Gospel Story Finder

When I was 18 I was the first in my family to find the restored gospel. After my baptism I began to really understand how the gospel could help my family.
As a result of these feelings, I started to do family history and my love for my ancestors grew as I worked and exercised my faith to find them. My desire to find them was so strong that on several occasions I traveled to my ancestors’ places of origin. Each trip brought new experiences, and my heart was turned to my ancestors (see Mal. 4:5–6).
Some time later I was called to serve as a family history consultant in my ward. My heart began to expand, and I began to love the ancestors of each person in my ward. As I searched parishes, archives, and libraries, I came to better understand the purpose of redeeming the dead.
Once I had my family history computer disk in my hands, I realized that the most important part of the work was still missing. I needed to go to the temple and provide my family beyond the veil with the ordinances that would enable them to be saved and join my family’s generations for eternity.
I was able to go to the temple when I went on my mission to Cochabamba, Bolivia. I began preaching the gospel in October 2000. A few months later my companion and I visited the temple with the youth from the ward where we were serving. I took my disk and was able to provide 599 names for ordinance work.
While I served as witness, my companion baptized the young people on behalf of my ancestors. What great joy I felt. The Spirit was with me, testifying of the truthfulness of what we were doing. I could feel my ancestors’ happiness and gratitude.
But there were other ordinances that still needed to be done. Because there were so many names, I turned them over to the temple. But I kept the names of my great-grandparents and their children, and later that month my companion and I, with the help of other missionaries, performed the work for them.
I am grateful to my Heavenly Father because, although I was far from my country and perhaps thought that I would baptize only the living, I was also able to participate in the work of redeeming the dead.
I am still trying to bring more souls to Christ and encouraging others to seek out their ancestors. I love this work, and I know that it is true and that Jesus Christ lives and loves us.

When I was serving as a missionary in northern Mexico, a few days after the baptismal service of the Valdez family we received a telephone call from Brother Valdez asking us to come to his house. He had an important question for us. Now that he knew the will of the Lord regarding the Word of Wisdom, and even though it would be difficult to find a new job, he wondered if he should continue to work for the cigarette company where he had worked for many years. Only a few days later Brother Valdez again asked us to come by and visit him. He had decided to quit his job because he was not willing to go against his convictions. Then with a smile and emotion in his voice, he told us that the very day he quit his old job, another company had called to offer him a much better position.

“It’s complicated,” my dad said when I was six years old. “I now have a disease called multiple sclerosis. Basically, my body gets tense and acts up when I’m under pressure. It means I’m going to slow down as you grow up, so we can’t go out as much and play or go fishing like other people do.”
That’s what changed my life. At the time, it was hard for me to understand what he was saying, but I now know what he meant. It helps to know what is going to happen with him, and I don’t have trouble talking about it.
Throughout my life I’ve been pitied for being the child with a disabled dad, and I have been excused from some things because I’m a “special case.” It can be hard at times, but I’ve learned to adapt to our situation. I know I have a few more challenges than some people, but that doesn’t mean I’m different. My dad is still my dad. He is a great person. He raised me with morals and a good conscience. He brought me up in the Church, and I think that is a great thing. What matters most is that he helps me. His illness hasn’t hurt me.
We all have problems, whether from a disease or a disability or something else. It’s how we deal with the problems that matters, and it’s part of what makes us who we are. We can’t fix all of our problems, but we can try to make them easier to live with—for us and for our family members.

My dad is in the Air Force. Sometimes he has to go on trips. I don’t like it when he has to leave. One time he had to go away for two months. I was sad, and I didn’t want him to go. The morning he had to leave, I was crying. He asked me if I wanted a blessing before he left. I said yes. In the blessing, he said that if I would obey my mom, it wouldn’t seem like his trip was so long. It really worked! While he was gone, I tried my best to be a good helper, to obey my mom, and to be a peacemaker with my two brothers. My mom and dad always tell me that being a peacemaker is one of my best talents. Jesus Christ loves peacemakers. When my dad got back, it seemed like his trip wasn’t long at all.
Derek Driggs, age 6Colorado Springs, Colorado

