Gospel Story Finder

Walking down the steps that led to the basement of our meetinghouse, I caught sight of my mother, hunched over a strange-looking machine, peering at illuminated pages in a darkened room and straining to read old documents. Still a young child, I didn’t understand what my mother did every Tuesday night for two hours in this quiet room. I had been sent to retrieve her from the church’s depths because Mutual had ended and my family wanted to go home.
My mother’s dedication to family history confused me for years. I often heard Church leaders stress the importance of participating in family history, but it seemed like an overwhelming task to me. Besides, it looked so boring.
“What satisfaction could she possibly receive from poring over lists of dead people’s names,” I wondered one afternoon as a teenager after dropping her off at the family history center. I continued in this vein of skepticism until, little by little, I began to wade into the waters of my ancestry.
The first time I felt the appeal of family history occurred during the Christmas break of my freshman year at BYU. One evening, as the rest of the family boisterously played a board game in the living room, I found myself seated at the kitchen table with my mom and older sister. The conversation soon turned to relatives, particularly my mother’s dad and his parents.
My great-grandparents, Orla and Roger, died in their 20s, leaving my grandfather and his brother in the care of Roger’s family. After Orla’s death, her father, Robert, died of appendicitis. A short time later, her mother fell, cracked her skull, and suffered several strokes, becoming bedridden. Orla’s oldest sisters, Thelma and Ena, then carried the full burden of supporting the family—a difficult task for two young, unmarried women in the late 1920s.
It was all so fascinating to learn about people I felt connected to but had never met. I was amazed by the trials my family had faced. Hearing it all made my own problems seem so small in comparison.
Several months later, with my mother’s story crowded into the recesses of my mind by school and work, I received an assignment in one of my classes at Brigham Young University to find 8 to 10 primary documents containing the name of one of my ancestors.
My genealogical training to that point consisted of singing the Primary song “Family History—I Am Doing It,” but grades weren’t negotiable in my mind, so I began at the only place I could think to start—Orla’s family. I looked her up on a pedigree chart and traced her line back until I found her grandfather, Joseph Argyle Jr.
One afternoon, I made the trek across the BYU campus to the library and into the family history library. I explained to a worker who Joseph Argyle was and the little information I knew about him.
For the next two hours, that worker guided me through a treasure hunt, which took us all over the library. We searched records of Mormon passengers on emigrant vessels, discovering that Joseph and his family crossed the Atlantic on a ship. Later that year, he traveled to Salt Lake Valley with the Ellsworth handcart company, which we found in a record book of handcart companies. We looked through the Endowment House records (found where he received his temple ordinances), the Utah death index (he lived to 84), and old Church membership records (there he was).
In an online database of Utah newspaper archives, I found a front-page obituary for my great-great-great grandfather. Published in the Davis County Clipper in February 1927, every sentence contained an interesting fact, such as Joseph’s contribution to the building of the Salt Lake Temple.
“He has the credit of having hauled the largest stone put in that building which weighed 13,000 pounds,” the article read.
I began to get a glimpse of the impact we can have on future generations when I discovered he had 88 descendants at the time of his death, a number which increased exponentially in the past 79 years.
Every time I found another document with my ancestors’ names on it, I felt a little tingle of excitement run through my body. It was like a mystery novel, putting all the pieces together, little by little beginning to understand who this man was. I became so immersed in learning about my ancestor, I didn’t leave until late in the afternoon, almost missing work!
I completed the assignment and received an A, but even more importantly, I created a tangible connection with one of my relatives. Joseph Argyle left his home, sailed across the ocean, traveled to Utah and helped build the temple, all because he believed in the gospel of Jesus Christ, a legacy which I inherited and which gives me the strength to fight my own battles in the 21st century.
I am a link in the chain of Joseph Argyle, and I can pass on his example to strengthen my children and their children. There are others I can help as well. The temple work for the vast majority of my ancestors has yet to be completed, and hundreds, even thousands, of my ancestors are waiting for me to do my part.
For more information on how to get started on your family history, visit your local family history center or go to www.familysearch.org.

Since my childhood I have heard members of the Church bear testimony of the Book of Mormon. I thought the words “I know it is true” were just traditional words that every member recited. It wasn’t until I entered the mission field to serve in Nigeria that I learned the truth behind the words.
One night my companion and I were returning home. We were riding our bicycles on a dark, untarred road that had deteriorated because of rain. Due to the water and the condition of the road, my companion crashed and fell off his bike. His clothing, his scripture bag—everything he had—was stained and wet.
When we finally reached our apartment, we carefully cleaned and dried everything damaged in the accident—except for the two copies of the Book of Mormon that remained in his bag after our day of proselytizing. I thought we didn’t need to worry about those copies because we had so many more in our apartment.
Several months after the incident, I was looking for a way to fix my torn hymnbook cover. I came across the stained copies of the Book of Mormon we had abandoned on a shelf and saw that the covers would be good for fixing my hymnbook. But as I was about to cut the covers off the books, I was pierced in my heart: “Is this not the book you are preaching about? Is this the way to treat it? What would your investigators think?” I sat down and pondered for a long time. Then, instead of cutting the covers, I cleaned them with soapy water, dried them, and carefully placed them back on our bookshelf.
From this experience I came to know that for a long time I had been living on a borrowed testimony of the Book of Mormon, even though I had attended seminary and institute. I have since come closer to this book, and I value it much more. I realize that our conviction of the sacredness of the Book of Mormon comes as we get to know it through experiences of the heart. By reading, pondering, and applying the teachings of the Book of Mormon, I have come to know it is true.

Recently I heard a father tell of the powerful influence his own testimony and example had in the life of his daughter. His lovely daughter was being pursued by an ardent admirer—one who had unfortunately turned away from the Church and who, through his wrongdoings, had been cut off from the blessings of the priesthood and Church membership. This girl thought she loved him and believed she might be happy with him.

