Gospel Story Finder

The youth of the Liverpool First Ward, Liverpool England Stake, wanted to start their own sports team, dubbed the Ward One Warriors.
They selected volleyball since boys and girls could play on the same teams. They worked hard and were anxious to find other teams to play. They played games against local teams, but they could not participate in leagues because they would have been required to play on Sunday.
The Ward One Warriors then decided to take a week’s tour of other wards in the British Isles and play a schedule of games. Although the scheduling was difficult, they combined their sports schedule with a trip to the London Temple to do baptisms for the dead.
The Warriors have continued their sports team and encourage competition from other wards’ youth groups. They have found that the team is an excellent way to generate a feeling of closeness and concern for each other and to encourage each other to stay true to the Church.

Long rows of the finest vegetables grow in the rich desert soil of southern California’s Imperial Valley. Fine people grow there, too. One of them is Darla Miles (9) of El Centro. El Centro is 45 feet (about 14 m) below sea level, but Darla’s goals are as high as the land is low. She loves the San Diego California Temple on the other side of the mountains and plans to be married there someday. In the meantime, “I want to go to college and get a good education. Then I want to go on a mission like my tía (aunt).”
Darla’s mom, Alma Puga, and her dad, Blake Miles, were both single parents when they met, fell in love, and married. Blake was the father of Jordan, and Alma was the mother of Pedro, Daniela, and Gabriela.
Later, when Darla was born, she became another strong bond binding two families into one.
Darla is easy to get along with and eager to make others happy. If a plateful of cookies is swiftly disappearing, she is sure to take one—not for herself, but for her dad. She is a natural peacemaker, and a little bit of a matchmaker, too. She often grabs her mom’s hand and puts it on her dad’s hand. Other times, she’ll write her mom a love note as if it came from her father, and then write a note to her dad from her mom.
If she should have a disagreement with a brother or sister, she’ll ask, “Will you forgive me?” Then, she says, “I’ll draw something for them or write them a note. If Mom and I are unhappy with each other, I’ll write a note to her and ask a brother or sister to give it to her. Then she will write a note back to me, and we’ll get together.”
These same tender feelings reach to heaven. “I love Heavenly Father because when I can’t find something or when I cry or when I’m scared or feel really bad, I pray and He helps me a lot. When somebody else is sad, something inside me tells me to go do something for him or her. One time, my sister couldn’t find a library book. She was sad because she thought she would have to pay for it. I prayed for her, and then I found the book. I’m thankful for my great mother and father and all the things Heavenly Father has made for us.”
She likes learning about some of those creations in school. A good student, she especially enjoys reading and math. She stays ahead of her grade level in most subjects and usually gets 100 percent on spelling tests.
Darla is responsible for dusting, cleaning her own room, and taking care of her many small fish, all of them named either Cheetah (boy fish) or Xena (girl fish). Without being asked, she has started feeding Marcy, the family dog. Sometimes she also takes care of Mizzy, the neighbor’s pup who thinks she belongs to the Miles family and keeps digging under the fence to join them.
The whole family enjoys reading, especially the scriptures. Darla received a set of scriptures when she was six years old and immediately began reading the Old Testament.
They are all musical, as well. Darla plays the piano, as do her brothers and sisters. Everyone enjoys camping, too. They often camp among pine trees in the mountains or go four-wheeling on nearby sand dunes. One year, the family went on a trip to Washington, D.C., and Church history sites without once staying in a motel. They were plagued by mosquitoes but enjoyed the wonder of fireflies. Darla’s favorite part of the trip was visiting the Sacred Grove in Palmyra, New York.
The Mormon Battalion came through the Imperial Valley in 1847. The family often joins a hike retracing a part of that historic trek. Darla has been three times on a nine-mile (more than 14 k) segment of the hike, which takes place at night to escape the fierce summer heat.
When she was eight, Darla was baptized by Jordan and confirmed by her dad. “I felt good,” she recalls. “I felt clean.” At the baptism, Brother Miles demonstrated how not to pray for inspiration, using a telephone as a prop. He picked up the receiver. “Hello. Good-bye,” he said and hung up. He explained that it isn’t enough to ask for help. We must also listen for the answer.
Christmas is Darla’s favorite holiday because it celebrates Jesus’ birth and because she likes to make presents. On Christmas Eve, her mom lets her stay up late to make pictures for everyone in the family. She gives them out on Christmas morning.
The family really celebrates two Christmases. They celebrate a “Rubio Christmas” on Christmas Eve. The Rubio Christmas includes a large, extended-family fiesta with piñatas, singing, and such delicious foods as homemade tamales and menudo soup, Darla’s favorite. Menudo is made from cows’ intestines. Tamales are made with meat, potatoes, olives, and seasonings wrapped in cornmeal and steamed inside corn husks. They are far better than the canned or plastic-wrapped tamales in stores. Another Christmas favorite is champurado, a drink made with chocolate milk and coarsely ground meal.
On Christmas morning, the immediate family members exchange gifts the American way. Then they enjoy an American Christmas dinner of mashed potatoes and gravy, yams, and turkey with cranberry sauce. The season is twice blessed by the two cultures.
Above all, Christmas and every day is blessed by Darla’s love for Jesus Christ. “Jesus is my Friend and my Savior.” Just as the waters of the Colorado River make it possible for crops to grow in this desert, His gospel has helped Darla grow into the wonderful person she is.

