Gospel Story Finder

I had a fun experience not so long ago with our youngest daughter. We were picking up leaves in our backyard and I noticed she was only using one hand to do so. Needless to say, I was picking up most of the leaves. Upon closer inspection, I could see her phone was clasped tightly in her hand. I suggested the job would go far more quickly if she put away her phone and picked the leaves up with both hands. But even more quickly, she explained that that wasn’t possible because she was in the middle of a text conversation with her friend.

With my patience now a tad thinner, I responded her friend could wait a few minutes and to put the phone away. She refused. Our conversation then went something like this “Phoebe, put the phone away.” “No Dad.” “Phoebe, put the phone away, right now.” “Aww Dad.” “Phoebe, I am going to count to three, if you don’t put the phone away by the time I’m done, you are going to lose it for the next month.” She barely put it away in time.

This experience reminds me of movies when the police officer tells the bad guy to “put the gun down” or “move away from the gun.” Needless to say, with my daughter using both hands and her full attention, the job was soon finished and there was still time to text her friend.

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.

A few years after the Smith family moved into the log home, 24-year-old Alvin, the oldest son, planned and began construction on a frame house. “To the neighbors who watched the progress of the new house, he often said: ‘I am going to have a nice, pleasant room for father and mother to sit in, and everything arranged for their comfort. They shall not work any more as they have done.’ But Alvin never lived to see the house completed.” In the middle of November 1823, he became ill and died.

During a recent virtual mission reunion. Stuart and Sheryl McReynolds invited their returned missionaries to continue one of their mission traditions—their annual ‘EMM-athon’. During their time presiding over the England Manchester Mission, the McReynolds had established this custom when they challenged their missionaries to get up on time for the three days over Christmas, getting out of their accommodation each day to run or walk for exercise. They also invited them to record and share a short video greeting for the other missionaries while they were out.
The McReynolds thought it would be fun to continue the EMM-athon tradition in some form with returned-missionary colleagues from around the world. This year’s invitation was to get out sometime over the Christmas period to run, walk or cycle and share a photo or short video on their mission alumni Facebook group, thereby hoping to connect with missionaries during this special time of year. They also issued a challenge to donate for every mile covered to Barnabus, a Manchester Charity caring for the city’s homeless. They thought this was a good way for them to stay connected to their mission area and continue giving in some small way.
They established a fundraising page with Barnabus and pushed ahead with the challenge. More than seventy returned missionaries, young and senior, from 13 countries covered 562 miles during the Christmas week, including one young returned missionary running 27 miles on Christmas Eve! Their combined fundraising efforts resulted in a £879 donation for the charity, providing much-needed help and support to Manchester’s homeless.
Alex Simpson, a representative of the Barnabus Charity contacted the McReynolds to thank them and all who were involved with the fundraising efforts, and in recognition of those efforts a certificate of thanks was sent by the charity. Alex added that the charity was grateful for the money that had been raised to help change the lives of people experiencing homelessness.
This was a wonderful idea and act by Stuart and Sheryl McReynolds and their returned-missionary colleagues. They plan to do the same thing annually as they look to identify other charities within the England Manchester Mission boundary that they could support.

Sister Acquah is the president of the Cape Coast Relief Society. We were very busy this spring e-mailing back and forth to plan a health fair for the Relief Society sisters to be held on the first Saturday after we arrived in Ghana. As part of the health fair, this warm, caring person wanted the sisters in her stake to assemble hygiene kits and donate them to the children at a local school for the deaf and blind. She told me that for the last few years the Ghanaian Saints have been on the receiving end of many humanitarian efforts. It was time for the sisters to reach beyond themselves and give to someone else in need. What a moment of growth when people who have little learn to give to others. Selfless caring has a giving and a receiving component. We give that we might receive, and we receive that we might give again.

At the end of the health fair, the plan was that a small group of sisters would take the hygiene kits to the designated school. As the sisters were slowly leaving the health fair, Sister Acquah came over to me with a big smile and gave me a hug. Her statement to me in the blunt style of the Ghanaian people was that the health fair had turned out better than she had thought it would. I was not sure if she lacked confidence in our ability to present classes or if she was surprised that 262 sisters were willing to walk from distant villages, come by car, come by tro-tro, or come any way they could to the health fair that day.