It was almost Halloween. Every year the Master Monster Makers built a frightening monster for the Halloween party at the church. The boys were busy bringing monster parts to Billy’s backyard.
Billy had a big cardboard box that a washing machine had come in, and many smaller boxes. He also had some coat hangers for fastening the boxes together.
Tommy brought ropes and a worn-out tent that his brother had given to him.
Donald brought spray paints and a plastic bucket.
“We are the Master Monster Makers,” they said. “We make the best monsters!”
Billy’s little sister, Cathy, came outside. She had a toy megaphone in her hand. When she talked through it, her voice was very loud.
“Can I help?” she asked. “We could put my megaphone in your monster.”
“Sorry,” said Billy. “You are not one of the Master Monster Makers. You would only get in the way.”
Cathy shouted, “I would not!”
Billy shook his head. “No.”
Cathy put the megaphone to her mouth and shouted, “YOU ARE NOT VERY NICE!”
“Quiet, mega-mouth,” said Billy.
The Master Monster Makers laughed. Cathy turned and marched back inside. The boys started working.
Billy put the boxes together to make the monster’s body.
Tommy wrapped the tent around the boxes, then tied on ropes to make the arms move.
Donald painted the monster scary colors. He put the little bucket on top for a head.
The Master Monster Makers worked hard all morning. At last Billy put an awful Halloween mask on the monster’s head, and the three boys stood back and admired their work. The monster looked so real that they thought it might reach out and grab them.
“That’s the best monster we’ve ever made,” said Donald. The others agreed.
Cathy came out of the house with her megaphone. “Is anybody thirsty?” she asked. “I poured you some cold root beer in the kitchen.”
The Master Monster Makers were all thirsty. They hurried inside.
“That was nice of Cathy,” said Donald, sipping through a straw. “I thought she would still be mad.”
“Me, too,” said Tommy. “Maybe we should have let her help.”
“No,” said Billy. “She doesn’t know anything about making monsters.”
The three boys finished their drinks and went back outside. They wanted to thank Cathy for the root beer, but they didn’t see her anywhere. They were alone with the monster.
“It sure looks scary,” said Billy.
“Yes,” said Tommy. “Spooky.”
“Ooooohhhhh …”
“What was that?” asked Donald.
The monster’s arms came up a little.
“It—it moved!” Tommy croaked.
The monster’s arms went up high. It growled, “COME HERE, LITTLE BOYS. I AM VERY HUNGRY!”
“It’s almost like it’s alive!” yelped Billy.
“Neat!” Donald squawked.
“Who thought of that?” the Master Monster Makers asked each other.
Just then they heard the monster again. It giggled.
Giggled?
“Oh,” said Billy. “I know.” He marched right up to the monster and banged on its chest. “OK,” he said. “Come on out, Cathy.”
There was silence for a minute. Then Billy’s little sister poked her head out. “How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“Monsters don’t giggle,” said Billy.
Cathy climbed out of the monster with her megaphone. “Are you angry?” she asked.
Billy thought for a minute. “I guess not,” he said. “I didn’t think you could make our monster any scarier. But you did.”
“You sure did,” agreed Tommy and Donald.
The boys looked at each other. They all had the same idea at the same time.
“Cathy,” Billy asked, “would you be the monster’s voice at the Halloween party?”
“That would be fun!” Cathy exclaimed.
“We are the Master Monster Makers,” they all four shouted, “and we make the best monsters!”

Chris shuffled his feet a little to hear the brush, brush sound they made in the blue paper booties covering his shoes. He was standing in line with his family, waiting to go into the San Diego California Temple for the open house.
Dad bent down and put a hand on Chris’s shoulder. "Temple open houses are very special," he said. "I remember when I went to the Provo Utah Temple open house. I had watched the workers building it from just an empty field up to a finished temple. When we were inside, I knew it was Heavenly Father’s house. I was a little bit older than you are, but you’ll remember this your whole life, just like I did."
Mom turned toward them. "That’s right. I remember when I went to the Seattle Washington Temple open house a long time ago. That’s why we drove all the way here. Getting to tour a temple before it’s dedicated is a very special opportunity."
Chris thought about their long drive through the desert to get to San Diego. There had been nothing interesting to look at out the windows, and his little sister cried most of the way. Even his older sister got a little bit tired of all the driving. But since they had come so far, he knew it was important.
Chris folded his arms and walked as quietly as he could in his blue paper shoes through the temple tour. He couldn’t remember ever being somewhere so beautiful. The carpet was white. The windows were tall. The pictures on the walls were beautiful. It felt more reverent than any place he had been before.
As they walked up the stairs, Chris held tightly to the handrail. He was smiling brightly.
Mom whispered to him, "How do you feel?"
Chris looked up at her and Dad. "I feel like I’m holding the iron rod."