Her concerned parents invited the young man into their home and tried to convince him of the need to put his life in order and to follow Christ. The father bore a fervent testimony of the reality of the Savior and of the joy that comes through obedience to his gospel. However, his words were rejected by the young man. In fact, the boy scoffed at such ideas and afterward tried to convince the girl that her father was old-fashioned and a hypocrite.

This accusation, the father said, was the young man’s undoing. That daughter defended her father and his beliefs. She knew him. She knew the validity of his testimony. She knew her father lived as he believed—his sincere love of the gospel and his example of living its teachings she could not doubt nor deny.

Her love she would save for another whose testimony was like that of her father, whose life would be blessed with the joy and peace that comes from living the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Today she is the wife of such a man, a happy mother of a lovely family born in the covenant of an eternal marriage. Oh, how blessed is the influence of a righteous father!

In spite of how hard that experience was, I forgave my friends for what they did. I knew they didn’t understand my standards and my decision to live the Word of Wisdom, so I forgave them and chose not to have any bad feelings toward them. When we finished school, I left on my mission but continued to communicate with Juan and Francisco. I wrote them frequent letters sharing with them the gospel and my testimony of Jesus Christ. I invited them to repent and to attend church. To my great surprise, one of them actually went.
I had frequently invited my friends to Sunday meetings before, but none had accepted until now. Although I couldn’t attend with Juan, my brothers and my father were there to help him and fellowship him. My family accepted him, and Juan felt very comfortable at church. He started changing little by little until he made the decision to get baptized. I was thrilled for him and even more thrilled when he told me he had learned to love Jesus Christ because of my letters. When I came home from my mission, I also stayed close with Francisco, and after some time, he and his wife also got baptized. Today, Juan and Francisco are still two of my closest friends.

Many years ago I attended a large gathering of Church members in the city of Berlin, Germany. A spirit of quiet reverence permeated the gathering as an organ prelude of hymns was played. I gazed at those who sat before me. There were mothers and fathers and relatively few children. The majority of those who sat on crowded benches were women about middle age—and alone. Suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps these were widows, having lost their husbands during World War II. My curiosity demanded an answer to my unexpressed thought, so I asked the conducting officer to take a sort of standing roll call. When he asked all those who were widows to please arise, it seemed that half the vast throng stood. Their faces reflected the grim effect of war’s cruelty. Their hopes had been shattered, their lives altered, and their future had in a way been taken from them. Behind each countenance was a personal travail of tears. I addressed my remarks to them and to all who have loved, then lost, those most dear.
Frederick W. Babbel, who accompanied Elder Ezra Taft Benson on his postwar visit to Europe to assist the struggling Saints, recounts in his book On Wings of Faith one heartrending account. A woman, even the mother of four small children, had been newly widowed. Her husband, young and handsome, whom she loved more than life itself, had been killed during the final days of the frightful battles in their homeland of East Prussia. She and her children were forced to flee to West Germany, a distance of a thousand miles. The weather was mild as they began their long and difficult trek on foot. Constantly being faced with dangers from panicky refugees and marauding troops was difficult enough, but then came the cold of winter, with its accompanying snow and ice. Her resources were meager; now they were gone. All she had was her strong faith in God and in the gospel as revealed to the latter-day prophet Joseph Smith.
And then one morning the unthinkable happened. She awakened with a chill in her heart. The tiny form of her three-year-old daughter was cold and still, and she realized that death had claimed her. With great effort the mother prepared a shallow grave and buried her precious child.
Death, however, was to be her companion again and again on the journey. Her seven-year-old perished, and then her five-year-old. Her despair was all-consuming. Finally, as she was reaching the end of her travel, the baby died in her arms. She had lost her husband and all her children. She had given up all her earthly goods, her home, and even her homeland.
From the depths of her despair, she knelt and prayed more fervently than she had ever prayed in her life: “Dear Heavenly Father, I do not know how I can go on. I have nothing left—except my faith in thee. I feel amidst the desolation of my soul an overwhelming gratitude for the atoning sacrifice of thy Son, Jesus Christ. I know that because he suffered and died, I shall live again with my family; that because he broke the chains of death, I shall see my children again in the flesh and will have the joy of raising them. Though I do not at this moment wish to live, I will do so, that we may be reunited as a family and return, together, to thee.” This prayer, this testimony sustained her until finally she reached Karlsruhe, her destination.

My young friend whom I’ll call Lindsey needed hope. She lived in a home which was devoid of the Spirit and of love. Her friends were wild, and even most of her Young Women leaders looked on her only as a “project.” But deep inside she felt that the Lord loved her, despite her deplorable situation. She focused on always remembering Him. She chose not to participate with her friends when they did bad things. She tried to worship Heavenly Father in the privacy of her own bedroom because she wanted to feel His Spirit in her life. Something in her wanted to be good, to keep His commandments. Even with her limited knowledge and lack of outside help, she was trying to keep her baptismal covenants. She felt hope to carry on, and she felt love from Heavenly Father.

Like the Saints in Missouri, Lindsey knew that in spite of her deplorable conditions, Heavenly Father hadn’t given up on her. His love was firm. She took comfort in the “immutable covenant” of His love—that “all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good” (D&C 98:3). As with Abraham, hers was not an easy path to walk, yet she pressed forward. As she did so, she found help. One special Church leader loved and guided her. She grew closer to Heavenly Father and eventually found a young man who loved her, taught her much about the gospel, and married her.

