Gospel Story Finder

My whole life I had heard about the importance of getting a patriarchal blessing. So when I turned 17, I started thinking about getting mine.
To me, it was kind of frightening. What if I didn’t hear anything I wanted to hear? What if there were no great promises for me? I worried about being prepared enough.
I decided that I needed to have faith and that all would be well. I prayed many times, was interviewed by my bishop, and set up an appointment with the stake patriarch to receive my blessing. Then I waited, while trying to prepare spiritually for this important date.
On the day I was to receive my blessing, I fasted all day. I thought I would have this super spiritual day, but Satan was working on me and I had a bad day at school. I was a wreck. I came home after school and paced the floor. I thought back to a fireside when a man and woman in our ward whom I admire told us how to prepare, suggesting that we pray for specific things we want to know.
I went into my room, knelt beside my bed, and prayed that Heavenly Father would tell me what he knew was best for me to hear. I asked that he take away my fears and calm my worried heart.
Everything turned out fine. In fact, it was a personal miracle. It seemed that the patriarch knew me so completely, even better than I knew myself. I knew he was speaking for Heavenly Father, and when he spoke, I felt the assurance that Heavenly Father did know me. He heard my prayers. He knew my name.
After the patriarch had finished speaking, I felt so good about myself. Nothing has ever given me such an awesome and indescribable feeling before.
Now I know why Church leaders are always emphasizing the value of a patriarchal blessing. When we learn the worth of something and pay the price to obtain it, we begin to better understand its value. For me, my blessing and the experience of receiving it was one of the best experiences of my life. I know that my patriarchal blessing will continue to guide me to fulfill its promises.

Laney was trying very hard to be reverent in church. But she was tired, and her legs felt wiggly.
After the sacrament was over, Laney opened her book about Jesus. She found the picture of Jesus with the little children. It made her feel peaceful and happy inside.
After sacrament meeting was over, Laney asked Mommy, “Why is it easier to be reverent when I look at my book about Jesus?”
“I think it’s because it reminds you how much Jesus loves you,” Mommy said.
Laney nodded. “Do you think Jesus knows that I love Him too?” she asked.
Mommy gave Laney a hug. “Yes, I’m sure He does.”
Story continues on page 79.

Your mom says you may invite two friends over after school tomorrow. First you call Julie, who lives a few kilometers away. She is in your Primary class and in your class at school. Her parents say yes! She will walk home with you; her parents will pick her up before supper.

Next you call Tasha, a nonmember who lives just a few houses away. She can come, too. Before she hangs up the phone, though, she asks if anyone else is coming. When you tell her Julie is also coming, Tasha says, “If she is coming, I don’t want to come.”

If you say, “Julie is my friend too. Why don’t you come and get to know her better?” go to A. If you say, “OK, I’ll tell Julie that something came up and I can’t have anybody over,” go to F.

A. Tasha says, “Well, I guess I’ll still come, but don’t expect me to make friends with Julie.”
After school, Tasha and Julie walk home with you. When Julie stoops to tie her shoelace, Tasha makes an ugly face at her behind her back.
If you say, “Julie, Tasha’s making faces at you. She didn’t want you to come,” go to J. If you say nothing but give Tasha a look of disappointment, go to E.

E. When you get to your house, punch and cookies are on the table. They turn out to be Tasha’s and Julie’s favorite treats. As the afternoon goes on, you see that Tasha is actually being friendly to Julie. Tasha says, “Julie, I didn’t know you were such fun! You never say anything in school.”
If you suddenly feel jealous and try to discourage their growing friendship, go to B. If you try to help them become better friends, go to I.

I. You suggest that you all play on the swing. Tasha has the first turn. As Julie climbs on for her turn, a car full of teenagers drives by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, because it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.

D. Tasha hides the cigarette as her mother drives past, then starts to put it in her mouth. You yell, “Stop! It really is bad for you.”
She says, “Once won’t hurt. I want to know what it tastes like.” She takes a puff and starts to cough.
When she throws the cigarette down, you stomp on it and say, “I wish you hadn’t done that. Heavenly Father doesn’t want us to hurt our bodies.”
Tasha asks, “Is Heavenly Father the same as God? How do you know that he doesn’t want us to smoke?”
If you say, “I just do, that’s all. Come on—it’s Julie’s turn on the swing,” go to C. If you say, “Because he told us so in a scripture we call the Word of Wisdom,” go to G.