As we sat and rested from the warm summer heat and the busy morning activities, Sister Acquah asked, “Of course you and your students are coming with us to deliver the hygiene kits to the school for the deaf and blind?

“Oh,” I said, “you should really take the sisters who prepared the hygiene kits. They should experience the reward of their service project.”

“Some will come,” Sister Acquah said, “but I really want you and your students to come.”

So we did. What a heart-changing experience followed for us that afternoon.

We all grumbled a little as we got on the bus to ride from the stake center to the school for the deaf and blind on the outskirts of Cape Coast, Ghana. I was thinking, it’s a four-hour ride back to Accra, and it’s late in the afternoon. There were giant rain clouds gathering on the horizon, and dirt roads and rain don’t mix well. We turned off the main road and bounced our way down a dirt road toward the school. As we pulled into the school yard, the school seemed very deserted. I was thinking that somehow we had gotten the day or maybe the time of day wrong. But as the bus stopped and we started getting out, we saw smiling, squealing children appearing in the open windows of the assembly hall.

The Cape Coast sisters and the students helped arrange the hygiene kits on the table in the front of the assembly hall as restless children wiggled on their benches. They would wave and smile. The blind children’s choir sang the opening song—“I Have God in My Heart.” We were asked to respond, and in turn we sang to them “I Am a Child of God,” and then the deaf and partially deaf children responded in sign language and voices singing a song called “Heavenly Father Loves Me.” The Spirit was so tender in that bare room as these songs were exchanged. We knew why we had come. We had been fed by the Spirit in that room. Each one of our students helped to hand out the hygiene kits. These beautiful children greeted our students with hugs and squeals as they received their plastic bag containing soap, a toothbrush, a towel, toothpaste, and two combs. To them it was like Christmas. After hugs and many unexpected tears, we loaded up the bus and started on our trip home.

No one complained about how long it took to return to Accra or how scary the thunder and muddy roads were. They were so grateful to have been a part of delivering the hygiene kits to the school for the deaf and blind. In her reflective writing assignment related to her experience that day, one of the students shared the following quote: “She went to minister to them and found then ministering to her. She went to teach and was transformed by what she learned” (author unknown).

