Gospel Story Finder

How can following the prophet help us? Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles told a story about his father, who worked and lived in the home of President Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918):
One night Elder Perry’s father came home very late and tried to open his bedroom door. The door would not open. He pushed and pushed, and it still would not open. He gave up and turned to sleep on a rug that was in the hall. As he turned, he bumped into a nearby, partially opened door—and woke up the prophet!
Although it was midnight, President Smith came over and showed Elder Perry’s father how to open the door by pulling instead of pushing, and how to get around in the dark: “Keep your arms in front, but hands together.”
Elder Perry teaches us what a prophet does to help us. He said, “Isn’t a prophet someone who teaches us to open doors we could not open ourselves—doors to greater light and truth? Isn’t a prophet like a pair of hands clasped together in front of the body of the Church, helping members navigate [find their way] through the dark [hallways] of the world?” (Ensign, Nov. 1994, 18–19.)

Giselle
Before we got married, André was working on his PhD and received a position to work at the University of Michigan. We got married and moved to Michigan. Eventually, André began having some trouble at work and wanted to change jobs.
We were young, we had just gotten married, and we didn’t know what to do. We decided to pray about it.
André
One day, I went to the university and saw a board where available job positions were posted. I applied to three different job postings. In a week, I was offered all three jobs.
Giselle
We wondered what to do. We prayed again. One position was in England, but we wanted to stay in the United States. One was in Texas, and the other job was in Maryland near Washington, D.C. The job in Maryland was with NASA. André is a scientist, so NASA seemed like a good place to go.
André
On our move to Maryland, I was driving while Giselle slept. It was early in the morning when I saw the Washington D.C. Temple.
“Wake up! Wake up! Can you see it?” I said to Giselle. “It’s like a castle!”
Giselle
I told André that maybe we could go and visit one day. We had no idea what it was. A few days after arriving in Maryland, I went to the library to use the internet to apply for jobs and check my email.
A lady who worked there heard my accent and asked where I was from. I told her I was from Brazil and we started to talk. Her name was Edna. I told her we had just moved from Michigan and mentioned where we lived.
“I live in the same apartments,” Edna said.
When I went back to the library the next day, Edna said, “I’m so glad you’re back. I want to invite you and your husband to my house for dinner.”
I thought that was strange because she didn’t know me. Then she said, “I prayed about you because I felt something really special when I met you yesterday.”
We went to her house and learned that her husband had recently passed away. After dinner, she played, “Lord, I Would Follow Thee” (Hymns, no. 220) on the piano. She said it was her husband’s favorite hymn and it was played at his funeral. Then she talked to us about the plan of salvation and invited us to go to church with her.
We went to church, and the people there were welcoming. We decided to go the next Sunday. We agreed to have the missionary lessons. Edna offered to have the lessons at her house. For five months we went to church every Sunday. Our hearts and spirits were being prepared for baptism.
André
When our baptism was announced, everyone looked surprised. “Wow, you’re not members?” they said. “But you’re here every week!” Our baptism was special. Almost the whole ward attended.
We were sealed in the Washington D.C. Temple one year later. When we went to the temple, we realized that it was the castle we saw over a year earlier!
Giselle
After we were sealed in the temple, a lot of things were not working well.
After September 11, 2001, it was hard for us to renew our visas. I was sad because I had just graduated from a community college and applied for a full scholarship at the University of Maryland. I didn’t get the scholarship, and the lab André worked for was closing.
We thought that maybe the time had come for us to go back to Brazil.
André
Our bishop told us we could help a lot of members in Brazil and grow in ways we might not in the United States. He counseled us to stay close to the Church.
“Go to Brazil and serve the Lord,” he said.
After living in Brazil for some time, our stake president came to our house and called me to serve as bishop. I somehow knew I was going to be called. For a couple of nights before my call, I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking and studying.
Giselle
I wondered what was going on. I saw him change before his call.
André
When I started my calling, our ward had 80 active members. When I was released, many more attended church regularly, and 12 missionaries went into the field from our ward. It was great!
Around the time I was released, President Dieter F. Uchtdorf was released from the First Presidency. I remember President Russell M. Nelson saying that President Uchtdorf had new and important responsibilities in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Three months later, I was called as first counselor in the mission presidency. I didn’t serve a mission, but I love my calling. I love working with the missionaries. The Lord knows me. He knew I needed to be released as bishop so I can serve in the time and place that is right for me now.

