Gospel Story Finder

The metal cover on the door’s mail slot clattered as the mail was pushed through and landed on the floor of our apartment. One of the high points of our day had arrived, and my companion and I collided as we made haste to see what the mailman had brought. Not even Santa could compete with the excitement he inspired.
Four white envelopes lay scattered on the floor and my companion, having mastered the morning dash and beaten me to the door, scooped them up. “Let’s see,” she said slowly, holding them just out of my reach. “One for me. One for me. One for me, and, oh, one for you.”
One for me. Why did I insist on racing to the door for this kind of treatment? The handwriting on the envelope was familiar, and I knew it was from home. I tore it open as I walked to my bed and pulled out a card with a picture on the front of two tired sister missionaries soaking their feet. I opened it up and settled back on my bed to read. “Hang in there,” it said. “We love you! Mom and Dad.”
“Well, so much for news from home,” I thought and glanced over at my companion who was still on her first letter (a three-pager) and smiling slightly as she read. The other two letters waited patiently on her lap.
“I guess I’ll go finish making breakfast,” I said and walked toward the small kitchen. My companion nodded her head in acknowledgment that I had spoken and continued reading without a pause.
I had been in Finland four months. I pulled out a pan to mix our purro (porridge) in and sighed heavily. Because the mission was short on missionaries who had been in the field for very long, the president had had no choice but to make senior companions of fairly new missionaries. And I was one of them.
I remembered back a few weeks ago to the excitement I had felt at the prospect of leaving my first city to go on to a new area as a senior companion. I remembered even more clearly the sick feeling I had experienced as my new companion and I knocked on our first door, and I realized that neither of us understood the language very well; and I was in charge.
That’s what my parents’ card was in response to. I’d written home expressing, mildly, of course, the way I was feeling, and the card was their message of encouragement. No thought-provoking words of wisdom, no sage advice to ponder, not even a quotation from Richard L. Evans. How was I supposed to reach lofty new heights on the words “hang in there”?
I wondered if any other missionaries had parents who were so economical with words. I turned on the stove and began slowly stirring the purro.
The purro began to boil thickly, and its slow bubbling called my attention back to what I was doing. I turned off the stove and called to my companion.
Those four short months in Finland quickly turned into 16, and I found myself on my way home. As I look back now, I remember only vaguely the fear and inadequacy I felt in that new city as a new senior companion (although my journal could tell tales!). What I do remember is the fact that my companion and I hung in there.
We probably weren’t the most successful companionship to ever pack scriptures, pamphlets, filmstrips and a projector onto our bikes to hit the tracting trail, but we did hit it.
And in that city during some of the hardest times of my mission, I learned what it meant to pray, to really pray, and consequently to receive answers to prayers. I learned that we weren’t out there alone and that we could do what we had been called to do.
I hadn’t needed to receive a long discourse from my parents on the at merits of overcoming discouragement and pushing ahead. The card they sent was enough because it served as a reminder to me that sometimes half the battle is just enduring to the end.

Many years ago I told a story in conference that I think I will repeat. It is a story about a baseball player. I realize that some of you in various parts of the world do not know much about baseball. You do not even care about it. But this story brings with it a tremendous lesson.
The event occurred in 1912. The World Series was being played, and this was the final game to determine the winner of the series. The score was 2-1 in favor of the New York Giants, who were in the field. The Boston Red Sox were at bat. The man at bat knocked a high, arching fly. Two New York players ran for it. Fred Snodgrass in center field signaled to his associate that he would take it. He came squarely under the ball, which fell into his glove. But he did not hold it there. The ball went right through his grasp and fell to the ground. A howl went up in the stands. The fans could not believe that Snodgrass had dropped the ball. He had caught hundreds of fly balls before. But now, at this most crucial moment, he had failed to hold the ball, and the Red Sox went on to win the world championship.
Snodgrass came back the following season and played brilliant ball for nine more years. He lived to be 86 years of age, dying in 1974. But after that one slip, for 62 years, whenever he was introduced to anybody, the expected response was, “Oh, yes, you’re the one who dropped the ball.”