Church ball was my chance to make up for being cut. Our ward team was the best church team I’d ever played on. Brother Sid Rogers was our priests adviser and coach.
During the season we went undefeated. The only team that came close to us—and we still beat them by seven points—was Jeremy James’s ward. They had a couple of decent players, but Jeremy was really the team.
In the stake tournament the championship game was between us and Jeremy’s ward. During warm-ups I watched Jeremy. He was a quiet, reserved kind of guy. And even though he was the best player on the team, he didn’t make a big deal of it. He passed the ball around and shouted encouragement to his teammates. And he was good. Oh, was he good!
The game was close throughout. We took the early lead when Joel Preston made a three-pointer. But Jeremy’s ward kept it close. Jeremy couldn’t miss, it seemed. When we double-teamed him, he managed to get the ball to a teammate who would score. It was frustrating. Things looked bleak when we went down six with two minutes to play.
Then we started battling back, finally taking a one-point lead with ten seconds to go. And we had the ball. But then I bobbled a pass and Jeremy stole it. He began driving toward the basket and drew up for a quick jumper from ten feet as I lunged to block the shot. He grimaced even before I hit him. It was as though he knew I was going to bat away his shot. As I reached my hand to swat the ball away, I slapped his forearm. The whistle blew, and the ref pointed at me.
Then something happened. Jeremy, still grimacing and shaking his head, intervened. “I traveled before I went up for the shot,” he explained, the disappointment and anguish heavy on his face.
Jeremy’s coach fired off the bench, a look of shock pinching his features. “Let the refs make the calls,” he hollered, turning to the officials. “I didn’t see the traveling. You didn’t see it, right?”
“If he said he traveled,” the ref said apologetically, nodding at Jeremy, “I can’t just ignore that. He called traveling on himself.”
Every eye was on Jeremy. Everybody was wondering what he was going to do. But more than anyone I knew what Jeremy would do. I had seen him sacrifice more than the last two points in a church ball game. I wanted him to stand by his call, but not so we could win. I suppose I wanted reaffirmed to me that someone could actually guard his integrity more intensely than he guarded his team’s chance to win.
Jeremy shrugged and shook his head. “I traveled.” Turning to his coach and teammates, he muttered a quiet, “I’m sorry.”
Jeremy’s coach, obviously frustrated, put his arm around Jeremy. Ever since my experience with Coach Angelo I had packed an annoying pocket of guilt in the pit of my stomach. Many times since I had reflected on the decisions I had made to earn a varsity spot. I had come to know that to experience the comfort of clear conscience sometimes demands the sting of public disapproval. As my team celebrated, I felt a deep-down empty sickness born of disappointment. For a moment I wondered what it would be like to lose on principle instead of winning in spite of it.
“We ought to play it over,” I blurted out. “That would be the fair thing to do. Jeremy would be hitting free throws right now if …” I stopped and glanced at Jeremy. I detected surprise in his look. “If we’re going to win,” I continued, “we ought to win without a questionable call at the end.”
“C’mon, Dave, we’ve got it won if the ref calls traveling on James,” Joel said.
It was now my turn to feel the pressure of the crowd. Then I remembered that Sunday afternoon when Coach Angelo “complimented” me by saying I went with the flow without making waves. He hadn’t meant to, but he had labeled me a coward.
“We can replay the last ten seconds of the game,” I explained. “This is a church game. We ought to do that. They get the ball where Jeremy stole it and we play from there.”
There were protests and arguments, each team struggling for the advantage. But the referees went along with my suggestion. We were ahead 68–67 with ten seconds on the clock.
Joel and I double-teamed Jeremy as he brought the ball up court. Jeremy made a move, and Joel slipped and fell. It was Jeremy and me, one on one. I knew I couldn’t foul him. My only chance was to block the shot. I expected the crucial moment to come under the basket as Jeremy drove the lane. But as soon as Jeremy reached the three-point line, he pulled up for a jump shot. The ball hit the bottom of the net as the buzzer blared.
Jeremy’s team went crazy, slapping high fives, hugging, laughing, and shouting. We stared in disbelief, and then my teammates turned away, some of them grumbling, all of them shunning me.
I made my way to the dressing room, more to be by myself than to shower or dress. Dropping down on the bench, I held my head in my hands. I had wanted to win. Yet there was a quiet, tranquil peace inside me. I had no regrets.
“Hey, Bluth.” I looked up to see Jeremy standing there. We stared at each other a moment before he spoke. “It was a good game. I just wanted to say thanks. I wasn’t sure … I just wanted you to know that …”
He smiled and shrugged, words escaping him. He swallowed and tried again. “Thanks for playing tough and hanging in there.”
Neither of us knew what to say after that. We both stood there silently. And then Jeremy held out his hand and I took it, feeling a lump squeeze into my throat. We shook hands firmly and looked into each other’s eyes, and I knew that between the two of us there was nothing more that needed to be said.

