father and grandfather were planning a special hike that included them, they were thrilled. The hike would take them across the island, through the tropical jungle, over some old volcanoes, to a sharp mountain peak called Mount Te Manga (The Needle). Even though it was a difficult hike that was ordinarily just for adults, their father thought that the children were prepared.
It was a perfect morning for a hike—clear and sunny, but not too hot. The children were up early to help make lunches and pack their gear. The four hikers said good-bye to the other family members, who would spend the morning at the open market and then pick them up on the other side of the island in the afternoon.
The hikers walked along a scenic valley road, past a papaya plantation and a lush farm, to the trailhead (the place where a trail begins) at the base of a volcanic mountain. The trail led them through a large green forest of ferns, across several streams, and then up a steep stairway of tangled tree roots. Christine and Spencer took turns leading the hike and had a contest to see who could spot the most lizards along the trail.
Eventually the group entered the heavy overgrowth of the dense, tropical jungle. The gigantic leaves and vines that surrounded them were amazing. But they soon realized that they were no longer on the trail! Everyone looked all around for the path but could not find it. They tried to backtrack to where they had come from, but it seemed like the more they hunted for the path, the steeper and thicker and more difficult the jungle became. Father and Grandfather were very frustrated. Eventually they found a stream and started to follow it down the side of the mountain. But the vines and jungle growth were so dense that it soon became impossible to travel any farther.
Although they didn’t complain, Christine and Spencer were not having fun anymore. They knew that they were lost. To make things worse, Christine had stumbled on a root and hurt her leg, and Spencer was tormented by swarms of mosquitoes. The group searched for the missing trail for about two hours and were getting scared.
Grandfather said, “We need to pray. We need Father in Heaven’s help to guide us back to the path.”
Everyone humbly knelt in the steep, thick jungle by the stream with the mosquitoes buzzing around them. Grandfather prayed, asking Heavenly Father to help them find the trail. Everything became quiet and peaceful. Grandfather rose to his feet and started walking. Christine, Spencer, and their father followed. In less than five minutes, they were standing on the hiking trail! In astonishment, they all shouted for joy. Everyone knew that they had been guided by an answer to prayer.
It didn’t take long for them to hike up the ridge to a spectacular, breathtaking view of The Needle. At the base of the peak, they stopped to rest and have lunch. But first they prayed again to Heavenly Father to thank Him for guiding them to safety.
After lunch, they hiked down the trail and along the rugged mountainside and on to the other side of the island. They met the rest of their family by a beautiful waterfall. Christine and Spencer told how they had lost the trail in the dense jungle and how, through an answer to Grandfather’s prayer, they had found it.

A bishop, no matter how skilled in administrative matters, must be a friend to children, youth, and adults if he is to help them reach their spiritual potential. I was touched once when a young woman I knew went to her bishop to confess a serious transgression. She had been worried about how the bishop might react to her deviation from the gospel path and had only gone to him after considerable urging. When I asked her afterward what his response had been, she told me with great emotion that her bishop had wept with her and that in working with him to gain the Lord’s forgiveness, she now considered her bishop to be one of her best friends.

I thought of the little boy, born in Sharon in December of 1805, given his father’s name. I reflected on that terrifying period of sickness when typhus fever struck the family and osteomyelitis, with great pain and debilitating infection, settled in Joseph’s leg. That was while the family lived in Lebanon, New Hampshire; and how remarkable it was that only a few miles away, at the academy in Hanover, was Dr. Nathan Smith, perhaps then the only surgeon in the United States—if not in the world—who had developed a procedure by which that infected leg might be saved.

But it was not to be accomplished without terrible suffering. In fact, today it is difficult to conceive of how the little boy stood it as his father held him in his arms and his mother walked and prayed among the trees of the farm to escape his screams while the surgeon made the long incision and with forceps broke off the portions of infected bone without benefit of anesthesia of any kind. Perhaps remembrance of that intense suffering made a little more bearable for Joseph Smith the later tarring and feathering at Kirtland, the foul jail at Liberty, and the shots of the mob at Carthage.

After the closing prayer at my cousin’s Eagle Scout court of honor, somebody rolled out a cart with bowls of ice cream and a variety of toppings. I was one of the first to get to the refreshments. As I poured chocolate syrup over my ice cream, I laughed with my brothers and cousins.
While eating, I looked around the room. We were in the gym, and metal folding chairs had been set up for the audience. Most of the chairs were empty now. People were gathered in small groups talking and laughing. My great-grandma Clark sat alone.
Grandma Clark had once been an energetic world traveler, but a couple of strokes had left her frail. I crossed the room, sat down next to her, and asked if I could get her some ice cream.
Grandma simply said, “Michael’s getting me some.”
I turned and saw my father, Michael, walking towards us with an ice-cream sundae. He was always thinking of others.
My father often encouraged me to serve others, but it was through his example that I really learned how to serve.