At last many of the blessings she had longed for earlier in life were poured out upon her. She found she could have the Spirit in her own family and raise righteous children. Where once she was isolated and neglected, she now feels enveloped by love. This has come from pressing forward while waiting patiently on the Lord. Being steadfast in Christ brought hope to Lindsey as it will to each of us as we struggle with life’s challenges. The words the choir sings tonight will encourage us to come unto Him:

I once took my little grandson to a seafood restaurant. They had a large tank full of live lobsters. My grandson watched with awe as the lobsters moved around in the tank, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they would soon be selected for somebody’s dinner. My grandson watched entranced for a while and then asked me, “There is no lid on the tank and it’s not very deep. Why don’t the lobsters just crawl out and go home? And then nobody will eat them.” We watched for a few minutes more, and then I noticed a curious phenomenon. If one lobster began to try to crawl out of the tank, the others would grab, pull, push, or tug to get the lobster back down into the tank. None could escape and go home because they were all too busy pulling each other back into the tank. I wondered what would happen if they ever figured out that if they could lift and help each other, there might not be any more lobster on the menu of that restaurant.

Sometimes people behave like the lobsters. If one gets a little ahead or looks like they might have figured out a way to safety, others clamor to pull them back, and in so doing, no one escapes. Why do people do this? Is it jealousy?

There is another angle for us to look at regarding the forsaking of sins. When I was first called to work with the missionaries at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, I quickly learned that by far most of the elders and sisters were prepared and worthy to be there. Those who were not soon found that they couldn’t learn the lessons and they couldn’t learn to love their companion; nothing seemed to go right because they couldn’t get the Spirit, and they couldn’t get the Spirit because they were not clean. Those few had to return home and repent, and then many of them were able to return to the MTC and make it work.

About a year and a half ago, my friend Billy Casper invited me to participate with him in his induction to the Golf Hall of Fame. Now that’s a singular honor for an athlete, to be sure. They had quite a few notables there, and, along with the activity of the induction itself, I was invited to play in the pro-am tournament.

Do you ladies understand that kind of terminology? It is a one-day event where the amateurs are teamed up with the professionals in a golf tournament, and it is a spectacular thing for those who take part. I was paired off with two very fine amateurs and with Larry Nelson, the young golf professional who is making quite a name for himself. He’s a devout Christian. We had tremendous opportunity for eighteen holes to talk about you and me and the restoration of the gospel. What I didn’t know is how many Latter-day Saints (this was in North Carolina) would come out to watch a General Authority in a tournament. I think half the Saints from North Carolina to Florida came out, and they carried placards around encouraging and giving support. And many on the golf course were wondering who Elder Dunn was.

We reached the fifteenth hole, where the gallery begins (if you’ve followed golf tournaments, you appreciate that from about the fifteenth to the eighteenth hole the gallery increases in goodly number. The television cameras are often very active at that point). When I reached the fifteenth tee, the hole was a 205-yard, par-3, elevated green, and it was well trapped. In tournaments they go to special effort to make it a little more difficult. The two amateurs hit beautiful shots, with both balls hitting somewhere between 6 and 12 yards from the hole. Larry Nelson put his 6 feet from the hole. Now it was Elder Dunn’s turn, and many in the gallery were LDS. I could hear them saying, “Come on, Brother Dunn; come on, Brother Dunn.”

Larry Nelson, the golf pro, walked over and said, “I never knew anybody with so many brothers and sisters.” So again we had a chance to talk a little about the Church.

Well, a 205-yard, elevated green for me is somewhere between a 3-iron and a 5-wood. I debated. I have a little more accuracy and direction with a 5-wood. I removed it from the golf bag, teed up my ball, and hit a beautiful drive, but the lip of the sand trap just in front of the green caught the ball. The ball lodged itself right up under the lip. And I heard an “O-h-h-h” go out across the audience.

As I approached my next shot (there were the three balls on the green), the gallery tuned up again, “Come on, Brother Dunn; come on, Brother Dunn.” I walked into the sand trap. In professional play, I guess you know, the rules are very strict. If the blade of that iron touches the sand, it is a two-stroke penalty. My ball was up under a lip. You could barely see the white. I took out a sand wedge and walked into the trap—it looked like the side of the Matterhorn. I planted my left foot so that it was almost eye level. I didn’t bow my head, but I did say a little prayer. I said something to the effect, “Lord, I am doing this for you.” I hit a shot out of there that I believe registered 8 on the Richter scale. It took out a large piece of turf and a shovel full of sand, and the ball went straight in the air about 40 feet. It came down two inches from the hole. Larry Nelson, the pro, walked over and said, “Paul, I gotta know more about your church.”

We finished the round and had a little fun with it, and that gave me a great chance to discuss you and me and what we represent. I find wherever I go people are seeking and looking; they don’t always know where to find; and you and I have wonderful opportunities to teach. I think you can be as much of a missionary at a ball game, if the climate is right, as you can sometimes in a living room or knocking on a door.

Friends mean a lot to Shawn. He wants to be able to trust everybody, but he’s already met people who just want to take advantage of him. “Deep down I can sense their motives. I can tell when people want to know me for what I am, not who I am. I think it’s the Holy Ghost saying, ‘Be careful.’”

“People ask, is he conceited?” says Corinne. “He’s not at all. He’s very ordinary. He never gives you the feeling that he thinks he is better than anyone else. He’s always quick to say he’s sorry if he does something wrong.”

In his ward, Shawn’s bishop, Scott Johansen says, “He’s quiet, friendly, and very considerate of others. He goes out of his way to cheer others up. He would be an outstanding young man even if he were shorter than he is.”

When asked to think about someone Shawn has helped, his friend Bill Wright thought for a fraction of a second before answering, “He’s helped me. He’s incredibly caring. He puts everybody ahead of himself. My mother died two years ago, and he was the only one of my friends who came to her funeral. That has stuck with me. He was so caring and thought about me so much. He’s always there for me when I’m feeling bad.”