Hup, Twop, Threp, Four! I was in the army, alright. Hurry up and wait, a G.I. haircut, oversized fatigues, and only three days out. I was lonely already—demoralized to boot.
Imagine my joy when, while reading my newly issued, olive-drab, miniature Book of Mormon, I was approached by a nice looking fellow soldier.
“Hi! You a Mormon?”
“Yes! You too?”
“No, but I have always wanted to talk to a Mormon. You mind if we talk?”
My heart skipped two beats at the prospect. I was a new, green convert to the Church myself and could hardly wait for the opportunity to share.
“What do you want to know?”
But after a few minutes I wished we had never begun to discuss the Church. This guy turned out to have a master’s degree in philosophy from Columbia University. Since I was no match for him, he proceeded to take me apart, morsel by morsel.
“You can’t possibly prove that the God you believe in really exists, can you?”
“Well … no, but …”
“If God is really as good, if he is really as concerned with all people as you tell me he is, how can he allow all the suffering, wars, hunger, etc., that exist in the world?”
“Well, it … doesn’t have …”
My answer drowned in the laughs of my fellow barracks mates who had cautiously gathered around us. It was probably just as well since my answer was inadequate anyway. In less than half an hour, after I had been picked clean, I returned to my bunk to lick my wounds, stunned, bitterly resolving that this wasn’t going to happen to me again.

Years ago our youngest child had a serious bone tumor in his lower back. When he was taken to the hospital for surgery, I overheard the doctors in the hallway talking about his condition. They said it was likely that nothing could be done to save our boy’s life.
When I went back in my son’s room, I tried to encourage him. I assured him that he was receiving the finest medical care. He said, “Daddy, I’m not counting on the doctors. I’m counting on my blessing. You laid your hands on my head, and you blessed me. And I have faith that the blessing will be fulfilled.”
My son was healed. His life is an example of the power of a priesthood blessing. One of the lessons I’ve learned through my Church service is that our Father in Heaven loves little children. He loves to bless them, and He often blesses them through His priesthood servants.

Mitzi stormed out of the family council, ran up the stairs two at a time, and threw herself on her bed. What’s the big deal, anyway? she wondered. So I let a little trash word slip out. Did I need to hear the five-dollar lecture? Well, it hadn’t really been a lecture. Her dad would probably call it a reminder; but it was the same old line. “Honey, in our family we don’t use those kinds of words.”
Right—and “in our family we don’t wear those kinds of clothes,” as if there’s something sinful about a tank top or a bare midriff. And “in our family we don’t watch that kind of TV program.” Oh, yes, and “in our family we don’t talk back to our parents.”
Well, she had talked back to her dad this time; but before he’d had a chance to answer, her four-year-old brother had piped in. “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”
That’s when Mitzi had yelled, “Shut up, you little smart aleck,” and run from the room. She could only imagine her mother saying, “In our family, we don’t say shut up.”
Why does our family have to be so old fashioned, anyway? Why can’t we ever do anything fun and exciting? Into Mitzi’s mind popped the memory of last summer’s vacation—a camping trip by Crystal Creek. They had hiked and fished and stayed up late around the campfire, laughing and telling stories.
Mitzi pushed those thoughts out of her mind. She wanted to stay angry for a while, to feel picked on and misunderstood and unloved. Even so, she remembered the family roller-skating together a couple of weeks ago. They had all laughed at Mom because she was so shaky at first, but she was soon zooming around with the rest of them.
Downstairs the home evening had progressed from the family council to the lesson to refreshments. Mitzi could smell popcorn, and she was pretty sure that Mother would be fixing caramel to pour over it.
Her anger had mostly melted away, and now she was trying to figure out a way to say she was sorry to her brother and parents. She went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her red eyes. Then she paused for a moment to whisper a prayer to ask Heavenly Father to forgive her and help her. She slipped quietly downstairs.
“It’s good to know,” she said to her father, “that in our family we forgive people who do stupid things.”
Dad reached out and pulled her into the world’s warmest hug.