I am grateful for people on the earth who love and appreciate little children. A few years ago I found myself late at night on an airplane bulging with passengers going north from Mexico City to Culiacám. The seats in the plane were close together, and every seat was taken, mostly with the gracious people of Mexico. Everywhere inside the plane there were packages and carry-on luggage of all sizes. A young woman came down the aisle with four small children, the oldest of whom appeared to be about four and the youngest a newborn. She was also trying to manage a diaper bag and a stroller and some bags. The children were tired, crying, and fussing. As she found her seat in the airplane, the passengers around her, both men and women, literally sprang to her aid. Soon the children were being lovingly and tenderly comforted and cared for by the other passengers. They were passed from one passenger to another all over the airplane. The result was an airplane full of baby-sitters. The children settled down in the caring arms of those who cradled them and before long went to sleep. Most remarkable was that a few men who were obviously fathers and grandfathers tenderly cradled and caressed the newborn child. The mother was freed from the care of her children most of the flight. The only thing I felt bad about was that no one passed the baby to me! I relearned that appreciation for and thoughtfulness and kindness toward little children are an expression of the Savior’s love for them.

When I was around 10 years old, my mum was serving as a youth teacher in Oakland California Stake’s Oakland 8th Ward. One weekday evening, we were at our chapel for ward activities. Our Primary activity finished early, so I hung out in the recreation hall with my cousins and friends while I waited for mum, who was helping to run youth night.

We played tag and hide-and-seek, but there were so many of us kids, the hall was crowded. Some of the older kids wanted to go play outside because there was a lot more space out there, and also because outside was darker than in the hall (it was after 7:00 pm by now).

I wasn’t so sure about following them. I asked if we could keep playing inside, but my friends just said, “[We’ll] be fine outside. There’s a lot of us. It’s going to be okay.” Still, I didn’t want to get in trouble, so I decided to ask my mum for permission to play outside.

“No,” was mum’s reply. Even though I was uncomfortable about following my friends, I was still disappointed not to be allowed outside. We’d been having so much fun together. “Why can’t I go?” I asked. Mum’s only reasoning was that she didn’t want me playing in the dark where she couldn’t see me.

When I reluctantly told my friends to go ahead without me, it felt right. It was like the Spirit was confirming my mum’s warning, but that moment was immediately followed by one of weakness. It was hard watching my friends file out the hall door without me, so I jumped to my feet and ran with them, determined to disobey my mum.

Just as I reached the outside door of the chapel, I felt as if a hand was holding me back. I stopped and turned around, but no one was there to have held my hand. Stunned, I let the rest of my friends leave the chapel without me, and then I went back and sat by myself outside the classroom my mum was in.

In the 10 or 15 minutes that I waited for youth night to wrap up, I reviewed in my mind what had just happened. I was still upset that I wasn’t outside playing with my friends, but I kept thinking about the uneasy feeling I’d had since it was first suggested we leave the chapel, about my mom’s instruction for me to stay inside, and, of course, about the hand that held me back.

I remembered the brief sense of peace I’d felt when I first decided to obey my mum, and I realized that as I waited for her, I could feel the Spirit again, letting me know that I’d—again—made the right choice.

To this day, I have no idea why it was so important for me to stay in the chapel that night, and it doesn’t matter. I am just grateful for the Holy Spirit who guides and comforts us, even when we don’t understand, and I’m grateful that through my obedience, the Spirit allowed us to have a nice drive home after ward activities, without a lecture from my mum.

Who would think that a fire in a sorority house could lead to new progress for the Church? The Alphi Xi Delta sorority house, located adjacent to the University of Michigan campus, caught fire last spring, and the first floor was seriously damaged while the upper two floors suffered smoke damage. Rather than make repairs the sorority sold the handsome brick structure to the Church. Plans were soon under way to make the ideally located building an institute of religion. Contractors took care of the major renovation but members of the Ann Arbor Ward subcontracted the painting of the structure as a building fund project for the new ward house.
Once the work was completed, the Ann Arbor Ward and the University First and Second Branches opened the building for public viewing in a “Meet the Mormons” night. Members and their non-Mormon friends were met with displays on Church publications, the Welfare Program, family home evening, seminary and institute, the Church auxiliaries, genealogy, and restoration. Tours were conducted past the displays and into the Relief Society room where the film “In This Holy Place” was being shown.
Currently classes are being held in the building and are attended by university students and Church members in Ann Arbor and the surrounding area. According to Warner Woodworth, director of the institute, the building is “a religious education center to bridge the gap between spiritual life and academic life.”