When asked what advice he would give to young people, Shawn says, “It bothers me when people don’t think well of themselves. They need to have high self-esteem. If I had advice for anyone anywhere, it would be that you have got to think of yourself as the Lord would think of you, as one of His children.” Maybe that’s part of Shawn’s secret, why he treats people with such kindness and courtesy.

And his ability to see the good side to things has something to do with his favorite scripture, 2 Nephi 2:11. “That’s the one that talks about opposition in all things,” says Shawn. “If something goes wrong, I say, well, there is opposition in all things. This is the opposition. You have to put it aside and go on.”

Shawn has learned how to take gospel truths into his life and let them guide his actions and decisions. It is in this way that he continues to grow.

Yes, Shawn Bradley is tall, and he is definitely someone to look up to.

Since this article was written, Shawn has received his mission call. He is now serving in the Australia Sydney mission.

I had given our third-row seats in the chapel to the missionaries and their investigators and resettled my little family in the last row of folding chairs in the cultural hall. Unknown to me, my nine-year-old daughter, Tracy, was planning to bear her testimony that fast Sunday for the first time in her life.
Three times during the meeting, Tracy stood up and began to walk toward the pulpit. Each time, another member of the congregation also arose and Tracy rushed back to her seat. The hour was growing late. I told her, “Honey, you have to keep going. You can’t give up.”
At the conclusion of the next testimony, she drew a deep breath and began the long walk. The only other person who stood up was the first counselor, who addressed the congregation with gratitude for the testimonies borne. Tracy kept walking.
The organist began the introduction to the closing hymn. Tracy kept walking.
As the congregation sang, Tracy kept walking.
Tears streamed down my face as she took a seat beside the second counselor. He put his arm around her and whispered in her ear. Then, before the benediction, the first counselor announced that one more testimony would be borne that day.
Her head held high, Tracy bore the sweetest testimony—that of a child whose Primary classmates had all been baptized but her. She alone had not entered the waters of baptism, because her father had not yet given his permission.
Tracy remained steadfast. Praying that she would be granted the desire of her heart, she “kept walking.” She never gave up.
That same counselor who put his arm around her at the testimony meeting later conducted her baptismal service. Never had I seen a child as aglow—with the possible exception of her younger sister, who was baptized that same day.
This wasn’t the end of the story, though. In June 1999, Tracy’s father was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. One year later, Tracy’s smile glowed brighter than ever when her family was sealed for all eternity in the Oakland California Temple.

Once upon a time, in a very small village, there lived two brothers. Peter, the older brother, was very smart and strong. He did everything well.
He planted his garden in nice straight rows.
He gathered his hay and straw into neat bundles.
He fed his chickens and cow well.
He chopped wood exactly the right size and piled it neatly by his little stove.
He kept his little cottage and the shelters for his animals clean and dry.
Yes, Peter did everything well.
Putter, the younger brother, was also smart and strong, but he did very little well. He played his guitar very nicely, and he sang beautifully, but that is all he did well. People thought Putter was lazy. Peter loved his brother and his brother’s music, so he was content to do most of the work for both of them.
When Putter was little, he followed Peter around as he did his chores.
“Let me help you,” Putter would beg.
Peter would hand him seeds to drop into the straight rows that Peter had plowed. But soon he would yell, “Putter, stop! Your seeds are not exactly the same distance apart. You don’t know how to do this.”
“I can learn,” Putter said.
“I can do it better myself,” said Peter.
When he was a little bigger, Putter got some hay to feed the cow. “Stop!” said Peter. “You’re not taking the right amount, and you’re dropping some on the ground.”
“Show me the right way, and I’ll do it,” cried Putter.
“No, I’ll do it myself. Why don’t you try feeding the chickens.”
Putter scattered corn for the chickens and laughed as they clucked around him. But no sooner had he started than Peter came rushing over to the chicken coop. “Stop!” he yelled. “You’re feeding them too much. They’ll grow swollen and sick, and I’ll run out of chicken feed.”
“Just tell me how much to give them, Brother. I want to help,” said Putter.
“No, you can sing and play, but stay out of my way while I’m working.”
Putter and his cat, Matilda, walked to the oak tree. He sat under it and played his guitar. He sang sweet songs, but he was not happy.
When he grew to be a young man, Putter decided that he must help his brother more, so while Peter was out working, he made a meal for him. He sang while he cooked, and he served Peter a dinner of soup, fresh bread, milk, and apples.
“This soup has too little salt,” said Peter, “and the bread is not crusty enough. My bread isn’t, either, but it’s better than yours. You had best let me do the cooking.”
One day Putter said, “Brother, I am too big and strong to allow you to do all the work and take care of me. I will move to the cottage down the road and have my own little farm.”
“How will you manage?” asked Peter.
“I will learn,” said Putter. He packed his things, picked up his guitar, and set out down the road with Matilda following. He got a cow, some chickens, some seeds, and an ax. He sang while he worked, and he worked very hard. He played his guitar and waited for his garden to grow.
When the green shoots came out of the ground, they were weak and straggly and the rows were very crooked. Some seeds had been planted too deep and didn’t come up at all. Some had been planted too shallow and were washed away by the rain or eaten by the birds.
“Oh dear,” said Putter. “I won’t have enough corn for my chickens. But I see now what I did wrong.”
The hay he planted grew a little, but Putter did not know how to tie and stack it properly or when to bring it in. One night, rain soaked it and made it moldy. “Oh dear,” Putter said. “I worked hard, but now there won’t be enough hay for the cow. However, I see now what I should have done.”
Winter was coming, so Putter chopped wood for his fire. When the snows came, he put some of the wood into his little potbellied stove. But the pieces were too long, and he could not close the door, so the fire burned too quickly, and soon his supply of wood was gone.
Matilda sat beside him while he played a sad song on his guitar. “I’m sorry, Matilda,” he said. “I’m a failure. I must admit my faults and take you and the cow and the chickens to my brother’s home, or we will all starve.”
He knocked on Peter’s door, but his brother did not open it. He knocked again. A weak voice called, “Come in.”
Putter found his brother in bed, looking very ill. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I was chopping wood. One piece was not exactly the right size, and when I trimmed it, the ax slipped, and I cut my foot deeply.”
“How glad I am that I came. I’ll do your chores and care for you until you’re well.”
“Oh dear,” Peter moaned as soon as Putter had gone out to the barn.
Putter tied his thin cow in the stall next to Peter’s fat cow. He looked to see how much hay Peter had set out for his cow, then gave both cows that same amount.
He put his chickens in the yard with Peter’s chickens. He looked at the corn Peter had measured out to feed the chickens, then added another measure just like it to feed all of them.
The sky looked a little stormy, so he gathered the neat piles of hay and straw and put them under shelter.
While Peter slept, Putter made dinner. “This time I will taste the soup so I will use enough salt. And I will butter the top before I bake the bread. That will make it crustier.”
While the soup simmered and the bread baked, Putter gathered apples and milked the cows. He chopped wood, too, remembering to make the pieces smaller.
When Peter awoke, the cottage was warm and cozy and smelled of good things. He heard sweet music and smiled. “I’m very hungry, Brother,” he said.
Peter tasted the meal that Putter had made. “Why, this is fine food, Brother. How did you do it?” Putter just smiled and strummed his guitar.
Peter tried to climb out of bed. “I must feed our cows and the chickens,” he said.
“I have done that already,” said Putter, gently pushing him back into bed.
“But you don’t know how!” Peter exclaimed. “And it’s raining! The hay will be wet—the firewood too.”
“They are dry, and the wood is chopped and stacked by the stove.”
Peter scratched his head. “How did you learn so much so quickly, Brother?”
Putter smiled again. “By my mistakes, I suppose. When I first played my guitar, I made many mistakes. Then I learned what I did wrong, and I improved. But when I made mistakes helping you, you never let me try again. In my little house, I did everything wrong. But God has blessed me with the brains to see my mistakes, and I am learning. Did you never make mistakes before you got so smart, Brother?”
“I suppose I did.” Peter thought a while. “Come to think of it, I’m still making mistakes. I kept my strong, smart brother from helping me, and I cut my own foot trying to be perfect. I’ll probably make more mistakes, but I hope you’ll stay here and help me.”
Putter played a happy tune on his guitar, Matilda curled up by the stove, and Peter smiled and tapped the floor with the foot that didn’t hurt.
“Perhaps you will show me how to make that delicious crusty bread, Brother,” said Peter.
“Of course I will.” Putter’s eyes twinkled as he added, “And if it doesn’t turn out well, I’ll let you try again until you get it right.”

