Gospel Story Finder

From 2003 to 2005 I served as Young Women president in the Gutiérrez Zamora Ward, in Veracruz, Mexico. Each Christmas the young women and their leaders baked treats to take to the older members of our ward.
As Christmas 2005 approached, we practiced singing Christmas carols and donned red hats and scarves. In the winter our village receives a steady drizzle of rain and a lot of cold wind from the north. But that did not prevent about a dozen of our young men and young women from going out with our load of pineapple pies.
When we arrived at the homes of our elderly brothers and sisters, we sang with great joy. We left each home feeling pleased because, even if for only a moment, we had brought happiness with our carols and pies.
The last sister we visited had been less active for many years. Though none of the youth had met Juanita, my husband and I had known her for a long time. She was now bedridden, terminally ill, and very poor. A few days prior, the elders quorum had visited her home to make some repairs.
When we arrived at her home, I called out her name. No one answered, so I kept calling. Soon I heard a soft voice say, “Come on in, Sister Araceli.” We entered and sang with joy and enthusiasm, even though her condition saddened us. Not long before, Juanita had been full of life. Now when she sat up, the youth couldn’t restrain their tears. She was deeply moved and thanked us for visiting her and helping her feel, through our carols, that our Heavenly Father remembered her and loved her.
After we left her humble dwelling, the youth expressed gratitude for having been able to sing for her. They didn’t care that they ended up wet and cold; their hearts were filled with joy for having shared a small portion of the happiness they felt. It was then that I understood more fully the verses that read:
“I was sick, and ye visited me. …
“… When saw we thee sick … and came unto thee?
“And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:36, 39–40).
I was saddened when Juanita passed away a few days later, but I know without a doubt that Heavenly Father loves His children. I also know that if we follow the Spirit, we can be instruments in His hands in blessing each other.

Striving to follow the example of the Saviour Jesus Christ in all areas of their lives, especially socially and physically, about 70 youth in Ethiopia, Addis Ababa united in planting 200 fruit trees.
This effort came after the Ethiopia, Addis Ababa Mission president, Robert J. Dudfield, and the president of Meganagna Branch, Birhanu Molla, reached out to the local government for an opportunity to serve.
“We reached out to see if there was a service opportunity in the local area and they came back with the desire [for us] to plant fruit trees,” said President Dudfield.
President Dudfield and President Molla proceeded to organize a youth conference, where the youth of the Church, full-time missionaries, and Church leaders from various branches in Addis Ababa, motivated by the yearning to help their communities, put forward their gardening tools and got their green fingers to work.
About six weeks’ worth of planning and planting under the scorching Ethiopian sun resulted in 200 planted apples, limes, mango, and avocado trees.
“[With] fruit much harder and much more expensive to get in Addis Ababa, the local government met our efforts with delight and gratitude. The fruit trees will feed the homeless in the local community,” President Dudfield said.
Testifying of the fruits of service, Elder Dylan Gilman, a full-time missionary serving in Addis Ababa said that the opportunity had helped unify the youth.
“It was amazing to see the youth come together to help the community. Planting fruit trees was [such] an uplifting experience, particularly seeing the youth have an opportunity to be united while serving others. Ethiopia is truly blessed with an amazing group of youth,” Elder Gilman said.
Hana Debebe Hailu, a youth from the Megenagna Branch, expressed her gratitude on the impact of service during the project.
“I liked how we were in a group during the activities, it was also great to see each of us helping one another. I met a lot of people and saw my friends. I was very happy about the experience and lessons too. The lessons made me feel great because it was about God, serving and loving one another. I will never forget this experience.”
Another youth, Moti Tegegn Lemma from the Summit Branch, opened up about how the fruit tree service helped him grow socially.
“In the service activity I have learned a lot of things, I can’t count how many. I have been able to meet many friends and I am very grateful to God for helping me to be able to spend time doing service and helping others,” Moti said.

When it comes to community service projects, the young men and women from the Reno Nevada North Stake are always willing to pitch in. They recently helped on two separate projects and are making quite a name for LDS youth among local community leaders.
One project involved participation in Reno’s annual “Adopt a Park Day.” The LDS youth selected Idlewild Park, the city’s largest, and spent the day painting picnic tables, varnishing bleachers, weeding, picking up trash, sweeping parking lots, and spreading sand on the playground.
The other project involved the stake Young Women. They spent a day helping the Committee to Aid Abused Women, and the children of those women. They made toys for the children and provided a party for them. They also collected items needed by the mothers, such as blankets, dishes, and clothing.