Elena sat back on her heels and looked at what she and Grandma had done in the backyard. “It looks good,” Elena said, admiring the newly cleaned out garden beds.
Elena loved spending time with her grandma. Grandma could always make her laugh, even when Elena was feeling down. Sometimes Grandma made up silly poems or stories.
“Let’s go inside.” Grandma started toward the back door. “I have a surprise for you.”
She handed Elena an envelope with some money inside.
“You don’t have to pay me, Grandma!” Elena said.
But Grandma shook her head. “You help me so much. I want to give you something. Please take it.”
“Thank you!” Elena gave Grandma a big hug.
Elena thought of some jeans and a shirt she’d seen at the store. With what Grandma had paid her and what Elena had saved, she’d have just enough money to buy them after paying her tithing.
The next day was Sunday. Elena and her family got to church a few minutes before sacrament meeting began. She couldn’t wait to tell her friend Courtney about earning money for the clothes.
But when she saw Courtney sitting in the foyer, she noticed that her friend looked really sad. Elena sat down next to her.
“Are you all right?” Elena asked quietly.
“I’m fine,” Courtney said, but she didn’t look Elena in the eye.
Elena knew her friend wasn’t fine. Courtney struggled with depression and got really sad sometimes.
“How can I help?” Elena asked.
“There’s nothing anyone can do,” Courtney said and turned away. Elena saw a tear slide down her cheek.
Elena felt like crying herself. She sat with Courtney until sacrament meeting started and it was time for them to join their families.
For the rest of the day, Elena felt an idea grow inside her. She thought about Courtney. She thought about the money she’d earned. Buying new clothes didn’t seem very important any more. After praying about her idea, Elena knew what she wanted to do.
On Monday after school, Elena asked her mom to take her to the store.
“Sure,” Mom said. “Are you going to get those jeans you were telling me about?”
Elena shook her head. “I decided I don’t really need more clothes. I’m going to get something else.”
Mom looked surprised. “OK.”
At the store, Elena showed her mom a necklace with a butterfly pendant.
“Courtney loves butterflies,” Elena explained. “She’s having a really hard time right now. She’s failing one of her classes. She tries so hard, but sometimes she can’t study when she’s feeling down.”
Mom nodded. “I know. Her mom is worried about her.” She smiled at Elena. “I’m proud of you for being so thoughtful.”
Before school the next day, Elena handed the gift to her friend. When Courtney pulled the necklace out, a smile spread across her face.
“Wow. Thank you! It’s perfect,” she said, slipping the necklace over her head. The butterfly’s wings sparkled in the sunlight. Courtney gave Elena a hug. “I’m so lucky to have you for a friend.”
Elena hugged her back. “We’re lucky to have each other.”

It’s hard, I know. I’ve been there. It took me two years to gain the courage I needed to go to my bishop. When I did and talked with him about my problem, you wouldn’t believe the amount of guilt and pain that was lifted from my shoulders. It’s almost impossible to imagine the joy one can feel when the problem is gone. Bishops keep these things you tell them a secret. They have to. They show you how to repent and solve your problem. They also let you know that you’re still a son or daughter of God and that your Father in Heaven still loves you. Please, go to your bishop if you haven’t already. You’ll be glad that you did.
Name withheld

After many delays, our field camp at Coalsack Bluff was established. This location, selected by Dr. David Elliott of the Institute of Polar Studies, was within a fifty-mile radius of many barren windswept peaks and ridges. The random selection of this campsite was fortunate indeed, for the best fossil locality discovered was in the group of sandstone cliffs nearest our camp. It was therefore possible for us to carry out our work by motor toboggan when helicopter support failed, as it often did.
The day our three remaining helicopters arrived at Coalsack Bluff from McMurdo, Bill Breed and I flew off in one, only to have it crash. The tail-rotor shaft broke soon after liftoff, causing us to fall on the landing field. We were uninjured, but the helicopter was wiped out, leaving us with only two craft. Navy support policy was to fly helicopters in pairs with rescue backup always available in camp. This was no longer possible and led to many frustrating delays.

