Gospel Story Finder

As I stood in the family circle above the baptismal font, I watched our little grandson Clayton walk timidly down the steps with his daddy. Raising his arm to the square, his father said the baptismal prayer, then buried him in the water that sloshed and splashed around them.
After the last song had been sung and the closing prayer said, the families of the newly baptized children reverently left the meetinghouse. Later as we celebrated the occasion, one of the children looked up from his ice cream and asked, “Grandma, were you baptized in shiny blue water?”
“No,” I chuckled. “When I was baptized, we didn’t sit in a room with drapes and carpets with soft music and inspirational talks. No one wore white clothes and there were no relatives standing above a tile font.”
“Tell us about it, Grandma,” the children pleaded. And so I told them my story.
Well, you see, Hurricane was just a pioneer town in Southern Utah when I was little. We planned for me to be baptized in the Hurricane Canal on my birthday. I was so excited I could hardly wait. And then, just four days before my birthday, the canal broke.
The farmers were frantic. Peach orchards and hayfields were dry. Every man in town went up the river with his pick and shovel to help fix the break, but it was a bad one. The day before my birthday, I climbed the slope to the canal, hoping to see just one trickle of water. Instead, the hot, dry winds had caked and cracked the mud in the bottom, curling it up into little clay dishes. “Oh mamma, what shall we do?” I asked. “How can I be baptized when the canal is dry?”
“You can always go to the hot sulphur springs, like your sisters did,” she suggested.
“But their birthdays were in winter. We’d scald in July!”
Mama knew better than to suggest postponing the date. It was family tradition for each of us to be baptized on our eighth birthday.
“Let’s see what other choices you have,” Mama said. “Come with me.”
The cow’s watering trough was just outside the corral under the apricot tree, with a hole in the fence for the cows to poke their heads through.
“You could be baptized here,” she said. I looked at the long strings of floating green moss and shuddered. “You can scrub the trough with the broom and fill it with fresh water from the cistern.”
“But Mama …” I wailed.
“If being sorry would fix the canal, the water would be running in it now,” she said, cradling me in her comforting arms.
I had heard Uncle Ren say that the canal might be mended by sundown, so just before dark, I climbed the bank, hoping to see the frothy head of the stream. But the cracked clay was only curled deeper. Heavy of heart, I trudged home and plopped down on my bed in the peach orchard, where we slept in the summertime. Looking up at the evening sky I watched the first stars appear. “Please, Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “help the men get the water in the canal by tomorrow.”
I wasn’t surprised when a short time later I heard a little splash of water coming through the headgate high on the bank above our house. I sat on my heels and listened. The sound grew until it was the full-grown tumble of water, splashing over the rocks and, finally, rippling through the ditch past our place. The canal had been fixed before sundown, but the water had miles to race before reaching town.
“Oh thank you, Heavenly Father,” I whispered. Then I hugged my pillow and drifted to sleep, lulled by the merry music of laughing, tumbling water.
By the next afternoon, all of the debris and froth from the new stream had washed itself on through the canal and the water ran placid and smooth. I put on my clean white nightgown and Uncle Ren Spendlove came in his faded bib overalls. Mama walked to the canal with us. Sitting in the shade of the willows along the bank were my playmates and cousins, waiting. Uncle Ren stepped down the slick muddy side into the water then, reaching up, gave me a hand. Ripples of light danced on the stream, and a few willow leaves glided like canoes through the mottled shade. The wind held its breath as Uncle Ren said the baptismal prayer. I felt the rush of water in my ears, and he brought me up blubbering. He held onto me until I had caught my breath. Then I noticed everyone watching and smiling at me and I felt wonderful and loved.
“Mama, I’m baptized!” I exclaimed. Reaching for my hands, she pulled me up beside her. She had said that baptism was a sacred ordinance, and when she hugged me, dripping wet as I was, I knew it was true.

Our visitors were Brother Karl G. Maeser, who organized Brigham Young University under the direction of President Brigham Young, and Brother George Goddard, who had a beautiful singing voice. I can remember to this day the songs Brother Goddard had us practice in that conference.
The first one is no longer in the hymn-book, but it goes like this: “Take away the whiskey, the coffee, and the tea. Cold water is the drink for me.” This song made such an impression upon me as a boy that I can hardly drink anything but cold water even today.
I was on the train traveling between Salt Lake City and Los Angeles one time when a waiter asked, “Are you ready for your coffee?”
“No, thank you,” I answered.
“Will you have tea?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” I repeated.
“Would you like some Postum?”
“No, thank you.”
He was becoming irritated now. “What do you want to drink?”
“Cold water, please,” I requested.
His reply was, “Well, you’re the funniest man I ever did see.”

