Gospel Story Finder

Dear Mom and Dad,
These last two months at school have been tough living away from home. I miss you. You trained and brought me up well.
I realize that you really had a hard time with me. I remember I was always bucking the system, doing the opposite of what you wanted. Now that I’m taking all these family living courses for my major, I realize that I didn’t turn out all that bad. The one main reason is that you cared about what happened to me. I realize now that you both never punished me without love.
Mom, I am sorry for the times that, after you had spanked me with good reason, I told you that I hated you. I would write it on a piece of paper and then give it to you. I was just mad that I didn’t get my way, but I really did love you.
Thanks for teaching me how to work and how to clean up after myself. I really was a slob and lazy when it came to picking up after myself, but now at college my room is clean, and I can’t stand a mess. I almost never helped with the yard work, but the rare times that I did you were always there helping too. It was fun. Even after you hurt your back, you were out pulling weeds. I really missed that this summer.
When people ask me about my adoption, they always ask the questions. “Do you want to know or meet your real mother?” I tell them, “I already have.” You are my real mother. I would like to know more about my natural mother, but for “real” parents—you both are mine. I am so grateful for that woman who brought me into the world. As I grow and understand the gospel more, I believe that this is the way the Lord wanted it, and how we wanted it. We are a special family—three of us adopted, and a very special little brother. It is so important to have a family sealed like we were in the temple.
One thing I like about our family is that we have always done things together. Remember the summer we went to the East Coast? Mom, you told stories about when you were a little girl and Grandpa took you back there. That summer was also the year after you hurt your back. In a way I was glad because I got the chance to pay you back in a way for everything you’ve done for me.
My earliest memories always have you both in them—helping me tie my shoes, playing on the beach, playing games, camping and fishing. Remember when I caught my first fish? You had to put it on a stick so we could take my picture with it.
Then as I got older and was in junior high, you came to those mini-gymnastics meets. You put my ribbons in my book and made me feel like somebody special. You always supported me in everything I did, driving me to and picking me up from play practice, or just being there when I got home.
Then came high school! East was big and scary, but you told me I could do it, and if you knew I could then I could. You came to all my gymnastics meets. Then we would come home and talk about it. Mom, you didn’t get as nervous as Dad did when I was flying between bars or tumbling on the floor. But my favorite, the one that scared you both the most, was the vault.
Now I am in college. I was excited to get to Ricks College. That last little bit before I left, you were there letting me cry on your shoulder and telling me things about when you were young.
Thanks, Mom and Dad, for always being there when I needed you and even when I didn’t. You are great. I hope I can live my life the way you have taught me. I know I never really took all the chances that I have had to tell you how much I love you, but I really do love you a lot.
Love,
Your daughter

During a family home evening, my parents told my sister and me some exciting news. Our family was going to adopt a child. It seemed like it took forever, but finally my parents brought home our little brother. On 16 October 2001, we went to the Ogden Utah Temple so that my brother could be sealed to our family. I would like to tell you about that special day.
Because I had been baptized, I had to meet with the bishop to get a temple recommend. Our bishop was very nice as he asked me questions about keeping the commandments. He asked me if I had a testimony of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. He also asked me if I believed that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that President Hinckley is the prophet today. He asked me if I paid my tithing and if I went to church. I answered yes to these questions and was given a recommend.
On the day we went to the temple, we dressed in our best church clothes. When I got to the temple, a man asked to see my recommend. I showed it to him and was allowed to enter the temple.
Inside the temple I changed into a white dress. The rest of my family changed into white clothes also. While our friends and other family members gathered in the sealing room, we waited in a room where there were toys and nice people who gave us a snack. Then they brought us to the sealing room. A man holding the priesthood said a special prayer and sealed my brother to our family for time and all eternity. He then pointed to the mirrors that face each other in the sealing room. He held us children up so that we could see into them. The mirrors reflect into each other, and the reflections never end. This reminds us of eternity and that our family can be together forever. Finally, everyone left the sealing room except for our family. We stayed and talked about the day when we children will go to the temple to be married.
I felt the Holy Ghost in the temple. I know that the temple is Heavenly Father’s house, and that He wants all of us to live worthily to go there so we can receive all of the blessings He has prepared for us.
Sara Carver, age 8Ogden, Utah