When I was a full-time student in England from 1948–1950 at the University of Nottingham, I did not have the good fortune to be a Latter-day Saint. I did not have the understanding of my purpose in life, and of the pattern of progress and effort required to fulfill my purpose. Academically, athletically, and socially, I did reasonably well. Spiritually, I was somewhat lacking, for I had a form of religion without real substance. I had been active in my church all my life, but could not have answered basic doctrinal questions if challenged to do so.
My real progress commenced when I was almost twenty-four years old. I had just graduated with honors in economics and law, and had started my career in industry as a management trainee with a large textiles, chemicals, and plastics company.
Within weeks, Mormon missionaries were led—and I repeat were led—to our door. As a matter of fact, the Lord sent three missionaries to our door. (He knew it might be tough.) Furthermore, my wife informed me they all had the same first name—Elder.
Everyone who has seen the excellent filmstrip in which President Kimball shows us how to be member missionaries knows there are certain circumstances which make friendshipping easier. We were an excellent example of changed circumstances making us more receptive to the gospel message. Not only had I just commenced my first civilian employment, but we had moved into a new home and, to top it all, our second baby had just arrived.
Yes, many of our circumstances in life had changed; but through the missionaries, our whole outlook on life subsequently changed. We were taught the plan of salvation, God’s plan for our eternal progression—God’s plan to help us reach full development, which is true maturity.
Our values changed, and therefore our standards of measurement changed, as we realized the truthfulness of the message the missionaries taught. Our lives started to become fuller and more purposeful, to ripen and mature. That message I declare to you in all solemnity and power. Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of the Eternal Father, is our personal Savior and Redeemer. He has restored his church and gospel as was prophesied and has once again spoken through holy prophets, beginning with the Prophet Joseph Smith.

I know a wonderful Gospel Doctrine teacher who lifts class members as she teaches, but that wasn’t always the case. After joining the Church, she received a calling to teach in Primary. She felt she had no teaching skills, but because she knew the importance of serving, she accepted. Fear quickly overcame her, and she stopped attending so she wouldn’t have to teach. Thankfully, her home teacher noticed her absence, visited her, and invited her back. The bishop and ward members assisted her. Eventually, with increased faith, she began teaching children. As she applied principles now taught in Teaching in the Savior’s Way, the Lord blessed her efforts and she became a gifted teacher.11

As a young man I was given a very strong written admonition to prove myself a faithful and obedient son so that as I grew older and whenever I needed counsel and advice, I should go to my parents, though they be “bowed in years,” to receive from them wisdom, comfort, and guidance. My father passed away over 20 years ago, having been a great and exemplary source of wisdom for me all the days of my life, and we just laid my 101-year-old mother to rest beside her eternal companion last Monday. In her 100th year, she affirmed her lifelong testimony in these words: “The gospel is a way of life; it is part of the plan to help us avoid bitterness. More than ever, I believe that this life is good but that the next life is better” (in “Growing Old Graciously: Lessons from a Centenarian,” Religious Educator 5, no. 1 [2004], 11).
My mother often told me that she prayed for me and for our family every day. As she came closer and closer to the veil, her prayers were especially fervent and meaningful to me. Both of my parents, as well as my dear parents-in-law, endured or are enduring to the end in righteous paths, leaving a legacy of faithful dedication for all their posterity to follow.

As a young boy living in Mexico, I was given the job of watching our cattle in the field as they grazed. One day I became bored with this chore and went to play, leaving the cattle unattended. I played all day, returning to my chore only when it began to get late.
As I approached the field, I realized that the cattle were gone! I could picture my father’s face—how disappointed and angry he would be! I was his eldest son. He had taught me to be responsible, and he was proud of me. How would he feel about me now? Quickly I searched for the cattle from one end of the field to the other. I couldn’t find them anywhere!
As I wondered what to do, I remembered something my father had taught me—if I ever needed help, I could pray to my Father in Heaven, and he would help me. I needed help then! I knelt and asked Heavenly Father to help me find the cattle. Then, sure that I would find them, I searched again.
But the cattle were nowhere to be found! I became angry. I had prayed, as my father had taught me. Why hadn’t Heavenly Father answered my prayer?
I stormed home. I had almost forgotten about the cattle and how upset my father would be. I wanted to know why my prayer hadn’t been answered. My father listened patiently as I explained what had happened. In his wise way, he asked me what I would have done the next day if Heavenly Father had helped me find the cattle. “Would you leave the cows again, thinking that your Father in Heaven would find them for you?”
After some thought, I replied, “Yes, that is probably what I would do.”
My father told me to kneel again—this time to ask for forgiveness and to promise that I would never again leave the cattle to go and play. I did as he said. Then, humbly, I once more asked Heavenly Father to help me find the cows. With my father by my side, I returned to the field and found the cattle there.
I learned an important lesson that day. Heavenly Father does not give us what we want just because we want it. He answers our prayers when we have done our part. And he answers them in a way that will help us become better people.