The pale yellow light from the lantern Christian Monson carried threw dark, dancing shadows against the gray stone walls of the Fredrikstad (Norway) Prison. Christian hesitated at the heavy oak door that led from the prison office to the cells below. His head was racing. He knew that if his plan to release the two prisoners was discovered, he would also be made a prisoner here.
Christian felt the cold smoothness of the jailer’s keys, and he felt the weight of irrevocable decision. He drew a long, deep breath, inserted the key in the lock, and turned it; there was the clicking sound of metal. With his free hand he pulled the door open. The air from the cells was dank and fetid—the stench of unwashed men and stale cellar air.
Quietly Christian walked down the stone steps to the long rows of cells that the warden of the prison had placed in his care as a night guard. At the bottom of the steps he stopped and hung the lantern on the hook that protruded from the wall. The light fell bright on his face. It revealed a tall, 14-year-old Norwegian boy with bright, sky-blue eyes and straight, tawny-colored hair. His face was smooth and fair and normally full of laughter and mischief, but in the flickering lantern light it was firm and serious.
Christian walked across the floor to the cell on the far left, inserted the key into the lock, and opened the door.
“Elders!” His voice was soft.
The opening door flooded a pool of light onto the floor of the dark cell. The cell was small with no windows, no openings for air or light except a small, barred opening in the door Christian had opened. In the corner of the room was a moldy pile of straw that the prisoners slept on. There were dark areas on the walls covered with a green slime where water seeped in. The air was cold and musty; it stank, a smell that twisted Christian’s stomach even after a year of working in the prison.
Light fell on two villainous-looking men who were standing near the door and waiting. Both wore shaggy beards and long hair, dark with grease and dirt. Their faces were sallow and pocked with small red sores. Their clothes were filthy and tattered, rotting in the damp air.
In the year he had worked in the prison Christian had seen many men who looked like these two—filthy, rotting men with cold, empty eyes that followed him with hate. But these two were different. Their clothes, their hair, and their skin looked the same as any of the men who had spent several months in the prison. It was in the eyes where Christian had noticed a difference; the eyes of these two were warm and alive and strong.
Elder Hanson smiled and grasped Christian’s shoulder with a powerful hand.
“Father in heaven is pleased with your courage, Christian,” he said.
“We had better hurry,” the other man, Elder Nelson, said, stepping out of the cell. “But let’s pray first.”
Minutes later Christian and the two Mormon elders walked out of the prison. Elder Hanson, a tall barrel-chested man, stopped, stretched out his arms, and in a long, slow breath drank in the cold, clean-tasting night air.
“I had forgotten just how good and sweet air can taste,” he said. They stood silent in the dark under a ceiling of bright, winter stars, their breaths steaming in the cold air, the two elders bathing in a sense of cleanness and freedom. Then they began walking down the narrow streets toward a rocky point in the fjord.
They spoke in whispers as they walked.
“Brother Monson, what will your parents do?” Elder Nelson asked.
There was a long silence, and only the sound of their feet tapping on the pavement disturbed the stillness of the night. At length Christian sighed and spoke.
“I don’t know, Elder Nelson. I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I tried to tell my mother, but she wouldn’t listen. And my father—he’s a proud man, proud of Norway, proud of the Lutheran Church, proud of his own beliefs. Like many people around here, he is not tolerant of other beliefs. My mother might understand, but I’m afraid my father will not even try.”
Christian stopped and faced Elder Nelson, his breath making a white plume in the darkness.
“There’s pain in this truth of yours, Elder Nelson.” He turned and began walking again.
Elder Nelson nodded and pulled his coat tighter against the cold. He well understood Christian’s problem. He and Elder Hanson had been put into prison because of that same intolerance. The missionary work had been going well in Norway—hundreds had been baptized—too well for the comfort of the Lutheran Church and the Norwegian government. The government, under pressure from the Lutheran hierarchy (Lutheranism is the state religion of Norway), arrested the Mormon missionaries in the country and put them in prisons like the one in Fredrikstad.
Christian broke the silence again.
“Many years ago, I was very young at the time, my grandfather told me that there are steps in life that can change my future and the future of entire generations. He told me I should take those steps, carefully, in the direction I believe to be right, no matter how difficult they appear to be. I know this is right.”
They reached the shoreline and walked along it until they came to a small cove. The shoreline was rocky and smelled of the ocean and seaweed. There was a light mist on the surface of the water. In the distance, on a low horizon, a bright crescent moon was rising, casting a ghostly silver light on the scene.
The three of them walked out into the water, past the foaming shoreline. The moon climbed higher in the night sky. The water felt warm compared to the night air. There was the sound of waves washing gently against rocks on the shore, soft and rhythmic.
Christian thought back over the past two months, about the long hours he had searched and compared the catechism of his church with the Bible and the teachings of the two elders.
He remembered the warmth deep inside when he found the answers for which he had searched and prayed. With the memory a peaceful feeling washed over his mind, over the pain he felt in the weight of decision.
In the moonlight Elder Hanson raised his arm to a square. in his mind’s eye Christian could see John the Baptist and Christ in the Jordan River and he could hear Paul speaking on being buried and raised again with Christ. He heard Elder Hanson’s voice and the baptismal prayer. He felt the power of the prayer and a sudden rush of water.
Before the first reds and golds of morning streaked the horizon, the two elders were back in their cell and Christian was at the desk, in the front office of the prison, waiting for the day guard to relieve him. In the quiet stillness of morning he wondered where this step he had taken would lead him, and he wondered how he would tell his parents.