I had been admiring the new baseball glove in the sporting goods store for weeks, hoping that some day it would be mine. Every day on my way home from school, I took the long way and stopped at the store to look and wish. There were lots of other mitts there, but only one that was just right for me. That was the one I grabbed each day. I pulled it onto my hand, pounded my fist into it, and pretended I was in left field, waiting for that long fly ball.
Each time I walked into the store, I crept down the last aisle, almost afraid to look, for fear someone had already bought it.
I already had a baseball glove, but one of the seams was coming loose, and it was worn and scuffed. I was planning to make the Little League all-star team, and I figured that I needed the best mitt possible.
My birthday was coming up. I’d hinted to Mom and Dad a hundred times that it would sure be nice to have that mitt at the sporting goods store. They nodded and smiled, but they didn’t make any promises. I even took my dad into the store and showed him what a great glove it was. He agreed with me, but the morning of my birthday, the glove was still there.
After my birthday dinner, Mom brought in my presents and set them before me. Right away I could see that my baseball glove wasn’t there. I tried not to be disappointed, but it was hard. And then I got a real surprise. Brother Tice came back from his vacation early and paid me twenty dollars for taking care of his dog and mail and mowing his lawn and stuff. I had already saved nineteen dollars, so with Brother Tice’s money, I had enough to buy my glove now!
As soon as I finished the last of my cake and ice cream, I raced to the sporting goods store. The man was just getting ready to put the CLOSED sign in the window, when I burst in and grabbed the glove.
I had eighty cents left over, so on the way home I stopped at the drugstore and bought a half pound of cinnamon bears.
I left with three cents in my pocket, my new glove on one hand, and my sack of cinnamon bears in the other. I couldn’t have been happier.
That night, I propped up my new glove on the dresser so that it would be the last thing I saw before I went to sleep and the first thing I saw when I got up in the morning. And all night long I dreamed of playing in the all-star game.
The next morning was Saturday, and no one had to wake me. As soon as the first bits of light streaked across my room, I was up and getting dressed. I snatched my glove and bounded for the door, knocking half the stuff off my dresser. That’s when I saw my tithing can. My empty tithing can.
Suddenly I got a sick feeling inside. Mom and Dad had always told me to pay my tithing before I used my money for anything else. I had always remembered to do that—until yesterday! Yesterday the only thing I had had on my mind was getting my baseball glove.
I looked down at it. I looked over at the paper sack that had only three cinnamon bears left inside. I swallowed hard and figured out how much money I had stolen from the Lord. I’d received twenty dollars from Brother Tice, so I owed the Lord two dollars. Two dollars! Where would I ever get two dollars before Sunday?
Clutching my glove, I promised myself that the next time I had two dollars I’d give it all for tithing. I sneaked out of the house and tried to forget about everything except the all-star game.
When I reached the park and showed my teammates my new glove, they all said that they were sure that I’d be able to catch any ball that came to me. But the first time Rodney hit a fly ball in my direction, I missed it. When Charlie knocked a grounder my way, it slipped right past me. The guys said that I just wasn’t used to playing with a new glove, but I knew that that wasn’t the reason. I couldn’t stop thinking of the two dollars I owed the Lord.
While the other guys kept playing, I headed for home, dragged myself to my room, dropped my glove on the bed, and stared at my empty tithing can. Finally I got on my knees and said a little prayer, telling the Lord that I was sorry for taking His tithing and using it for my glove, and that I would pay Him back as soon as I could. But I still had that sick feeling inside.
Slowly I set my baseball glove on the dresser and pushed it way back. Then I set my tithing can in front of the mitt.
“Mom,” I asked as I walked into the kitchen, “do you have any work I could do?”
She was making bread at the kitchen table and looked up at me like I might be feeling sick. “I thought you were playing baseball with your new mitt.”
“I went,” I muttered, hanging my head down, “but I need to earn a little money.”
“You need more money?”
“Well,” I stammered, “I owe somebody else some money, and I forgot about paying up before I spent it all.”
Mom thought for a minute. “The garage needs cleaning. I suppose if you did a really good job there I could give you fifty cents.”
Fifty cents wasn’t a lot of money, especially considering how much work was to be done in the garage, but I didn’t care. I needed to square myself with the Lord.
For the rest of the morning I worked in the garage. I stacked all the boxes, straightened all the tools, swept the floor, and hauled out the trash. I’d cleaned the garage before, but never as well as I did then. When Mom inspected my work, her eyes got big. “Well, Justin,” she exclaimed, “I’ve never seen the garage look so good. I think that’s worth at least seventy-five cents.”
“Brother Tuckfield,” I asked my neighbor across the street, “do you have any work a guy could do?” Brother Tuckfield was digging in his flower bed. He looked up and wiped a big drop of sweat from his nose.
“I’m trying to earn a little money,” I explained. “I’ll work hard. And I don’t charge much.”
“Well, there are some weeds along the ditch bank in my backyard. If you’d chop those down for me, I could pay you twenty-five or fifty cents.”
There was a jungle of weeds along Brother Tuckfield’s ditch. I worked for over an hour, pulling and chopping and digging. Before I quit, there wasn’t a single weed left along that ditch bank. Brother Tuckfield gave me fifty cents, and I went down the street still looking for work.
Sister Caldwell needed trash hauled out to the curb. That was another ten cents. Sister Hadfield wanted the grass raked in her front yard. That was worth twenty-five cents. Brother Henderson let me pull the weeds in his rose bushes. I ended up with scratched hands and arms, but I earned twenty-five cents there, too.
I stopped by Brother Raymond’s home and helped him weed his garden. It was about the hardest work I’d done all day. I had to get down on my hands and knees and pick the tiny weeds among the carrots and the radishes. It was worth it when Brother Raymond pulled two quarters out of his pocket and dropped them into my hand. I’d finally earned enough money to make things right with the Lord!
When I finally headed for home, I was too tired and sore to do more than drag my feet over the hot sidewalk. I was thirsty and had two big blisters on my hand.
I passed the park. All the guys had gone home long ago, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t thinking of baseball and the all-star game anymore.
I made my way to my room. The tithing can was waiting on the dresser, still empty. I poured my two dollars and thirty-five cents into the can, grabbed my new ball glove—the mitt that was honestly mine, now—and pounded my blistered fist into it with a satisfied smile.