It’s Friday night in Brazil. From Recife to Rio and from Salvador to São Paulo, the great megalopolises of the country teem with life as young people fill the streets, heading down beach boardwalks and downtown drives to outdoor festivals and markets, movies and shows, restaurants and clubs.
But in a certain corner of São Paulo—Brazil’s largest metropolis with a population of 21 million—all the bustle of a big-city Friday night is forgotten as dozens of teenagers play a part in something most unusual.
They sit in small groups around a large, lit-up building, occasionally checking their watches as they quietly talk into the night. They’re not staying up late to hit a dance club. They’re not lingering for the late show. They’re anxiously awaiting something of far greater significance, something their ancestors have also waited for: their assigned time to do baptisms for the dead in the São Paulo Brazil Temple.
Because this temple is the only one in a nation of more than 700,000 Latter-day Saints, its doors are open all night every Friday until late Saturday in order to accommodate the bus loads of Church members from outlying areas who are only able to travel to the temple on weekends. Upon their arrival, stakes are assigned times round the clock to do temple work.
According to temple president Aledir Barbour, handling such large numbers of temple goers “is now our greatest challenge because so many stakes want to come, but we cannot accommodate them all as we’d like.”
He pauses, then smiles and adds, “But certainly it is a challenge we like to have.”
The white-haired, soft-spoken temple president cites an example of a group of youth and their leaders who came by bus from Belo Horizonte, a large city about 200 kilometers northeast of São Paulo. Members of this stake youth group brought with them the names of 10,000 ancestors, all of whom the teens had identified through their own research. The group stayed from Tuesday through Friday, but it wasn’t nearly enough time to do the baptisms for all their ancestors.
The temple baptistry is so full of youth patrons, individuals can usually only be baptized for four or five deceased persons each time they come to the temple. And this is after many teens and their parents from outlying areas have saved for months to travel to the temple, riding on a bus for days to get to São Paulo (Brazil is larger than the continental United States).
When the São Paulo Temple was dedicated in 1978, it could easily handle the Church membership in Brazil, which then totalled less than 60,000. But membership in Brazil has increased by more than tenfold since then, and now the temple is consistently overflowing.
Fortunately, the rapid growth that has caused such a challenge is also a catalyst that is bringing about wonderful change—change that is already beginning to bless the lives of Brazilian youth.
Peering through the rails of a barrier fence, 17-year-old Fabio Fogliatto and his friends of the Canoas Stake watch intently as men in hard hats construct a building near the southern tip of Brazil. Fabio notes with satisfaction that one of the workers leaves the construction site before smoking a cigarette. “He must know this is a sacred site for us,” he says.
On the other side of the fence from the teens is a spectacular sight. Against the backdrop of the city, the walls of what will be the Pôrto Alegre Brazil Temple are rising out of the red earth.
“Just watching them build the temple, I can feel it really is a temple of the Lord,” says Ivan Carvalho, 14, of the Esteio Ward. “It makes me feel even stronger that I want to come here to do ordinances for the dead and for myself.”
Fourteen-year-old Guilherme Recordon of the Estancia Velha Ward adds, “And now that we only have to go 20 kilometers instead of 300, maybe we’ll be able to come here every week!”
The feelings of these boys represent an excitement growing all over Brazil as temples are built. Another temple is nearing completion in Campinas (a city just west of São Paulo), and yet another will be dedicated in the northern city of Recife this summer. As temples are built into the Brazilian skies, youth here are constructing their own temple-worthy lives.
Living worthy to go to the temple is anything but easy for young Brazilians. They are teased by their peers if they don’t use drugs, alcohol, and tobacco. Extreme immodesty is common on billboards and prime-time T.V. Many students carry pornographic magazines to school. During carnaval, a week-long festival for which Brazil is famous, immodesty and immorality are paraded in the streets.
But LDS youth say that looking to the temple helps them keep the commandments despite the many temptations and trials they face. “At school, when you won’t look at the [pornographic] magazines, people make fun of you. But I have a goal to serve a mission and marry in the temple, so I already know that if they push this stuff at me, I won’t do it,” says Fabio Marques, 16, of the Campinas Fourth Ward. “I’ve already made my decision.”
Fabio says having a temple so close to his home in Campinas will strengthen him and his Latter-day Saint friends. “It’s hard to get to the temple in São Paulo, but soon we’ll be able to do baptisms for the dead more easily and frequently at the Campinas Temple. And each time you do that, you make a stronger goal to return to the temple, and to be worthy to marry in the temple.”
Whenever challenges seem too much for 18-year-old Janise Figueiró, she looks at a little bottle of red earth she received from her Young Women president in the Higienópolis (Pôrto Alegre) Ward. “Whenever I look at that soil from the temple site, I remember to live worthy.”
Fourteen-year-old Juliano Garcia of the Guaiba Jardim Ward was thrilled with the prize he’d won. Although he’d only been a Church member for just under a year, he’d managed to win a scripture chase in his multistake seminary bowl. As he began to look through the pages of his prize, a booklet entitled The Holy Temple, he became fascinated with the pictures of temple baptismal fonts and celestial rooms. Juliano didn’t know much about the temple, but as he read in the booklet about baptism for the dead, his heart immediately turned to his deceased grandparents. “I thought about my grandparents, how great they were, and I thought that more than anything I wanted to go to the temple for them.” Juliano hasn’t been able to travel to the São Paulo Temple, but is now preparing to go in Pôrto Alegre.
As Juliano and other Brazilian teens continue to construct their own temple-worthy lives little by little, they do not doubt that when the doors of the new temples are ready to be opened, they will be ready to enter.
When the Angel Moroni appeared to 17-year-old Joseph Smith in 1823, he told the young prophet about the marvelous restoration that was about to take place, quoting from Malachi:
“Behold, I will reveal unto you the Priesthood, by the hand of Elijah the prophet, before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord.
“… And he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (see JS—H 1:38–39).
This prophecy is literally being fulfilled in the hearts of young Brazilians. “The Spirit of Elijah is working … especially on the young people, to do work for their ancestors. It’s something that we cannot explain,” says São Paulo Temple President Barbour.
Take 16-year-old Jeferson Montenegro of Canoas and Suelen Alexandre (15), José Meirelles (18), Priscila Cavalieri (18), Carlita Fochetto (14), and Carolina (16), Christiane (15), and Carlos Rodriguez (12), of São Paulo (pictured above). These young people volunteer in their family history centers for 10–20 hours each week, assisting Church members in their research, entering extracted names into the computer system, and searching for names of their own ancestors.
These teens aren’t unusual. Many Brazilian youth have found the names of hundreds of their ancestors and eagerly begun their temple work. Why? “I feel the influence of the spirit of Elijah,” says Jeferson. “It makes me feel a closeness with those who’ve gone before me.”