I know a good member of the Church who has a successful marriage and six beautiful children. She is trying to be the best companion she can be to her husband and the best mother she can be to her children. She is an effective Young Women leader in her ward. But sometimes she feels she isn’t good enough. She becomes discouraged and feels an emptiness of soul.
She came to me one day with her husband and described the powerlessness she feels at such times. She had discussed her concern with her priesthood leaders and especially her husband but had yet to find relief. I suggested that after her husband left for work and their children were in school, she find a place in her home and there reverently and humbly visit with Heavenly Father. I suggested that she express her gratitude to God for her blessings and then wait for His holy inspiration. She committed to do this daily.
Sometime later I received a letter from her. She said that as she went to her knees in those quiet moments each day and dropped her burden at Heavenly Father’s feet, He took her concerns away. She felt of her great worth to Him and learned more of “the healer’s art”4 as He healed her soul.

In the summer of 1980, I was nearing the end of my service in the Massachusetts Boston Mission. One evening we had an appointment to teach a promising young college student about the plan of salvation.
Several times during the course of the lesson, I was almost overwhelmed as the Holy Ghost repeatedly witnessed to me that the principles we were teaching were true. I remember praying almost out loud: “I already know this. I have taught this lesson numerous times these past two years. I am grateful to feel thy Spirit, but please witness to our investigator as well!”
A short time after this evening, I met with my mission president, and he informed me that my mother had been killed in a tragic automobile accident. Naturally, this sudden loss came as a tremendous shock to my family and our entire community. But once the emotions of the moment passed and I had occasion to reflect, I recalled with perfect clarity the powerful witness of the Spirit I’d received during that plan of salvation lesson. I knew that this was the work of a loving Heavenly Father preparing me for the loss that was to come.
A day never passes that I do not miss the teaching and companionship of my mother. But a day also never passes that I am not reminded of how a loving Heavenly Father carefully prepared me for that loss.

“It was fifty years ago tomorrow that I arrived in this wonderful, free land.” She wiped away a tear and began to chuckle. “I was only twelve years old, and just as I got off the boat, all these splendid fireworks started exploding. I thought they were welcoming me. I didn’t know it was Canada Day. I also didn’t know what a great blessing Heavenly Father had given me by letting me come here, because here I found the gospel of Jesus Christ. My testimony of Jesus Christ and His gospel is my most precious possession.”
…
“We watched the fireworks, and I thought about your seeing them when you first came to Canada.”
“Yes, it was quite a sight for a twelve year old.”

Alex looked around the fabric store. There were tons of colors and cool patterns. He saw a few that would be perfect.
“Hey, Mom,” said Alex, pointing to some fabric with colorful geckos on it. “Do you like these geckos?”
“I like cute, fluffy bunnies better,” Mom said.
Alex laughed. “You know what I mean! Would this be good for the scarves?”
“I think your friends will like it.”
Alex was going to make scarves for his friends. He would use the soccer-ball print for Josh, the rocket-ship print for José, and the gecko print for Mike.
Soon they were heading home with the fabric. As they left the parking lot, Alex saw a man holding up a cardboard sign to ask for help. He knew the man probably didn’t have a job or a home. And he looked really cold! He only had a thin jacket. Alex had a thick winter coat, but he still got cold walking to school in the mornings.
When they got home, Alex’s mom showed him how to lay the fabric out straight and measure how much he needed to make one scarf. He carefully cut the fabric with his scissors. Then he cut slits along the ends to make a fringe. Before long, Alex had six brightly colored scarves. There was also a big pile of extra fabric.
“Can you think of anyone else you want to make presents for?” Mom asked.
“Not really,” Alex said. Then he thought of the man holding the sign. He had an idea.
That week for home evening, Alex taught his whole family how to make scarves. His mom measured them out. His dad cut the fabric. Alex and his sister made the fuzzy fringe. He liked making scarves with the gecko fabric. The geckos seemed to smile at him as he worked.
“Wow,” Alex said when they finished. “We made 14 scarves to share!”
“What do we do now?” his sister asked.
“I think we should put them in the car,” Alex said. “Then when we see someone who looks cold, we can give them one.”
“That’s a great idea,” Dad said.
Mom took a bag out of the closet, and they stacked the cozy scarves inside. “Maybe we can go on a family drive sometime to look for people who need scarves,” she said.
“Can we go right now?” Alex asked.
Mom looked out the window. “I don’t know. It’s kind of cold outside.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
His parents smiled. “I guess you’re right,” Mom said. “Just make sure to bundle up.”
Alex threw on his coat, but he hardly noticed the cold air. He knew his scarves might help someone, and that made him feel warm inside.