I recently witnessed the evidence of this truth in a most unusual setting. May I share it with you? In June of this year I was invited to attend a graduation exercise conducted by the LDS Institute of Religion and Church Social Services Department held at the Utah State Prison. Seventeen men received certificates of award: nine received their first-year certificates, five their second-year, and three their third. Twenty-four others had participated in religion classes but did not quite qualify for certificates.
As I recall, only two had been released from prison and had returned that evening to receive their certificates. All of the others were inmates. Many of them were not members of the Church.
One would hardly expect in the environment of the prison to hear the beautiful, stirring hymns “I Need Thee Every Hour” and “Sweet Hour of Prayer.” They were sung by two choruses composed of white and black prisoners.
Men dressed in prison uniforms offered humble, sincere prayers to God, expressing gratitude for their blessings and for the knowledge they now have of his gospel. Several stood at the pulpit and testified that they know God lives, and expressed gratitude for his goodness to them. May I tell you of just two of these men—men whose lives were seriously out of step with society; men with internal, personal problems that really are not much different from those of many who have never been in prison. I shall not identify them by their real names.
The first one we will call Jim. Jim comes from a distant state. He is a fine-looking, clean-cut young man not quite thirty years old. He was one of those who opposed the establishment and society in general. He came from a broken home. He had experienced no love in his life. He left home at age seventeen and joined the army. After release from the military, he wandered about the country without goal or purpose in life, finally finding himself in Salt Lake City. He was involved in a theft, arrested, convicted, and sent to prison. He escaped one day, was recaptured, and was placed in maximum security. In his words, “I came out of maximum security and returned to medium, and still did not know what to do with my life.”
One of the prisoners, knowing of some of the turmoil Jim was going through, sent him to see the LDS chaplain. This was the beginning of a completely new experience in Jim’s life. Even though he found himself in prison, he had taken the first step to a freedom he had not known existed.
After a few weeks of exposure to the program of the Church specially designed for prison life, he said he was able to give up smoking. He became involved in the various religious programs sponsored by the Church social service agency. He said, “I haven’t smoked a cigarette since that day. I haven’t had a cup of coffee since December of last year.” He goes on to tell of the good feeling of accomplishment in overcoming bad personal habits.
He also tells about the family home evening program conducted by his home teachers. He explained that he would have given up in discouragement many times had it not been for this wonderful couple who had been assigned as his home teachers. He said they actually loved him as a son, something he had never experienced in his life, even as a little boy. In his own words: “I have been in this program since June 16, 1970. For these sixteen months, I probably made more changes in my life—inside these walls away from the rat race of society—that I know are going to determine my whole future more than the first twenty-three years of my life before prison. I had no idea at all what the LDS people were or what the Church was until I went to prison.
“I am not proud of being in prison, but I am proud of my experience while being there. I am proud of being a graduate of the program that the LDS people have offered to the inmates at the prison.”
This is the young man who conducted the graduation exercises and did it in a most impressive manner. His goal now is to finish paying his debt to society in order to be released from prison so that he might prepare for baptism and membership in the Church.
And now about Ed. Ed also comes from a distant city. Ed started stealing when he was nine. He was arrested for auto theft at age thirteen, later convicted of grand larceny, and sent to prison in another state. He came to Utah, was arrested for and convicted of grand larceny again, and was sent to the Utah State Prison.
Ed became acquainted with the Church social services program conducted in the prison in much the same way as Jim. Once when Ed was on his way to one of the Church meetings, some of the prisoners ridiculed him, as only hardened convicts could. He responded that when he was on the outside he had acted as they did. Now he wanted to change and no one was going to stop him.
Ed had some particularly wonderful home teachers who occasionally brought their own children to the prison to have family home evening with him. The children consider Ed as an older brother. He considers himself a member of their family. Ed was one of those who had been released from prison and had returned to receive his certificate at the graduation exercises. He was invited to speak at the service.
As he stood at the pulpit, he took a piece of paper from his pocket. Holding it up to the audience, he said: “You probably can’t read this, but this is the most important document in my life. This is my baptismal recommend that will permit me to be baptized next Thursday.” Ed was baptized. After his confirmation, he walked over to a corner of the room where he could be alone and wept. He wept even more when he was ordained a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood.
What conclusions can we draw from this? Certainly these young men were faced with serious problems. Yes, they had lost their physical freedom by being confined in jail, but this was not the basic problem. Even more serious was the lack of purpose in their lives. They had no place to go. They were lost. Life had no meaning. They had no idea why they were here on earth or where they were going.
Release from the prison would not begin to solve their most urgent problems; and yet, in the environment of prison, they found the release that could ultimately make them truly free men. They found their Savior, Jesus Christ, and his gospel.
There are many who find themselves in circumstances similar to those of Jim and Ed—not necessarily confined to a correctional institution, but nevertheless in prison, a prison from which legal authorities cannot release them, a prison of personal habits such as alcohol, drugs, immorality, selfishness, dishonesty, laziness, aimlessness; yes, these can be more confining and damning than any state prison. Yet there is a way to escape to a freedom that surpasses anything designed by man—the kind of freedom Jim and Ed have found.
This freedom can only be found by accepting the divine plan and keeping the commandments of him who gave his life for each of us that we might find eternal life—even Jesus Christ. For did he not say: “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free”? (John 8:32.) In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

His humility also brings him close to the Lord. I can tell this experience because he expanded upon it in general conference in 1989 (see David B. Haight, “The Sacrament—and the Sacrifice,” Ensign, November 1989). I had interviewed him at his office, gathered my notes, and had my hand on the door to leave. Suddenly he stood and with a faraway look described the details of the Lord’s Last Supper as if he were there. When he finished, I slipped out, thinking, “I have heard an apostle of the Lord speak as in vision.”

Parker was helping Daddy plant a garden. He wished his brother Eric was here to help. But Eric was far away on a mission.
“I’ll never be big like Eric,” Parker said. “How can I go on a mission like him?”
“Don’t worry,” Daddy said. “You’ll grow.”
Daddy handed Parker some pumpkin seeds. He helped Parker plant them.
“These little seeds will grow into big pumpkins?” Parker asked.
“If you take good care of them,” Daddy said.
Parker came out to look at the garden every day. He watered it, and soon tiny sprouts came up. The leaves got bigger. Parker carefully pulled up weeds.
By fall his pumpkin plants had grown. And there were big orange pumpkins!
Parker grabbed Daddy to show him. “You took great care of your pumpkin plants!” Daddy said.
“Yup! And I’ll take good care of me, so I can get big too.” Parker grinned. “And when I’m big, I can go on a mission just like Eric!”

When I was nine, I really liked and respected my coach, Coach Hashem. However, I wanted to play on the same team as a school friend, so I tried out for a different team. This team was really competitive, and I knew that if I made it, I would be expected to be very dedicated and play hard. A lot of boys wanted to be on this team, but I was fortunate to make it through several cuts.
The day of the final tryouts came. I played my hardest, and I felt good about it. Afterward, the coach approached my mom and me and said that he would really like me on the team. I was excited. But then he asked, “Can you play on Sundays? I have to be able to field a team for tournaments, and that means that sometimes there will be Sunday play.”
My mom let me reply to the question.
“No, sir, I don’t play on Sundays.” I knew that was the right answer, but it probably meant I wouldn’t get to be on this team.
That night, the call telling me that I was chosen for the team never came. I was very disappointed.
Instead, I joined a neighborhood team with lots of friends. We had a great time the first year and were successful, but the second year the team struggled and sometimes lost focus on the game. I became frustrated. I put my best effort into every game, but we almost always lost.
After one very bad game, Coach Hashem, whose team was doing well, approached me on the football field. He asked me how things were going. I said, “Not so good.” I told him I missed my old teammates. Hashem coached with a great deal of skill and always seemed to get the most from his players.
“How would you like to be a guest player for our team when we go to the next tournament?” Hashem asked.
“I would really like that!” I responded excitedly.
“Great!” Hashem said, smiling. “I need to ask you one question though. Can you play on Sundays?” My stomach muscles tightened. I suddenly felt sick. I remembered what had happened that last time this question had been asked.
I looked at my mom. I looked at my dad. They too waited for my answer. I looked at Hashem.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t play on Sundays,” I said. “Will that make a difference?”
Hashem stood there for a moment. He had seen the expression of hope on my face fade quickly as I had answered his question.
“No, that’s OK,” Hashem responded. “We probably won’t get to the Sunday finals. We’d love to have you play with us.”
Soon I started practicing with Hashem’s team. The team played with a great deal of intensity, and they welcomed me back. I loved playing with them.
We didn’t win all of our games at the tournament, but we all tried our hardest, and we had a good time. Soon I became a permanent member of Hashem’s team. Though they knew I didn’t play on Sundays, they still appreciated me for what I added to the team on the other game days.
I am now a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood. I still play competition football and still choose not to play on Sunday. It has not been a problem for me or for the teams I have played on. I believe in honoring the Sabbath day and keeping it holy. For me this means not playing sports on Sunday.