D. J. Holland doesn’t have a zigzag haircut anymore. Nor does he have any scars from the lightning that struck him a few summers ago in Daniel, Wyoming. But he still has a testimony of the power of prayer and of the priesthood.
He remembers the dark sky and the distant lightning flashes as he worked on his grandfather’s ranch that August afternoon when he was 17. He had just brought in his last truckload of baled hay from the wide, open fields.
“I knew it was going to rain,” recalls D. J., “but it never crossed my mind that the storm would threaten my life. I just wanted to get as much work done as I could before the rain came.”
D. J. parked his semi behind another hay-filled truck, driven there by his younger cousin Ross Varner. Then he hurried into the barn. There he helped Ross and their grandfather Ron Wagstaff hoist the bales into place with a huge hay fork on a backhoe tractor.
“After a few minutes Grandpa asked me to go out to the cattle feeder, which was about 100 feet away, and clean out the strings,” says D. J. “These are plastic ties which are taken off the bales and left in the feeder. They need to be cleaned out before spring so the animals can use the feeder before the grass grows high enough to graze.
“The bars on the feeder were metal, a perfect target for lightning,” says D. J. “But I didn’t think about that until it was too late.”
While D. J. cleaned up the strings, Ross and his grandfather worked fast to get the hay unloaded before the rain came and the lightning grew worse.
“Storms come up quick there,” recalls Ross. “And after what had happened in the past, we usually headed for cover any time we saw lightning. Lightning killed a white horse that Grandpa had given to me about two years before,” he continues. “It also hit a big barn that was full of hay and expensive tools. It burned to the ground.
“That day as we unloaded the hay, we heard a few faraway rumbles of thunder. Then suddenly we heard a big one that was really close,” remembers Ross. “It kind of spooked us, and we said we’d better go in. We looked around for D. J. and couldn’t see him. We decided he’d probably gone back to the house.”
Ross and his grandpa jumped into the small Honda and started for the ranch house about a city block away. As they pulled out, they saw something startling—two boots sticking up from a pile of dirt. D. J.! Quickly they drove there, fearing the worst. There lay D. J., unconscious. Most of his shirt was gone. A zigzag mark on his bare chest looked as though it had been drawn with a black marker. His baseball cap lay several feet away.
Ross and Grandpa lifted his limp six-foot-four frame into the little Honda as quickly as they could.
“It was pretty scary,” recalls Ross. “Grandpa dropped me off at the house, and I called the doctor in Pinedale to tell him Grandpa was bringing D. J. in. Then I called Salt Lake City to tell his mom and dad and also my mom and grandma. I was really nervous.”
On the way to the clinic, D. J. gained consciousness.
“When I woke up in the back of the car,” says D. J., “I was confused and didn’t know what was happening. I was numb. I couldn’t move. I asked, ‘What happened? Where are we going?’ My grandpa kept patting me and saying that I was going to be all right.”
At the clinic, medical personnel put D. J. on a gurney, they cut his shredded shirt from his body, and they stuffed cotton into his bleeding ear.
“They put me in a restraint that clamped around my forehead and down my body in case I had neck and back injuries,” says D. J. “Apparently the lightning had knocked me a few feet.”
The Pinedale doctor suggested that an ambulance transport D. J. to a larger clinic in Rock Springs for further treatment. By the time he arrived in the nearby Wyoming city, D.J’s parents, Douglas and Jennifer Holland, were there to meet him.
When the emergency room physician examined D. J., he found a severely burned right ear, much of his sandy-colored hair above the ear melted off, and a face scarred with burns. Finger-like projections all down his body resembled burst capillaries. The physician, amazed that D. J. had survived, arranged to have him taken to the University of Utah Medical Center burn unit in Salt Lake City.
During the 90-minute ride to the Salt Lake hospital, D. J. was awake and aware of the trip. In his room a few hours later—in the middle of the night—a crowd of worried family members gathered around his hospital bed.
“The room was full,” D. J. fondly remembers. “My parents and four sisters and my grandparents were there. Ross and other cousins and aunts and uncles were there. My grandpa gave me a priesthood blessing. Grandpa blessed me that I would completely recover from the accident, and that I would have no scars or ill effects. After the blessing I had no doubt that I would be okay.”
During his 24-hour hospital stay, D. J. learned that besides the extensive burns on his body, he had a seriously damaged eardrum. He later learned that sometimes the eardrum will rupture because of the loud percussion of thunder.
But that didn’t worry D. J. He did know he needed to do something about his burned-off hair. The barber had an appropriate idea. He shaved D. J.’s head, except for a zigzag, lightning-bolt strip down the center.
During the next few weeks D. J. returned to the hospital several times to have his burns checked. They were healing. Then he went to an ear specialist. This doctor told the family that the burned-out eardrum probably wouldn’t mend and that he might have to graft in a new one. Only time would tell.
Just two weeks after the first visit with the specialist, D. J. went back.
“This time the doctor was really surprised,” D. J. says. “He found that my eardrum was actually growing back. It wasn’t completely healed yet, but it was growing back. It was a miracle.”
Today, D. J.’s burns have completely healed. He has no scars on his face or body, and he has no hearing loss. He even has to stop to think which is his damaged ear. His hair also has grown out. But most of all, he has a very strong testimony of the power of prayer and of the priesthood.
“I said a lot of prayers back then, and so did my family,” says D. J. “But mostly I knew that Grandpa had given me an inspired priesthood blessing.”
Editor’s Note: D. J. is now married and living in Salt Lake City. Ross recently finished his freshman year at Pepperdine University in Malibu, California. He is preparing for a mission.