The answer has to be in that room. Maybe I missed a false wall.
“How do you spell kiwi, Jackson?”
“Uh, what, Miss Grouder?”
“Kiwi. How do you spell it? We’ve been talking about the spelling test for the past ten minutes. Where have you been?”
“Trying to rescue the princess of Mendoza,” Chester whispered from his seat behind Jackson.
Jackson felt his face getting hot. “K-e-e-w-e-e.”
Miss Grouder sighed as she placed Jackson’s spelling test on his desk. A big, red D stared up at him.
On the way home, Jackson folded the spelling test into a square wad and stuffed it into the corner of his backpack. Chester ran up behind him. “Sorry about your spelling test. Hey, do you want to come over to my house and try out my new soccer ball?”
“No,” Jackson replied. “I think I’ve figured out how to rescue the princess. Do you want to come watch?”
“You mean just sit there and watch you play? No thanks!”
“Maybe tomorrow then?”
“You’re starting to sound like a broken record.” Chester sighed and turned the corner toward his own house.
At home, Jackson headed downstairs to the family room, turned on the TV, and activated the video game. I’ll just play one game, and then I’ll get going on my homework.
Two hours later his mom called, “Come on, Jackson, we have to eat and get going or we’ll miss the start of the movie.”
“Coming, Mendoz—uh, Mom.” If I can just get past this guard. His hand deftly moved the joystick back and forth. Too late. The figure on the screen toppled over. No fair! I’ll play just one more. I know I can do it.
Suddenly the house seemed awfully quiet. Jackson grabbed his jacket and flew up the stairs two at a time. Silence greeted him. There was a note on the table: “Gone to the movie. Wish you could’ve come. Sandwich in fridge. Home by eight. Call Gramps if you need anything.”
It’s all the guard’s fault! Jackson stomped to his bedroom. On the table was his unfinished homework. Beside it lay his scriptures. He hadn’t taken time to read them all week. Then there was the unopened family home evening manual. He was supposed to give the lesson Monday night. But he didn’t feel like doing any of those things tonight.
Good thing it’s Friday. Jackson thought as he turned around and headed back to the TV. I’ll catch up on everything tomorrow.
Zap! Zing! “Take that!” The sounds of the piano being played rather badly interrupted Jackson’s concentration. It was his sister playing the opening hymn to call the family together for family home evening.
Family home evening! He had meant to do the lesson on Sunday, but he’d gotten closer to rescuing the princess than ever before. Now it was too late.
Jackson grabbed his scriptures and ran upstairs. He’d fake it. After all, sometimes they read a scripture and talked about it so much that they never got to the lesson, anyway. He’d make sure that they did that tonight.
“And help us apply the lesson to our own lives,” his little brother said as he finished the opening prayer.
Jackson opened his scriptures to where he had last read, “Dad, could you read some scriptures for us? How about here in Ether, chapter 12, verse 27.”
“‘And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.’”
“What do you think that means?” Jackson asked.
“Well, that we are given weakness to help us be humble. If we acknowledge that and ask for Heavenly Father’s help in overcoming a weakness, it will become a strength to us.”
Mom raised her hand.
“Soap operas. That was my weakness. Some days I didn’t do anything but watch my shows. No laundry, no grocery shopping, no scripture reading. The TV was like a magnet, drawing me to it. It wasn’t until I admitted that I had a problem that I figured out a solution.”
Jackson squirmed in his chair. This wasn’t going quite like he wanted it to.
“When I worked at the candy shop,” his older sister began, “I practically ate my paycheck each week in candy. I couldn’t help myself, it tasted so good. Finally after praying about it, I decided to set a candy quota for each day. If I stuck to my quota, I rewarded myself by taking the money I would have spent on candy and putting it toward a new pair of jeans. Some days I didn’t make it, but gradually I ate less candy. And I got the jeans!”
Jackson thanked everyone for their participation and ended the lesson. As soon as the closing prayer was finished, he excused himself and went downstairs. Maybe if he could play a video game, it would help him forget the growing uneasiness inside him.
But with each step, the anxiety spread. Finally he stopped. Did he really have a problem with video games? Chester didn’t seem to be his friend anymore. He’d gotten a D for the first time on a spelling test. He hadn’t read the scriptures all week, and he’d missed the family movie. Perhaps it was time to apply his lesson tonight to his own life.
Jackson turned around and headed for his bedroom. He flopped down on his bed and opened the scriptures to Ether. The princess would have to wait. Right now he had some reading and a lot of thinking to do.

Over the last hours I have come to understand other blessings from “always remembering him.” I thought of a family in Albuquerque, New Mexico, I met years ago: a father, mother, and two teenage daughters who belonged to no church but read the Bible together every day. They pondered the Savior’s life and his words. When we found them they had decided that Christ would have a church and that they should find it. They knew that it would have prophets and apostles at its foundation because that is what Christ had left in his church in the meridian of time. They knew that the resurrected Lord had appeared to his Apostles.
And so when we testified that God the Father and his Son, the Savior of the world, came to a boy prophet, Joseph Smith, that seemed right to them. When they heard us testify that Peter, James, and John appeared and restored priesthood, they knew that would have to have happened. And the Holy Spirit, which they also recognized, told them it was true. I realized sometime last night or early this morning that they recognized the truth—that this is the Church of Jesus Christ—in large part because they had always remembered him. Every day they had gathered to read about him and his words, and so they remembered him. And after they were baptized they were ready to follow the living prophet because they knew the Savior always speaks to his prophets to bless his people.