From her seat on the front row, Cora* watched as her friend Beth took Elder Miller’s hand. He helped her slowly down the few steps into the warm water of the baptismal font.
Beth’s blond hair was carefully woven into a long braid down her back. She was not wearing her hearing aids. Cora was not wearing hers, either. She didn’t like the way they buzzed and vibrated in her ears, sometimes letting out a loud screech that made her jump.
Now Beth was standing in the font. She looked at Cora and held up her hand, her pointer finger, little finger and thumb extended. It means “I love you” in sign language. Then Elder Miller placed Beth’s left hand on his arm and grasped her right wrist in his hand. He smiled at her, nodding. It was just like when they had practiced. Beth smiled back. Then she turned and smiled brightly at Cora. Cora returned a nervous smile.
Beth’s mom was kneeling in front of the font. Elder Miller bowed his head and closed his eyes, but Beth and Cora kept their eyes open. The only way they could “hear” the prayer was to watch as someone signed the words to them. Beth’s mom signed for her, and Elder Smith, Elder Miller’s companion, signed for Cora.
Cora could hardly keep her eyes on Elder Smith. She knew what he was saying—she had learned the prayer when they had practiced. It had been fun practicing on dry land. But now Cora studied the water doubtfully. It looked cold and deep.
Was Beth really going to do it? Was she really going under the water? Cora shivered. She could feel a nervous fluttering in her stomach.
She looked at the others in the room. Most of them had their eyes closed. Some watched Elder Smith. Suddenly the prayer ended, and people opened their eyes. Cora quickly turned her attention to the font. She watched Elder Miller put his right hand behind Beth’s back. Beth held her nose. Then he began to lower her into the water. It swirled around and enveloped her. He quickly pulled her back up. Beth’s eyes were closed, and she was still holding her nose.
On her feet again, she pushed her hair back with both hands and wiped the water from her eyes. Blinking, she looked up at Cora, beaming with joy. Elder Miller escorted her to the steps, where her mom was now waiting to wrap a towel around her.
Beth was baptized! As Cora watched her friend’s beaming face, tears came to her eyes. She, too, wanted to be baptized. She looked down at the white jumpsuit the missionaries had loaned her. She and Beth had dressed together, jumping up and down with excitement.
Elder Smith touched Cora’s shoulder to get her attention. “Your turn,” he signed. Cora looked again at the water, and a hard knot replaced the butterflies in her stomach. She shook her head. Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.
She couldn’t do it! She had always been afraid of the water. Once, as a little girl, she had fallen headfirst into a shallow pool. The water had seemed determined to swallow her up. It seemed like forever before someone had pulled her out. She had coughed and spit up water, and her throat had burned. She hadn’t been in standing water since.
Elder Smith waved his hand to try to get her attention again, but she jumped to her feet and ran out of the room. She ran down the hall and into the bathroom, where she sat on the cold floor and sobbed.
A hand touched her head, and she looked up. Beth was standing there in her baptismal jumpsuit, still dripping wet. Beth slid down the wall and sat beside Cora. She put her arm around her friend’s shoulder.
In a moment Cora stopped crying. Beth moved around so that she was facing Cora and began to sign. “You’re afraid of the water, aren’t you?”
Cora nodded with her hand. That means “yes” in sign language.
“I was afraid, too, a little bit. But it was wonderful! Elder Miller didn’t let go of me, and it happened fast. You can do it! Elder Smith will not let go of you.”
“I’m too afraid,” Cora signed back.
“Do you want to be baptized? Do you want to follow Jesus?”
Again Cora’s hand nodded.
“Jesus will not let go of you. He knows you’re afraid. He wants you to follow Him. He will not let go of you.”
Cora looked at her friend. She did want to follow Jesus. Would He help her? She knew the answer. Of course He would!
“OK.” Cora wiped her eyes and stood up.
They saw Beth’s mother standing by the door. Her eyes shone with tears. She took both girls back to the door that led to the baptismal font. Elder Smith came through another door and stood across the font from them. He looked at Cora and signed, “Are you ready?”
She nodded nervously and watched Elder Smith enter the water and walk slowly toward her. He held out his hand. She took it and stepped down into the font. The water was warm and gentle as it swirled with her steps. They stopped in the middle of the font, and Elder Smith positioned her hands on his arm. He nodded encouragingly to her and then bowed his head and raised his right arm. Beth’s mom knelt at the font again and signed to Cora the words of the prayer.
When Cora saw the word, “amen,” a picture on the wall in the back of the room caught her eye. It was the picture of Jesus being baptized by John the Baptist. She felt a warm feeling inside. He would not let go of her.
Elder Smith opened his eyes and smiled at her. He lifted her arm, and she held her nose firmly, closing her eyes. She held her breath just as they had practiced. She felt the water surround her as Elder Smith lowered her below the surface. In the next instant, she felt herself lifted, and the water released her. She blinked her eyes and gasped. She was baptized! She wiped the water from her face and pushed back her hair.
Opening her eyes, she saw smiles on the faces of her ward family. She turned back to the steps and saw Beth’s mother holding a towel for her. Beth was standing next to her mother, eager for Cora to join them. When Cora reached the top of the steps, she threw her arms around her friend, rejoicing that she had followed the example of the Savior and knowing that He was pleased with them both.