G. “What’s the Word of Wisdom?” Tasha asks.
“It’s a scripture that teaches us not to smoke and not to drink coffee, tea, beer, or wine—stuff like that. And not to do drugs.”
Julie adds, “It teaches us to eat fruits and vegetables and grains—you know, healthy food.”
“So do you two go to the same church?” Tasha asks. When you both nod, she looks down. “I don’t go to church, except when I visit my grandma. What do you do at your church?”
“Well,” you answer, “we have Primary every Sunday. We have a lesson and learn about Jesus Christ. We sing songs and have a lot of fun. Oh, and we have special activity days sometimes.”
Julie says, “It’s really neat! Do you want to come with us this Sunday?”
“Do I have to wear a dress?” Tasha asks.
“We always do,” you tell her. “I’m always glad I do—it feels right, somehow.”
Tasha shrugs. “I guess it won’t hurt me to dress up. Sure—I’ll ask Mom if I can go.”
Congratulations! You made important choices—and you made the right ones!

Suddenly he remembered a cold winter evening not long after he’d received his sight. He and his father had been trapped in a mountain snowstorm. They could not see the road. Their oxen were frightened and did not know the way home.
“Son,” his father had said, “we have done all we can to find our way. Now we must ask the Lord for help.”
They then knelt in the snow and prayed. Afterward, they steered the oxen in the direction they thought was right, and the animals, without hesitation, led them home.

William W. Phelps, who was close to the Prophet Joseph, betrayed him in 1838, which led to Joseph’s incarceration in Missouri. Recognizing the great evil of the thing he had done, Brother Phelps wrote to the Prophet, asking forgiveness. The Prophet replied in part as follows:
“It is true, that we have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough for mortals to drink, was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us. …
“However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done, and we are yet alive, for which we thank the Lord. …
“Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal.
“Your letter was read to the Saints last Sunday, and an expression of their feeling was taken, when it was unanimously Resolved, That W. W. Phelps should be received into fellowship.
“‘Come on, dear brother, since the war is past,
“‘For friends at first, are friends again at last’” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, sel. Joseph Fielding Smith [1976], 165–66).