Another sister said: “Sisterhood has taken on a whole new meaning for me. Several years ago my husband died suddenly, and I felt as if my world had collapsed around me. But just as suddenly, I was surrounded by a wonderful circle of sisters who helped bear my burden. They are always there. Our weekly trips to the temple bring such peace and comfort into my life. I rejoice in this sweet sisterhood.”

Brigham’s mission to England, as the head of the Quorum of the Twelve, began with two dramatic departures that reveal his growing confidence in the Lord and his own developing ability as a courageous and prophetic leader. Indeed, the two years between April 1839, when Brigham led a majority of the Twelve in a daring, necessarily secret, formal farewell ceremony while surrounded by their enemies in Far West, and April 1841, when he triumphantly led them back from England, were among the two most important of his life—both in accomplishment and in personal development. We need to remember that in England he participated in the justly famous mass conversions in Herefordshire along with Wilford Woodruff; that he preached in London and visited St. Paul’s Cathedral and the British Museum; that in England he healed the lame and sick, compiled a book of hymns, published the Book of Mormon and prepared an index for it, established and for a time edited the Millennial Star—these things while welding the Quorum of the Twelve into a unified, smoothly working executive and apostolic body, with himself firmly at its head.
The first departure came as the result of a revelation Joseph Smith received in Missouri in July 1838, commanding that the Twelve, recently riven by the apostasy in Kirtland, be organized again and expand upon its assigned task of proselyting by going to England. They were to “take leave of my saints” in Far West the next April 26 on the building site of the temple.18 But before that time came, Joseph and many of the leaders had been jailed, leaving Brigham suddenly in charge of a desperate winter exodus back across the state to Illinois. The Governor’s extermination order was in effect, so enemies of the Saints were openly boasting that they would kill anyone who tried to fulfill “Joe Smith’s prophecy” about the Twelve leaving for England from Missouri.
Some of the Saints who were gathered in Quincy, Illinois, argued that in their persecuted condition surely the Lord would not require them to fulfill his word to the letter, but Brigham had been learning from Joseph the value of something more important than practical expediency. He knew the value of energetic, even dangerous, effort and sacrifice in keeping faith with the Lord and His prophet, and he knew the value of great example in motivating faith in the Saints. The three other apostles in Quincy agreed with Brigham that “the Lord God had spoken and it was our duty to obey and leave the event in his hands and he would protect us.”19 The four traveled back by carriage, picking up apostle John E. Page (who was still bringing his family out of Missouri) on the way and meeting Heber Kimball in Far West, where he had been in hiding awaiting them. Heber recorded that the Lord cast a deep sleep on the town.20 They met while it was still dark (Brigham was practical as well as courageously faithful) on the morning of April 26, ordained Wilford Woodruff and George A. Smith apostles, thus providing a minimum Quorum of seven to do business, directed the laying of a token stone for the foundation of the temple, and “took their leave … agreeable to revelation.”21