Few sights are as adorable—and as inspiring—as young children teaching a family home evening lesson. But helping children prepare lessons can be a struggle. One day as I was cleaning the house, I found a simple solution right before my eyes.
There on the floor was a hand-out one of my children had brought home from Primary. Suddenly the handout seemed like gold. It occurred to me that it—and others I had attached to the refrigerator or hidden away in drawers—could serve as springboards for lessons my children could give for family home evening!
That day I started files for each of my children in which to keep the pictures and other handouts they occasionally bring home from Primary. Now when one of my young children has a lesson assignment for family home evening, I open the appropriate file and let him or her look through it. Inevitably they find a visual aid they can use to teach our family a principle once taught them by a caring and inspired teacher.

Two elders met and taught a professor with credentials from Heidelberg and the Sorbonne. His mind was not open to their message, but the man had to go to the hospital for surgery. While he was recuperating in the hospital, his yard and garden suffered. The two missionaries felt impressed to use their preparation day to mow his lawn, trim the hedge, and weed the flowers.

The wife told her husband what they had done. He sent for the elders to come to the hospital, and with tears in his eyes he said, “Never in my entire adult life has anyone ever gone out of his way to do anything for me.”

His demeanor changed. He listened to the missionary discussions. Previously skeptical, he now paid rapt attention and visibly became more meek and humble. He prayed for the first time since he was a child, and he received a testimony and was baptized.

In the spring of 2001, I was assigned to labor in the Switzerland Geneva Mission. While I was saying my goodbyes to family and friends, my father approached me to give me one last hug before I boarded my flight. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief. He handed it to me, telling me that this had belonged to my great-grandpa Tyler. My great-grandfather hadn’t been able to serve a mission, and it was my dad’s hope that by sending this handkerchief with me, I could serve my mission in memory of Grandpa Tyler.
I slid the hanky into the breast pocket of my suit coat, where it was quickly forgotten in the excitement of the adventure ahead of me.
Serving in the Switzerland Geneva Mission.
Eighteen months later, I found myself in a small chapel in Annemasse, France, on the border of Switzerland. We were in our Sunday Church meetings, and I was sitting in the chapel next to an older gentleman who began to sob uncontrollably during a sacrament meeting talk. I wanted to give him a tissue and started digging through my pockets. I found the long-lost handkerchief and handed it to the man. He graciously took it, and after the meeting was over, he approached me and promised to return it to me clean.
The following Tuesday was transfer day, and I was transferred to Clermont-Ferrand, France. I left on the four-hour train ride having forgotten to get the handkerchief back. Four months later, I received a transfer to Meyrin, Switzerland, on the opposite side of Geneva from Annemasse. But because of the horseshoe shape of the zone, I was back in the same zone I had left four months earlier.
Shortly after I arrived in Switzerland, my zone leaders gave me a call and told me of a situation that had arisen. They needed my help conducting a baptismal interview because every other missionary currently in the zone had taught this particular man, and according to mission rules, an elder who had not taught the missionary lessons to this man needed to do the interview. I was delighted because up until this point in my mission I had never conducted a baptismal interview.
A few days later, after exchanging companions, one of the zone leaders and I set out for the interview. A member drove us the hour and a half through a blizzard to Chamonix, where this man lived. Chamonix was part of the Annemasse Branch, where I had previously served.
When we arrived, the snow was so deep it towered over us. We worked our way through the maze of snow to the front door and knocked.
Upon answering the door, the lady of the house gasped and shut the door in our faces. I felt so bad. My thoughts quickly raced through my time in the Annemasse Branch. Had I offended this woman?
Then she opened the door again and handed me an envelope containing a hanky. “Is this yours?” she asked. My mind raced, and in one swoop it all came back to me: the Sunday branch meeting, the sobbing elderly gentleman, and the handkerchief. I said, “Yes, it is!”
The woman broke down in tears, threw her arms around me, and said, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She began by telling us how she had longed for her husband to join the Church over the years. She was so happy that after all this time she had held on to her faith, and now her husband wanted to be baptized.
Visiting the convert’s family on the day of his baptismal interview.
She related to me the following: “It all began that day in church when you gave my husband your handkerchief. My husband, being a man of his word, had promised to return your handkerchief. So the following week when he returned to give you the clean hanky and you weren’t there, he decided he would go to church with me the following week. He continued to come with me every week, and every week you weren’t there. He started listening to the talks and lessons and liked what he was hearing. He continued to attend, and as time went on, he accepted the missionary lessons and now wants to be baptized.”
I was here to do his baptismal interview! My heart was touched deeply, and I thanked my Heavenly Father for allowing me to be a part of something so special. I went into the kitchen with her husband, and we stood facing each other across the kitchen island. We spoke of the commitment and responsibilities required of a new member.
He cried as he spoke of the grief he felt he had caused his wife all these years and wanted to know if God would truly forgive “an old man” for his ignorance. His respect and humility were that of one truly converted to the gospel of Jesus Christ.
He was ready to be baptized and confirmed, and a short time later he became a new member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at the Annemasse chapel.
My great-grandfather Dorus Harvey Tyler never served a full-time mission during his lifetime, but through his white handkerchief, he was able to help bring a soul unto Christ.