For Laurentino Moreira, the gospel was a new-found treasure to give to those he loved. In sharing it, he began a chain of events that has led to more than one hundred conversions—and perhaps saved the life of his brother Joaquim.
Laurentino—Tino to his friends—was at home one day in Porto, the second-largest city of Portugal, when two young women knocked at his door. He told them politely that he already belonged to a church and had no interest in the religion they wanted to discuss with him. But when they asked if he would like to see a movie at their chapel, he agreed.
The movie, The First Vision was interesting enough that Tino agreed to listen to one of the missionary discussions, and one discussion led to another. By the second one, he was beginning to feel a spirit that he liked very much. He realized that what these young women were teaching could change his life.
“When the missionaries told me that through prayer I could ask God about the truth of things, this was not a new idea for me,” he explains. Three years earlier, he had read a series of books about ancient civilizations and had concluded that God must have had a part in their origins. For more than two years, Tino had recited prayers, the way he had been taught as a youth, entreating God to help him learn more about those civilizations. (He feels that those prayers were largely answered when he was taught about the Book of Mormon.)
One night after he began hearing the missionary discussions. Tino had one basic question about Church doctrine: Was Joseph Smith a prophet of God? So Tino asked Heavenly Father that question. Immediately, “I began to feel a peace and a great joy at the same time. I began to smile, and immediately, I was happy. I said to myself, ‘Well, this is the answer.’”
He couldn’t keep what he was learning about the gospel to himself. Previously, “I had believed that life didn’t end with death,” Tino remembers, but he had only his own theories about what came after mortality. Now that he had heard of the plan of salvation, he wanted everyone else to know, too. “I had some great friends. I felt the need to share this good news with them.”
One of those “great friends” was his brother Joaquim. When Tino invited Quim (pronounced “Keem”) to his baptism, Quim was surprised to learn that his brother had even been attending a church.
The brothers had developed different interests through the years, and Quim used drugs, lived a dissolute life, and claimed not to believe in God. He was on a downward spiral. “Maybe if I hadn’t learned about the Church, I wouldn’t be alive now,” Quim reflects. But because Tino wanted some of his family to attend his baptism, Quim agreed to go.
The chapel was a different world to Quim, with its wholesome atmosphere and well-groomed people. After the baptism, Quim was invited to hear a missionary discussion, so he stayed. He responded positively to all of it. “I was surprised at myself,” he says.
At the end of the discussion, Quim was asked to offer the prayer. “I had never offered a prayer in my life,” he says. But the missionaries taught him how to do it. “I never have offered a better prayer than I offered at that moment,” he recalls. At the end of it, “I stood up—and I felt like I was flying!” He asked the missionaries repeatedly: “What is this? I don’t understand. What is this I am feeling?” A great sense of peace, light, and joy had come over him. All evening, Quim kept talking about what he had felt.
By the next day, however, he had almost convinced himself that the experience hadn’t really been so important. “Listen, Tino,” he said, “I don’t want to go to your Church anymore.”
But during the following week, the desire to know why he had experienced such wonderful feelings after that prayer built up in him. Quim’s resolve to stay away from Tino’s church collapsed. It was late at night, Tino recalls, when Quim shook him awake to say, with some intensity, “I want to go to church tomorrow.”
“And from that moment, I wanted to be baptized,” Quim says. “As soon as I heard the other discussions, I believed.” It was a joyful discovery to learn “that our Father cares about each of his children.” He was baptized just three weeks after his brother was.
Tino served diligently in every Church calling extended to him following his baptism, but after a couple of years, he realized that there was more he could, and should, give—the time required for a full-time mission. He felt that, by serving a mission, he would be able to help other young people find answers to the same questions about life that had so perplexed him a few years earlier.
Like Tino, Quim served a mission in Portugal. When Harold Hillam, president of the Portugal Lisbon Mission, told Quim, “Brother Moreira, you’re going to be a missionary,” Quim replied: “How? I have no money, my parents aren’t members, and I’ll have to quit my studies.” But the mission president insisted that he must be prepared to go on a mission in a few months, and Quim continued to pray, asking the Lord how it could be done.
One night, in a dream, he saw himself dressed as a missionary, leaving home with his suitcases, and he awoke knowing that it would happen. Financial help was found through the Church, and Joaquim Moreira left school to accept the call. That is a very important decision in Portugal, for it is difficult to gain readmission to a university.
When they talked to their parents about going on missions, the two young men expected sterner opposition. Perhaps the elder Moreiras did not withhold their permission because they were grateful for the Church’s influence on their sons. Nevertheless, the parents—particularly Tino and Quim’s mother—resisted the idea of changing religions themselves.
But the influence of the gospel continued to work in the lives of Quim and Tino’s family. Shortly after Tino entered the mission field, their father was ready for baptism. Tino, who was working nearby, had the privilege of baptizing him. Their mother declined at first even to read her sons’ letters from the mission field. Quim sent one letter home, however, with a special prayer that she would read it and be touched. His prayer was answered, and it was not long until she was baptized by her husband.
Tino and Quim both found treasures of spiritual strength in the mission field. Quim recalls trying to teach one widow whose husband had spent much of his life as a missionary for another church. The woman had agreed to listen to the missionary discussions because her daughter was a Latter-day Saint. As one of the discussions progressed, however, she found it too difficult to accept the idea that the teachings of her church were not correct. “Elder Moreira,” she said, “I don’t want to hear any more of this doctrine. I am going to labor to finish the missionary work my husband started!”
Quickly, Quim offered a silent prayer, asking what to say. He was inspired to assure the woman that her husband had already accepted the gospel in the spirit world.
Later, the woman’s daughter told Quim that after saying her own personal prayers that evening, she lay meditating on how she could help her mother accept the gospel. Suddenly, “I saw my father in my room. He said, ‘That missionary spoke the truth, and I want your mother to be baptized.’”
Because of her daughter’s experience, the mother agreed to listen to the missionaries again. This time, there was a different spirit about her; she was baptized a week later.
For Tino, missionary service took an unexpected turn. Deferment of their mandatory military obligation is not allowed for Portuguese missionaries, and Tino was called into his country’s air force. He still remembers the counsel of R. Perry Ficklin, then president of the Portugal Lisbon Mission, who explained that Elder Moreira’s missionary service wasn’t over, that he was only being “transferred to another area—more difficult.” Tino went on to teach and baptize a number of people in the air force.
Quim, too, has been responsible for introducing several co-workers to the gospel since the end of his mission. The lives of the two brothers have, in fact, continued on parallel paths in several ways. Both are married now—to two sisters, also named Moreira! Both Tino and Quim, now in their mid-twenties, have also been deeply involved in Church leadership positions. Their commitment is such that Quire served concurrently as second counselor in his ward’s bishopric, as a stake high councilor, and as stake mission leader; at the same time, Tino was serving as ward elders quorum president, as first counselor in the stake mission presidency, and as director of Church educational programs for their area. (Tino now works for the Church in Lisbon, while Quim still lives in Porto.)
Was it difficult to fill all those positions and handle their other roles in life as well?
Difficulty was not a consideration, Tino says matter-of-factly. “When we chose a mission, we chose to be active in the Church.”
Two of Tino’s friends whom he introduced to the gospel—Jose Gouveia Pereiro and Hernani Cerqueira—also served missions. Tino, Quim, Jose, and Hernani have helped bring more than one hundred people into the Church and continue to be missionaries even now—long after their full-time service is over.
Tino reflects that none of this would have been possible without “that first little seed” planted by the missionaries who knocked on his door.
And now, he says, with a mixture of wonder and enthusiasm, “the tree keeps on growing—so fast!”