I am grateful for my ten brothers and sisters, all of whom have gone on missions. Two of my sisters, widows—one the mother of ten and the other the mother of eight—after sending their children on missions, talked to their bishops about going on missions themselves.
I well remember the day they called me on the telephone and said, “Guess what? We’ve received our missionary calls.”
I said, “What missionary calls?”
They replied, “Don’t you know?” (They expected the President of the Quorum of the Twelve to know everything!)
I said, “No, I hadn’t heard.”
They responded, “Yes, we’re both going to your old field of labor in England.”
I wished them well, and I wish you could have heard the reports of those two sisters as they returned from their missions.

Frequently the need of the widow is not one of food or shelter but of feeling a part of ongoing events. Elder H. Bryan Richards of the Seventy once brought to my office a sweet widow whose husband had passed away during a full-time mission they were serving. Elder Richards explained that her financial resources were adequate and that she desired to contribute to the Church’s General Missionary Fund the proceeds of two insurance policies on the life of her departed husband. I could not restrain my tears when she meekly advised me, “This is what I wish to do. It is what my missionary-minded husband would like.”

The gift was received and entered as a most substantial donation to missionary service. I saw the receipt made in her name, but I believe in my heart it was also recorded in heaven. I invited her and Elder Richards to follow me to the unoccupied First Presidency council room in the Church Administration Building. The room is beautiful and peaceful. I asked this sweet widow to sit in the chair usually occupied by our Church President. I felt he would not mind, for I knew his heart.

As she sat ever so humbly in the large leather chair, she gripped each armrest with a hand and declared, “This is one of the happiest days of my life.” It was also such for Elder Richards and for me.

I never travel to work along busy Seventh East in Salt Lake City but what I see in my mind’s eye a thoughtful daughter, afflicted with arthritis and carrying in her hand a plate of warm food to her aged mother who lived across the busy thoroughfare. She has now gone home to that mother who preceded her in passing. But her lesson was not lost on her daughters, who delight their widowed father by cleaning his house each week, inviting him to dinners in their homes, and sharing with him the laughter of good times together, leaving in that widower’s heart a prayer of gratitude for his children, the light of his life. Fathers experience loneliness as well as mothers.

Anna Sewell died a year after the book’s publication on April 25, 1878, of a painful lung infection. When the horse-drawn hearse arrived at the door, her mother looked down from an upstairs window and saw that the horses had bearing-reins [checkreins]. “Oh, this will never do!” she exclaimed and hurried to order the cruel, restricting reins removed. This loving mother thereby performed one more service for her daughter and for her daughter’s friends, the horses.

I was about to go to my room when Reggie drove up, waved, and parked his car. He was young and wiry and came up the steps two at a time. He told me of his small business, his young children, and lack of work, and finally that he simply could not see how he could pledge fifty pounds.

I gripped his shoulder. “Let me suggest that you discuss this with your family and with the Lord. You are not wanting to build this church for me, but for the Lord. Perhaps He has a way in mind for you. But most of all, don’t be depressed. No one expects you to do more than you are capable of doing.”

Reggie was in a hurry, and there was obviously nothing more that I could say. I knew that unless these leaders made their own commitments, their people could not be expected to respond. I did not have much time to think about Reggie; before my visitor was out of sight, a young hotel employee called me to the phone.

This time there was a definite air of excitement among them that had not been there before. I began to speculate, gave up, and asked Reggie to give his report.

“I didn’t see how I could possibly get the fifty pounds, but my wife and I decided to make the pledge anyhow and hope we could find a way to get it. After pledging the fifty pounds, I contacted a nursery to see what I could do. I got a contract to bring in wild flower seeds—we have the most beautiful flowers in the world here in western Australia. I was lucky; the nursery had just received a request for these seeds from a U.S. company. My family and I have given our Saturdays and every possible hour after work to gathering them. We have not only earned our pledge money, but we’ve also received some side benefits from the work. The children enjoyed the family outings as well as the opportunity to earn extra money. We have started some projects of our own at home that we could never afford before.” He looked at each of us and smiled, “It sure has been a great benefit for us!”

On a special weekend, I had the privilege of assisting Elder Jorge M. Alvarado of the Quorum of the Seventy in the wonderful reorganization of a stake in the Dominican Republic. After stake conference, we decided to counsel with the families of the newly called leaders. Elder Alvarado looked at the young couples who had just been given this enormous responsibility and asked, speaking especially to the sisters: “Sisters, what are your feelings, what are your impressions?”
One of the sisters replied, “Elder Alvarado, after all I have just heard and felt, nothing will ever be the same again. For me, there is a before and an after this conference. Nothing will be as it was before!”
Later in the afternoon, we had the honor of visiting a couple of families in their respective homes. The same question was addressed to a couple who had been married for several decades. The sister replied with a big smile: “My husband and I have been married for several years; it may sound strange for many to hear, but after what we just went through and felt at the conference, our married life has just begun.”