A second scholar was one of the more widely published Catholic theologians of the 1960s, who had also written on chiasmus in Matthew; he was a Jesuit priest, living in a monastery in Austria. Since I had made a special point of corresponding with him about my study of the Book of Mormon, I was very grateful when he invited me to visit him, and I did so. I was able to tell him much of the story behind the Book of Mormon. He had heard and read of its story before, but had not thought much of it. Much of his own professional work had been with the book of Matthew, demonstrating it to be a very sophisticated and highly literary document, consciously prepared with a complex structure, not just a simple narrative. One of the evidences he used to make his point was the presence of four- and eight-part parallel structures in Matthew, one of the most notable of which is found in Matthew 5:3–10 [Matt. 5:3–10], the Beatitudes. Now it happens that the Book of Mormon also uses four-and eight-part structures; and when I showed him some in Benjamin’s speech in Mosiah and another remarkable occurrence in Alma 34:18–25, his former neglect of the Book of Mormon quickly dissolved. By the end of our conversation, this learned man, who I think had seen much in his more than sixty-odd years of active scholarship, was seriously nodding his head in approval. I remember particularly the way his eyes reflected the enthusiasm I held for the Book of Mormon; he concluded our conversation with: “You have found here much life—and a lifetime of work.”

Several years ago, while I was serving as president of the Fiji Suva Mission, some missionaries had an experience which reinforced in them the converting power of the Book of Mormon. On a hot and humid day, two elders arrived at a home in a small settlement in Labasa.

The knock on the door was answered by a weathered man who listened as the missionaries testified of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. They gave him a copy and invited him to read and to pray to know, like them, that it is the word of God. His reply was brief: “Tomorrow I return to fishing. I will read it while at sea, and when I return, you may visit me again.”

While he was away, transfers were made, and a few weeks later, a new companionship of elders returned to visit the fisherman. By this time he had read the entire Book of Mormon, had received confirmation of its truthfulness, and was eager to learn more.

This man had been converted by the Holy Ghost, who witnessed of the truth of the precious words on every page of events and doctrine taught long ago and preserved for our day in the Book of Mormon. That same blessing is available to each of us.

After college, I found an opportunity to work at my dream company. On the first day, I told my manager how excited I was. I also told her that honoring the Sabbath was important to me.
She said she would arrange my schedule to ensure that I would not need to work on Sundays. She said the company respected people’s beliefs.
I enjoyed the job and did my best. I could see myself working with the company for years to come.
One day a few months after I had started, my manager said, “I need you to come in on Sunday. We need the whole team together to finish the quarter strong and send good results to headquarters.”
I felt sick to my stomach.
“We talked about this before,” I replied. “I understand you want the whole team to be here, but working on Sunday goes against what I believe.”
Then she stared at me and sharply said, “Sounds like you’re willing to give up this job for your beliefs.”
As much as I loved my job, I was determined to show my love for the Lord by avoiding work on Sunday (see Doctrine and Covenants 59:9–10).
“You would have to work on Sunday only this one time,” my manager added.
That didn’t matter. I would know, and Heavenly Father would know.
“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work that way for me. I believe that Sunday is a sacred day for me to worship God,” I said.
“OK, you’re fired!”
The words hit me hard. As I walked away, however, I felt the Holy Ghost in my heart. Not working on Sunday was a sign I had chosen to give God of what I thought “was appropriate for the Sabbath.” I knew He would bless me for it. Soon, I found another great job that allowed me to keep the Sabbath day holy.