I learned a great lesson the night before my father was released as a bishop. It was the first time I had really ever seen my father shed tears. He called the family together to announce that his term of service as a bishop was over. Then, with tears streaming down his face, he told us how he would miss the calling, even though it had been a burden at times and had occupied a great deal of time. He taught us a real-life lesson of the true joy of Church service. It was not until then that I fully appreciated the blessings we had had in our home as a family, by having the mantle of a bishop rest on the shoulders of our father.

I really wanted to play the flute. I thought it was so feminine and romantic, like something you might play while sitting on a rock in a field of flowers. But my parents couldn’t afford any kind of instrument at that time, and I wanted to be in the junior high beginning band, mostly because my best friend, Lisa, was in it, playing the snare drum. The school owned some instruments that it loaned out, and Mr. North, the grumpy old band teacher, assigned me an old, dented French horn in a beat-up black case.
I really hated that thing. If it wasn’t enough to have my backpack full of books to carry home every night, I also had to carry that heavy French horn up the hill almost a mile to my house. It really embarrassed me to carry that big old black case. I kept thinking of the flute, and how the case would have fit right in my backpack.
Our family of eight lives on an old quiet street, and the neighbors take a lot of interest in us. Brother Legarde, two doors down, is our home teacher and a musician himself, so he was delighted the first time he saw me coming by with the French horn. He put down his leaf rake and came right over, full of questions.
“Erika, my dear,” he said. “Is that a French horn I see?”
I set it down on the sidewalk. You really can’t just walk on when Brother Legarde stops you.
“Yeah,” I said without enthusiasm.
“You’re playing it? You’re taking lessons?” he asked, his eyes shining.
“School band is all. And I’m still working on making a decent sound come out of it. It mostly screams in pain when I blow into it.”
He laughed. “It’s all in the lips. They have to get strong and firm, and that takes time. School band is nice. What chair are you?”
“Third.”
“And how many chairs?”
“Three.”
He smiled gently. “It takes time,” he said again. “I’ll be listening to you practice, waiting to hear a sound that’s not painful.”
I smiled, picked up the heavy beast, and trudged home.
I hated that horn a lot, and I can’t explain exactly why I didn’t just quit and transfer into cooking or something. But it’s like some unwritten rule in our family that once you start something, you have to see it through. So I practiced pretty regularly, and after a while, I could at least play most of the notes.
Brother Legarde always called out words of encouragement when I passed. “Keep working, Erika. It’s sounding better. I heard you practicing yesterday.” Things like that.
I especially hated cleaning the horn and its old brassy smell. But Mr. North inspected our instruments once a week, and if they weren’t clean, he docked our grades. And believe me, I needed all the points I could get. Mr. North glared at me a lot when my horn squeaked, and I don’t think he thought I had much talent, and he was right. I would kind of dump the horn into the case and buckle it up and watch with envy as the two flute players dismantled their shiny silver instruments and tucked them neatly into their velvet-lined cases.
On a Friday in October, Mr. North decided we should go outside with our instruments and practice marching in preparation for the Veterans’ Day parade in November. Our band met on the stage of the auditorium, so I picked up my horn, leaving the case by my chair, and walked along the edge of the stage, swinging my horn in what I see now was a very careless way, when suddenly it slipped out of my hand and fell all the way off the stage to the auditorium floor, landing with a loud, tinny bang.
The whole class, including Mr. North, stopped and looked at me. I jumped down off the stage, picked up the horn, and looked up into Mr. North’s stern face. “Let me see it,” he said. I handed the horn to him. “You’ve dented it.” I see now that this was a real mistake, but I started to laugh. The horn had so many dents in it you wouldn’t believe it. I climbed back up on the stage, and he handed the horn back to me.
“You’ll be responsible for getting this repaired,” he said. “And unless you do, you’ll receive a failing grade in band.”
Suddenly, I wasn’t laughing any more. In our family, nobody has ever come home with a failing grade. I walked out kind of soberly and tried to march and play at the same time, which wasn’t easy.
Afterwards, Lisa came over to me. “What are you going to do?” she said.
“Do I have a choice?” I said. “After school, I’m going to carry this beast over to Midtown Music and see if they can fix it.”