The Twelve then returned to Illinois (taking with them the last group of refugees, who had risked their lives to fulfill the Lord’s command to the Twelve to “take leave of my saints”), assisted in settling the scattered Saints on the future site of Nauvoo, and spent the summer getting ready for their missions—preparing physically for their families as much as their destitute condition would allow, and preparing spiritually through meetings with the Prophet, who had been released from jail in time to join them in founding the new city. Then a memorable meeting was held at Brigham Young’s cabin across the river in Montrose on July 2, where “brother Joseph taught many important, glorious principles calculated to benefit and bless [us] on [our] mission,”22 especially advising the apostles to be merciful with each other and pray for each other, to avoid all pride and backbiting such as had brought on the past troubles with dissension and apostasy.23
When the apostles tried to leave in August, the malaria that infested the low, swampy ground where they had settled along the Mississippi had disabled nearly everyone. Brigham’s description is typically simple and restrained, leaving us to imagine the physical and emotional suffering of this second dramatic departure: “My health was so poor I was unable to go thirty rods to the river without assistance. … I left my wife sick, with a babe only ten days old, and all my children sick and unable to wait upon each other.”24 His family was even without adequate clothing because of losses to the mob in Missouri; Brigham himself was wearing a cap made out of a pair of old pantaloons, and he took along a quilt because he had no overcoat until some Saints in New York made him one. He commented that he thus “had not much of a ministerial appearance.” But though deathly ill for a time, and literally carried from place to place as he and a few companions were shuttled by the Saints across Illinois, he gradually recovered strength and began to have experiences commensurate with his calling—even though he lacked the “appearance.”
Traveling without purse or scrip, Brigham found that $13.50 given them by the Saints and kept in his trunk became like the Old Testament widow’s cruse of oil and barrel of flour that were continually replenished; drawn from again and again, it provided $87 worth of fares and meals as they traveled by stage across Indiana and Ohio to Kirtland. There they found John Taylor; he had left earlier while in good health but had been stricken enroute by a near fatal illness from which he was just then recovering. Brigham, showing the expanding dimensions of his spiritual leadership, met with the apostles in the temple where he anointed and blessed Elder Taylor and washed the apostles’ feet.25 This quality, Brigham’s growing confidence in the power of the Lord available to him, associated closely with the humble recognition of his own roughness and his need for polishing, is revealed again in his entry on crossing Lake Erie:
“The lake was so rough that no boat came into port until the 26th, when we went on board the steamboat Columbus. … The wind rose about one o’clock in the morning. I went up on deck and felt impressed in spirit to pray to the Father, in the name of Jesus, for a forgiveness of my sins, and then I felt to command the winds to cease, and let us go safe on our journey. The winds abated, and I felt to give the glory and honor and praise to that God who rules all things.”26
The missionary journey took great physical courage as well as faith. While jumping onto a ferryboat in New York, Brigham slipped and fell against an iron ring on the deck, severely dislocating his shoulder:
“I directed brothers Kimball and Hedlock to lay hold of my body, and Brother Pratt to take hold of my hand and pull, putting his foot against my side, while I guided the bone with my right hand back to its place. … When I came to a fire I fainted, and was not able to dress myself for several days.27
Brigham reported that on the voyage across the Atlantic “I was sick nearly all the way and confined to my berth. … When I landed on the shore I gave a loud shout of hosannah.”28 When he arrived in England on April 6, 1840, he was so emaciated that his own cousin Willard Richards (who had remained in a leadership role there since coming with Heber Kimball in 1837) did not recognize him.