My beloved wife, Jeanene, loved doing family history research. When our children were young, she would trade babysitting time with friends so she could have a few hours every few weeks to work on researching our family lines. After our youngest child left home, she recorded in her personal journal: “I have just made a decision and I want to stand up and shout about it. Mike’s old bedroom has become my genealogy workroom. It is well equipped to organize the records and work in. My life will now focus on vital family research and temple name submissions. I am so excited and anxious to get going.”

Another journal entry reads: “The … miracle for me occurred in the Family History office of Mel Olsen, who presented me with a printout of all my known ancestral pedigrees taken from the update of the Ancestral File computerized records sent into the genealogical society. They came mostly from the records of the four-generation program the Church called for many years ago. I had been overwhelmed with the thought of the huge task ahead of me to gather all my ancestors’ research records from family organizations to get them all in the computer for the first computerized distribution of the Ancestral File. And there they all were, beautiful, organized, and laser printed and sitting there on the desk before me. I was so thrilled and so overwhelmed I just sat there stunned and then began to cry, I was so happy. … For one who has doggedly, painstakingly researched for thirty years, the computerization of all these records is truly exciting. And when I think of the hundreds of thousands of people who are now or soon will be computerizing huge blocks of censuses and private research disks, … I am so excited. It is truly the Lord’s work and He is directing it.”

The Lord Knew Where to Send Him
Prophets, seers, and revelators assign missionaries under the direction and influence of the Holy Ghost. Inspired mission presidents direct transfers every six weeks and quickly learn that the Lord knows exactly where He wants each missionary to serve.
A few years ago, Elder Javier Misiego, from Madrid, Spain, was serving a full-time mission in Arizona. At that time, his mission call to the United States appeared somewhat unusual, as most young men from Spain were being called to serve in their own country.
At the conclusion of a stake fireside, where he and his companion had been invited to participate, Elder Misiego was approached by a less-active member of the Church who had been brought by a friend. It was the first time this man had been inside a chapel in years. Elder Misiego was asked if he might know a José Misiego in Madrid. When Elder Misiego responded that his father’s name was José Misiego, the man excitedly asked a few more questions to confirm that this was the José Misiego. When it was determined that they were speaking about the same man, this less-active member began to weep. “Your father was the only person I baptized during my entire mission,” he explained and described how his mission had been, in his mind, a failure. He attributed his years of inactivity to some feelings of inadequacy and concern, believing that he had somehow let the Lord down.
Elder Misiego then described what this supposed failure of a missionary meant to his family. He told him that his father, baptized as a young single adult, had married in the temple, that Elder Misiego was the fourth of six children, that all three boys and a sister had served full-time missions, that all were active in the Church, and that all who were married had been sealed in the temple.
The less-active returned missionary began to sob. Through his efforts, he now learned, scores of lives had been blessed, and the Lord had sent an elder from Madrid, Spain, all the way to a fireside in Arizona to let him know that he had not been a failure. The Lord knows where He wants each missionary to serve. …
Elder W. Christopher Waddell of the Seventy

“Sister Sylvia Gaitan was in a four-car freeway accident last week,” explained my Young Men president. “She’s in the Westlake Medical Center, and we need someone to take her the sacrament.”
“Westlake?!” I thought to myself. That was at least a 20-minute drive.
I pleaded for volunteers. One hand went up. “I don’t have a car,” said Russell, “but I’ll go with someone.”
On the way to Westlake, I said to Russell, “Next week we’ll make someone else take this time-consuming drive.”
We arrived at the hospital and wasted a few minutes getting lost. When we finally found Sister Gaitan’s room, my heart fell right into my stomach. Not even five feet tall, she seemed even smaller lying in a giant hospital bed surrounded by medical equipment. Looking at her I immediately felt guilty for having complained.
“How are you feeling, Sister Gaitan?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m all right,” she said, “but I’ll be much better after they perform those two surgeries they keep telling me I need.” I was amazed by how upbeat she was.
Russell and I blessed the small piece of bread we had brought and then blessed the water in her hospital drinking cup. She was so grateful to us for coming. I smiled and said, “We’re just doing our priesthood duty.”
I decided that I would bring the sacrament to her the next week, too. I took Sister Gaitan the sacrament every week until she recovered. Seeing her always made my day brighter.
The brightest day was when I saw her back at church for the first time. I was happy, not because I no longer had to drive to the hospital each week but because she was finally able to take the sacrament with her ward family.
I’m grateful I was able to take Sister Gaitan the sacrament, but I’m even more grateful that she taught me to fulfill my priesthood duties with a smile and a happy attitude.