My best friend in high school was an agnostic. My friend said he didn’t know if there was a God, but if a God created us, He must have gone far away and left us all alone. Why else would so many bad things happen in this world? How could a God who watched over His children let them be hurt so much?
I understood why some people did bad things. I knew about agency and the effects of choices we make. My widowed mother had taught me about those things at home. I knew the gospel was the right way to live. I saw it work for my mother in her life, and I knew in my mind that it was the way Heavenly Father wanted us to live.
But I didn’t know this where it really counted—in my heart. I thought I was sure of the truth, but sometimes I had my own “why” and “what if” questions about God and His plan for us. I wasn’t so sure of what I “knew” that I could tell my friend and mean it with every part of me.
That kind of knowing did not come until I took a Book of Mormon class while I was in college. Sister Irene Spears taught the class as if the Book of Mormon were completely new to us. In a way it was for me; I had never read the book all the way through. When I reached the end, I found Moroni’s promise to readers: “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moroni 10:4). I knew this promise was to me. I got on my knees beside my bed to ask.
I didn’t expect an answer to be so strong or to come so fast. Before I could finish the words of my prayer, I knew that the Book of Mormon was the word of God and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. If those things were true, then David O. McKay was also a prophet, and he had said that every young man who was able should go on a mission, so I was going on a mission.

Peter McBride was a six-year-old boy who was probably hungrier, colder, and more exhausted than you have ever been. But he couldn’t go inside to warm up or buy food at the store. He could only go inside his tent, which collapsed on him one night and froze to his hair. He could only eat whatever he could find, like boiled ox hide and tree bark. Peter was a member of the Edward Martin Handcart Company.
Members of this company had come from faraway England. Problems delayed their journey to the Salt Lake Valley, and by October they were running out of food. All Peter and his baby sister were given to eat was a little flour each day. Early winter storms came, making pulling a handcart very difficult. Many were dying from cold and exhaustion.
When they came to the North Platte River, Peter said his father “worked hard all day pushing and pulling handcarts through the icy waters of that dangerous river,” helping people reach the other side. Peter’s father had a beautiful singing voice, and before he went to bed that night, he sang about how he longed to be in Zion. “The wind was blowing very cold,” Peter described. “The snow drifted in and covered our tent.”1 The next morning, Peter’s father was dead. Peter cried as he watched his father’s body being buried beneath the snow.
Peter’s older sister Jenetta was left in charge because their mother was sick. Jenetta often walked to the river to get water for cooking, even though her shoes had worn out. Her bare feet left bloody footprints in the snow wherever she went. Realizing they could go no further, the company camped near the Sweetwater River and hoped that help would arrive before it was too late.
A group of missionaries returning home to the Salt Lake Valley passed the struggling pioneers and told Brigham Young about them. Immediately, he called for 20 rescue wagons to be sent. At last, Peter and the pioneers joyfully caught sight of the wagons approaching. Peter said that “men, women, and children knelt down and thanked the Almighty God for [their] delivery from certain death.”2
The rescue teams could not carry enough food and supplies to relieve all the suffering, but they helped give the pioneers courage to continue. Together, they crossed the Sweetwater River and found shelter amid the rocks now known as Martin’s Cove. There, most of the company left their handcarts behind. The weakest pioneers rode in the wagons, and others walked until more wagons came, giving enough room for everyone to ride the rest of the way. On November 30, 1856, Peter and the handcart pioneers arrived safely in the Salt Lake Valley—where they remained faithful Church members for the rest of their lives.