My family recently moved to a branch in a neighboring stake. Being the only branch member who can play the piano, I was called as pianist for sacrament meetings. Up to this time, I’ve only played classical and popular tunes. The challenge to learn hymns quickly has been a struggle. Now, rather than hearing applause for my playing, I hear the beautiful voices of the branch members as they sing the hymns in praise of our Heavenly Father.
Robyn P., 18, Tennessee, USA

And Sister Catherine A. Price of the Ammon Fourth Ward, Ammon Idaho Stake, reported that her husband, the Varsity Scouting coach for the ward, saved the life of a small girl at a baseball game. The girl had fallen backward, hitting her head and swallowing her tongue. Brother Price, a hospital corpsman at that time, said that after resuscitation attempts, the girl began to breathe and cry. “I kept praying that the Lord would help him to help her,” Sister Price said. Brother Price went with the girl to the hospital to make sure no further injuries had occurred.

During the summer of 2001, 17-year-old Tricia Hale had an idea, or a dream as she calls it, to put on a spiritual Christmas dance program that would portray the life of Christ.
She enlisted the help of three friends and fellow dancers (Anna Woolf, 17; Jill Hendrickson, 16; and Donelle Crandell, 16) at her high school in Mesa, Arizona, to turn the dream into reality.
The dancers were on the school’s dance team but had taken issue in the past with music and costumes they felt were inappropriate or not in keeping with Church standards. They wanted to use their talents to present their testimonies of Christ by dancing to sacred music and wearing modest outfits.
The program that resulted would be an experience that strengthened their testimonies and was well-received by family, friends, and the community. Other young women took over after these girls graduated, making the spiritual experience an annual program.
Other dancers are invited to join them in planning, practicing, and performing. Although some of the dancers are not members of the Church, prayer, devotionals, and sharing testimonies are part of rehearsal time.
The free program, entitled “Let There Be Praise,” portrays the life of Christ from birth to resurrection through scriptures, narration, slides, and lyrical dance to hymns and other spiritual music. It drew more than 500 people the first year, and the audience has since grown.
Clint W. Smith, president of the Mesa Kimball Stake, enjoys the performance.
“Dressed in white, these girls are so modest and pure and are able to share their talents and gifts in a way that is very powerful and appropriate,” he says. “It is a wonderful experience for those who are in it and for those who see it.”
McKenzi Fackrell, one of the group’s past presidents, admits it was a lot of work to organize and head up the program. “But it was so worth it,” she says. “It is such a testimony builder.”
After McKenzie graduated, Kelly Allen took over as co-president and chose a younger co-president, Brianna Barba, to work with her.
“I just love it,” says Kelly, who has danced since she was nine years old.
Even though Kelly keeps busy with the school’s dance group and making straight A’s, she’s able to keep her life organized.
“Being involved in this is a big blessing,” she says. “Somehow there is time for everything.”
Brianna has danced in the program since she was in eighth grade. “It has strengthened my testimony so much,” says the honor student, who is also involved in the school’s dance group and competition cheer squad.
In a devotional she told the dancers, “Christ can turn our shabby gifts into a beautiful miracle and a shining star.”
Brianna has been able to use the program for missionary experiences, inviting a friend to dance as Mary and another to perform a vocal solo for one of the dances.
“I knew they would be able to feel the Spirit and also bring their families so they would be able to share in this, too,” she says.
Brianna’s younger sister, Brittney, who performed for the first time as a sophomore, is one of many dancers who uses the experience as a Personal Progress project.
“I chose Individual Worth, because being in this has helped me learn so much about myself,” she says. “When you learn about Christ, you learn more about being a daughter of Heavenly Father and how much He loves you. My testimony has grown so much.”
The program ends with the song “How Great Thou Art,” and the dancers raise their arms in praise.
“The group has never done a curtain call because we want that to be the last thing the audience sees,” says Tricia Hale Campbell, who is now a dance teacher at her own studio and has continued to help the high school students with the program. “This isn’t about the dancers. We feel grateful to use our talents in a spiritual way to focus on the Savior and we give that glory to the Lord.”
Sisters Kelsey, Kali, and Karissa Jarvis say that there are a lot of opportunities to sing or speak your testimony, but not a lot of places to dance your testimony.
“It lets others know that I do have a testimony,” says Kelsey.
Older sister Kali agrees. “You know how you feel bearing your testimony or having a great spiritual experience with someone? It’s the same great feeling, but you get to share it with all these people in dance.”
Kim Hathcock has returned to perform after graduating. “It’s one thing that makes Christmas meaningful for me,” she says.
During high school she performed as Mary. “It really made my testimony grow,” she says. “I also feel like we’re doing service, because so many people who see it comment that this is what gets them into the real Christmas spirit.”
Christy Quintero is a member of a local Christian church. “I thought it would be a good experience to dance to Christian music,” she says. “I really like being with everybody; they are good examples to be around.”
Don Johnson, whose daughter, Aimee, has performed for several years, says he enjoys the “spirit-filled” program.
“These girls are so busy themselves, but they sacrifice to put this on so we can feel the Spirit,” he says. “That’s very Christlike.”
Drama teacher Sandy Stones of the Mesa Kimball Stake is the faculty sponsor for the club and is on hand when the girls practice.
“It’s an honor and privilege for me to sponsor the group,” she says. “They are a light to the school and community.”