The warm December sun was about to set as Papá, ten-year-old Juan, and Juan’s burro, Paco, made their way down the winding Mexican road toward the hacienda. Juan was riding Paco, and Papá walked alongside.
As they came to a turn in the road, the burro stumbled a little but soon regained his footing. “Whoa,” said Papá, looking at Paco in surprise. “Our little friend has not lost his footing since he was a small colt.”
Juan brought Paco to a stop, and Papá stepped in front of them and looked into Paco’s big brown eyes. He looked at Paco’s nose and mouth. He stepped back and tugged at his shiny black mustache with his thumb and first finger. Then he looked up at Juan and gave him a funny little smile. Juan had seen his father make this funny little smile before—it meant that something was wrong!
“I do not wish to alarm you, my son—I know how much you love Paco. But I’m afraid that he is very ill.” Papá looked again at the burro, then back at Juan. “Climb down from his back. He does not need to carry a load when he is sick.”
Juan’s heart beat fast as he slid gently to the ground. Paco was not just another burro. Paco was a friend. Juan had raised him from a tiny, newborn colt, and they were inseparable. “How sick is he, Papá? Will he be all right?”
“We must lead him home slowly,” was all that Papá said.
Juan looked at Paco’s face. His nose was very dry, his eyes were very wet, and he drooled a little at the mouth. His head swayed back and forth a little, and he grunted softly. “It is true,” Juan said quietly to himself. “Paco is very ill.”
As soon as they reached the hacienda stable, Juan led Paco to his stall. The burro lay on his side on the straw with a little thud.
“Can we call the veterinarian from Santa Cruz?” Juan asked. Even before he asked, he knew what Papá’s answer would have to be.
“I wish we could, but we cannot afford to pay his fee.”
Papá and Juan entered the kitchen of the hacienda. Mamá was preparing Juan’s favorite food, tostadas. She was heating the corn tortillas while the refried beans simmered on the stove. The green tomato salsa was already on the table.
Juan did not feel hungry. He ate only one tostada instead of his usual four or five, then went to his room. He got into bed and closed his eyes but could not sleep. He was worried about poor Paco lying on the straw in the stable.
After a time, Mamá came to the door. Seeing Juan awake, she came in and sat on the edge of his bed. She stroked his hair as she had when he was little.
In past years, Juan had participated in the local Posada procession. Each night for nine nights, the children of the village and the hacienda reenacted the story of Mary and Joseph’s looking for a place to stay in Bethlehem and being turned away because the inns were all full. This year Juan and his eight-year-old sister, Rosita, had been assigned by the Posada officials to play the parts of Joseph and Mary, with Rosita riding Paco.
But then the missionaries had come to the hacienda and taught God’s plan to Juan’s family. Papá, Mamá, Juan, his twelve-year-old brother, José, and Rosita had listened carefully to Elder Mendoza and Elder Smith and had become baptized members of the Church. And though Juan was very happy to be a Latter-day Saint, he couldn’t help being a little sad when the officials said he could no longer be in the Posada. A Christmas party was planned at the LDS meetinghouse, and Juan and Rosita were invited to play the parts of Joseph and Mary—but the Christmas story was to be put on inside the building, and Paco was not allowed there.
“Are you sad because Paco can’t be in the Christmas play?” Mamá asked now.
“No, Mamá. That is a little thing. That he is so sick is a big thing. I just want Paco to get better. I love him very much. He is my friend.”
“I will pray for him tonight,” Mamá said.
As she left the room, José entered and got into bed. “I’m sorry that your burro is ill,” he said.
“I am, too, but Mamá reminded me of what I can do to help poor Paco. I will say a special prayer for him so that he will not suffer.”
“But, Juan, Paco is only an animal. Prayers such as that are for people.”
“No, José,” Juan said, “my Primary teacher, Sister Martinez, told us that Amulek, a great leader in the Book of Mormon, taught that we should pray for our animals.* Surely God does not want Paco to suffer. If I go to the stable and say a special prayer, he will recover or he will die in peace.”
With this, Juan arose from his bed and put on his best blue jeans, the white shirt he wore to church on Sundays, and his sandals.
José said, “Wait, Juan. I’ll go with you.” He got up and dressed and followed Juan out into the hall.
Rosita poked her head out of her bedroom. “What’s the matter?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“We’re going to the stable to say a special prayer for Paco,” Juan told her.
“May I go too?”
“Of course,” Juan said. “Paco will like that.”
Juan entered the stable first. He flipped on the light switch that lit a dim bulb hanging from a long cord, then knelt by the little burro’s head and gave Paco a pat on the neck. All three children folded their arms and bowed their heads. Juan prayed, “Father in heaven, we thank Thee that we have had Paco since he was small. He has given us much joy. Now he is very sick. If it be Thy will, bless him that he will grow strong and healthy again. But if Thou art in need of a fine burro, please take him in peace so that he will not suffer anymore. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Crying softly, no one spoke as they went back to bed, but all three children felt much better for having talked to Heavenly Father about Paco.
As the morning light came through the window and Juan awoke, his first thoughts were of Paco. A few minutes later he was hurrying through the stable doors. How delighted he was to see Paco standing! His hair was matted and dirty; he would not eat and would only drink water—but he was standing!
By Christmas Eve day, when the elders made a return visit to the hacienda, Paco was as well as ever and Juan and Rosita were taking turns riding him in the front yard.
That evening everyone went to the meetinghouse. Juan wore a bathrobe and a towel tied around his head to look like Joseph. Rosita braided her long hair and wore Mamá’s shawl when she played the part of Mary. After the acting out of the Christmas story, Elder Mendoza talked about the meaning of God’s gift of His Son to each of them. Then there was a wonderful party with many good things to eat, lots of colored balloons, and some special treats taken outside to the little brown burro named Paco.