Holiness to the Lord in everyday life looks like two faithful young adults, married for a year, sharing with authenticity and vulnerability gospel covenants, sacrifice, and service in their unfolding lives.
She begins, “In high school, I was in a dark place. I felt like God wasn’t there for me. One night, a text from a friend said, ‘Hey, have you read Alma 36 ever?’
“As I started reading,” she said, “I was overcome with peace and love. I felt like I was being given this big hug. When I read Alma 36:12, I knew Heavenly Father saw me and knew exactly how I was feeling.”
She continues, “Before we got married, I was honest with my fiancé that I didn’t have a great testimony of tithing. Why did God need us to give money when others had so much to give? My fiancé helped explain it’s not about money but following a commandment asked of us. He challenged me to start paying tithing.
“I really saw my testimony grow,” she said. “Sometimes money gets tight, but we saw so many blessings, and somehow paychecks were enough.”
Also, “in my nursing class,” she said, “I was the only member of the Church and the only one married. Many times I left class frustrated or crying because I felt classmates singled me out and made negative comments about my beliefs, my wearing my garments, or my being married so young.”
Yet she continues, “This past semester I learned how to better voice my beliefs and be a good gospel example. My knowledge and testimony grew because I was tested in my ability to stand alone and be strong in what I believe.”
The young husband adds, “Before my mission I had offers to play college baseball. Making the difficult decision, I put those offers aside and went to serve the Lord. I wouldn’t trade those two years for anything.
“Returning home,” he said, “I expected a difficult transition but found myself stronger, faster, and healthier. I was throwing harder than when I left. I had more offers to play than when I left, including my dream school. And, most importantly,” he said, “I rely upon the Lord more than ever.”
He concludes, “As a missionary I taught that Heavenly Father promises us power in our prayers, but sometimes I forget that for myself.”
Our treasury of missionary holiness-to-the-Lord blessings is rich and full. Finances, timing, and other circumstances are often not easy. But when missionaries of all ages and backgrounds consecrate holiness to the Lord, things can work out in the Lord’s time and way.
Now with a 48-year perspective, a senior missionary shares, “My dad wanted me to get a college education, not go on a mission. Shortly after that, he had a heart attack and died at age 47. I felt guilty. How could I make things right with my father?
“Later,” he continues, “after I decided to serve a mission, I saw my father in a dream. Peaceful and contented, he was happy I would serve.”
This senior missionary continues, “As Doctrine and Covenants section 138 teaches, I believe my father could serve as a missionary in the spirit world. I picture my father helping our great-grandfather, who left Germany at age 17 and was lost to the family, be found again.”
His wife adds, “Among the five brothers in my husband’s family, the four who served missions are the ones with college degrees.”
Holiness to the Lord in everyday life looks like a young returning missionary who learned to let God prevail in his life. Earlier, when asked to bless someone who was very sick, this missionary said, “I have faith; I will bless him to recover. Yet,” the returning missionary says, “I learned in that moment to pray not for what I wanted but for what the Lord knew the person needed. I blessed the brother with peace and comfort. He later passed away peacefully.”
Holiness to the Lord in everyday life feels like a spark arcing across the veil to connect, comfort, and strengthen. An administrator at a major university says he feels individuals he knows only by reputation praying for him. Those individuals devoted their lives to the university and continue to care about its mission and students.
A sister does her best each day, after her husband was unfaithful to her and the children. I deeply admire her and others like her. One day while folding laundry, her hand on a stack of garments, she sighed to herself, “What’s the point?” She felt a tender voice assure her, “Your covenants are with me.”
For 50 years, another sister yearned for a relationship with her father. “Growing up,” she says, “there were my brothers and my dad, and then there was me—the only daughter. All I ever wanted was to be ‘good enough’ for my dad.
“Then my mom passed away! She was my only liaison between my dad and me.
“One day,” the sister said, “I heard a voice say, ‘Invite your dad and take him to the temple with you.’ That was the beginning of a twice-a-month date with my daddy to the house of the Lord. I told my dad I loved him. He told me he loved me too.
“Spending time in the house of the Lord has healed us. My mom could not help us on earth. It took her being on the other side of the veil to help mend what was broken. The temple completed our journey to wholeness as an eternal family.”
The father says, “The temple dedication was a great spiritual experience for me and my only daughter. Now we attend together and feel our love strengthen.”
Holiness to the Lord in everyday life includes tender moments when loved ones pass. Earlier this year, my dear mother, Jean Gong, slipped into the next life days before her 98th birthday.
If you asked my mother, “Would you like rocky road, white chocolate ginger, or strawberry ice cream?” Mom would say, “Yes, please, may I taste each one?” Who could say no to your mother, especially when she loved all of life’s flavors?
I once asked Mom which decisions had most shaped her life.
She said, “Being baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and moving from Hawaii to the mainland, where I met your father.”
Baptized as a 15-year-old, the only member of her large family to join our Church, my mother had covenant faith and trust in the Lord that blessed her life and all our family generations. I miss my mother, as you miss members in your family. But I know my mother is not gone. She is just not here now. I honor her and all who pass as valiant examples of everyday holiness to the Lord.
Of course, holiness to the Lord in everyday life includes coming more often to the Lord in His holy house. This is true whether we are Church members or friends.
Three friends came to the Bangkok Thailand Temple open house.
“This is a place of super healing,” said one.
In the baptistry, another said, “When I am here, I want to be washed clean and never sin again.”
The third said, “Can you feel the spiritual power?”
With nine sacred words, our temples invite and proclaim:
“Holiness to the Lord.
“The House of the Lord.”
Holiness to the Lord makes daily living sacred. It draws us closer and happier to the Lord and each other and prepares us to live with God our Father, Jesus Christ, and our loved ones.
As did my friend, you may wonder if your Heavenly Father loves you. The answer is a resounding, absolute yes! We can feel His love as we make holiness to the Lord ours each day, happy and forever. May we do so, I pray in the sacred name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I learned the significance of this early in my career. After finishing my education at Stanford Law School, I focused on working for a particular law firm. No members of the Church were associated with the firm, but its lawyers were individuals of character and ability. After a morning of interviews, the most senior partner and two other partners took me to lunch. The senior partner inquired if I would like a prelunch alcoholic drink and later if I would like wine. In both cases I declined. And the second time, I informed him that I was an active Latter-day Saint and did not drink alcoholic beverages.