In April 1973, my parents and I traveled from our native Argentina to be sealed in the temple. Since there were no temples in all of Latin America at the time, we flew more than 6,000 miles (9,700 km) each way to be sealed in the Salt Lake Temple. Although I was just two years of age at the time and do not recall the entirety of that special experience, three very distinct images from that trip were fixed in my mind and have remained ever since.

First, I recall being placed close to the airplane’s window and seeing the white clouds below.

Those beautiful, bright clouds endure in my mind as if they had been gigantic cotton balls.

Another image that has remained in my mind is that of a few funny-looking characters at an amusement park in the Los Angeles area. Those characters are hard to forget.

But of much greater importance is this brilliant and unforgettable image:

I clearly remember being in a sacred room of the Salt Lake Temple where sealings of couples and of families are performed for time and for all eternity. I remember the beautiful altar of the temple and recall the bright sunlight shining through the room’s exterior window. I felt then, and have continued to feel since, the warmth, safety, and solace of the gospel light of truth and love.

Similar feelings were reaffirmed in my heart 20 years later, when I entered the temple to be sealed once again—this time as my fiancée and I were sealed for time and for all eternity. However, on this occasion, we did not need to travel thousands of miles because the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple had since been built and dedicated, and it was just a short drive from our home.

Twenty-two years after our wedding and sealing, we had the blessing of returning to the same temple, but this time with our beautiful daughter, and we were sealed as a family for time and for all eternity.

As I’ve reflected upon these very sacred moments of my life, I have been overwhelmed with profound, enduring joy. I have felt and continue to feel the love of a compassionate Father in Heaven, who knows our individual needs and our heartfelt desires.

Jennifer Joyce Richmond made a goal during the summer before her freshman year of high school and kept it. She decided she would attend seminary every day throughout high school and graduate with a perfect attendance record.
Even though she and her family moved during her high school years, she achieved her perfect attendance goal and became the first person in the Hurst Texas Stake to achieve four years of perfect seminary attendance.
Jennifer also served as Beehive, Mia Maid, and Laurel class president. She is a member of the North Richland Hills Ward.

Some time ago I watched a soccer game in which the favored team, the Lions, was expected to beat the Pumas, a team that hadn’t done very well during the season. The two teams had played against each other earlier in the year, and the Pumas had been badly beaten. Everyone expected this particular game to be the same, although fan support was about evenly divided between the two teams. But then an incident on the field involving two players seemed to turn the crowd against the Lions. From that point on, more than 15,000 fans excitedly cheered the Pumas to a winning score.
A cheering section can make a difference in life.