The white pelicans came to our river in November. The first time I saw them, they were faraway and looked like a field of white flowers floating on the silver water. My brother, Danny, and I were taking our usual shortcut along the river to school. “Laura,” he whispered, “look at the river!”
In awe, we climbed to our secret hiding place by the riverbank and watched the field of drifting white.
“Pelicans!” we said together.
We had never seen so many pelicans. Danny counted seventy-two, and I counted seventy-five.
The big white birds looked as if they were dancing to music. All together they turned. All together they circled and dipped their orange-yellow bills into the water. All together they brought them out again.
I wanted to stay with the pelicans all day, but I finally tore myself away. I kept telling myself that I could see them after school.
But they weren’t there after school. Danny and I looked up and down the river, and all we saw was a lone bittern standing on a rock. With its head and sharp bill hunched into its ruffled brown feathers, the bittern looked as sad as we were.
Our spirits brightened the next morning. As we walked along our shortcut to school, the sun flooded over the hillside and gleamed on white feathers. The pelicans were back, and they were dancing.
The day after that was Thanksgiving. After breakfast, Dad patted his stomach and said, “Before we dig into that big meal this afternoon, why don’t we do something special?”
Danny and I looked at each other. “The pelicans!” we exclaimed.
We had never taken Mom and Dad to our secret hiding place in the thicket by the river. It was usually reserved for watching the cottontail rabbits that grazed nearby. But we decided to make an exception since today was Thanksgiving and Mom and Dad had never seen the pelicans.
We all snuggled into the thicket. Peeking out one side, we saw seven little brown rabbits. Two of them hopped away, waving their white cotton-ball tails behind them. The other five stayed and stared at us with their big brown eyes.
Peeking out the other side of the thicket, we saw the white pelicans floating on the still river. Mom counted sixty-four. I counted seventy-three, and Danny seventy-five. Dad counted eighty-two. So who knows how many pelicans there were.
In perfect rhythm, the big birds were dipping their yellow bills into the water.
“Do you know what they’re doing?” Dad asked.
Danny and I shook our heads.
“They’re fishing. The water is low at this time of year, and they can easily scoop the fish into those pouches under their bills.”
For a long time we watched the pelicans fish and the cottontails graze. Not faraway I could hear the rush of cars on the busy freeway. I knew that the city was nearby, too, but here in our secret thicket we were in a beautiful world all our own.
Suddenly wings whirred over the water. In a white wave, the pelicans took off. I could see big webbed feet that matched orange yellow bills. I could see black patches on the undersides of their long white wings. Even in the air, the pelicans looked as if they were dancing. The big white birds arced and curved as one. We watched until they were only white dots in the blue sky.
As Dad was saying the prayer over Thanksgiving dinner, I was silently adding my thanks to Heavenly Father for the pelicans. Then suddenly I heard Dad say, “We especially want to thank Thee for Laura and Danny’s secret thicket and the chance to see the beautiful pelicans and the cottontail rabbits.”
When Dad finished, he smiled at me. I didn’t know if the pelicans would be back the next day or not until the next November—or maybe never. But I was grateful to Heavenly Father for letting us see them from the thicket with Mom and Dad on Thanksgiving Day.