I received an offer of employment from the firm, and a few months later the senior partner told me that the offer of alcoholic beverages was a test. He noted that my résumé made it clear that I had served a Latter-day Saint mission. He had determined that he would hire me only if I was true to the teachings of my own church. He considered it a significant matter of character and integrity.

In the summer of 1973 the war in Southeast Asia was still being fought, and I was assigned by the United States Air Force to a base in Thailand. Leaving my wife and two small children that day was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. It was only the assurances I received in a blessing from my father that gave me the courage to turn and walk to the awaiting airplane. He promised in that blessing that I would “not be forced to participate in any unlawful activities,” and that I would be “kept clean to return to my family.”

After a few days at jungle survival school in the Philippines, I went on to my final assignment in Thailand as a navigator and weapons systems officer in a fighter squadron. I was determined to do my job well and make the year pass as quickly as possible.

On the evening of my arrival, the other squadron members flew back from their bombing missions, and soon I was invited to join in celebrating their safe return. It was with some apprehension that I entered the room to meet what would be my “family” for the next twelve months. The party was going strong. I politely refused an alcoholic drink, took a soda pop, and tried to hide myself in quiet conversation surrounded by the pounding of music and layers of cigarette smoke.

As I was introduced to the others, I eventually ended up standing at the bar counter with the squadron commander, a colonel. With his arm around my neck, I was a captive audience, listening to his tales of airplanes, daring adventures, and past comrades.

Soon a signal was given and the men gathered around the bar. The music was turned off and it became very quiet. A daily tradition was about to be carried out. Everyone was served a small drink of very strong alcohol, a lime, and some salt. When the drinks came around to me, I said quietly, trying to be casual, “No, thank you, I prefer this soft drink.”

“But this is a squadron tradition,” the man said.

Thoughts raced through my mind: “Why me? Why in front of the whole squadron? Why the very first night?” Trying to sound confident, I explained that I did not drink alcohol but would participate with soda pop.

With that, the silence deepened, then the commander’s arm tightened around my neck. “Lieutenant,” he said, “I’m ordering you to have this drink. You’ll drink it if I have to pour it down you myself.”

I thought of how far I could get if I tried to fight. I imagined the results, and an unpleasant visit to the senior officer to request a change to another squadron. Again I asked myself the question, “Why me?” Oh, how I wished to be home across those eight thousand miles of ocean. Then I remembered the promise my father had given me a week earlier. I gathered all my courage in that waiting silence and said, “I’m sorry, sir, I will not drink alcohol.”