We sat huddled on the wet lawn in front of the Joseph Smith Monument in Sharon, Vermont—the birthplace of the Prophet. Draped in ponchos in a vain attempt to keep dry, we strained to hear our leader over the sound of the rain. Shortly, we would finish our final activity—a few moments alone in the woods, meditating and doing some self-evaluation.
The idea really excited me. Earlier, a speaker had related to us a story about President David O. McKay receiving his patriarchal blessing. Thirteen-year-old David was, at the time, a champion marble player. After the blessing, the patriarch told David that he had more important things to do than play marbles. I felt that now, too, was the time for me to “put away my marbles” and decide what to do with my life. A big part of that decision depended on knowing if the Church was true. I decided to ask our Heavenly Father.
The world seemed to fall silent as I entered the woods. With my poncho pulled around me to protect me from the rain, I found a secluded spot and sang some hymns to myself. Then I read the scriptures for a while. When I felt ready, I knelt to pray.
I was excited to pray, but I was also nervous. I had felt the Spirit before—in fast and testimony meetings and when I had received a testimony of the Book of Mormon—but I couldn’t honestly say that I knew the Church was true. What if I prayed and there was just nothing? What if, out here in the woods, kneeling and praying aloud got me nothing but wet?
But I decided that I had to try. So I knelt on the soggy leaves and bowed my head in prayer. I spoke in a whisper, fearful that someone might eavesdrop, and asked very simply to know if I really belonged to God’s true church. I finished my prayer and remained kneeling, awaiting an answer.
At first, I received an impression that I already knew the Church was true. But I figured that must have been my own thoughts, so I prayed again.
“You already know,” came the answer again, along with the warm and calm feeling of the Spirit enveloping me with peace and joy.
My heart quickened, and I couldn’t hold back the smile that covered my face. I realized that through seminary and my personal study, I had built my testimony step by step, precept upon precept, so slowly that I hadn’t even realized I had it.
I had a testimony of the Church, and I could now put aside the less important things in my life and get on with my spiritual growth. I felt so relieved, so content, and so grateful that I knew personally that the Church was true. Still kneeling, I bowed my head again and gave a prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for his witness that, although I hadn’t recognized it before, I already knew.

Over the years I’ve found that of everyone I need to forgive, the hardest to forgive is myself. One time I lied to my parents, and then one lie led to another until it became a giant web of lies and cover-ups. I felt guilty and generally unhappy, but I was too embarrassed to admit what I’d done. To make matters worse, instead of coming clean about my lies on my own, I got caught! It was hard to be around my parents because I knew they loved and trusted me, and I’d betrayed that trust.
Once it was all out in the open, I did feel some relief, but I just couldn’t seem to forgive myself. I was ashamed of my behavior and vowed to be honest from then on, no matter what. I didn’t want to disappoint myself or my parents anymore.
I knew my parents would be understanding and forgiving, and they were. They like to say, “Clean up the mess and let’s move forward,” which we did.
Once I set things right with my parents, I changed my habits to help me access the power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ more than ever before. I fasted and prayed, particularly seeking to understand the Atonement better. I also tried to make scripture study a part of my everyday routine and to make it more meaningful. This meant making personal prayer a priority so that I was prepared to not only read the scriptures but also to understand them through the Spirit.
As I searched, I found answers and peace in the scriptures. I more fully understood that Jesus Christ atoned for my sins and that as I repented of them, He truly would “remember them no more” (D&C 58:42). Part of forgiving myself was being able to accept this great gift that Christ offered me. I realized He invites all of us to partake, but we actually have to be willing to accept it.
One day I was reading in Alma 22 where Aaron teaches the gospel to the king of the Lamanites and invites him to pray. I love what the king says when he prays: “I will give away all my sins to know thee [God]” (Alma 22:18). That phrase struck my heart with particular force at that time. As I recommitted myself to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ through repentance, I was able to forgive myself and feel peace again.
It took time, and it wasn’t easy, but by prioritizing and putting my personal prayer and scripture study first, I found comfort and felt the pure love of Christ through a greater understanding of what He did for me personally. When I realized that He loves me despite my mistakes, I felt the forgiveness He offers. I accepted His forgiveness and was able to forgive myself.