I want to share an example of someone who prepared and learned in advance and great blessings have come to many from his learning. His name is Cole Durham. He was a young, founding faculty member of the BYU Law School when it started in l977. Elder Dallin H. Oaks, then President of Brigham Young University, invited and charged the Law School faculty to develop some area of expertise and knowledge that would be helpful to the Church. Brother Durham followed that counsel and chose to learn all he could about religious freedom and laws and principles related to it. Fast forward to l989 and the Berlin Wall came tumbling down. Countries behind the Iron Curtain had languished without religious freedom and were now interested in establishing laws and practices that would foster religious freedom. Professor Durham made numerous trips to many of these countries offering expert advice and much tangible help. By heeding President Oaks' counsel he was prepared to meet a vital need and many nations have come to recognize and be blessed by his timely and invaluable help.

When Anna Nadasdi participates in temple work, her enthusiasm is obvious. It is easy to understand that enthusiasm when one knows her story.
Sister Nadasdi was born in Hungary and raised in the Greek Catholic faith. Her father, who had worked in the United States as a young man, told her many stories of that distant “land of promise.”
She was a young woman during World War II when her country was invaded. During those perilous years, she always carried her family genealogy records to prove to the authorities that she was not Jewish. The records, covering one hundred years, were carefully wrapped in a handbag made from braided cornstalk leaves.
After the war, she married. She and her husband decided to leave Hungary, but they could not get exit permits. The only route open to them was through a minefield covered with barbed wire and guarded by soldiers in gun towers. After a period of consideration, they decided on a night to make the dangerous journey. In the agonizing crawl across the minefield they were expecting any moment to be blown up by a mine, ensnared by the barbed wire, or be shot. “The Lord must have been guiding us,” Sister Nadasdi says, “because we crossed safely into Austria. All we had with us were the clothes we wore—and my genealogy. I felt I had to bring my genealogy records with me even though it made crawling across the minefield even more difficult.”
Unable to find a sponsor in the United States, the couple emigrated to Australia. But memories of her father’s stories about the United States stayed in her mind.
One night, Sister Nadasdi had an unusual dream. She saw a beautiful building with many towers, surrounded by lovely grass and trees. She saw happy people entering and leaving the building. When she awoke, the memory of the building was clear in her mind, but she had no idea of what or where it was. She would often think about her dream and wonder what it meant.
In 1954, Sister Nadasdi and her husband separated.
The years passed, and she was successful in her work as a government clerk, but Sister Nadasdi felt something important missing in her life. As this feeling grew stronger, she decided to pray to God. Feeling lonely and desperate, she found a secluded spot and she began to plead with the Lord. After recounting the many difficulties in her life, she asked, “If there is another way, why don’t you show it to me?”
Almost immediately after her prayer, she met two Latter-day Saint missionaries who had just entered her apartment building. After they introduced themselves and explained the purpose of their visit, Sister Nadasdi thought, “As I was talking with the Lord, these two young men were already on their way into my life. Surely they must have an answer for me.”
Sister Nadasdi was receptive to the gospel message, but she was particularly affected when they showed her a picture of the Salt Lake Temple and she recognized the beautiful building of her dream. “If I hadn’t been supported by the arms of my chair,” she later said, “I would have fallen off on to the floor!” In response to her keen interest, the elders explained the doctrine of temple work for both the living and the dead.
“I finally understood why I had brought my family genealogy with me when I left Hungary,” she says. As the missionaries talked, she knew she would join the Church and one day go to Salt Lake City to do the temple work for herself and for her family.
Sister Nadasdi was baptized, and she did make the long round trip from Australia to Salt Lake City for her own temple ordinances and for those of her family.
In 1983, after visiting Hungary, the land of her birth, she moved to Salt Lake City to retire and to fulfill her greatest desire to serve in the House of the Lord of which she had dreamed so many years before.

What is less well known but no less powerful is my mother’s love and testimony of the Book of Mormon. It is also not as well known that at an earlier time, she too came very close to dying and was brought back to life in a miraculous fashion, just like my father was two and a half years ago. Let me share this video with her testimony of how the Book of Mormon got her through a wilderness of near-death health challenges and what it has meant to her and to our family:
I leave with you my testimony of this wonderful book. Recently, during a near-fatal illness, I wanted Jeff and his priesthood to be with me constantly. Because he couldn’t always be at my side, I wanted the next best thing. I wanted my Book of Mormon in my hands, holding it. And when I slept, I wanted it under my pillow. With doctors telling us that I wasn’t going to make it, as they had done everything they could, and we should call our children, I knew if I did live, it would be because of the blessings and the truths that I have studied so many times in this gospel that the Book of Mormon teaches.