An electricity filled the air. I prayed with all my heart, “Heavenly Father, help me get through this night.”

The colonel leaned back and measured me with his eyes, then replied, “You are going to drink this …”

I prayed.

Then he added, “… unless you are a Mormon.”

What relief filled my soul! Of course I was a Mormon. Why hadn’t I mentioned it earlier? Was I ashamed of my reason for not drinking? Didn’t I believe that God in his wisdom gave such a commandment? I answered, “Yes, I’m a Mormon.”

He questioned me again to make sure I wasn’t simply pretending I was a Mormon. Then he said, “A soft drink for this man.”

As I prayed later that night, I thanked my Heavenly Father for the lesson I had learned so far from home. I thanked him for an earthly father inspired to bless his son. I was thankful that my conviction was now known to everyone, and that for the next twelve months the whole squadron would make sure I remained true to my commitments. I was thankful that somewhere some other Latter-day Saint had not been afraid to let the colonel know why he lived a clean life. It was then also that I promised never to hesitate to say, “I am a Mormon.”

That’s not bad for a young woman who’s been a member of the Church for a little over one year.

“Before I met the missionaries, I had seen them but I didn’t know the nature of what they were preaching. Then one autumn day, two of them knocked at my door.

“We let them in and listened to them. After they left, I read the Book of Mormon and prayed. The more I read the happier and more interested I felt. I waited and waited. They hadn’t said when they might return.

“By the time they came back, I had many, many questions. I listened to everything they taught. From then on, I prayed daily, whenever and wherever it was necessary. I read the scriptures continually. Eventually I gained a strong belief in the Church and I was baptized on October 9. Afterward, I was able to learn more and more from teachers in Sunday School and Young Women and from the example of many members. I have become totally active in the Church.

“Since I joined, I haven’t had any pessimistic thoughts at all. Any unhappy feeling can’t last five minutes in me. Besides, by observing the commandments, I have avoided going astray or learning bad habits. My life has become more solid. I have gained more knowledge.

“My mother is a Buddhist, and it is hard for her to think of changing her traditions. But she does not object to my belief in the Church. I hope that by the time I become old enough to think about leaving on a full-time mission, she will have joined the Church. I don’t often get a chance to talk at length with my father, because he is a very busy man, a newspaper distribution manager. He is also remodeling our apartment, which takes up his time after work. But I hope that he also will someday find the gospel and that my younger brothers and sisters will, too.” (Mei Ling is the oldest of five children.)

The train hurried on, and the cadence of the wheels on the tracks repeated: “Not expected of you, not expected of you,” with the emphasis on you.
I was very unhappy. I did not notice the sun nor the other 10 girls who were having fun and singing songs as we returned to our homes in the Netherlands from our week’s vacation in the woods. Not even 15 minutes earlier I was one of these girls. But now, I felt so ashamed. Never, no never, would I do something like that again, even if everybody else did it. I felt shut out and lonely as though I had nothing in common with the rest of the group.
All the girls had been disobedient. But even though I was the youngest of them all, I was the only one who had been scolded. My friend Trees was already 14, Ans was 13, and I was 11. I wanted to blame Trees for everything—she was the one who betrayed me. But in my heart I knew it was my own fault because I had been disobedient.
Nothing really serious had happened. When we arrived at our vacation spot a week earlier we received instructions as to what we were allowed to do and what we were not allowed to do while we were there. We could go into the village to buy postcards to send home, but we were not supposed to buy any candy while there. That’s where the trouble started.
It was incredible to see all the different kinds of candy sold in the village store. We were all too weak to resist. It must have seemed suspicious how often we had to go and buy a postcard in the village after dinner; but after a long, tiring day, the teachers were happy to let us go. And so our money disappeared in the store’s register, and the chocolates and candies disappeared into our stomachs.
At first I heard a little voice telling me I was not supposed to do that. But nobody else seemed to have a problem with it, and it was important to me to be accepted in the group, especially since I was the youngest. And so, on the day we were to go home, I had not a penny left.
On the way to the train, we all bragged about how much money we had received for the trip from our aunts and uncles. Then the teachers asked if we had any money left—they realized not all that money could have gone to buy postcards. We were found out.
I don’t know why one of the teachers singled me out and asked me personally what I had done with my money. But before I could answer, Trees answered for me that I had spent it all on candy. I’m sure the teacher would have guessed the truth since my face turned all red. The only excuse I had was that everybody had broken the rules. And then came those words from the teacher: “But I would not have expected it of you.” It wasn’t even her words that made me so unhappy. It was the disappointment I heard in her voice.
In a corner of the train, I promised myself that from then on I would always listen to the still, small voice in my heart and not be led by other people to do things that are wrong. It was a lesson I would always remember.
The train hurried on, the wheels still repeating, “Not expected of you, not expected of you, not expected of you.”