“Couldn’t you get your mom to take you?”
I strapped the horn in and snapped the case shut. “‘If you create the problem, you solve the problem.’ That’s what my mom always says. I think I’ll just take it over there myself. I’ll be paying for it out of my baby-sitting money, too.”
Lisa shook her head. “Your parents are so strict.”
“They’re really into character development, that’s all.”
At the music store, I stood looking around at flutes and recorders and thinking about that rock in the field of flowers while the man examined the horn. “I would have to remove all the dents leading up to your dent,” he said, running his knobby fingers along the bumpy horn. I couldn’t bypass all these other dents.”
“How much?”
“Sixty dollars.”
I gasped, told him I’d have to think about it, picked up the horn, put it in its case, and left.
For the rest of the week, I practiced playing and marching as best I could. And really, the dent didn’t hurt anything. But on Friday, Mr. North nailed me with his cold eyes and asked, “What about the instrument repair?” I told him I’d see what I could do over the weekend.
Friday night was Halloween, and Lisa and I had decided to go trick-or-treating one more time before leaving our childhood behind, just for a little while before we went over to the stake Mutual party.
At the Legardes’, Brother Legarde opened the door and pretended he didn’t know who we were, even though it was perfectly obvious. But instead of putting candy in my sack, he put a flat, wrapped thing that looked like a cassette tape. Sure enough, when I got home and opened it, it was a tape of Mozart’s Four Horn Concerti. I was pretty touched that Brother Legarde would give it to me. After the Mutual party I listened to it and could hear how nice a French horn could sound.
The next morning, Saturday, I thought about the little music store over on Redwood Road, kind of a dumpy place that’s been there forever. I lugged the horn off the bus and into Mozzie’s Music Store. Mr. Mozzie, grizzled and unkempt looking, smiled at me as I got the horn out and put it up on the counter. I explained how I just wanted the one dent removed. He looked at it for some time, turning it this way and that, pushing the valves up and down.
“It’s not a bad old horn,” he said. “It could be fixed up. But sure, if you want one dent out, we’ll take one dent out.”
“How much?”
“Four dollars and fifty cents.”
I felt so relieved when he said that, but something made me hesitate. “How much would you charge if you took out all the dents?” I asked.
He picked up the horn again, squinting at it and fingering the dents. “I could smooth this horn and shine it up and oil the valves for $35.”
“I’m going to think about it,” I said, and don’t ask me why, but I packed that thing up and got back on the bus and went home.
I lay on my bed and listened to the “Four Horn Concerti” again, and I began to see myself in that field of flowers. Not sitting on a rock, but marching around, under a radiant blue sky with wonderful haunting music coming out of a shining French horn.
Then I went over to the Legardes’ and knocked on the door. Brother Legarde answered as usual.
“Thank you for the tape,” I said. “I’ve listened to it quite a few times, and it’s really beautiful.”
“Good. You’re training your ear as well as your lips. The French horn is a beautiful instrument, played by many angels I’m sure. It suits you. Will you come in?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I wondered if I could rake your leaves and do a little cleaning up in the yard for five dollars. I need to get my horn repaired.”
“It’s broken?”
“Well, I dropped it and dented it.”
“Oh, by all means,” he said, coming out onto the porch. “Your instrument must be in the best possible condition. It needs to be treated with special care.”
I felt kind of shoddy and careless when he said that. So much for good character. But I did my best in his yard, even turned his compost pile a little after I put the leaves on it, which is not a pleasant job. He gave me ten dollars.
On Monday, I went right up to Mr. North. “I have two estimates on the horn. I’ll get it fixed this week.” He nodded and looked at me with almost friendliness, with a little respect anyway.
I told Mr. Mozzie that I guessed if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing right. He did a good job. It was shinier and better looking, and the valves didn’t stick. I cleaned the inside of the case with an old toothbrush, wiped off the outside, and carefully taped the corners. Mr. North warmed up a little, and by the time I was in the ninth grade and was first chair, he had even started smiling at me occasionally.
Now I play French horn in the high school marching band. I hold my head up high and get those notes out loud and clear, and the sun glints off the beautiful horn I got for Christmas last year. I keep it shined and clean at all times. I try to do the same for my character.