Lauren had just finished her nightly prayer and started to get into bed when she noticed the hat. Chuckling, she picked it up from the desk chair where Sarah had left it. It was just like Sarah to forget her hat. She was always forgetting things.
Lauren put Sarah’s hat next to her own on the dresser. The two were identical, except that Lauren’s was slightly larger. They had bought the hats together at the first of the summer and had worn them all summer long. It was hard to believe that school would be starting next week. But there were still a few days left, and they had spent the afternoon planning just how to spend every minute until school started.
Sarah and Lauren had been best friends since before kindergarten. They had been in the same class every year in school. They both had red hair, brown eyes, and freckles. They both loved peppermint ice cream, the color lavender, the same books, the same games, the same music, and the same people. Everywhere one went, the other wanted to go too. They were almost inseparable.
As Lauren turned again to get into bed, Mom came into her room. Lauren’s smile faded when she saw her mom’s face. Something was very wrong.
“Lauren, I have something very hard to tell you,” Mom said, sitting next to Lauren on the bed. “This evening Sarah was out riding her bike with her brother. She was hit by a car.”
“Hit by a car! Was she hurt? Where is she now—in the hospital? I have to go see her right now!”
“Sweetheart, Sarah died instantly. I’m sorry.”
“Died! She can’t have! I was with her all day long. She left her hat here. We’re going swimming tomorrow morning. Then bike riding, then …” Tears streamed down Lauren’s face, and she shook all over. Her mind kept racing on: Sarah can’t be dead! We’re going to be in the same class next week. We’re going to wear look-alike outfits the first day.
Mom held Lauren tightly as she sobbed. When the sobs quieted, Mom said, “I know how sad and hurt you feel right now. It always hurts a lot when you lose someone you love. This is a very hard time for you right now. But remember that Sarah is surely happy in the spirit world. She loved Heavenly Father very much.”
“It’s not fair!” Lauren cried. “It’s not fair at all! Why should Sarah have to die? She’s too good—why couldn’t some bad person die? She’s just eleven years old—why couldn’t Heavenly Father take some old person who was ready to die?”
“I know it doesn’t seem fair, and we may never understand in this life. But we can’t change what has already happened. And we must learn, somehow, to accept it.”
Lauren cried herself to sleep that night. She cried all the next day too. She cried not only for Sarah, but for herself. She didn’t know how she could go on living without her best friend. How could she go to school without Sarah? She wondered if Sarah was missing her as much as she missed Sarah. Where was heaven, anyway? What was it like? Would Sarah have a best friend there too? A thousand more questions kept going around in Lauren’s mind.
The night before Sarah’s funeral, Lauren suddenly became very frightened. She had never been to a funeral before. What was it going to be like? What would happen? Would it be scary? She didn’t want anyone to put her best friend into the ground and just leave her. The tears and sobs started again, even harder than before.
As Lauren sobbed, she felt Mom’s arms around her. “Mom, what is it going to be like tomorrow at the funeral? What will happen? Does it hurt to be buried?”
Mom held her tightly as all Lauren’s questions and fears tumbled out. Mom was quiet at first, looking as though she couldn’t quite put her thoughts into words. Then she smiled through her own misty eyes and said, “You wait here, I’ll be right back.” A minute later she came back carrying a package of photographs. “Lauren, Dad picked these up from the camera shop today.” She handed Lauren a package of photos.
Lauren looked at the one on top, and there gazing back at her was Sarah. Sarah was smiling and waving. Lauren looked back at Mom.
“These are the photos we took of you and Sarah at our picnic last month, remember?”
Of course Lauren did. How could she ever forget such a fun day? She studied each photo. There were Sarah and she splashing in the creek with their pant legs rolled up. There they were climbing like monkeys in an old oak tree. How did Sarah keep her hat on when she was hanging by her knees in the tree? Lauren wondered as she looked at that photo. She started to laugh when she saw Sarah pulling one of her funny faces in the last photo. It felt so good to laugh again. For just a moment she forgot that Sarah had died.
“These photos aren’t actually Sarah, are they?” Mom asked. “They’re just likenesses. Even after a photo is taken of a person, that person goes on living. The likeness is left for others to see. Well, sort of like these photos, Sarah’s earthly body is left, but the real Sarah is living still. Unlike a photograph, her body will be buried, so you won’t be able to see it after tomorrow, but Sarah has gone on without her earthly body for a while. I want you to remember that tomorrow and always, Lauren.”
Mom went on to explain what the funeral would be like the next day. It helped Lauren to know what to expect. Although there wouldn’t be anything spooky or scary, she was still a little afraid. It helped to know that her parents would be with her.
Beautiful music was playing softly as Lauren and her parents entered the meetinghouse the next day. Lauren’s stomach felt empty and strange as they walked into the chapel. There were lots of people. Everyone looked sad. Lauren fought back the tears as they walked to the front of the chapel, where Sarah’s family was. Lauren held Mom’s hand tightly as she went up to Sarah’s mother, who had always seemed almost like Mom. When Sarah’s mother saw Lauren, she bent down and hugged Lauren close for a long while. When she stood up, Lauren saw tears and pain in her eyes.
“I thought you might like to have this photo of Sarah,” Lauren said, handing her one of the new photos.
Sarah’s mother’s face lit up with a smile as she studied the photo. “Thank you, Lauren. Thank you so much.”
Lauren and her parents sat down then. All through the funeral, Lauren saw Sarah’s mother looking down at her photo. As she looked at it, a small smile would cross her face. Lauren knew that the photo was helping Sarah’s mother remember that she and Sarah would be together again someday.
Lauren knew that Sarah was still her best friend. She would miss Sarah, but she was sure that Sarah was happy in the spirit world.