If you had told me I would be standing inside a temple sealing room at only 17 years old, I would have laughed. No, wedding bells didn’t chime, but there I was, inside the sealing room of the house of the Lord. It’s amazing how life has a way of turning out.
In January 1995 my second baby brother was born. We called him Michael Jon Loveland. He was beautiful with tiny hands, an adorable little nose, and eyes you couldn’t stop smiling at. There was an instant connection between us.
As I looked around the hospital room at my mom, dad, older sister, and two younger brothers, I remember thinking nothing could ever change the serenity I then felt knowing that this was my family. This was the family I would be spending eternity with.
In the weeks that followed, however, it became clear that something wasn’t right. My mother began noticing things about Michael Jon that only a mother could notice. Her concerns were soon justified only a few weeks later.
I can still clearly remember the night my parents reluctantly told us the news. I’m still not sure how they managed to get it out, but somehow through tears and quiet sobs, we soon discovered what the problem had been. Michael Jon, my new infant brother, had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor.
The days that followed are now fairly hazy. I can’t even begin to describe the countless emotions that ran through me. Fear, confusion, anger. How could this be? He was only six weeks old! How could something so vile and destructive be inside my baby brother, so beautiful and pure?
The doctors said he had weeks, maybe a month. After prayerful consideration, my parents decided that bringing Michael home would be the best decision. In order to do this, however, my parents would need to be trained and aided by a team of home doctors and nurses who provided hospice care.
Having Michael spend time at home, as opposed to the hospital, was a quiet blessing in more ways than one. I still have fond memories of silently going into his room at night and just holding him, holding and rocking the small miracle that God had placed in our lives and would just as quickly be taking away. But aside from the fact that we all got to spend time with him, there was another small miracle that was slowly taking place.
The rest of my story, however, generally revolves around one of the hospice nurses in charge of taking care of Michael. As the weeks passed and Michael’s health began taking a dramatic plunge, she was constantly at our house, doing everything she could to relieve the strain my parents were feeling.
In April 1995, on my mom’s birthday, which was also Easter Sunday that year, Michael’s last day came. It’s one of the few times in my life that I have ever seen my father cry. It seemed so unreal! Yet this valiant spirit had slipped in and out of our lives in only three months. The impact his life had left, however, will never be forgotten.
At the time, though, it still seemed pointless. Why would Heavenly Father allow Michael to go through such tremendous amounts of pain and suffering? It all seemed so unfair. I had lost my baby brother, and all for what? I would never get to tease him about his first-grade crush, never get to congratulate him on making the high school baseball team, and never write letters while he served a mission. But, oh, how shortsighted earth life can leave us. At the time, I could not even fathom the remarkable mission Michael had already been called to serve.
With Michael gone, it was time the team of hospice nurses moved on. For whatever reason, however, my mother and the head nurse remained in contact, frequently bumping into each other at the grocery store or other activities. Of course, it was viewed as merely coincidence.
Then it happened, one of those rare occasions when you can actually step back and see the pieces begin to fall into place. Two years after Michael’s death, my mother received a call from the hospice nurse. Due to some unusual circumstances, two of her grandchildren were in need of a stable home.
I came home from Mutual to find a new baby girl, only 10 weeks old, lying on the sofa. “Where did she come from? How long will she be staying?” Within the next four weeks, we received her brother. Two children had suddenly been dropped into our lives without certainty as to how long they would be staying. Well, five years later, that question was answered. They’ll be staying for eternity.
We ended up adopting both David and Candace in February 2002, and five months later I found myself stepping inside the sealing room of the Idaho Falls temple. The temple sealing was incredible. Words can hardly describe the spirit that was present. I couldn’t stop crying as I witnessed David and Candace sealed to our family for all of time and eternity. I have no doubt that Michael was there as well. After all, had Michael not been born into our family, we never would have had these two children introduced into our lives.
It’s amazing how life has a way of turning out. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Even the hardest trials are placed in our lives to serve as an anchor to strengthen us. We just need to have the faith and courage to endure to the end, trusting in the Lord.

Yves also found a way to help several of his friends who wanted to share with each other what they were learning in the scriptures. They were attending church and seminary or institute, speaking when assigned and participating in lessons. But they wanted to talk with each other, youth to youth. So once a week they started reading the Book of Mormon together for about half an hour, and they started inviting others, especially some youth who were less active, to join them. Now they’ve been reading together for months, sometimes at one person’s house, sometimes at another’s.
“It started with my friends Larry Roseval, who’s in the Wanica Branch, and Saffira Zeegelaar from my branch. But now there are eight of us,” Yves says. “We read a chapter, talk about it, bear our testimony about it, and share something we learned during the week.”

I was 14 years old when I moved from California to the Salt Lake Valley, and I was more than a little worried about how I was going to fit in with all those Mormons I had heard about. One of the few things I knew about Latter-day Saints was that they didn’t let people from other churches into their temples. That had been a big disappointment to me when my family stopped at Temple Square on our way through Salt Lake City on vacation. My parents had warned me that we wouldn’t be allowed inside the temple, but I thought maybe they had changed the rules. “Sorry. Because the temple is so sacred, only people with a current temple recommend can go inside,” the missionary told me.
A couple of years later the Jordan River Temple was nearing completion, and my LDS friends were excited to have a new temple close by. I didn’t pay much attention to it until a man my father worked with invited our family to the temple open house. I hadn’t realized that during an open house the temple is open to the public and that anyone could go inside. In a way, the rules had changed for me, at least until the temple was dedicated.
From the moment I stepped into the Jordan River Temple, I could tell there was something special about this new building. It was more than the physical beauty of the exterior or the lovely decor inside. Instead, it was the unique work that went on inside that most intrigued me.
At one point our guide led us into a sealing room and showed us an altar where couples would kneel across from each other to be married for time and all eternity. As I gazed into the mirrors hanging on opposite walls in that room and saw countless images of my face, I knew in my heart that God intended for marriage to last forever. I was at the age when I was beginning to envision my future as a wife and mother, but I had never even considered that marriage could last longer than “till death do you part.” My whole philosophy of marriage changed that day, and I decided then and there that I would marry someone for eternity.
There was one small problem. I didn’t belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Fortunately, my LDS friends recognized a “golden opportunity,” and began slowly teaching me about the Church. Though it took me a few years to feel comfortable meeting with the missionaries, I eventually overcame my anxiety, took the missionary lessons, and was baptized.
As I look back on the many people and events that led to my conversion, one event stands above the rest—the tour of the Jordan River Temple. That open house opened my mind to the sacred sealing ordinances performed in the temple and opened my heart to the dream of eternal marriage. A few years later when I went to the Salt Lake Temple to be married, I looked again into the endless succession of mirrors and knew my dream had become a reality.