A few weeks before school started, I was sitting on the porch with my friends Grace and Ron when the discussion turned to how much Grace disliked her father. This wasn’t a new topic for her.
“He always embarrasses me in public just by being there. It is just so annoying when he always …” She went on to talk about her father’s failings and how he wasn’t living up to her expectations.
Ron decided he would take over the conversation by talking about his family and how he didn’t think his mom was home enough and that he didn’t like the way she dressed. He didn’t think he should have a curfew or that his dad should yell so much.
The whole time I just sat on the porch swing waiting for them to ask me what I didn’t like about my family. I couldn’t say I didn’t love my family. Moving five times in my lifetime had given my brother, sister, and me really tight bonds. We depended on each other and stuck up for one another. Our closeness was something my mother was very proud of.
Then Grace said, “What about your family, Scott?”
I didn’t say anything for a minute. I was choosing my words carefully, knowing the things I said would represent what I believe in. When I finally spoke, I felt the Spirit guiding my words. There were no interruptions from either of them as I spoke of how much my family means to me and that I hope to spend eternity with them. I encouraged them to be more patient with their families. I told them to look at the big picture.
I ran inside the house and got my copy of the proclamation on the family by the First Presidency and Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I read to them the seventh paragraph, focusing mostly on what qualities we should base our family relationships on: “Happiness in family life is most likely to be achieved when founded upon the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ. Successful marriages and families are established and maintained on principles of faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work, and wholesome recreational activities” (Ensign, Nov. 1995).
After reading that, I said, “This is what my family believes. This is what we want to be and are striving for. I know if I can do all that, then I will be able to stand tall on the Judgment Day with my family, knowing we are going to live together forever.”
I didn’t know how well my friends took this information because of a long pause from both of them. We just sat there for a while, pondering what had been said.
Later a thousand thoughts went through my mind. I was proud I was preparing for a mission by sharing the Church’s teachings on families with my friends. But was I doing it appropriately? And what would they think if I tried to explain more about the gospel?
As I was getting ready for bed, I flipped through my scriptures and turned to section 4 of the Doctrine and Covenants. Here we are told if we serve the Lord in missionary service “with all [our] heart, might, mind and strength,” then we “may stand blameless before God at the last day” (D&C 4:2).
Of course, my friends and I still have our disagreements. But I realized no one ever loses a true friend just by talking about religion and beliefs. Although Grace and Ron didn’t join the Church, I have continued my friendship with them. It felt good to explain my beliefs to them. Just because they didn’t immediately change what they believed about families or religion didn’t matter. I know there are hundreds of stories about the value of perseverance in missionary service. Mine may end up one of them.

There came an anxious knock at the crude wooden door of the dwelling of two elders. When the door was opened, they saw a small girl crying. She had been running and was gasping for air. The elders struggled to piece together her message, delivered amid sobs: Her father had suffered a severe head injury and would die unless the elders saved his life. Men of the village were at that moment carrying him to the missionaries. She pleaded for her father’s life, then ran to be with him.
The elders were in an area with no doctors or medical facilities. There were no telephones. The only means of communication was a rough road up a riverbed, and they had no vehicle. The elders were not trained in medicine. Besides preaching the gospel, they labored diligently to improve the sanitation in their assigned, remote village. But the people of the valley trusted them, and although they did not know how to care for a serious head wound, they knew Someone who did. They knelt in prayer and explained their problem to an understanding Heavenly Father.
They felt impressed to clean the wound, close and bandage it, and give the man a blessing. One companion asked, “How will he stand the pain? How can we cleanse the wound and bless him while he is in such suffering?”
They knelt again. “We have no medicine. We have no anesthetic. Please help us to know what to do. Please bless him, Father.”
As they arose, friends arrived with the injured man. Even in the dim candlelight, they could see that he had been severely hurt and that he was suffering greatly. As they began to cleanse the man’s wound, an unusual thing happened: he fell asleep. Carefully, anxiously, they finished the cleansing, closed the wound, and provided a makeshift bandage. As they gently laid their hands on his head to bless him, he awoke peacefully. Their prayer had been answered, and his life saved. The trust of the people increased, and a branch of the Church flourished.

As a bishop of a student ward adjacent to the University of Utah campus about 18 years ago, I tried vainly to hold a young marriage together. The wife had been unfaithful, and as I sought to help and to understand, I learned that as a child this woman had had an adulterous father. Though unjustified, she acted out her feelings about men. What she then did was not love. Several years after my release as bishop, I saw a story in the local paper about her having been picked up for prostitution. I know not where she is today, but I cannot put out of my mind the words of Jacob, who decried unfaithful fathers who had lost the confidence of their children because of their bad examples (see Jacob 2:35).

If we choose the wrong road, we choose the wrong destination. For example, a friend of many years told me that her husband, always a “good kid” in high school, took a few drinks he thought would help him forget some problems. Before he knew what was happening, he was addicted. Now he is not able to support his family, and he is ineffective at almost everything he tries to do. Alcohol governs his life, and he cannot seem to break free of its grip.