After I finished junior high school, I had to work to support myself. As a young man I found a full-time job at a bean-curd shop in a larger city about nine hours away from my home. I went to high school in the evenings, so I got home late. Early the next morning at work, I made bean curds and sold them on the street or delivered them to various stores.
I became very sick from working so hard and had to stay in the hospital. I thought I might die. I was born into a Buddhist family. I always felt that there was a God in heaven, but I had never been taught about God. I was very desperate to talk to Him. I didn’t even know the word for “Heavenly Father,” so I asked, “God, are You there? Please help me.” After eight days I was able to leave the hospital, and I lived with my uncle while I recovered.
A few days later the missionaries came to my uncle’s door. When I saw them I told them to go away. But one of them said, “We have a great message for you. A boy just like you saw your Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.” I couldn’t resist because I had been praying and seeking Heavenly Father just a few days before. So I said, “You can have 10 minutes. Come in.”
The missionaries taught me the beautiful and sacred story of Joseph Smith. And I was touched. I really felt the power of the Spirit. The missionaries asked me to pray and ask Heavenly Father if their message was true, and then they taught me how to pray. I prayed that evening. Even now I remember exactly how I felt that day.
I asked the missionaries to come back almost every day after that. I believed what they taught me. I believed that Joseph Smith saw Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in the Sacred Grove. But before I could be baptized, I needed to get permission from my mother. I called her and said, “Mother, I’ve found a wonderful church. I need to get your permission to join.”
She said, “No. I lost my husband; I don’t want to lose my son.” She was afraid that if I joined the Church I would leave her.
I said, “I’m not going anywhere.” And then she hung up.
The missionaries fasted and prayed for me, and I did too. I called her again and said, “Please don’t hang up on me until I’ve really explained it.” She suggested that I study more and take some more time to decide. But I felt strongly that now was the time I should be baptized.
Finally she told me, “Son, if you are going to quit right in the middle, don’t do it. But if you will stay with it all the way through, then you have my permission.” That caused me to always take my membership in the Church very seriously.
I am grateful for my mother. I am grateful for Heavenly Father who allowed me to come into contact with the restored gospel. All the experiences I’ve had in the Church have been wonderful. But nothing compares with my depth of appreciation for the Savior, for His grace and mercy, and for what He has done for my wife and children.
When my son was called on a mission to Brazil, we took a father-son trip to the Sacred Grove in Palmyra, New York. We spent three days doing nothing but walking and talking there. On the final day we sat on a bench and bore our testimonies to each other. I shared my own conversion story once again with my son, and we cried. I hope his children and his grandchildren carry on this legacy of love and faith for years to come.