Eve loved Christmastime. Her class at school had spent the morning coloring cards and listening to fun music.
“Now it’s reading time,” Mrs. Grunig said. “And if you finish all your reading today and tomorrow, you won’t have any homework during the holiday break.”
All the kids in Eve’s class cheered. But Eve didn’t feel much like cheering. She shivered a little as she pulled out her book to read. She felt very cold, and her throat hurt. Her eyes felt hot as she stared at the words on the page. By the end of school, Eve’s stomach felt sick too.
Finally it was time to walk home with her brother and sister, Tim and Wilma. Usually they had fun on the way home. They would play tag or make a snowman. But today all Eve wanted to do was get home and lie down.
When Eve got home, Mama felt her forehead.
“You have a fever,” she said. “You need to drink plenty of water and get lots of rest.”
Eve climbed into bed and fell asleep right away. The next morning, everyone else in her family was busy getting ready for the day. But Mama said Eve was too sick to go to school.
Then Eve remembered something that made her sad. Today was the school Christmas party! They were supposed to finish their art projects and sing songs and have treats. She just had to go!
But Mama wouldn’t change her mind.
“I’m sorry you’ll miss the party, sweetie,” she said. “But your health is more important.”
Eve started to cry. Mama tried to help her feel better with yummy soup. But all Eve could think about was all of the fun her friends were having without her.
In the afternoon, Tim and Wilma got home from school. Their cheeks were red from playing in the snow.
“The school party was lots of fun,” Wilma said. “We made red paper birds to hang up at home.”
Tim pulled something out of his pocket.
“And look—your teacher sent us home with a special present for you. Now you can make a red paper bird too!”
Eve smiled. “Can you show me how?”
Tim and Wilma showed Eve how to cut on the dotted line and fold it just right. They helped her tie the string in a loop.
“Mama, look what I made!” Eve said, showing off her new favorite Christmas ornament.
Eve thought of how nice Mrs. Grunig was to remember her when she was sick, and how Tim and Wilma had helped her too. Now whenever Eve looked at her red paper bird, she would feel lots of love.

Ten days ago, I had a beautiful and touching experience in the Salt Lake Temple, the building immediately to the east of this tabernacle. There in that holy sanctuary I had the privilege of sealing in marriage, in two separate but consecutive ceremonies, two beautiful young women who are twins, each to a handsome and able young man of her choice. That evening, a double wedding reception was held where hundreds of friends came to express their love and good wishes.
Mothers often shed tears at a wedding ceremony. Sisters also, and sometimes fathers. Seldom do grandparents show any emotion. But these beautiful girls were my own granddaughters, and I must confess that this old grandfather choked up and had a difficult time. I don’t understand why. Certainly it was a happy occasion, a fulfillment of dreams and prayers. Perhaps my tears were really an expression of joy and of gratitude to God for these lovely brides and their handsome young husbands. In sacred promises, they pledged their love and loyalty one to another for time and all eternity.

Last year in my fourth-grade class there was a boy whom nobody respected. At lunch our table always got really crowded, and no one would scoot over for him. I knew that this wasn’t right, so whenever he asked me to scoot over, I did. One day one of my friends asked, “Why do you always scoot over for him?” I answered, “That’s what I’d like someone to do for me.” I know that when I scooted over he appreciated it. I felt good inside too, because I believe that it was what Jesus would have done.

One day when Vanessa was about eight and Joanna was six, their classical violin teacher gave them a little fiddle tune to learn. Fiddling is a way of playing traditional American folk tunes on a violin. The music is often intricate and always lively. It is used to accompany square dancing. And for Vanessa and Joanna it was great fun to play.

“We tried it and really liked it and asked her for more,” said Vanessa. But fiddle music is not often written down because there are so many variations possible on each melody. The girls started taking lessons from a fiddling teacher. Students learn new pieces by listening to their teacher and then reviewing the pieces by listening to them over and over on tapes. Having had ear training with the Suzuki method, the girls learned quickly.

At first the fiddle music was used as a treat or a reward. After they practiced for an hour on their classical pieces, then they got to practice a half an hour of fiddling. Just one little tune started Vanessa and Joanna, and later another sister, Mindy, and little brother, Jesse, on some interesting adventures. They really got into the fiddling music, and now they perform, with guitar and piano accompaniment from their mother and father, for the wards in their area and for special occasions such as county fairs and conventions. And they have been competing in fiddling contests for several years, including the national fiddling contest held yearly in Weiser, Idaho.