One preparatory event happened when I was in an auto accident while visiting France. Moments after I was strongly prompted to fasten my seat belt, the car skidded and plummeted down a 20-foot (6-m) embankment. Because of the warning voice and because I regained use of my feet and legs while others with similar injuries are often left permanently paralyzed, I began to understand that a divine power much greater than I was in control.

I did not serve a regular mission until we were called to preside in New England. When I was of missionary age, when I was your age, young men could not be called to the mission field. It was World War II, and I spent four years in the military. But I did do missionary work; we did share the gospel. It was my privilege to baptize one of the first two Japanese to join the Church after the mission had been closed twenty-two years earlier. Brother Elliot Richards baptized Tatsui Sato. I baptized his wife, Chio. And the work in Japan was reopened. We baptized them in a swimming pool amid the rubble of a university that had been destroyed by bombs.
Shortly thereafter I boarded a train in Osaka for Yokohama and a ship that would take me home. Brother and Sister Sato came to the station to say good-bye. Many tears were shed as we bade one another farewell.

So the who is really no problem, but what about the how? Basically all you have to do is fill out one of the subscription blanks in this magazine and send it in along with your money. But that still leaves you three possibilities: you can tell the recipient you are sending the subscription before you send it; you can just send in the subscription with your name as donor and a gift card will be sent to the recipient; or you can send the subscription anonymously. The seminary leaders suggested that the students check with their friends in advance to assure that no subscriptions would be wasted on someone who didn’t want one, but in practice everybody did it his own way. Kelly Manning, who was mentioned above, asked that his name be listed as donor but said nothing to the girls in advance. He felt that the element of surprise made the gift even more exciting. Shanna Grayson, on the other hand, sent an anonymous subscription to her nonmember cousins. A week later when visiting them, she saw the New Era on their coffee table and asked if they were reading it. They said they were and that they really enjoyed it.

Yesterday my friend and I argued. So today I didn’t walk to school with her. I may never walk with her again!
Usually when I cross the street at the end of the block, I look one way and my fiend looks the other way. But today I had to look both ways before crossing. I saw a car coming. It swooshed as it passed, and I felt the air rush against my face. I looked both ways again and crossed the street.
I walked down the street where all the houses are shaded by maple trees. The yards don’t have much grass, but they do have a lot of stuff that I call moss. My friend and I like to stop and rub our fingers across the moss. It feels like velvet. But I didn’t stop today. Today I just kept walking.
I turned the corner and came to the house that has a wooden bridge that goes from the sidewalk to the front door. Below the bridge is a flat, smooth lawn with a birdbath in the middle. Sometimes my friend and I rest our elbows on the railing of the bridge and pretend that it leads to a castle. But not today. Today I just kept walking.
At Main Street I waited on the curb. Main Street is wide and has lots of traffic. But there is a crossing guard to help. She stopped the traffic, and I crossed the street. Usually she says, “Good morning, you two.” Today she just said, “Good morning.”
I said, “Hello,” and kept on walking.
I almost stopped at the toy store. My friend and I like to look in the window. Besides lots of toys and fancy, dressed-up dolls, there are wagons and skates and bikes. But I didn’t stop to look today. Today I just kept walking.
Next to the toy store is a grocery store with a gum machine by the front door. It has red, yellow, green, and white gum balls. My friend and I both like the yellow ones best. Sometimes my friend and I stop on our way to school and try to guess how many yellow gum balls are in the machine. But not today. Today I just kept walking.
I crossed the stone bridge over the river. My friend and I like to stop and watch the sparkling water swirl around the rocks. Sometimes we throw pebbles into the water and watch the circles that form. But not today. Today I just kept walking.
I walked as fast as I could past the firehouse. I didn’t want to be in front if the sirens went off. They go shreeeow, shreeeow! The sound hurts my ears. My friend and I always hold hands and run past the firehouse.
I looked at the clock on the steeple of the church on the hill. I had ten minutes to get to school. Sometimes my friend and I skip fast up one path to the steps of the church. We sit and catch our breath. Then we skip down the other path back to the sidewalk. But not today. Today I just kept walking.
At last I was almost at school. I stopped in front of the house with a sign by the front door that says: “Built in 1726.” Sometimes I imagine myself living in that house way back then. But not today. Today I ran the rest of the way to school. It was a long way without my friend.
I saw my friend in class, but I didn’t talk to her all day.
When school was almost over, I looked at the clock six times. Finally the big hand clicked and moved ahead. The bell rang. I scooted out of the classroom as fast as I could go so that I could get home without seeing my friend along the way. I ran past the old house and the church. I ran past the firehouse with my hands over my ears. I zoomed across the stone bridge.
I stopped when I got to the grocery store. I slipped a coin into the gum machine. Out came a yellow gum ball. I stuck it in my pocket and ran past the toy store.
As soon as the crossing guard nodded at me, I hurried across Main Street. I dashed past the house with the wooden bridge and down the street made shady by maple trees.
After I stopped at the corner and carefully looked both ways, I sped across the street. Then I ran down the sidewalk. I stopped for a moment in front of my friend’s house. I wondered when she would get home.
As I walked up the front steps to my house, I felt something round and smooth in my pocket. It was the yellow gum ball. I decided to save it for my friend. I think I’ll give it to her when I walk to school with her tomorrow.