I had a special experience after reading a quote from an Apostle about simple but effective ways to gain a testimony. When I finished reading it, I immediately remembered a friend whose testimony was wavering. I quickly wrote her a letter and included the quotation.
I took the letter to her home, and I read it to her. At the end I bore my testimony. I can’t describe the powerful spirit that was present. My friend was surprised and thanked me for sharing the quote with her.
From that moment my friend started to change. She began to read the scriptures, pray more often, and attend church. Whenever we visited each other, we shared a spiritual thought and our testimonies. Today she is very active in the ward and serves as my counselor in the Laurel class presidency.Yésica Florencia Martín, Santos Lugares Ward, Argentina Buenos Aires West Stake

Twenty-one years later in the spring of 1876 Dr. Maeser, who had immigrated to the United States, was teaching school in the 20th Ward schoolhouse in Salt Lake City when a blast destroyed the building. Reporting the explosion to President Brigham Young, Karl said the school would have to be closed.
“That is exactly right, Brother Maeser,” President Young replied, “for I have another mission for you.” And that is how Karl G. Maeser was told of his call to establish the Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah.

Each group of young people displayed amazing talent and determination. The group from Tønsberg, Norway, was typical. They decided to build a ten-meter-long horse costume and do a dance in it for the circus to be held as part of the conference. It was impossible, of course. There were only four active youth in the town, and they needed ten people to fill the costume. Not only that, they had no building in which to build the costume and practice the dance. Being too hardheaded to simply give up, they promptly recruited non-Mormon youth to build and dance in the costume with them. They built the horse and practiced the dance in the open fields around Tønsberg, and when the time came, they all went to Festinord, members and nonmembers alike.
Communication proved to be no problem for the young men and women of three nations. Their languages are similar enough that they could understand each other with some hard listening, and whenever that didn’t work, they simply switched to English, a language in which they all were fluent.
As a result of Festinord, the people of Aalborg have a warm feeling for the Church, while the young people, many from very small branches, were strengthened by their association with one another. Per Herry from Frolunoa, Sweden, said it all: “It’s wonderful to have a festival with so many LDS people.”