A few weeks before I became eight years old, my father was killed in a trucking accident. A month later, we moved to a new home in St. George, Utah, across the street from the beautiful St. George Temple.
Mother was soon called to be the stake genealogy secretary. Whenever a group assigned could not make it, a member of the temple presidency would call mother to ask if her sons could come to the temple to do baptisms for the dead. Mother never turned the Lord down. My two older brothers and I often went to the temple to do baptisms.
One summer’s day, I had cut my hand severely on an empty tin can. I begged Mother not to take me to the doctor to have the wound stitched together, so she cleaned my hand, applied a bandage, covered that with adhesive tape, and then wrapped everything in gauze.
No sooner had she finished than the telephone rang. It was the brethren from the temple, wanting us boys to come over to do baptisms. Because my two older brothers had been very busy lately, I had been going to the temple on a regular basis. I had by now compiled a lengthy list of baptisms for the dead that ran into thousands. Once again, my older brothers were not around, so I hurriedly bathed, dressed, and ran over to the temple.
Several hours and four hundred names later, Brother Edwards and I stopped for the night. I remember him well, his right arm to the square revealing a hand missing most of the fingers because of an accident he had had in his youth. After every baptism, he would carefully help me up into the stainless steel chair for the confirmation. After every twenty or thirty baptisms, Brother Edwards would look down at me and say, “Brother Fish, can you do some more?” I would answer yes, and we would work our way through another batch of names.
As I returned home, exhausted, Mother spotted the dripping wet gauze on my hand and helped me into the bathroom to re-dress the wound. I was so tired and hungry I just wanted to eat and sleep. I wasn’t paying attention to my hand. I let her unwrap the bandage.
The gauze came off first, then the adhesive tape, and finally the bandage. My mother looked shocked. I looked down. Not a trace of a cut remained—no scar, no redness, nothing!
I remember my mother quietly hugging me. As we cried together, sharing that moment, the Spirit bore witness to me that I had been healed because of my service in the temple of the Lord.

Jenelle heard her best friend, Michelle, ask Rebecca to her birthday party on Sunday. Michelle’s parents had planned a swimming party to celebrate her eleventh birthday.
Michelle had already invited Jenelle, but Jenelle had told Michelle that she’d have to let her know. Jenelle knew that she wouldn’t be going to the party, but she didn’t want to say that in front of the other girls.
The two girls had been friends since they were six years old. But after Jenelle’s family had become members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints nine months ago, things had changed between them. Jenelle wanted Michelle to understand that becoming a Latter-day Saint didn’t change what Jenelle felt for her friend, but Michelle was having a hard time accepting that.
After school, Jenelle trudged home more discouraged than ever because Michelle had announced that everyone else she’d invited to her party would come. At least Mom will be home, Jenelle thought. She’ll know what I can do. I always feel better after talking things over with her.
At home, she quickly found her mother in the kitchen. “What am I going to do?” she asked once she’d told her mother the whole story.
Mom put her arm around Jenelle’s shoulders. “You have to decide what’s more important to you—going to your friend’s party or obeying the commandments.”
Jenelle sighed. She knew what she should do. That didn’t make it any easier, though. She didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings. And more than anything, she wanted to go to the party. Almost more than anything, she thought. She couldn’t break one of the commandments, especially when the prophet had spoken about the importance of keeping the Sabbath Day holy in a general conference talk.
She knew what she had to do. After school the next day, she hurried home and wrapped the present she’d made for Michelle, then walked to her friend’s house.
“I made you something special for your birthday. I’m sorry I can’t come to your birthday party. It’s because it’s on a Sunday.”
Michelle tore open the paper and held up a birdhouse. “This is great! You made this all by yourself?”
Jenelle nodded. “At Primary activity day.” She told Michelle about Primary and the activity days for girls her age.
Michelle showed Jenelle the bathing suit she had bought for the party.
Jenelle looked at the pretty aqua suit and smiled. She had looked at the same one last week while shopping with her mother.
“So what’s the big deal about your going swimming on Sunday?” Michelle asked after putting the suit away. “We’ll be going in the afternoon, after your church lets out.”
“The prophet said that we need to keep the Sabbath Day holy.”
“What does that mean?” Michelle asked.
“It means we don’t shop on Sunday or go swimming or to ball games—stuff like that.”
“What do you do?”
“We go to church, spend time with our families, listen to music. Read the scriptures.” She smiled, remembering last Sunday. “Sometimes my mom and dad take a nap.”
Michelle frowned. “Who is this prophet? Why do you have to do what he says?”
“He’s the President of the Church.”
“So he’s like the boss?”
Jenelle smiled again. She’d never heard the prophet described as a boss, but she supposed it made sense to people who weren’t members of the Church.
“What makes the prophet so special?” Michelle asked.
“He teaches us things Heavenly Father wants us to know.”
“You mean he talks with God?”
“Yes,” Jenelle answered firmly. She knew that a lot of people had a hard time understanding that.
“Does he have a name?”
“Right now the prophet is Gordon B. Hinckley.”
“Do you have to do everything he says?”
“We don’t have to. We choose to,” Jenelle said, hoping Michelle understood.
“Could you come to my birthday party next year if it was on Saturday?”
Jenelle hugged her friend. “I’m already counting the days till then!”