One month ago a training assignment took me to Guayaquil, Ecuador. I arrived at the hotel after dark. The next morning I opened my curtains, and there across the valley was a beautiful granite building standing majestically on the Santa Ana Hills. Its stunning beauty was evident, but it wasn’t until I saw the angel Moroni on top that I, with tears in my eyes, realized that here was a temple, a symbol of the glorious blessings that will come to the members of the Church in that part of the world.
“Temples are unique among all buildings. … They are places of covenants and promises. At their altars we kneel before God our Creator and are given promise of his everlasting blessings” (Gordon B. Hinckley, Teachings of Gordon B. Hinckley [1997], 632–33). Wherever we went, we found that temples are being built, temples that will lift the Saints of God and change the face of countries, whether in South America or throughout the world.
Has it only been one year since our beloved prophet announced the building of 32 more temples? President Gordon B. Hinckley has said, “This is the greatest era of temple building in all the history of the world” (Teachings of Gordon B. Hinckley, 629).
Our youngest son, Spencer, now serving a mission in Mongolia, wrote that his mission president was addressing the missionaries and members concerning their duty in building up the Church there. “As President Cox opened the discussion for questions, the first response was, ‘When is Mongolia going to have a temple?’ These people,” Spencer said, “are hungering for the gospel to play a greater part in their lives. They don’t even have a Book of Mormon yet, and they want a temple.”
Why all this fuss about temples? Simply put, the purpose of temples “is to redeem all mankind who are obedient to the laws and commandments of God. The gospel in its fulness was revealed to Adam. … [And] Saints of all ages have had temples in one form or another” (David B. Haight, in Conference Report, Apr. 1993, 29–30; or Ensign, May 1993, 23–24).
Joseph Smith said, “The greatest responsibility in this world that God has laid upon us is to seek after our dead” (History of the Church, 6:313). If this is true, then as parents and family members our greatest challenge is to prepare our families for the temple. Parents have the primary responsibility, but grandparents, aunts and uncles, even brothers and sisters all may teach the family.
When my husband and I were married in the temple, we understood the importance of never discussing the temple outside the temple, not because the ceremonies were secret but because they were sacred. “They are kept confidential lest they be given to those who are unprepared” (Boyd K. Packer, The Holy Temple [booklet, 1982], 2). But in a family setting, there are many precious truths that, with sensitivity and common sense, will help prepare our children for the temple.
Consider:
The sacred nature of the temple clothing. In the temples all are dressed in white. White is the symbol of purity.
The temple is the Lord’s classroom. President Hinckley has said, “[The temple] becomes a school of instruction in the sweet and sacred things of God” (Teachings of Gordon B. Hinckley, 635).
What it means to be worthy for the temple. Can we teach our children that receiving one’s endowment and the wearing of the sacred garment will not require a change of wardrobe or lifestyle if the principles of temple worthiness are understood and lived in their earlier years? A young woman who wears knee-length skirts will not have to buy a new wardrobe after she receives her endowment in the temple. A young man who anticipates going to the temple will respect the Church’s moral standards in his social behavior.
Understanding gospel language. What do the words endowment, ordinances, sealings, and keys really mean? The story is told of a little boy who overheard his parents discussing doing temple sealings. He asked, “Are you going to do the walls next week?”
Where may we teach our children? Family home evening is the formal setting, but there are so many more places where we may talk about our spiritual feelings for the temple. One of my favorite times was when my children were in bed at night. Occasionally I would lie on their bed and tell them of spiritual things. There in the peace and the quiet, the sweet Spirit can bear testimony to their heart and soul that the things you are saying are true.
We may assume that Joseph and Mary taught their family about the temple. As Elder Perry has discussed, when the Savior was a 12-year-old boy, His parents took Him to the Feast of the Passover in Jerusalem. When Jesus was left behind, He was not found in places or entertainments for a boy His age. His parents found Him in the temple. Perhaps when Mary tucked Him in bed at night, she shared her testimony of these sacred and precious truths.
My first memory of temples was when I was a little girl. I knew the temple must be a pretty wonderful place because my parents faithfully attended, and they always came home together in such a good mood. I understood the sacred nature of the temple clothing by the way my mother spoke about it with love and respect.
President Howard W. Hunter has said: “Let us share with our children the spiritual feelings we have in the temple. And let us teach them more earnestly and more comfortably the things we can appropriately say. … Keep a picture of a temple in your home that your children may see it” (“A Temple-Motivated People,” Ensign, Feb. 1995, 5). I noticed every home I visited in Africa had a picture of a temple hung simply and beautifully on the wall.
New understanding comes as we prepare our families for the temple. May I share a few things I have learned:
Going to the temple often provides balance in our lives. After returning home we have an increased sense of well-being; the influence of the Spirit can shield us from the frustrations of the world. Listen to this promise by President Hinckley: “If there were more temple work done in the Church, there would be less … selfishness, less … contention, less … demeaning [of] others. The whole Church would increasingly be lifted to greater heights of spirituality, love for one another, and obedience to the commandments of God” (Teachings of Gordon B. Hinckley, 622).
The spiritual atmosphere of the temple curbs our appetite for worldly things. When we attend frequently, we no longer have such a need to wear the latest fashion, and we are not so easily drawn to the entertainment of the world.
The temple is a place of revelation. Many years ago I was walking into the temple, and in my mind I heard the words, Learn public speaking. I thought to myself, When will I ever have need for public speaking? Over several months’ period of time I tried very inadequately to conjure up some enthusiasm to obey the prompting I had received. I even checked out a tape from the local library by a public speaker who admitted that his goal was to someday speak in the Mormon Tabernacle. I thought at the time, I’ll never be speaking in the Tabernacle!
Elder John A. Widtsoe has said, “At the most unexpected moments, in or out of the temple will come to [us], as a revelation, the solution of the problems that vex [our lives]. … It is a place where revelations may be expected” (“Temple Worship,” Utah Genealogical and Historical Magazine, Apr. 1921, 63–64).
One of the biggest lessons I have learned is that Satan will try to keep us from going to the temple. During a discussion with friends once, they shared with me that whenever they attend, they don’t tell anybody they are going. They just jump into their cars and go because if they don’t, something is sure to happen to keep them away.
I remember reading of a warning given by the president of the Logan Temple that Satan’s followers will “whisper in the ears of the people persuading them not to go to the Temple” (“Genealogical Department,” Church News, 12 Dec. 1936, 8). “Temple work brings so much resistance because it is the source of so much spiritual power to the Latter-day Saints” (Boyd K. Packer, “The Holy Temple,” Ensign, Feb. 1995, 36).
The Spirit of Elijah is brooding in the land. As we work with youth of the Church, we see they are being drawn to their temples.
In Nicaragua, Central America, a group of 49 young women and their leaders took 2,000 names to the Guatemala City Temple. It took each girl a year to save enough money to go. These faithful young women rode a bus almost two days’ journey through three country borders and spent two or three days at the temple before returning home.
In another ward, young people have located the names of 10,000 ancestors as they have turned their hearts to their families. Where temples are available, we see youth doing baptisms for the dead, sometimes on an individual weekly basis.
In the temple the Spirit of the Lord provides comfort and peace, especially during moments of despair. Recently I met a 35-year-old woman in the temple. As we visited, I asked if her husband was with her. With a look of tenderness in her eyes, she shared with me that he had died of a brain tumor three months ago. The temple is her anchor; the Spirit found in the temple gives her comfort and peace, and perhaps her husband was there.
Each of us may ask ourselves, “How often should I attend the temple?” Our leaders will never tell us how often we should attend because it is different for every person. Many women of various ages who live close to a temple try to go once a week. When one of my friends worked full time, she spent one day a month in the temple, attending several sessions. These women are obedient, but they also understand the strength of priesthood power that comes into their lives.
For young parents, attending the temple may be a once-a-month date. President Packer has said: “Perhaps you will understand … we are trying to establish family history as … a ‘cottage industry.’ … Couples raising little children should not feel inadequate or guilty … if they cannot afford the time or money to attend a distant temple frequently. Mother makes a contribution by noting important events, collecting pictures, bits of memorabilia, … all as it fits into the schedule of a busy mother” (“A Plea to Stake Presidents,” leadership training meeting, 1 Apr. 1988, 5).
My own mother didn’t do scrapbooks, but she gave me a love for my heritage. She told me story after story about my ancestors as she taught me to love them.
President Packer continues: “Father and mother can speak of ordinances and covenants. By the inflection of their voices, they can italicize the word ‘temple’ every time they say it. … In proper season, family obligations will be a bit less and income a bit more. Then members can and should give more to this sacred [temple] work” (“A Plea to Stake Presidents,” 5).
We plead with you mothers and fathers to teach your sons and daughters the meaning of the temple covenants. Teach them that “wearing the garment is [a] sacred privilege. … [It] is an outward expression of an inner commitment to follow the Savior Jesus Christ” (First Presidency letter, 5 Nov. 1996, 2).
Brothers and sisters, as servants of the living God, we shall press forward in this sacred temple work. May we teach our children that as they spiritually prepare themselves for the temple, they may stand in the presence of the Lord, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