My dad said he had a big deal going that would make us rich, but he had to leave town to go to Mexico for a few days. He asked if we’d be all right, and we said yes. He gave me 50 dollars for groceries, hugged us, said good-bye, threw his sleeping bag into his ’67 Ford, and left. That was four months ago.
There are just the three of us kids. My name is Jed, and I’m 13. I have a ten-year-old brother Sam. My seven-year-old sister is named Marcie.
We’ve had a couple of mothers. My real mother died when I was nine years old. She was a Mormon and had me baptized when I was eight. Sam and I went to Primary until she died. It was the month of March when she died. I remember how much the wind tore at the flowers at the graveyard when we all stood around and watched them set the casket over the place where they had dug up the earth.
Our second mother was a woman my dad met when he was driving a truck. Her name was Joan, and she worked in a cafe before she met Dad. She could make real good hash browns. I don’t think she liked us children very much because Dad was still driving and he was gone a lot. I guess we caused Joan plenty of trouble.
Dad drove for a big moving van company. He went all over the country. He always brought us a toy or game from wherever he went. He went all the way to Maine once.
I’m not sure what went wrong exactly, but Dad and Joan didn’t stay together long. Maybe she didn’t like the responsibility of all of us kids.
Dad had to quit driving for a while. He got a job as a dispatcher for the company. I guess it didn’t pay much or else he didn’t like sitting at a desk. I don’t blame him for that because I’d hate that too. Anyway, after a few months he quit being a dispatcher.
Then we didn’t know what he was doing. He’d be gone for a few days and come back with lots of money. It was great when he came back because he’d take us out for pizza one night and to a taco place the next night. He bought us all new bicycles one time and camping and fishing gear another time.
He’d stay at home for a week or two and then be gone again. At first he paid a lady to come in and cook for us, but I told him he could save the money and I could cook as well as those women, who always wanted to feed us casseroles with plenty of noodles and cream of mushroom soup. Most women I’ve ever met would rather cook a casserole than just about anything.
Anyway he left for Mexico. We got along okay. We always have. But after three weeks, we were playing outside in this old, deserted car that Dad said he’s going to fix up sometime. I looked around and saw one of the neighbors standing at her curtains looking at us real hard. I couldn’t see how we were hurting her any because we weren’t even on her property, but she looked at us for a long time.
The next day a lady came after school looking for my dad. She said she was from the county and she was a caseworker. For a while I thought she meant that she worked in a canning factory and packaged cases of food. But that’s not what she did.
I couldn’t figure why she came at all because all she did when she was there was sit and look. We were all watching Gilligan’s Island. We like to do that after school, and we were having some peanut butter sandwiches and milk. She sat in front of the TV set, but she didn’t watch it much. She had a clipboard, and she’d write things down. She asked if that was our supper, and Sam said yes, and she wrote that down.
We had plenty of peanut butter. when Dad was still working as a dispatcher, he heard about a truck that had been in a wreck. He bought cases of peanut butter and vegetables at a good price. Our basement was full of good deals like that.
The lady with the clipboard asked where my father was. I told her that he was away on business and that he would be back on Friday. That’s what I always told everybody who asked because usually Dad did come back on Friday, and I guess he was away on business, although I didn’t know what business he was in.
The lady left even before Gilligan’s Island was over. When she stood up to go, she sort of brushed herself off like the couch was infected. I bet when she was a kid she never watched Gilligan’s Island or ate peanut butter.
The money Dad left didn’t last forever. I had to pay the light bill with part of it, and I had to get Sam a new pair of tennis shoes. It didn’t take long before we were down to five dollars. Of course, we had peanut butter, but we had to buy jelly and bread, and they don’t give that stuff away, you know.
I had a paper route, though, and made ten dollars a week.
One day after school I was working on an old lawn mower engine. I like to take things apart and try to figure out how they work. I don’t always get them back together. The engine didn’t work anyway, so I wasn’t really wrecking anything.
Since we all ate around the TV, and we had a perfectly good kitchen table that we weren’t using, I was using the table as a workbench.
It was about 4:30 because I remember hearing the Brady Bunch starting. I was working on this engine when the doorbell rang. I was afraid it was going to be that lady with the clipboard.
It was a boy about my age. He asked if I was Jed, and I said yes, and he said he was Kevin Gallagher. That didn’t mean anything to me. He said he was the deacons quorum president. That made even less sense to me. To tell you the truth, he didn’t look like any kind of a president to me.
“So what?” I said.
I could tell he was nervous. He cleared his throat and looked like he was either going to cry or sneeze.
“I want to talk with you,” he said.
“Suit yourself,” I said. “Come on in the kitchen. I’m fixing a motorcycle engine.”
He followed me in. I hoped he didn’t know enough about engines to know that it was only a lawn mower engine and that I wasn’t really fixing it. He didn’t say anything about it.
He sat down on another chair after he first moved aside some wrenches.
To tell the truth, I sort of enjoyed making him nervous. I tried to look tough. I banged the wrenches together like I was a mechanic and knew what I was doing.
He sat there as stiff as a board watching me. Finally he just blurted out, “Are you a Mormon?”
“What if I am?” I said, trying to sound mean.
“You’re old enough to be a deacon,” he said, his eyes still moist.
“What’s that?”
“We pass the sacrament and collect fast offerings.”
“Why would I want to do that? I don’t even know what it is.”
“You could be in our Scout troop.”
“What for?” I sneered. I was hoping maybe I could get him to cry.
“We do lots of things, like go camping and fishing, and we learn to do things.”
“What kind of things?” I figured I had him and that he would talk about something dumb like tying knots.
Instead he sat a minute and looked at me. Then I saw a smile come on his face, and he said, “Like learning to be a mechanic.”
“Oh.” I tried to sound as if I wasn’t interested and I already knew everything about engines and cars.
“If you come next Wednesday, we’ll be starting a new course on how to fix engines. We’ll have a mechanic who works at Olson’s Garage showing us some things. I could come by and get you.”
You see, I always thought that if I could ever get that engine to work, I’d attach it to my bicycle, but I knew I was never going to fix it the way I was going.
“I might go,” I said, as coolly as I could.
He really did come by Wednesday night. I think that if I’d remembered he was coming, I might have chickened out and left the house before he got there. But I forgot until he was there; so I went with him.
When we got there, he led me right up to a man in the hall and introduced me to Bishop Townsend. The bishop reached out, shook my hand, and said he was glad I had come. Then Kevin had me meet his Scoutmaster, who was a grown man but still wore one of those green Scout uniforms. But the Scoutmaster wasn’t so bad once you got to know him. I guess he just liked Scouting.
There were about 15 other boys in the troop. I found out that not all of them were going to learn about engines. In fact, Kevin and I were the only ones. I’ve wondered since if Kevin created this whole engine mechanics course on the spot just to get me to come out. I’ve never asked him, but he’s sneaky like that.
Anyway, we went to Olson’s Garage, and this old guy, Brother Olson, showed us a lot about engines and tools. Afterwards we washed up and went back to church.
The bishop asked me if I had a good time.
“It was okay,” I answered coolly. But when I thought of what I would have done at home, it was ten times better than that.
He asked if I’d come again, and I said maybe. He put his hand on my shoulder and told me that the quorum needed me. Well, it made me feel a little uncomfortable, but I couldn’t help but think that he meant it.
The caseworker came by the next day. She asked where my father was, and I told her he was coming back any day. She asked me what I would think about going into a foster home until he came back, and I asked, “All of us in one home?” She said that she didn’t know if she could find one home for all of us. I told her that we all stick together and that we’d rather stay home. She wrote that on the clipboard.
Then she left. I noticed that there was a small stain on the back of her dress where she had sat on an old piece of toast, but I didn’t say anything. If I had, she probably would have written it down.
The next day we ran out of peanut butter. We weren’t completely out of food though. We had some shortening, a package of noodles, and some tortilla flour. There was a case of green beans in the basement.
The problem was that I’d already collected from everybody on my paper route for the month, so I couldn’t raise any money there.
We found that there are plenty of ways to come up with money when you think you’re broke. The first thing to do is to go through all the couches and stuffed chairs and look between the frame and springs where money can drop. We found 65 cents that way. Then you can look for soda pop bottles in the basement. The grocery store will pay for them. If you check a phone booth every time you pass one, you can sometimes find a dime in the coin return because some people don’t know they get their dime back if they try to make a phone call and don’t get through.
Friday after school I rode my bike out to the airport, collecting empty cans along the way. The recycling center will pay almost a penny a can. At the airport there is a fountain, and sometimes people throw money in there. I’ve made a small rake that I can use to get the money without getting my feet wet. I got 19 pennies and 3 dimes and 4 quarters.
All in all, we got enough for another jar of peanut butter, two loaves of bread, and some pork and beans.
Saturday, while Sam and Marcie were still watching cartoons, Kevin came over and asked us to go to church with him. I wasn’t going to go, but he said after church his parents said it was okay to invite all of us over for supper. I said we’d go, and we did.
I don’t remember much about church except in priesthood meeting Kevin ran the whole show as far as the deacons went. He got up and welcomed everybody and told them just how many he wanted to pass the sacrament. He made a point to tell the rest of them about me. He told them I was a good mechanic and that’s what their quorum needed for their summer cycling trip to the mountains.
Kevin’s mom really is a good cook. Sam, Marcie, and I didn’t talk much, but we sure did eat.
On Monday after school the lady from the county came with a man. He had a clipboard too. He never spoke directly to us, and when he said anything to her, he talked quietly as if he were telling secrets that we weren’t supposed to hear.
“Is your father back yet?” the lady asked.
“He’s due back any day.”
One thing about cats, they seem to know when a person doesn’t like them. Our cat crawled over to the man and sat on his lap. I knew he didn’t like that.
“Could we look around?” the man whispered to the lady.
“Is it all right if we look around?” the lady asked me.
“Why?” I asked her.
“We want to evaluate conditions here.”
“Conditions are just fine here,” I said.
Most of the time adults never listen to you. The man stood up, tried to brush off the cat hair, and went into the kitchen. She followed him.
He opened the refrigerator and shook his head. He looked in the cupboard and shook his head. He looked at the engine on the kitchen table and shook his head.
“Deplorable,” he whispered to the lady.
“These poor children,” she whispered back.
“I recommend foster homes as soon as possible.”
“Look,” I said, “my dad is coming back on Friday. We’ve got cases of food downstairs. We just don’t keep it in the kitchen.”
I ran downstairs, got the last case of green beans, and lugged it up to the kitchen. “Look, we got cases of food. If you want, I’ll bring it all up.” I didn’t think they would go downstairs to check.
It was a lie about there being more food downstairs, and I know it’s wrong to lie, but I also thought it was wrong for them to just walk in and start shaking their heads and making plans about shipping us to other homes.
“Who could we use?” the lady said to the man.
“How many children are there?” the man asked her.
“Just the three.”
“The Johnson family could take one. Rosetti’s can take the girl. Maybe Palmer’s would take the oldest boy.”
“My dad said we could definitely expect him on Friday.”
The lady heard me. “The boy said his father is coming back on Friday,” the lady told the man.
“I guess we could wait until Friday,” the man whispered.
They left, but they sat in their car and wrote on their clipboards for five minutes in front of the house.
I knew what was coming. They were going to split us up and put us in three different homes, homes where we’d eat hot cereal for breakfast and casseroles for supper. They wouldn’t know that Marcie sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night crying, but if you go in and touch her forehead for a minute, she’ll fall back asleep. They wouldn’t know that Sam doesn’t like corn, and it doesn’t matter if you say that it’s good for him, he won’t eat it, not plain, not creamed, and not on the cob.
There were things about them that only I knew. If we were separated, we would stop being a family. I couldn’t let that happen.
I went with Kevin on Wednesday night to Mutual. They had refreshments afterwards, and I slipped two cookies in a shirt pocket to take home to Sam and Marcie.
I guess I’d told so many people that Dad was coming home Friday that I almost believed it myself. But when I woke up Friday morning, I knew we had to do something or else we’d wind up in foster homes. I got Sam and Marcie up early. While we were eating some toast and peanut butter, I turned off the TV and talked to them.
“We’ve got to leave town today. How would you like to go to California?”
“Why today?” Marcie asked.
“That lady who comes here, she doesn’t like us living alone. She wants to make us go away and live in somebody else’s home. We’d all be in different homes, and we might not see each other for a long time.”
Marcie started to cry.
“Don’t worry. I won’t let them split us up.”
We went downstairs and got our sleeping bags and packs. We put the rest of our food in my pack. Sam carried a hatchet, matches, and a flashlight in his pack along with his clothes.
We left about 9:00 in the morning. I figured that the caseworker wouldn’t go to our house until after school, so I wasn’t worried about hiding from them when we first started, but we wanted to get as far away as we could before night.
We took a city bus out of town as far as it went and then started walking. Sam and I could have walked faster, but Marcie slowed us down. By night we were only ten miles out of town.
Before we left, when I planned about us leaving, I pictured us in the mountains catching fish and eating berries and trapping animals for our food. Things never work out the way you picture them. Ten miles out of town we were still in the suburbs with miles and miles of shopping centers and auto dealerships. There were no trees to chop down and no berries to eat. I did find some pretty good lettuce in the garbage can behind one grocery store. It just had a couple of brown spots on it.
During the day when the wind blows, it’s one thing. But at night when the wind blows and it’s November, that’s another thing.
Finally we found a small park. Somebody had left some empty boxes that they store chicken in for picnics and some other paper in a trash container. We burned them to heat up our beans.
Then we unrolled our sleeping bags and tried to sleep. The wind was kind of spooky, and Marcie was afraid, but we had her put her sleeping bag between Sam and me and told her how much fun it was to be camping out.
It was cold, and it took us a long time to get to sleep.
Sometime during the night I woke up because there was a flashlight shining in my eyes.
“What are you kids doing?” a policeman asked us.
“We’re just sleeping out,” I said. “We do it all the time.”
“You can’t sleep overnight at this park.”
We put our shoes on, threw things into our packs, grabbed our sleeping bags, and walked quickly away.
He got back in his car and started to talk on his radio.
“I’ve just found three kids sleeping in Rock Creek Park. Have you got anything there on any runaways?”
We started to run.
He jumped out of his car and yelled after us, “Wait! I need to ask you some questions!”
Marcie fell down. I could see the man in the police car backing up so he could turn around to chase us.
I dropped my pack and sleeping bag and picked Marcie up in my arms. We ran across the street, through one yard, along an alley for a few feet, and then into another yard across the alley. We found a garage with the door open, and we ran in and quietly closed the overhead door and waited.
There was a small window on the garage door, and I looked out. The police car moved slowly past the street twice, shining his light on everything as he passed.
After half an hour he quit circling the block.
I left Sam and Marcie in the garage and went back to see if I could find our packs and sleeping bags. The policeman had taken them and was parked behind a hedge waiting for us, but I didn’t let him see me.
I went back to the garage, and we stayed there for a few hours. I let Marcie and Sam sit on my coat so they wouldn’t be cold sitting on the concrete. I told them I wasn’t cold.
Marcie began to cry. She cried softly because she knew we’d be in trouble if the people in the house woke up. We couldn’t stop her. She must have cried for half an hour.
We were beaten, and I knew it. We only had 75 cents, and we were out of food and a way to sleep. Sam and I could have gone on, but Marcie was too scared, and we wouldn’t ever leave her.
It was turning gray when we left the garage and walked back to the bus stop where we had gotten off the day before. As soon as the buses began to run in the morning, we took one back to the city.
We got off the bus near our home and walked through backyards until we were close enough to see our house. I wanted to see if Dad had come home yet. He hadn’t, but while we were watching, a police car drove past the house slowly.
We ran to Kevin’s house, went to the back door, and knocked. Kevin opened the door and let us in.
Kevin’s mom asked us if we’d like some pancakes. Sam and Marcie both said yes, and she made us some.
They didn’t ask us any questions, but when Kevin’s mom put some pancakes on Marcie’s plate, she touched her head lightly, the way mothers do to little girls. I guess it was the wrong thing to do because Marcie broke down and started crying again.
Kevin’s mom sat down and put her arms around Marcie. Marcie kept saying as she cried, “Don’t let them break us apart.”
Then Sam started to cry, but don’t think badly of him because he’s only ten years old.
We finally told Kevin and his parents what had happened. Kevin’s dad called the bishop and asked him to come over.
The bishop came and took me to his office in the meetinghouse. He left Sam and Marcie at Kevin’s so they could watch Saturday cartoons.
I told the bishop everything, and he promised he wouldn’t let anybody split us up.
Then he got on the phone and made five or six phone calls. After he was through, he asked me if we would like to stay with Kevin’s parents for a while. He said it was okay with the people from the county.
That was a month ago. My dad hasn’t come back yet, but he will. One of these days he’ll come back with toys and games from Mexico.
When he does, I want to tell him about the Church and about family home evenings and about the priesthood. I’m a deacon now, and Kevin and I work together in Scouting. It’s not bad, Scouting I mean. You have to learn about knots, but I guess even that could be useful someday.
I’ve gone to priesthood meeting enough to know that what I was before I started going to church is what they call an inactive. Now I’m what they call an active. I also found out that there are more inactives than there should be. Kevin says we have to keep working to turn the inactives into actives. We talk plenty about that in priesthood meeting. I guess that’s why Kevin first visited us—to turn us into actives.
You know, he really is a good president of our quorum.