I was 16 when a cousin of mine set me up with her friend. At that time I didn’t consider a kiss to be a very meaningful thing. I thought that kissing a date good-night was just a way of saying thank you for the date if both of us had enjoyed being together.
As I picked up my date and spent time with her, I was impressed by both her looks and her personality. We seemed to be having a great time together. Sometime during the date, I started debating whether or not I should kiss her good-night.
Before the date was over, I decided that she was having a good time, she seemed to like me, and kissing her good-night would be okay. After I walked her to her door and we talked for a while, I attempted to kiss her. As I did, she moved just enough so that I “missed.” She turned the attempted kiss into a hug, as if that was what I had meant it to be. She thanked me for the date and went inside.
She had subtly made it look like the hug was all I had intended, but it did not feel very subtle at the time. I thought the people waiting in the car had probably noticed, and I was embarrassed. But mostly I felt like I had blown it. She was a fun girl, and I thought she would never want to go out with me again because I had tried to kiss her when she did not want to be kissed.
The next day I went to see my cousin, and she excitedly asked how the date had gone. I told her about the great time I had, but also said that her friend would probably never want to go out with me again. I explained what had happened and said I was very anxious to know how her friend felt. I asked my cousin if she would call her friend to inquire about the date. The response of my date surprised me. She told my cousin that she had fun, but she was sure I wouldn’t want to go out with her again. It had not even occurred to me that she might think I’d be upset at her for turning her head. She went on to explain to my cousin that she just didn’t believe in kissing on the first date. That was a moment of change in my life.
I decided if an impressive girl like her chose not to kiss on the first date, I would never kiss on the first date either. But something more important occurred to me later as I thought about those events. I realized that I had been asking her to choose between her standards and what I wanted. That bothered me a lot. I did not think of myself as that kind of person. I promised myself I would never again put a young woman in that situation.

Let me give you an example. Elder Maxwell talked the talk, but he also walked the walk. Aileen Figuerres, who currently serves on the Relief Society General Board, shared this story:
Elder Maxwell oversaw the Asia North Area while my husband, Cyril, presided over the Japan Fukuoka Mission. Each time we saw the Maxwells, they would ask if there was anything they could do for us when they returned to Utah. However, we never wanted to burden such busy people with extra things to do.
While we were in Japan, our daughter Dawn was a new BYU student. One day she was called to the front desk of her dorm to find Elder and Sister Maxwell waiting. [Wouldn’t that be a surprise!] They knew she was away from us and brought her a potted plant for her room and a book by Elder Maxwell. He humbly and humorously suggested that she could read it if she was ever having difficulty falling asleep. They chatted with her, told her about what we were doing, and offered her the name and phone number of their daughter who lived nearby in case Dawn ever needed assistance.
But this was not the end of their ministering to a young college student. During the Christmas holidays Dawn received a call to make sure she had somewhere to go. Sister Maxwell even invited her to the MTC to hear Elder Maxwell speak.
Their ministering was a blessing to Dawn and to us, her parents, who thought about her and worried about her as we lived half a world apart from each other.

“Is Dad coming home tonight?” Benjamin asked. Dad worked as a sailor off the coast near their home in Denmark.
“No,” Mom said, “he will be home in four days.”
Dad had promised Benjamin that they could play football when he returned. Benjamin missed Dad.
“Before I go to bed tonight, I’ll pray that he will come home safely,” Benjamin thought.
Benjamin’s dad stood on the ship in the freezing rain, hurrying to finish his work before the evening meal. Feeling tired and cold, he thought of his family back at home.
Suddenly, an enormous wave rocked the ship. Supplies clattered to the floor as sailors shouted in confusion. The captain peered out into the darkness and couldn’t see Benjamin’s dad on the deck anymore.
“Man overboard!” he shouted.
Later that evening Benjamin watched Mom pile the dinner dishes in the sink. As she scrubbed she looked out the window into the garden. Trees swayed in the fierce wind. Benjamin saw the worried look on his mother’s face and felt worried, too. Would Dad be all right out in this storm?
Benjamin’s dad could hear the ship’s alarm ringing, but the sound grew quieter as the strong waves pushed him farther away from the ship. Sailors tossed life preservers into the water, hoping to save him, but they could not see him in the stormy darkness.
He tried to stay calm and keep his head above water. He found the flashlight clipped to his life jacket and pointed it toward the ship so the sailors could see where he was—but the light didn’t work.
On board the ship, the captain radioed for help. Soon a helicopter hovered over the ocean, shining a spotlight down onto the huge waves.
“We can’t find him,” the helicopter pilot radioed to the captain. The captain fought back tears, fearing the worst for his friend. “But we’ll try again,” the pilot decided. He was afraid the helicopter would run out of fuel, but he knew he was the lost sailor’s last hope.
Benjamin’s dad was getting colder and colder. His teeth rattled as he clutched the broken flashlight in his numb fingers.
Back home it was Benjamin’s bedtime. Mom listened as, kneeling by his bed, he prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, please protect Dad and bring him home safely to Mom and me.”
Benjamin’s dad saw a helicopter flying low. He tried to wave his arm, but he was so tired and cold he could hardly move it.
Then a voice in his mind said, “Turn on the light.”
“But it doesn’t work,” he thought.
“Turn on the light,” the voice said again.
“Why should I?” he mumbled as his stiff fingers fumbled with the switch. “Either the lightbulb is burned out or the batteries are dead.”
The helicopter came closer and closer. When it was almost directly overhead, Benjamin’s dad pointed the flashlight toward the sky and flipped the switch.
Just then the pilot saw a flicker of light in the water below. “We’ve found him!” he cried into the radio. The sailors aboard the ship cheered. Within minutes Benjamin’s dad was hoisted up into the warmth and safety of the helicopter. Wrapped in a blanket, he listened to the engine vibrate, imagining it singing, “Home to Benjamin, home to Benjamin!”
After the helicopter landed and an ambulance took Benjamin’s dad to the hospital, the helicopter pilot walked back to where Benjamin’s dad had been resting. There on the floor lay the flashlight. Curious, he picked it up and opened it. Two very old, rusty batteries fell out.
“These batteries can’t work,” he thought. “But if I didn’t see this light out on the ocean, what did I see?”
“God must have watched over this sailor,” he said out loud to his copilot, who was standing beside him. They both nodded in silence.
Benjamin’s mom suddenly felt happy. The worried feeling went away.
Opening Benjamin’s door a crack, she peeked into his room and saw that he was sleeping soundly. Benjamin lay dreaming about the football game Dad had promised him. A warm feeling had assured him that Heavenly Father would answer his prayer and that Dad would be home soon.