My wife and I were in the front of our yard one day when the newspaper boy came down the street on his bicycle. His bicycle was loaded with papers. About 20 or 30 yards in back of him, there was another boy following him on a bicycle. I was not sure at that time what their relationship was, but I did notice they were coming down the street at a pretty good clip.
When the newspaper boy came to our sidewalk entry, he was traveling too fast to make the approach to our home, and, as a result, he went one way, the bicycle went another way, and the papers went everywhere. Noticing the boy had fallen on the lawn and was not hurt, but realizing that he would undoubtedly be embarrassed from the fall in front of his friend, we moved toward him.
At the sight of this perfect three-point landing, if we may refer to it as that, his companion shouted his pleasure and laughed heartily with complete and full enjoyment at the misfortune of his associate.
Trying to relieve the embarrassment of the paper boy, knowing he didn’t want help but he wanted to have his pride repaired a little, I took a few more steps toward him and said: “It’s kind of a low blow to have your friend laugh when you’ve had a bad spill, isn’t it?”
He went on picking up his papers without even looking up. Finally, he had the papers back in place and got on his bicycle; and as he started out away from our home, he made the remark: “He isn’t my friend—he’s my brother.”

When I was a freshman in high school, the weightlifting coach asked me to join weightlifting.
“Mmm … no thanks,” I said. “Not my thing.”
But he kept at it. For weeks.
Finally, I tried it out. He was right: I really liked weightlifting. It was definitely weird at first; my body had never done anything like it before. But I grew to love the feeling of working out. I also loved my teammates and the competitions. And I started doing really well!
Now weightlifting is a huge part of my life. I practice every day for at least two or three hours, doing back squats, clean and jerks, and snatches. (And if you don’t know what any of those things are, don’t worry—neither did I!)
Like many things, weightlifting takes time and patience, and sometimes that can be difficult. Luckily, my family is always right there encouraging me, even when I complain about how sore I am (which is often). My dad always has ice packs and pep talks ready for me when I get home from practice. And my mom always sacrifices so I can go to competitions.
A few years ago, I went to one of those competitions in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. I was excited to compete against weightlifters from all over the country, but I was a little worried about being so far away from my family. To make it easier, my mom promised to text me scriptures and thoughtful messages every day.
The night before the competition, some kids threw a party. I thought it would be cool to go, so my roommate and I went to check it out. But right away I knew it wasn’t my kind of party. There were teenagers drinking, smoking, saying bad words, and dancing inappropriately. I knew I shouldn’t be there, but I was worried what my roommate might think. Or what the other competitors might think.
But then something popped into my head:
“Stand ye in holy places.”
It was from my favorite scripture, and one my mom had sent me that morning: Doctrine and Covenants 87:8: “Wherefore, stand ye in holy places, and be not moved, until the day of the Lord come; for behold, it cometh quickly, saith the Lord. Amen.”
I don’t know why my mom sent me that scripture that day, but it’s one I’ve loved my entire life. I’ve had it memorized since I was eight, and again and again it has reminded me to have courage, be obedient, and stand for what I believe in.
“Stand ye in holy places.”
“I’m gonna go,” I said to my roommate. I explained about the scripture my mom had sent me that morning. “This is not a place I should be standing.”
My roommate told me she didn’t want to be there, either. She was uncomfortable too but hadn’t wanted to leave by herself and be seen as a loser. She thanked me for saying something, and we left.
The next morning, we found out that soon after we left, the kids who were at the party were caught and eliminated from the competition for drinking and doing drugs.
If I hadn’t been prompted to remember my mom’s verse, I might’ve been disqualified from the competition too. I ended up winning first place, so I’m really grateful I got to compete. (I think I thank my mom every single day for texting me.)
Winning a weightlifting competition is a pretty obvious and immediate blessing from keeping the commandments. But Doctrine and Covenants 87:8 doesn’t say, “Stand ye in holy places so you can win weightlifting competitions.” And John 14:15 doesn’t say, “If you want immediate blessings, keep my commandments.” It says, “If ye love me, keep my commandments.” The Lord blesses us because He loves us. And we try to be holy and obedient because we trust and love the Lord.

When Benedito Carlos do Carmo Mendes Martins decided to take his family to the nearest temple in 1992, he needed 15 days off work to make the arduous round-trip from his home in Manaus, in northern Brazil. It was a busy time for his company, however, and his boss refused to give him time off.
Because the family had prepared, sacrificed, and saved money to make the trip, they prayed that they might somehow still be able to go. Their prayers were soon answered.
“The day before the trip, I was diagnosed with parasites,” Brother Martins said. “I was so happy to be sick!”
His doctor immediately prescribed medication and a two-week medical leave of absence from work, which, by law, his company was obligated to give. The next day the family left for the temple.
“I took my medicine with me, and during the trip I received injections,” Brother Martins said. By the time he returned, the parasites were gone.
“I came home with faith in and a testimony of the ordinances of the temple,” he said, “especially the ordinance of being sealed to my wife and three children.”

When Brother Watabe learned that each member of the Church should be a missionary, he committed himself to go tracting every day. He began by tracting in the train on the way to work, giving pamphlets to those who were interested. While serving a mission in Brazil, his third son, Masakazu, had the unusual experience of baptizing a man who had first heard of the gospel from Masao Watabe on a train in Japan fifteen years earlier.

My bishop has helped me by encouraging me and giving me opportunities to strengthen my talents.
Knowing that I played the piano, he asked me one day if I wanted to learn how to play the organ. I had always thought it would be fun to learn, but my bishop was the one who really encouraged me to start. He helped me get in contact with the ward organist so she could help me get started, and it’s been going really well! Every time my bishop sees me practicing, he compliments me and asks about the next time I’ll be playing in sacrament meeting.
I know my bishop sees my potential, and I’m grateful for his constant encouragement. He has helped me learn and grow in ways I would not have been able to on my own.
Aubrey B., California, USA