What would you do if you were suddenly told your family was moving to an isolated logging camp way out in the wilds of Alaska? You’d hopefully do what 14-year-old Gayle Gentry did—you’d adjust.
Gayle and her family order their food from Juneau, and they order their church supplies from the same city. They are the only members for quite some distance, so they hold Church meetings at home.
Just because they are so far away from many people and from the center of the Church, Gayle doesn’t feel she has to be far away from the Lord. Her testimony is intact and stronger than ever. “I know the Church is true and that President Ezra Taft Benson is a prophet,” she says. “I love my family and friends, and I love my Father in Heaven and my older brother Jesus Christ, and I know they love me!”

3. While participating in the dedication of the Kansas City Missouri Temple, Sister Holland and I were hosted by Brother Isaac Freestone, a police officer by profession and a high priest in the Liberty Missouri Stake. In our conversations he told us that late one evening he was called to investigate a complaint in a particularly rough part of the city. Over the roar of loud music and with the smell of marijuana in the air, he found one woman and several men drinking and profaning, all of them apparently totally oblivious to five little children—about two to eight years of age—huddled together in one room, trying to sleep on a filthy floor with no bed, no mattress, no pillows, no anything.

Brother Freestone looked in the kitchen cupboards and in the refrigerator to see if he could find a single can or carton or box of food of any kind—but he could find nothing. He said the dog barking in the backyard had more food than those children had.

In the mother’s bedroom he found a bare mattress, the only one in the house. He hunted until he found some sheets, put them on the mattress, and tucked all five children into the makeshift bed. Then, with tears in his eyes, he knelt, offered a prayer to Heavenly Father for their protection, and said good night.

As he arose and walked toward the door, one of the children jumped out of bed, ran to him, grabbed him by the hand, and pled, “Will you please adopt me?” With more tears in his eyes, Brother Freestone put the child back in bed, found the stoned mother (the men had long since fled), and said to her: “I will be back tomorrow, and heaven help you if some changes are not evident by the time I walk in this door. And there will be more changes after that. You have my word on it.”4

If we don’t take gospel blessings to our communities and our countries, we will never have enough policemen—there will never be enough Isaac Freestones—to enforce moral behavior even if it were enforceable. And it isn’t. Those children in that home without food or clothing are sons and daughters of God. That mother, more culpable because she is older and should be more responsible, is also a daughter of God. Such situations may require tough love in formal, even legal, ways, but we must try to help when and where we can because we are not checking our religion at the door, even as pathetic and irresponsible as some doors are.

Inspired by this, I asked my grandchild Raquel, who had recently learned how to read, “What would you say about setting a goal to read the Book of Mormon?”
Her answer was “But, Grandpa, it’s so hard. It’s a big book.”
Then I asked her to read me a page. I took out a stopwatch and timed her. I said, “You took only three minutes, and the Spanish version of the Book of Mormon has 642 pages, so you need 1,926 minutes.”
This could have scared her even more, so I divided that number by 60 minutes and told her she would need only 32 hours to read it—less than a day and a half!
Then she said to me, “That’s so easy, Grandpa.”
In the end, Raquel, her brother, Esteban, and our other grandchildren took more time than this because this is a book which needs to be read with a spirit of prayer and meditation.