When Nickie and James go for a walk, I always want to go too. But they say, “You can’t keep up. You walk too slow.”
So I get sad, and Mom says, “Take him along.”
But by the time I get to the mailbox, they’re already climbing the tree. When I get to the tree, they’re throwing rocks in the creek. And when I get to the creek, they’re halfway up the hill. I guess they’re right—I walk too slow.
When Mom asks who wants to take our dog, Boris, for a walk, I say, “Me! Me!” She looks worried but hands me the leash. Then Boris drags me down the stairs, and I slip on the grass, and I stub my toes on the rocks. I guess I walk too slow.
When Daddy says, “Who wants to walk to the post office with me?” I grab his hand. But Daddy’s legs are long, and I have to take three steps every time he takes one. Daddy goes for a walk, but I go for a run. I guess I walk too slow.
But when I walk with Grandpa, he takes small steps like mine. We have time to look for rocks, watch bugs, and touch the bark and moss on trees. And when I walk with Grandpa, we talk about things. I like to walk with Grandpa. He walks too slow—just like me!

Later, when Valentine, a priest in Rome killed about A.D. 270 during the persecution of early Christians, was made a saint, his feast day was established on February fourteenth. In time, the two feast days were combined.
One legend is that Valentine is the patron saint of lovers: Roman soldiers did not want to leave their homes to fight, so the emperor, Claudius II, ordered young men not to marry. He believed that if they didn’t have homes, they would be more willing to go away and fight. Valentine felt sorry for the unhappy young men and their sweethearts and married many of them secretly. So today, sweethearts still celebrate in his honor.

President Benson’s own expressions indicate this love for temples. He reflected:
“I remember so well, as a little boy, coming in from the field and approaching the old farm house. … I could hear my mother singing, ‘Have I Done Any Good in the World Today?’ … I can still see her in my mind’s eye bending over the ironing board … with beads of perspiration on her forehead.” She was ironing long strips of white cloth, with newspapers on the floor to keep them clean. “When I asked her what she was doing, she said, ‘These are temple robes, my son. Your father and I are going to the temple at Logan.’
“Then she put the old flatiron on the stove, drew a chair close to mine, and told me about temple work—how important it is to be able to go to the temple and participate in the sacred ordinances performed there. She also expressed her fervent hope that some day her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren would have the opportunity to enjoy those priceless blessings.” He continued, “I am happy to say that her fondest hopes in large measure have been realized.”

I am reminded of an experience I had while I was in Canada. I worked side by side for a number of years with a man who was not a member of the Church. I had been reluctant to approach the subject of religion for fear of putting a strain on our friendly relationship. But finally I felt impressed to see if he were interested in learning about Mormonism and the gospel of Jesus Christ. He expressed interest and immediately thereafter he and his wife attended Sunday services with us. They, with their children, soon joined the Church, and they have indeed made a great contribution in time and talent. The parents have just returned from presiding over a mission, and the children have made contributions in various areas of service, and some have filled missions. What a loss to the Church if I had neglected my responsibility to tell them the good news of the gospel message!

On one occasion when he chastised me for waiting so long before telling him about the Church and thus keeping his family from enjoying the blessings of the gospel, I determined that would not happen again and that I would be more aware of who I was and act accordingly.

Over the centuries, other stories of miraculous happenings relating to Sabbath day observance have been preserved. One is the story of the cobbler working under one of the megalithic stones in Avebury, near Stonehenge, England:
“‘One Sunday,’ wrote John Saunders in his journal for August 13, 1712, ‘a cobler was mending of shoos under one of these great stones. The minute he rose the stone fell down and broke in pieces on the very ground where he sat which made him see the great providence of God in preserving him alive and so deter him from braking the Sabbath for which reason he never more worked on the Sabbath day’” (Michael Pitts, Footprints through Avebury [Dorchester, England: The Friary Press Limited, 1985], pp. 31–32).

While attending this university, we hear this vision very often. We are familiar with this message, we know it. So much so that we often forget its significance as we grow busy with our everyday demands. While I have been here, I've had the opportunity and privilege also to work at the Polynesian Cultural Center for the promotional team. I consider myself very fortunate to have been able to travel with them to other countries on several trips. Just this past April we traveled to Japan for a 10-day trip. It was a tiring trip that required a lot of effort from the team members. With two main shows every night, our bodies suffered from jet lag and not having sufficient rest. We prayed morning and evening together for the strength to carry on through the days and for the Spirit's guidance. Each night that we performed, we noticed that they crowd was staying around. They wouldn't leave. They felt something that was peaceful and good. They could not recognize what it was, but they felt something special. Every night, my heart was touched as I witnessed the poser of the Holy Ghost., It may have just been dancing that they saw, but it was the pricking of their hearts that invited them to stay. Little did I realize how our influence could be felt, even in a country so far away from ours. What little things we do can greatly affect those around us and I pray that we engage in good causes and be worthy of the Spirit. If we do so, there is no reason why our influence won't be felt for the good, or for the better.