Illustration by Toni Oka
It was October 1838, and Lucy Mack Smith grasped the hands of her sons Hyrum and Joseph before her sons were taken away. Government leaders had ordered the Saints to leave the area. Several Church leaders had been arrested by soldiers, and an illegal court martial ordered them to be shot. Lucy wondered if she would ever see her sons alive again.
What could possibly help a mother endure a trial like this? Years later, Lucy would look back on this time and recall that she was strengthened by a message of comfort received “by the gift of prophecy”: “Let your heart be comforted concerning your children; they shall not [be] harmed by their enemies.”1
This experience gave Lucy and her family feelings of “consolation, that surpassed all earthly comfort.”
The Smiths and many other Latter-day Saint families were driven out of Missouri. After finding refuge in the neighboring state of Illinois, Lucy and Joseph Smith Sr. tried to find information about their sons but found no answers. The Spirit again spoke peace to Lucy’s soul, telling her that Hyrum and Joseph would arrive the following evening.
Bishop Edward Partridge, who was with Lucy when she received this revelation, expressed doubt: “I have always believed you before; but I cannot see any prospect of this prophecy being fulfilled; but if it is so I will never dispute your word again.”
Asleep that evening, Lucy saw a vision of her weak and hungry sons traveling over the prairie. Lucy got ready for them to come home—and they did indeed arrive the next day. They described a journey that matched exactly what she had seen. After that, Bishop Partridge said that he would forever acknowledge Lucy “to be a true prophetess.”