I grew up in Guatemala City, Guatemala, with seven brothers and seven sisters. Raising a family that size was not easy, and my father had to work at two or three jobs at the same time. But my parents were not overwhelmed by their great responsibility. They were happy people, and they taught us by example to be happy and enjoy life.
We learned from them that the Lord would bless us with the basic needs of life if we did our best. They also taught us that while we needed food to sustain us and clothes to cover us, it did not matter if we had one suit or two. One was enough. And we learned to share everything that was possible to share.
As a result, we as a family became really good friends. Today, even though we are all married, the unity we share is unique. Every time we get together, we play guitars, sing songs, and have a wonderful time. Our wives and husbands say, “It is great to be with the Areado family. They have so much fun!”

Then one day in the spring, we found Bimbo stretched out in the backyard as though he were dead. Does he have scarlet fever? I wondered. On the way to see the veterinarian, I remember praying as hard as I could that Bimbo wouldn’t die. The veterinarian told us our dog had been poisoned and would have to stay in the hospital for several days. Later when we took Bimbo home, we gave him love and attention and continued to pray for him. Our prayers were answered.

The bond of trust that grew between my father and me was so strong that when my father asked me what I would think if he remarried, I was able to answer truthfully, “Do what you think is right.” Some of my older brothers and sisters didn’t agree with me, but I trusted him to do the right thing.
As the time grew closer, I grew excited to meet the woman my father loved and wanted to marry. But as I walked into the room, I saw a tall, slim, dark-haired woman who wasn’t my mother kissing my father. For a split second a door within me burst open, spilling all the hurt, jealousy, and anger that I felt for this woman. Then just as quickly, it closed without ever changing the smile on my face. That door was destroyed then, never to be opened again.
Many of our relatives and friends loved my mother and wouldn’t accept anyone else. They kept telling my father that he was wrong and was making a big mistake. But he wouldn’t listen, and neither would I. All I knew was that I had to trust my father. When I saw my two youngest sisters cuddled up to this woman while she sang them little songs she made up, I knew it was right. She was to be our new mother, and we all needed her, especially those two. As we grew to know her, we all eventually grew to love her.
My new mother left behind a big, beautiful house when she packed up her four children and moved into our little green house, a home in which she knew she wasn’t totally accepted. I admired how strong she was to be able to make a move like that, but I knew Heavenly Father, and maybe even my mother, helped her.
From then on it was more a matter of time. Slowly, with all of us pulling, we became closer, a family again. Together my father and new mother brought two more spirits into the world and into our family, making a grand total of 12 children. If nothing else made us a family, it was those two little spirits. Their presence created an unbreakable bond between two families that needed each other.
We were a family by our own special definition.