Nephi could raise his brother from the dead. I knew if God could do that that He could raise me as well. And He did, by the same apostolic faith and authority that the ancient Nephite prophet had.

I bear witness to you, brothers and sisters, that this book has given me life over and over again since I first read it as a young woman. It has given Jeff and me and our children a blueprint and the power to live peacefully and calmly and patiently with the brightness of the sun lighting the way, even the brightness of the Son of God.

As we choose to school our agency and practice yielding our hearts to God, we bump into the natural man within us again and again. I would like to share a story with you that helped me understand something about the natural man within each of us and how that natural man can react. When I was a boy I had a wonderful little cocker spaniel dog named Smokey. Smokey liked to play ball by having me throw the ball as far as I could behind the shop in our backyard, by the woodpile, among the fruit trees, or in the garden—wherever. Smokey would not give up until he found that ball and brought it back to me, only to repeat the cycle again and again. Smokey became my best friend, and I loved to play with him day after day.

Smokey had only one fault. Not only was he obsessed with chasing and retrieving tennis balls, but he was also obsessed with climbing our front fence and chasing after loud trucks passing by on our side street.

One day I heard a truck coming, and immediately I thought of Smokey. Before I could reach the front gate to stop him, he had climbed the gate and was already halfway across our front lawn, headed for the wheels of the truck at full speed. I called for him to stop as loud as I could, but it was no use. Within an instant he was nipping at one of the rear wheels of the truck, running to keep up. A few seconds later one of his rear legs somehow slipped and got caught under one of the wheels, also pulling his pelvis under the wheel. Smokey was left in the street crying and yelping in tremendous pain. I ran over to him and tried to comfort him. As I got close enough, he immediately bit my hand as hard as he could. I was astonished. Why would this wonderful dog I loved so much bite me? My mom came out of the house, and somehow we were able to get Smokey in a large burlap bag and into the car. At the vet’s office we were told that Smokey’s body had been so badly hurt that he would have to be put to sleep. I was devastated and confused.

What happened was not an easy thing for a little boy to understand. It took me some years to learn the lesson from the experience. Those who are hurting often strike out and hurt those they love most, simply because they are hurting. Have you noticed that sometimes when we hurt, this is how we treat our Heavenly Father and others? This is not how our Savior acted when He was hurt—when He was despised and spit upon by others and when He was crucified.

In 1989, Elder Haight became critically ill and was rushed unconscious to the hospital. He later reported in the October 1989 general conference that while unconscious, he found himself “in a calm, peaceful setting … conscious of two persons on a hillside. … I was conscious of being in a holy presence and atmosphere. During the hours and days that followed, there was impressed again and again upon my mind the eternal mission and exalted position of the Son of Man. I witness to you that He is Jesus the Christ, the Son of God, Savior to all, Redeemer of all mankind, Bestower of infinite love, mercy and forgiveness, the Light and Life of the world. I knew this truth before—I had never doubted nor wondered. But now I knew, because of the impressions of the Spirit upon my heart and soul, these divine truths in a most unusual way” (Ensign, Nov. 1989, pp. 59–60).

While accompanying President Dieter F. Uchtdorf to Eastern Europe last year, I marveled at the faith and courage of the Saints. One priesthood leader in Ukraine told us of being called to the branch presidency in the spring of 1994, only six months after his baptism. This would require becoming public with his faith and helping to register the Church in the city of Dnipropetrovs’k. It was at a time of uncertainty in Ukraine, and openly showing faith in Christ and in the restored gospel could mean difficulty, including the possibility of losing his job as a pilot.