One Sunday while I was serving as mission president in Vladivostok, Russia, a rather amazing thing happened. I had gone to my office to gather some materials when a 13-year-old young man, Vladimir, whose friends call him Vova, knocked on the door. Vova is a deacon in the Vladivostok First Branch. He asked to visit with me in my office. He was accompanied by Sister Olga Vyachyeslavna Dryagunova. This sister speaks wonderful English, and the boy had asked her if she would act as his interpreter. Vova speaks no English, and I speak only a little Russian.
Vova had been an orphan, abandoned at birth because he was born with a cleft palate. The birth defect has since been partially repaired, leaving a scar. He was adopted by a wonderful woman who has treated him as her son. The boy is always happy. He has a smile on his face and a wonderful countenance when he passes the sacrament. He wears the mantle of a deacon as well as any boy I have ever known. He regularly bears a sweet and brief testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. He is everything that a deacon ought to be.
At our meeting Vova spoke Russian and Sister Olga interpreted. She told me that Vova had come to fill out his application to serve as a full-time missionary. I asked, without a hint of a smile, “How old is he?”
She asked and he answered, “Nearly 14.”
Retaining my composure, I said, “Does he understand that he needs to be 19 before he can serve a mission?”
She responded, “He does, but he does not want to be tardy in getting his application in.”
I assured them that there was still time before we needed to send his missionary application to Moscow and then on to Salt Lake City. Neither the branch president nor I would forget when it was time for him to fill out his forms. I walked to the wall displaying pictures of the 44 missionaries then serving in the Russia Vladivostok Mission. I told Vova I was worried that the missionary papers might be returned if it appeared that I was recommending a 13-year-old boy for a mission.
Then I explained that since he was in my office where I conducted interviews with the missionaries, I thought it appropriate to ask him the questions that will be asked of him when he is 19, just to make sure that he was currently worthy to serve a mission. I then went through all the worthiness questions as though Vova were one of my full-time missionaries but tactfully passed over the boy-girl questions, thinking them premature. Besides, I didn’t want to embarrass Sister Olga.
Vova answered all my questions with the appropriate responses and with the wisdom of a boy twice his age. Upon further reflection, I guessed that he may have even asked one of the elders what interview questions he might anticipate from the mission president. I then told Vova that he could come back every six months, and we would repeat the interview process.
He then asked with some concern what he should say to let me know he was ready for another interview six months from now. I said to him, through Sister Olga, that it was time for him to have his first English lesson. I then said slowly, “This is what you should say to me, ‘President, I am ready for my missionary interview.’”
He repeated the important words he needed to know three times.
As I was ready to end the interview, Vova asked Sister Olga to ask me one last question. “President,” he said, “what advice do you have for me to prepare for my mission?”
I was a bit taken back. Few of my mature elders would have the wisdom to ask such a timely question. I pondered for a moment and then told him to do three things: First, I told him to read the scriptures each day. Second, I suggested that he pray to his Heavenly Father each morning and evening. Third, I told him to practice his English.
I confess the last suggestion was a little selfish on my part, as I was thinking how I would enjoy speaking with him in English and asking him questions about the things of his heart. I suggested he attend the free English classes taught by the missionaries, but he said his mother would not allow him to be out after dark. We agreed that he would work harder each day in his English class at school.
Later, when I saw the deacons in the hall after church, I asked Vova if he would like to repeat the phrase he needed to use to ask for his next interview. This he did in a fine manner. Then to my great surprise, I learned that each of the other deacons in the branch had also learned the magic words. Each one repeated while looking right at me, “President, I am ready for my missionary interview!”
Oh, the power of example! The joy of one willing to open his mouth and share the things he had learned with another was something I was trying to get all of my missionaries to experience! These Russian deacons were on the road to perfection.

In the summer of 2001, Sister Oaks and I were in Manaus, Brazil. I spoke to about 100 missionaries in that great city on the Amazon. As I stood to speak, I was prompted to put aside some notes I usually use on such occasions and substitute some thoughts on the importance of timing—some of the scriptures and principles I have been discussing here.
I reminded the missionaries that some of our most important plans cannot be brought to pass without the agency and actions of others. A missionary cannot baptize five persons this month without the agency and action of five other persons. A missionary can plan and work and do all within his or her power, but the desired result will depend upon the additional agency and action of others.
Consequently, a missionary’s goals ought to be based upon the missionary’s personal agency and action, not upon the agency or action of others. But this is not the time to elaborate on what I told the missionaries about goals. Instead I will share some other applications of the principle of timing, giving illustrations from our personal lives.
Because of things over which we have no control, we cannot plan and bring to pass everything we desire in our lives. Many important things will occur in our lives that we have not planned, and not all of them will be welcome. Even our most righteous desires may elude us or come in different ways or at different times than we have sought to plan.
For example, we cannot be sure that we will marry as soon as we desire. A marriage that is timely in our view may be our blessing or it may not. My wife Kristen is an example. She did not marry until many years after her mission and her graduation.
The timing of marriage is perhaps the best example of an extremely important event in our lives that is almost impossible to plan. Like other important mortal events that depend on the agency of others or the will and timing of the Lord, marriage cannot be anticipated or planned with certainty. We can and should work for and pray for our righteous desires, but despite this, many will remain single well beyond their desired time for marriage.
So what should be done in the meantime? Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ prepares us for whatever life brings. This kind of faith prepares us to deal with life’s opportunities—to take advantage of those that are received and to persist through the disappointments of those that are lost. In the exercise of that faith, we should commit ourselves to the priorities and standards we will follow on matters we do not control and persist faithfully in those commitments, whatever happens to us because of the agency of others or the timing of the Lord. When we do this, we will have a constancy in our lives that will give us direction and peace. Whatever the circumstances beyond our control, our commitments and standards can be constant.
The commitments and service of adult singles can anchor them through the difficult years of waiting for the right time and the right person. Their commitments and service can also inspire and strengthen others. Wise are those who make this commitment: I will put the Lord first in my life, and I will keep His commandments. The performance of that commitment is within everyone’s control. We can fulfill that commitment without regard to what others decide to do, and that commitment will anchor us no matter what timing the Lord directs for the most important events in our lives.
Do you see the difference between committing to what you will do, in contrast with trying to plan that you will be married by the time you graduate or that you will earn at least X amount of dollars on your first job?
If we have faith in God and if we are committed to the fundamentals of keeping His commandments and putting Him first in our lives, we do not need to plan every single event—even every important event—and we should not feel rejected or depressed if some things—even some very important things—do not happen at the time we had planned or hoped or prayed.
Commit yourself to put the Lord first in your life, keep His commandments, and do what the Lord’s servants ask you to do. Then your feet are on the pathway to eternal life. Then it does not matter whether you are called to be a bishop or a Relief Society president, whether you are married or single, or whether you die tomorrow. You do not know what will happen. Do your best on what is fundamental and personal and then trust in the Lord and His timing.
Life has some strange turns. I will share some personal experiences that illustrate this.
When I was a young man I thought I would serve a mission. I graduated from high school in June 1950. Thousands of miles away, one week after that high school graduation, a North Korean army crossed the 38th parallel, and our country was at war. I was 17 years old, but as a member of the Utah National Guard, I was soon under orders to prepare for mobilization and active service. Suddenly, for me and for many other young men of my generation, the full-time mission we had planned or hoped for was not to be.
Another example: After I served as president of Brigham Young University for nine years, I was released. A few months later the governor of the state of Utah appointed me to a 10-year term on the supreme court of the state. I was then 48 years old. My wife June and I tried to plan the rest of our lives. We wanted to serve the full-time mission neither of us had been privileged to serve. We planned that I would serve 20 years on the state supreme court. Then, at the end of two 10-year terms, when I would be nearly 69 years old, I would retire from the supreme court and we would submit our missionary papers and serve a mission as a couple.
I had my 69th birthday two years ago and was vividly reminded of that important plan. If things had gone as we planned, I would have submitted papers to serve a mission with my wife June.
Four years after we made that plan I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles—something we never dreamed would happen. Realizing then that the Lord had different plans and different timing than we had assumed, I resigned as a justice of the supreme court. But this was not the end of the important differences. When I was 66, my wife June died of cancer. Two years later I married Kristen McMain, the eternal companion who now stands at my side.
How fundamentally different my life is than I had sought to plan! My professional life has changed. My personal life has changed. But the commitment I made to the Lord—to put Him first in my life and to be ready for whatever He would have me do—has carried me through these changes of eternal importance.
Faith and trust in the Lord give us the strength to accept and persist, whatever happens in our lives. I did not know why I received a “no” answer to my prayers for the recovery of my wife of many years, but the Lord gave me a witness that this was His will, and He gave me the strength to accept it. Two years after her death, I met the wonderful woman who is now my wife for eternity. And I know that this also was the will of the Lord.