I never have to worry about where to find my 92-year-old father, Paul Romney, on a Sunday afternoon. He’s in his ward in Salt Lake City, Utah, tidying up the chapel. It takes him a little over an hour.
He leans on his walker as he goes up the aisle. Then he leans on the benches as he moves from row to row, picking up stray papers, arranging hymnbooks, and gathering cereal or breadcrumbs that have fallen on the carpet. It is a task he has been doing every Sunday, with few exceptions, since he was ordained a deacon in 1934.
“I do it to show that I love the Lord,” he says. “Having a clean chapel helps us to worship Him.”
As a deacon, Paul Romney learned that his duties included caring for the temporal needs of the ward. “I figured one way to do that was to tidy up after meetings,” he says. “So I just started doing it, and I’ve been doing it ever since.” It has never been an official assignment or calling, although occasionally he has come on Saturdays to help others assigned to clean the meetinghouse. Sometimes his children have helped him. Years ago when he was in the bishopric, he encouraged the deacons to join in.
But most of the time he simply waits until the last meeting of the day is finished. Then, without fanfare, he contributes his small part to maintaining a house of order. And he does it faithfully, every Sunday.
My father’s example has shown me that no matter our circumstances, we can always find a way to serve. It has taught me about reverence and preparing to worship. And it has helped me to see that there is much we all can learn from those who are ahead of us on their journey through this life.

Later, Joseph stood beside a stream and witnessed the baptisms of his mother and father into the Church. After years of taking different paths in their search for truth, they were finally united in faith. As his father came out of the water, Joseph took him by the hand, helped him onto the bank, and embraced him.
“My God,” he cried, burying his face in his father’s chest, “I have lived to see my father baptized into the true church of Jesus Christ!”24
That evening, Joseph slipped away into some nearby woods, his heart bursting with emotion. He wanted to be alone, out of sight of friends and family. In the 10 years since his First Vision, he had seen the heavens open, felt the Spirit of God, and been tutored by angels. He had also sinned and lost his gift, only to repent, receive God’s mercy, and translate the Book of Mormon by His power and grace.
Now Jesus Christ had restored His Church and authorized Joseph with the same priesthood that Apostles had held anciently when they carried the gospel to the world.25 The happiness he felt was too much for him to hold in, and when Joseph Knight and Oliver found him later that night, he was weeping.
His joy was full. The work had begun.26

Sister Franco, Second Counselor in the Primary General Presidency, talked about one of her favorite Primary teachers when she was growing up. Back then, Primary was held on Tuesday afternoon. Every week, her teacher made the class a chocolate cake! Years later, Sister Franco found out that her teacher walked instead of riding the bus so that she could save enough money to make those cakes. She was unselfish and loved her class.

When I was eight years old, I had a very hard time understanding the scriptures. I tried to be more focused, but it didn’t help. The scriptures had become a big cluster of words that did not mean anything. I began to doubt that the scriptures were true. I made it a goal to understand the scriptures, and I prayed about it. When I started to read again, they made sense. I know that the Lord helped me understand them. If you believe, anything is possible.Allyson Austin, age 9Tallahassee, Florida

Following his mission to Uruguay and graduation from the University of Arizona, he began teaching high school music. When he saw that the football coach needed help, he offered to help teach the players some football fundamentals if the coach would send all the boys to chorus. The deal worked, and the football team and chorus enjoyed much success. “I loved working with those kids,” Elder Crockett says.

I love my family and try hard to help them when I can. I feel sad when I see families or parents who are struggling. I want to help them learn how to be a better and happier family. My dad is a lawyer and sometimes he has cases about families who are not choosing the right and that makes them very unhappy.
My idea was to help make a program to teach mothers and fathers and children to love each other better. I even wrote a letter to the president of the United States to ask what is being done to help families. Then yesterday I was reading “The Family: A Proclamation to the World.” I felt so happy that President Hinckley and the Apostles also want families to have love and do things that are right. I think if families will live the gospel every day they will be a lot happier.