Today there are more than a hundred temples all over the world. But when Joseph Smith was commanded to build a temple in Kirtland, Ohio, he had never even seen one! The Kirtland Temple was the first temple built in the latter days.
Since Joseph Smith did not yet know what a temple ought to look like or exactly how it was to be used, Heavenly Father revealed to him a plan for the temple. He and his counselors saw a vision of the completed building. In the vision, Joseph Smith, Sidney Rigdon, and Frederick G. Williams saw the pattern of the temple both inside and out.
When an architect suggested that the seats in the building be rearranged, the Prophet Joseph would not allow it. He had seen them in the vision. According to his mother, Lucy Mack Smith, when the Saints wanted the temple to be built as a frame or log house, he said, “‘Shall we, brethren, build a house for our God, of logs? No, I have a better plan than that. I have a plan of the house of the Lord, given by himself.’”* The temple walls, two feet thick and over sixty feet tall, were to be built of stone.
Constructing the temple seemed nearly impossible. The Saints were so poor that they could barely afford to care for their own families. The magnificent temple cost about $40,000–$60,000 to build, a great sum of money in the 1830s! There were very few experienced builders among them, and none of them had ever built something as enormous as a temple. Also, enemies outside of the Church vowed that they would stop construction on the temple. But the Saints knew that they had been commanded by God to build it and that He would help them: “Verily I say unto you, it is my will that you should build a house. If you keep my commandments you shall have power to build it.” (D&C 95:11.)
The Saints set to work. Men spent one day each week in the stone quarry or on the temple site, and some of them guarded the unfinished temple at night to protect it from mobs. Women spun cloth to make clothing for the workers, and they made carpets and curtains for the temple. Glass and fine china were crushed and mixed with the plaster so that when the sun struck the temple’s outside walls, they glittered. Everyone labored and sacrificed for two and a half years until the temple was finished.
When the temple was dedicated on March 27, 1836, the Lord rewarded the Saints for their obedience. Spiritual blessings were poured out upon them—-people spoke in tongues, heavenly choirs sang, some people had visions, and others saw angels. A pillar of light rested on the temple, and angels were seen on the roof.
One week later, on April 3, Jesus Christ appeared in the temple to Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery. The Savior accepted the Kirtland Temple as His house. Moses, Elias, and Elijah also appeared to restore priesthood keys.
Although the Saints suffered many trials to build the Kirtland Temple, the eternal blessings given to them were well worth all of their sacrifices. Through their faith, diligence, and obedience, they led the way for Church members throughout the world to receive temple blessings today.

A few years ago, I knelt to pray for the first time in my life. Earlier that day, I had had my first meeting with the missionaries, and they shared the message of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ and gifted me a Book of Mormon.
Presented with my first opportunity to ask my Heavenly Father any question at all, I didn’t ask if any of what I had heard or read was true. I also didn’t ask Him about the confusing and worrisome rumors I had heard about the Church from popular culture.
Instead, I begged Heavenly Father to bless me with the desire to know that what the missionaries were telling me was true.
And through that prayer, I was led to the truth—that the gospel and Church of Jesus Christ really had been restored to the earth again.

Another great example from the scriptures is Nephi. From him, I learned to trust the Lord rather than complain. Let me explain. When I left the Philippines to get a master’s degree at Brigham Young University, I promised that I would come back. When the time came for my family and me to return, the decision was not easy because I thought that opportunities in my home country were not as promising or rewarding as those in the United States. But because I had given my word, my wife and I decided to exercise faith as Nephi and do what the Lord would have us do.
Even though I had already worked before, I had to start over financially. Money was scarce, and opportunities took time to bear fruit. Then all three of our children got sick, and our savings disappeared. It was one of the toughest times of our lives.
Our youngest son developed a type of tuberculosis. He had to have medicine that was expensive, and he had to take it for nine months. I remember looking in my wallet, and there was no money. My wife asked me how we would be able to feed the children.
During those times, you ask questions. And if you’re not careful, you can become like Laman and Lemuel and start murmuring and become bitter. You feel like life is unfair. It would have been easy for me to think: “I’m a returned missionary. I served the Lord. We pay our tithing. We serve in the Church. Where are the blessings?” But we remained active, we served in our callings, and we got by. My brother and his wife helped us financially, and I finally found a job. It was barely enough, and it paid less than what I had earned before I left for school. I felt I was a failure.
Finally, after several years, my wife and I decided that wondering and worrying weren’t helping. We said, “Let’s stop murmuring, trust in the Lord, and be happy with what we have.” And right after that, things turned around. I got several job offers and was able to choose the best one. I was called as the bishop of our ward. It seemed the blessings just flowed.