Several years ago I attended a BYU football game with some of our young children. We lost the game. I really hate it when that happens. We listened to the coaches’ show on the ride back to our home in Bountiful. When it was over, my children had no alternative but to listen to my own postgame show. Just as I had completed my final analysis of what went wrong in the game, my seven-year-old daughter asked, “Dad, when you see the temple, do you get a good feeling inside?” I wondered, “Where in the world did that come from?” As I was trying to figure out what that comment had to do with the football game, I glanced over at her and could see she was looking out the window at the Salt Lake Temple. For some reason the game no longer mattered.

In 1841, Dan Jones, a Welsh immigrant, was the captain of one of the smallest registered boats carrying people and freight on the upper Mississippi River. It seems more than coincidence to me that his boat was named the Ripple. Among his passengers were members of an obscure “new” church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
During his journeys Dan Jones began to hear criticisms of these “Mormons.” Because he had ferried many of them, he had talked with them and observed their behavior. He found them to be good people—kind, honest, and hardworking. The negative comments and writings about these people did not match up with what he had experienced in his dealings with them.
“Through a careful investigation of the accusations,” he later wrote, “I perceived clearly that it was impossible for them to be true, either because … they overstated the case or … contradicted themselves” (quoted in Ronald D. Dennis, “Dan Jones, Welshman,” Ensign, Apr. 1987, 50).
One significant event in particular propelled Dan Jones from a careful observer to an active investigator of the Church. He wrote this: “Purely by accident, there fell into my hands … a letter which [Emma Smith] had written. … I shall never forget the feelings which that … letter caused me to have. I perceived clearly that not only did [she] believe the New Testament, the same as I—professing the apostolic faith, and rejoicing in the midst of her tribulations at being worthy to suffer all … for a testimony of Jesus and the gospel—but also it contained better counsel, more wisdom, and showed a more … godly spirit than anything I had ever read!” (Ensign, Apr. 1987, 50, 52).
Inspired by Emma’s words and example, Dan Jones sought to learn more about this church. In 1843 he was baptized in the Mississippi River and became one of the most influential missionaries in the history of the Church, bringing hundreds of people to the gospel in his native Wales. In a very literal way, Emma Smith’s influence continues to ripple through generations. Who can say how many hundreds, even thousands of the descendants of those Dan Jones introduced to the gospel may be listening to this meeting at this very hour?

Sue washed the last pan and handed it to her sister Betty. “I wish we lived in town and had a dishwasher,” Sue grumbled.
“If we lived in town, we couldn’t go down to the pond and sail the new boats Daddy helped us make. Mother said we could go as soon as we finished the dishes.” Betty paused and then asked, “What about the monster?”
“The monster” was the girls’ name for the big cast-iron kettle with a lid that their mother called a Dutch oven. It was heavy and hard to handle, and usually something had been burned in it.
“It doesn’t look dirty,” Sue declared.
“I don’t remember anything being cooked in it,” Betty added.
“But if it’s clean, why isn’t it put away?” Sue asked.
“Maybe Mother plans to use it tonight.”
“If we don’t have to wash the monster, we can go to the pond right away. If Mother asks us about it, we can always say we thought it was clean.”
So it was decided. Sue drained out the dishwater, and Betty went to get their toy boats and to put their cat, Ladybug, outside. When Betty came back, she was surprised to see Sue filling the sink with water again. ”What are you doing?” she asked.
“I just don’t feel right about leaving the monster. I’m going to wash it.”
“I’ll help you,” said Betty. “I don’t feel right about it either.” She took the cover off the Dutch oven.
Both girls gave a surprised “Oh!” Inside the monster were oranges, sandwiches, cookies, and a note that read: “For my two good helpers. This is for a picnic at the pond. Have fun. Mother.”