We need more such attitudes in the world. There is the story of the husband and wife who had saved and saved for a new car. After taking delivery, the husband told his wife that all the necessary legal documents and insurance information were in a packet in the glove compartment. On her first day out in the new car, she was involved in an accident, which demolished the front end of the car. Unhurt, in tears, and near panic, she opened the packet to show the police officer her papers. There she found a handwritten note from her husband which read: “Now that you have had an accident, remember I can always replace the car, but not you. Please know how much I love you!”

I was one of only four Spanish-speaking missionaries in the New England Mission. We worked hard to learn the language and share the gospel, but we met mostly with rejection.
One day we knocked on the door of Hugo and Niza Diaz, a couple in Providence, Rhode Island. After they invited us into their apartment, I asked how long they had lived there.
“We just moved here from New York,” they said. “The Lord told us to move to Providence and He would send us messengers to teach us the truth. Are you the messengers?”
We responded assuredly, “Yes, we are the messengers.” We taught Hugo and Niza about the gospel of Jesus Christ, and they readily accepted our message and were soon baptized.

The prophets counsel us to study the scriptures daily. So I decided to read my scriptures every night, remembering my Sunday School teachers who assured me I would feel closer to Heavenly Father if I did. Sadly, the only thing I found myself closer to was sleep! I was following the guidance of the prophets and still not feeling this “closeness” or really learning anything. I decided it was one of those things that come with age, like a fondness for liver and spinach. So I was content to continue with my nightly readings, convinced that one day all of the promised blessings would surface.
Finally, after continuing this ritual for several months, something did happen. It wasn’t a revelation, but a realization. I was reading the words on the page, but I wasn’t thinking about them. I was preoccupied with other things. The prophets don’t tell us to glance at or skim the scriptures; they tell us to study them. I guess I thought by having my scriptures open, I might learn something via some sixth sense.
I have continued my habit, but I’ve added a new twist. Now I think about what I read. I can’t believe all the time I’ve worried about problems when the answers were on the pages in front of me. There are so many beautiful stories and messages in the scriptures.
Now that I’ve finally learned to appreciate and gain knowledge from the scriptures, does that mean I’m finally getting old? Nah, I still don’t like liver and spinach.

One day I was thinking about how I could step it up a little as a grandpa, so I asked myself what I most wanted to give to my grandchildren. The answer wasn’t financial help or more fun activities or travel to new places.
The answer was that I wanted to share with them the principles that I felt could help make their lives happy and productive and righteous. I wanted to leave a legacy based on faith in Jesus Christ and His eternal plan of happiness.1
I thought about what my grandchildren might want to know from me based on my own lived experiences. So I created a list of “Grandfather’s Principles.” The next week I read it to some of my older grandkids in hopes of engaging them in a little discussion.
It fell flat. Their looks seemed to say, “When will this lecture be over?”
I tried changing the name to “Grandfather’s Beliefs” and “Grandfather’s Tips,” but those didn’t work any better.
Then one summer at our family reunion, while I was with some of our elementary-age grandkids, I repurposed my list as “Grandfather’s Secrets,” and boom—I suddenly had their interest and their attention. I even had their curiosity!
Things got better from there. I polished my list of principles/beliefs/tips/secrets until I had 10 of them that were simple and basic but that genuinely reflected what I thought was most important and what I felt were the top-10 life guides that I wanted to share.
Nowadays, I spread out discussing these with each grandchild over a 10-year time period. When our grandchildren turn 8 (the age of accountability), they receive the first three “secrets.” When they are 10, they get one more; when 12, two more; when 14, two more; and when 18, the final two.
I give rewards and recognition for learning them. Some have memorized them. We talk about when and how they have applied them. I text back and forth about them with the grandkids who are old enough to have a phone. At reunions we have group discussions where they share examples of using them in everyday life. Older grandkids tutor younger ones on what the “secrets” mean and how they work.
Whenever I have a somewhat private moment with a grandchild or two, I ask them to give me an example of how they applied one of the secrets in the past or how they imagine they might apply one in the future. For the ones who live farther away, I text hypothetical situations they may find themselves in when one of the secrets might come into play, and I ask them to text back about what they would do.
I pray that my grandchildren will learn from pondering, memorizing, and using these secrets and that we will know each other better as we discuss them. I learned a lot about myself from writing them, and I’m still learning important things about my grandkids as I try to teach them.

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

We need to help our children gain a sense of their relationship with Heavenly Father. They can know that each person is a literal child of God, that each is born with a divine birthright and unlimited potential. When my nephew was four years old, his father took great delight in asking him to repeat his name. Rich would ask, “Mark, what is your name?” Mark would stand up tall and answer with a happy grin, “My name is Mark Andrew Broadbent, Child of God.” When our children understand that Heavenly Father is real and that He loves and cares about each of them, they will want to walk uprightly.