My dad was what I’d call an urban farmer. No, we didn’t raise crops in a metropolis. We built swimming pools.
The problem with the swimming pool business in Philadelphia is that it’s impossible to build a pool in a Pennsylvania winter. That meant Dad would do all the work he could between April and October, and then hope he had enough money to last us through the winter. Dad would pick up odd jobs to make ends meet.
I think I was about 14 or 15 when I helped Dad deliver salt. During breakfast one snowy day after early-morning seminary, Dad asked me if I would help him after school. Since basketball season hadn’t started yet, I said I would.
That day we put on our coats and boots and climbed into the truck that was normally used only in the summertime. We drove to the docks on the Delaware River in downtown Philadelphia where Dad pulled over and went into the office. Soon he came out and we drove through the gate and into the yard. Before long, we were loading several bags of road salt onto the back of the truck as snow began to fall.
Off we went, with Dad doing the driving and me doing the navigating. With the addresses and a street map, I tried to plot out the most efficient route for us to take.
We began near the historic area of the city. We drove by the Liberty Bell and into the business district. There wasn’t a place to park, so Dad just stopped the truck in the middle of the road and put on the flashers. We jumped out and carried three bags of salt into a small clock shop.
One of our next stops was a men’s clothing store. Dad made the owner laugh with one of his jokes as we carried the salt through the falling snow. After a few more deliveries, we went into a poorer neighborhood and delivered a single bag of salt to a small deli. The man there spoke with an Italian accent. I carried the salt as Dad talked with the man and had him sign the delivery papers.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in the low-income areas of Philadelphia. There were small grocery stores, laundromats, pawn shops, and hardware stores. And at each of the stops, Dad treated each person with dignity and respect—and often made them laugh.
Several weeks went by, and each afternoon delivery brought new insights, new observations, and new talks with Dad. We talked about all kinds of things—world events, Church doctrine, sports. Once Dad tried to talk about what kinds of girls I liked, but I wouldn’t let him. So he changed the subject.
There were lots of things I learned the winter I delivered salt. I learned that Dad was willing to “dig a few ditches,” as he would say, to provide for our family. I learned you can actually talk to your dad about things that really matter—things like testimony, friends, and relationships.
But looking back, one of the most important lessons I learned is that we truly are the “salt of the earth.” Dad made everyone smile despite the weather or their life’s status. It didn’t matter if we were delivering to a woman managing a laundromat in the slums, or a man who owned a tailor shop in uptown Philly. Dad cheered all of them with his jokes, his attitude, and the respect he showed them. At least for that winter, Dad was the salt of Philadelphia in more ways than one.

Another time, Kim and Christy’s 13-year-old cousin and her parents dropped in unannounced from Los Angeles.

“They invited us out to dinner and we talked about the Church,” Christy said. “Our cousin seemed really interested, and her parents said it was okay for her to listen to the missionaries.”

Kim told about a home evening during which the missionaries taught about Christ, baptism, and temple work. “She was excited about her family being sealed together,” Kim said.

Now the cousin is being baptized. “And she’s working on her parents too,” Christy said.

“It doesn’t just have to be adults who are responsible for getting their families sealed,” Kim said. “Share the gospel with children and teenagers, and their parents may get interested too.”

Some years ago when I was working in a different organization, our personnel director, a devout Catholic, came into my office with his secretary, Darlene. I could readily see that Darlene was not there of her own free will and would rather be elsewhere. The personnel director’s greeting words to me were, “Will you please tell Darlene that Mormons are Christian. I have been arguing with her for over half an hour, and I cannot convince her of that fact. She needs to hear it from you.”
My first concern was, have I done something in my own life that would cause Darlene to question my faith in and loyalty to the Savior? But then I quickly recognized that her doubts were not directed to me personally.
After inviting them to sit down, I asked Darlene why she thought we were not Christians. Her answer was that her minister had told her so. I asked her if she knew the official name of the Church. She did not. She knew the Church only by the name of Mormon. I explained the name to be The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and then asked if it did not seem like a rather odd name for a church that supposedly was not Christian. I next asked my Catholic friend if he would explain from our many hours of discussions on airplanes, in hotels, at dinners, and during other private occasions some of the things he had learned about us as they related to Christ, His teachings, and our beliefs. He explained them with perhaps more credibility than I could have done.
Darlene’s response was that her minister had told her that we did not believe in the Bible, which we had replaced with the Book of Mormon. I replied by sharing the eighth article of faith: “We believe the Bible to be the word of God as far as it is translated correctly; we also believe the Book of Mormon to be the word of God.”
I then explained that the Book of Mormon was further scripture complementing the Bible and providing another witness of Christ. It expounds and clarifies many of Christ’s most sacred and important teachings. Her response was, “My minister says the Book of Mormon cannot contain the teachings of Christ because there could be no more revelations after the death of the Apostles; thus, no more scripture after the Bible.” My query to her was, “At a time of such rapid change in a turbulent and troubled world, with so many perplexing problems, wouldn’t it make you wonder why a loving Father would cease to communicate with His children, whom He loved enough that He sacrificed His Only Begotten Son for them?” The discussion continued for the next 15 to 20 minutes, with my attempting to explain our literal interpretation of the Atonement, the Resurrection, and other important doctrines of the Savior. I ended with the strongest testimony I could give of a loving Father and a willing Son.
At the conclusion of our discussion her response was the same: “My minister has spoken, and that is the way it is.” And that is the way the matter was left, leaving me both disappointed and somewhat bothered by the misunderstanding.
Over the years I have pondered this experience with my friend Darlene, bothered by its conclusion. However, I have since concluded that viewpoints based on misunderstandings and fallacious teachings should not trouble me, except as I have a responsibility to attempt to clarify such misconceptions. The real issue is not how others define us but how the Savior defines us. So the question is, how does He personally view each and every one of us?