We will find happiness as we show our love to God and to our neighbors through our actions. Over the last six years, we have lived in three different countries and five different cities. Although it may sound exciting, it was very difficult to learn and adjust to new cultures and make new friends. Many times, we felt very lonely, but we quickly learned that the best way to connect with people and to find happiness was through service. During the time that we lived in Florida (United States) our kids would get up early on Saturdays and help in the local community food pantry for a few hours. That sharing of love through service helped them feel happiness despite the difficulties they were facing at the time. My wife, too, on special holidays would bake goodies and then as a family, we would go around the block and share them with our neighbors. Through these very small acts we were able to make new friends, share the gospel and find happiness.

Fifty-eight years ago, I knocked on the door of J. Roland Sandstrom, patriarch of the Santa Ana California Stake, with a recommend from my bishop to receive a patriarchal blessing. We had never met and would not meet again for 14 years. We met again 15 years later. This time, as one of the Twelve, I blessed him the day before he died.
The blessing was delivered by mail to my barracks at an air force base where I was stationed. I did not know then, as I know now, that a patriarch has prophetic insight, that his blessing would be more than a guide to me. It has been a shield and a protection.
The patriarch, who had never seen me before, made a promise that applies to every one of us. He told me to “face toward the sunlight of truth so that the shadow of error, disbelief, doubt and discouragement shall be cast behind you.” Many times I have gained strength from reading that patriarchal blessing, given by an inspired servant of the Lord.

Down on the tip of England’s toe, 18-year-old Joanne Crocker of Helston Ward, tells of her teacher, Hugh Dunbar. “The day before one monthly meeting, his car wouldn’t go. He had the engine in pieces until 3:00 A.M. Then he snatched two hours of sleep and finished the job by 11:30 Saturday morning in time to begin picking up his class of seven by 12 noon. Then we drove 70 miles to the Plymouth stake centre. And this was only six months after open heart surgery.”

Later that same year, 161 adults and children embarked from Tokyo to make their way to the Hawaii Temple. One Japanese brother reflected on the journey: “As I looked out of the airplane and saw Pearl Harbor, and remembered what our country had done to these people on December 7, 1941, I feared in my heart. Will they accept us? But to my surprise they showed greater love and kindness than I had ever seen in my life.”
Upon the Japanese Saints’ arrival, the Hawaiian members welcomed them with countless strands of flower leis while exchanging hugs and kisses on the cheeks, a custom foreign to Japanese culture. After spending 10 transformative days in Hawaii, the Japanese Saints bid their farewells to the melody of “Aloha Oe” sung by the Hawaiian Saints.

Keith Chapman, a forward at the University of Utah, is a returned missionary from the Germany Frankfurt Mission. As he was growing up, he had always planned to go on a mission. But when the time came to submit his papers, the game plan became a little more complicated. “The NCAA started having a controversy about whether missionaries would lose eligibility or not. That was the first hesitation I ever felt about my decision to serve a mission. After praying, I decided I was going to go at any rate. The NCAA then decided that we would keep our eligibility.”
On his mission Keith learned to keep an eternal perspective on things. “Before my mission, basketball was my whole life. Now I know there are more important things like staying worthy and looking more into the eternities than just to the next game.”