Luisa Fernanda Espinosa Sachica, a young Colombian woman, had come to the church meeting at the invitation of a young man who worked with her at a bank.

The little ward in Bogota, the nation’s capital, did not really impress her favorably. The Church members were nice, but Luisa just didn’t like the meetings. They were too long, she thought, and there didn’t appear to be anything of interest for people of her age.

But, during Relief Society, the teacher used the June 1987 Liahona, the Church’s Spanish-language magazine. On the cover was a picture of the Savior teaching in the synagogue. In the painting, the Savior had a glow about him that attracted Luisa’s attention. Not wanting to stay, she left the building following Relief Society, but she thought to herself, "I want a copy of that magazine."

Later that week, Luisa was on a crowded bus in Bogota and, as she was getting off, she noticed a copy of that same issue of the Liahona on the dashboard of the bus. She thought that it was quite a coincidence. The next day, as she was shopping, she saw behind the counter another copy of the magazine. She began to think that it was more than a coincidence. She wanted to ask the store clerk about the magazine but couldn’t find the courage to do so.

Then, at the end of the week, while she was working in the bank, a man carrying a copy of the magazine approached her teller’s window. She just had to ask him about getting a copy for herself. "I can’t understand what it is about that magazine," she explained. "It seems to follow me around." The man smiled and gave her his copy.

She took the magazine home and read it all the way through. The First Presidency Message, by President Ezra Taft Benson, was "Valiant in the Testimony of Jesus," and it described Joseph Smith and the First Vision. The more Luisa read, the more her interest grew.

She told some friends, who were members of the Church, that she wanted to meet the missionaries. Before the first discussion was finished, "She bore her testimony to us that the Joseph Smith story was true," said Elder Doug Fulsome, one of the missionaries who taught her. Luisa was eager to hear the rest of the discussions and was soon baptized.

"If the Lord wants someone to be baptized," said Elder Fulsome, "he finds a way. Even if he makes a copy of the Church magazines ‘follow’ them."

I played baseball, which I liked very much, and I played every day. Because I was very small, the mitts were too large. At that time in Mexico, we didn’t have small gloves, only big ones, so I used a big one. My middle finger is short now because I broke it many times playing baseball. I would just put a bandage around it and keep playing. My coach said, “When Horacio catches that ball, it never falls. It may be that the ball will knock Horacio down, but Horacio never drops the ball.” I played shortstop, catcher, and pitcher. I think that I was a good pitcher, because I had one game with no runs and no hits. I also played American football, but I had problems because I was so thin. I was hit very hard many times.
Even so, I realized then that nothing was impossible to do, if I wanted to do it. I think that I learned that lesson from my mother. She was a very special person. She worked in advertising in Mexico when only a few women worked for companies.
My grandfather was a military general during the Mexican Revolution. He was a very, very hard man, but he loved me. He taught me love for my country and for my flag. Every September we celebrated Mexican Independence Day at my grandparents’ home. We had a big dinner on September 15, then went to the parade on September 16.
I remember staying at my grandparents’ big house. They ate five meals a day. For breakfast, they had only hot chocolate and bread. Lunch was about eleven o’clock, and it included bread, meat, and beans. Dinner was at two or three o’clock in the afternoon. Supper was not until eleven at night. Children did not stay up for it.
Children in Mexico were taught to be respectful toward adults. I remember that at a reunion, children could attend only if they were invited. If a child wanted to talk, he had to ask permission.
The Lord preserved me in my years on the earth. When I was two, I had amoebas in my stomach. These microscopic animals in my stomach made holes in my intestines. The doctors said that I didn’t have a chance to live, but I got well and was all right.
Another time, my uncle, who was only three years older than I was, put me in a baby carriage and took me for a walk around the house. In front of the house was a road, and on the other side of the road was an irrigation canal. When he took me across the road, the carriage slid into the canal. It was empty at that time, but my uncle couldn’t get us out. My mother felt concern for me and began to call me. Then she looked for me in the house but couldn’t find me. She felt prompted to look on the road and in the canal. She found us and got us out of the canal just before the water started to come through the canal. Had she not listened to the Spirit, my uncle and I would have drowned.
We must realize that God lives and, as our Father, loves us. He doesn’t want us to suffer any harm. I testify that our Teacher, our Shepherd, is Christ, our best Friend, who clears up all our doubts. He heals our wounds and turns our pain into sweet experiences.