For years, I have wanted to create a large poppy display and in November of last year, I voiced this to our Relief Society president, Yvonne Kerr, who expressed a similar desire. Because we were coming to the close of a horrible year of lockdowns, we felt that setting this up as a project for 2021 would be an ideal time to do it as it would give us something to focus on while we were restricted to our homes and by giving us a common purpose, we would not feel so isolated. Little did we know at that point that we were heading into further lockdowns and this project became a lifeline for many women. The culmination of this work was to be a display at the chapel where we would hold a special commemorative meeting, to which we would invite community leaders as well as our members and friends.
Yvonne asked me to pull a small committee together to make this happen and I knew exactly who to ask.
Esther Wilford became our internal communications director, whose job it was to keep the sisters and ward members updated with our progress. When she relocated out of our ward, we enlisted Julie Beveridge who also did a wonderful job.
Yvonne Kerr acted as our external communications director. She sent out all the external invitations to official delegates, war veterans and medal holders to attend our event.
Mandy Watson acted as the technical and structural engineer (to ensure the large display was stable). The fact that the structure is so sound is very much down to Mandy’s skills and hard work. Part of the display was the silhouette of a soldier. Mandy built all the framework and did all the sealing to make it waterproof before spending many hours as doing several coats of undercoat and paint. She really needs to be acknowledged more for her role in it all. I had the idea and vision, but she engineered the whole thing. Mandy has lots of experience with making sure structures and frameworks are safe and secure and we would need her skills when it came to putting the display together. Mandy is in the middle of restoring a very large, old house and so many of the materials that went into the framework and structure of the display came from her home—from the netting holding the poppies to the cobblestones that weigh the stands down, to the scaffolding outriggers used to stabilize the frame.
I had the easy task of chairing the committee and acting as a wool merchant and distributor. Because we commenced the project during a four-tier lockdown in Scotland, no one could get out to buy wool so I bought in bulk then coordinated with individuals, finding safe ways to deliver and distribute.
Thirty women made and contributed poppies. Because we wouldn’t physically collect poppies from sisters, every four weeks, Esther, and then Julie, would send a request on various messaging platforms to ask how many poppies had been made since the last count. Sisters would relay this to me, and I would keep a tally in a small notebook. We were hoping to reach a total of 1,500 poppies, feeling we could do a nice, decent display with that amount. However, I soon had to keep a record using a spreadsheet because within no time at all we had by far exceeded our initial goal. By the week before the display went up, we had received a staggering 5,589 poppies!
3,592 were made by sisters from the Alloa Ward. Another 262 by sisters from other wards around the country.
There were 967 poppies made by a friend of one of our members and a further 692 made by others not of our faith based up and down the country who belong to a Facebook crafting group. There were also 76 that came from a nonmember relative of mine in Holland.
We were grateful to all 30 women who made and added to the total, but recognition should go to a committee member, Julie Beveridge, who made a very impressive 1,373 poppies herself.
A brother who gave plenty of help throughout the project, Eammon Brereton, made a ‘Lest We Forget’ sign as part of the display.
We estimate that thousands of hours were spent by so many in the preparations for this event but they all felt that this truly has been a labour of love.
Other neighbour and local companies contributed the steel and used their equipment to cut out the soldier’s gun, others donated tenting fabric, and super heavy-duty guy pegs from rebar. A kind and generous benefactor donated £200 for the making of the soldier. A self-employed contractor came to the building on the final day of construction, and when he saw that we were rapidly running out of time, took the afternoon off to help us with some of the wire tethering and knocking in ground spikes.
On 22 October we held an outside lighting up ceremony, conducted by Sister Yvonne Kerr. Besides members of the ward, we had in attendance invited guests who included the lord lieutenant of Clackmannanshire, Lt Col (Retd) Johnny Stewart, and the most senior member of the Alloa Ward, Sister Dorothy Kendall, who pushed a button that lit up the monumental display. Esther Wilford beautifully sang Vera Lynn’s “When The Lights Go on Again, All over The World” and “I Vow to Thee My Country”. One of our Primary children, Emma Black, read the much-quoted lines from ‘For the Fallen’ by Laurence Binyon. People passing stopped to join the crowd, inside and outside of the fencing surrounding the grounds.
We tried to give each poppy its own space to clearly represent an individual. There are varying shades of red and a myriad of patterns, symbolizing the differences in those individuals who, all together have made a huge difference for each of us.
Just before the button was pressed to illuminate the display, we acknowledged to the assembled crowd, many who were not members of our Church, that as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we try to put Christ at the centre of all we do and it was in His name that on that night and during the season of remembrance, we honour those from World War I and World War II who fought and fell to give us our freedom, but the display also honours and gives reverence to those in the past and those who currently protect our land, shores, and skies from unseen enemies. They are the real heroes, and that really is what the display is about.
Yvonne Kerr, president of the Relief Society, said: “We really felt that there was a need for people who weren’t able to get together to be able to do something in unity. “It was a good way for the women of the Church to stay in contact with one another and to be able to serve and help other people.” She added: “As COVID started to progress, we really wanted to run with the idea, to be able to acknowledge that there were other people who had sacrificed a lot more than we got to sacrifice. We were very privileged to be able to acknowledge them by creating the poppies.”
Yvonne Kerr told the Advertiser: “It was very well attended. We were surprised by how many people came. It was really wonderful—a lovely event and a great tribute to those who served in our military services and a great way to thank them for what they’ve done for us.”

When Ron was about 17 and I was about 12, his teacher told him that he needed to gain a testimony of his own. He said to me, “I intend to find out for myself if the Church is true. I’m going to pay any price to know for myself.”
Over the next few weeks, I watched him. I’d find him on his knees praying. I’d see him reading the Book of Mormon. I was amazed at how diligent he was.
One morning a few weeks later, I found Ron lying on his bed with his knees tucked up on his chest. He had great pain in his lower right abdomen.
My mom called for an ambulance. As we stood there over my brother, Ron said to my dad through gritted teeth, “Please, I need a priesthood blessing.” I didn’t know if my dad knew how to give a priesthood blessing. I’d never seen him do it. But he laid his hands on my brother’s head and pronounced a blessing of healing. About the time my dad said, “Amen,” Ron jumped off the bed and said the pain was totally gone. He was absolutely thrilled that the Lord had answered his prayer through that blessing.
My parents still took my brother to the hospital to be checked. All the doctors could say was that Ron’s symptoms sounded like he had had a ruptured appendix, but now they could find no trace of a problem.
Later that day, Ron told me, “Gene, I now know that the gift of healing is real. When Dad put his hands on my head, I felt the Spirit of the Lord go through my whole body. I know the priesthood is real.”
Then he said, “I also now know for myself that the Church is true. Not because of the healing, but because of what has been happening to me in reading the Book of Mormon. I’ve got my testimony by reading and praying over every page. I know all that we’ve been taught in the Church is correct, and I am going on a mission.” I’d never heard Ron say that before. It was evident to me, even as a young boy, that he had really been impacted by something.

I knew a young mother who lost her husband by death. The family had been in poor circumstances and the insurance policy was only $2,000, but it was like a gift from heaven. The company promptly delivered the check for that amount as soon as proof of death was furnished. The young widow concluded she should save this for emergencies, and accordingly deposited it in the bank. Others knew of her savings, and one kinsman convinced her that she should lend the $2,000 to him at a high rate of interest.

Years passed, and she had received neither principal nor interest. She noticed that the borrower avoided her and made evasive promises when she asked him about the money. Now she needed the money and it could not be had.

“How I hate him!” she told me, and her voice breathed venom and bitterness and her dark eyes flashed. To think that an able-bodied man would defraud a young widow with a family to support! “How I loathe him!” she repeated over and over. Then I told her my Bishop Kempton story, where a man forgave the murderer of his father. She listened intently. I saw she was impressed. At the conclusion there were tears in her eyes, and she whispered: “Thank you. Thank you sincerely. Surely I, too, must forgive my enemy. I will now cleanse my heart of its bitterness. I do not expect ever to receive the money, but I leave my offender in the hands of the Lord.”

Weeks later, she saw me again and confessed that those intervening weeks had been the happiest of her life. A new peace had overshadowed her and she was able to pray for the offender and forgive him, even though she never received back a single dollar. (See Spencer W. Kimball, The Miracle of Forgiveness, Bookcraft, 1969, pp. 293–94.)