The priesthood leader told us, “I prayed and prayed. I had a testimony, and I had made a covenant. I knew what the Lord wanted me to do.”31 Courageously, he and his wife went forward with faith, unashamed of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

On my street lives a little boy known as the Sidewalk King. This little boy cruises the neighborhood on his black and gold plastic racing tricycle, living in his own world of make-believe and heroic deeds. One of his favorite things to do is to back that little vehicle up against his house and then—gathering up all the power and energy at his command—shoot dangerously out onto the street. Then, pulling handlebars around hard, he pedals back again. Nearby neighbors can’t help but hear him.
His parents, understanding more than he does about the dangers involved, have warned him and pleaded with him. Not long ago, his father found it necessary to give his young son a strong chastising to help him understand how dangerous it is to ride out in the street. As he ran into the house he sobbed to his parents, “You just want to ruin all my fun.”
To the mind of a four-year-old, that is exactly what it appeared. But, oh, how wrong he was. His parents weren’t trying to ruin his fun; they were trying to keep him from harm, perhaps even death. Freedom to him was largely doing what he wanted without restraint and interference.
I know of another little boy who came home from school one day long ago to find a rented piano in the house. “What’s this piano here for?” he asked his mother.
“It’s for you,” she replied.
“For me?” he asked. “Why for me?”
“Because,” she said, “you are going to take piano lessons.”
He said he didn’t want to take piano lessons. But she had already arranged for a teacher.
Well, this little boy began to miss a few lessons. One day his mother asked, “How was your piano lesson?”
He said, “Fine. I’m doing pretty well.”
“That’s interesting,” she said. “I just talked to your teacher, and she hasn’t seen you for a while.” He had been caught. He didn’t know what the punishment would be, but he knew it would be bad. Then his mother said, “Just for that, you may not take piano lessons.”
He tried to look punished, but inside he was very happy with her decision. Mother, he thought, you have hit on the perfect punishment. I hope you use it often. Within his heart he felt that he had just been liberated. He was free from practice, free from lessons, free from discipline, routine, and regimentation—free from all that seemed to limit his freedom.
When he grew to be a man, he was sitting one day in a church meeting during which a woman was to sing a solo. When her time to perform came, she walked up to the podium and announced, “My accompanist could not come today. I need someone to accompany me.” Looking over the congregation, she saw a man who used to teach piano. “Will you accompany me?” she asked him. The man came forward, and she handed him the music.
As he watched this happen, my friend who had avoided music lessons thought, What would I have done if she had asked me? If she had asked me, I would have been free to do only one thing: to say no. Suddenly, he realized that what he had assumed to be one of the great liberating moments of his life—when his mother said, “You may not take lessons any more”—was in fact a moment of bondage, not freedom. As he sat in that church meeting, he might as well have been handcuffed, for he could not have played the piano if he had wanted to. The other man was free; he could choose to play or not to play. Ultimately, then, freedom is more a matter of capacity and ability than of permission.
Too often, we believe the myth that we are free to do whatever we want to do. True, most of us are free to develop any ability or skill we choose; but until we develop them, we remain in bondage to our own lack of capacity. Even in lands of great political freedom, I fear that many of us live in bondage. Misunderstanding the principle of freedom, we lead lives of limited capacity and, thus, diminished choice. We tell ourselves that the only mason we are not doing certain positive, productive things is that we don’t want to. If we don’t play the piano, for example, we like to think it’s because we don’t want to. Actually, we don’t play because we are not free to. Remember, if we are only free to choose one thing—that is, not to play—we are not really free.

It was a blind man who helped me understand a principle of leadership in a way that I will never forget. It happened one day on the Eagle Gate corner in Salt Lake City. I had arrived at the intersection at the same time as a blind man (I later learned his name was Jim Ganski) with his Seeing Eye dog. As the signal changed, the dog hesitated because a bus stopped at the curb was blocking his vision and he was not sure it was safe to cross. Desiring to be helpful, I grasped the blind man’s arm and started him across the street. As we walked, I explained the reason for the dog’s hesitation. By the time I completed my explanation, we had reached the middle of the street and the dog had already turned and looked at me several times and then inquiringly at his master. The twist of the dog’s harness no doubt signaled his concern to his master. It was then that the blind man thanked me courteously for the explanation and then said firmly. “Now, if you would please let go of my arm, my dog doesn’t like people taking over his job.”
What a great lesson! Once you have delegated a job, do not take it over again.