As a young girl, Elaine Schwartz Dalton found great joy in dancing. But as a young mother with six children, she found that dancing seemed impractical, so she started running as a way to enjoy movement each day. At first she would run 10 steps and then walk 10 steps until she could run a mile. Since that modest start, she has run 18 marathons.
“Running gives me a time to be still in my mind and contemplate life,” says Sister Dalton. It’s one hour when she can think about the scriptures she has just read.

Trevor sat down on the couch and put his chin in his hands. His brothers were playing with Grandpa. He wished he could have fun too, but he couldn’t stop worrying about his baptism.
Mom sat down next to him and ruffled his hair. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Don’t you want to play?”
Trevor shook his head, frowning.
Mom looked at him a moment, then put her arm around him. “Are you still afraid to go under the water?”
Trevor nodded.
The thought of being underwater always scared Trevor. When he was three, he had fallen into a swimming pool. He could never forget how scared he had felt as he sank deeper and deeper into the water until someone pulled him out. He had been nervous around water ever since.
“Why isn’t anything working?” Trevor asked. “We prayed, and we even visited the font. Nothing worked!” Springing up from the couch, Trevor ran into his room.
Slamming the bedroom door behind him, Trevor fell onto his bed. Soon he heard a soft knock on the door.
Trevor looked over as Dad sat down beside him. “Mom told me you’re still nervous about getting baptized,” Dad said.
Trevor nodded. “I keep praying, but the scared feeling won’t go away.”
Dad thought a minute. “Sometimes when we pray for something, it doesn’t happen right away. You might feel scared now, but maybe by tomorrow you’ll feel better.”
Trevor shook his head, but then he remembered when he was nervous about starting school last year. Dad had given him a blessing. Maybe a blessing could help him get baptized too. He looked up at Dad. “Do you think you and Grandpa can give me a blessing?”
Dad nodded. “I think that’s a great idea.”
A little while later, Trevor sat down in a chair in the family room. Dad and Grandpa placed their hands on his head. Dad blessed him, saying that if he had faith, Heavenly Father could help him to feel calm and peaceful.
The next day as he sat at his baptism in his white clothes, Trevor still felt nervous. He was glad he had received a blessing, but what if he stayed scared? How would he get baptized?
After hearing a talk about baptism, Dad leaned over. “It’s time to go to the font,” he said. Trevor nodded and followed Dad to the font. Dad went in first.
It was Trevor’s turn. He hesitated, but then he remembered his blessing. “Heavenly Father, please help me to have faith,” he prayed silently to himself.
Slowly, Trevor put one foot in the water. It was nice and warm. Trevor took another step.
With each step, he could feel his worry and fear melting away. Dad took him by the arm and smiled. “Ready?”
Trevor felt calm and peaceful. This was the feeling Heavenly Father had promised to give him. He nodded. “Ready.”
Dad raised his right arm and said the baptismal prayer. As Dad lowered him under the water, Trevor wasn’t afraid. All he could feel was that calm, peaceful feeling growing stronger.
Trevor came out of the water smiling. He knew that his faith had helped him overcome his fear so he could be baptized. He knew Heavenly Father would always help him when he was trying to choose the right.

Lindi loved the map game—the whole class did. Right now, her classmate Jason was standing next to Ms. Werner, their teacher. He was staring at a big world map hanging on the wall. He had won three rounds already.
“Ashley,” called Ms. Werner. Ashley skipped up to the map, giggling. She’s going to lose, thought Lindi. She’s not paying attention to the map. Sure enough, almost before Ms. Werner could finish saying, “The Black Sea,” Jason’s finger poked the map, right on the Black Sea. Ashley shrugged her shoulders and skipped back to her seat.
“Jason rocks!” Matt yelled. Other kids started chanting, “Ja-son! Ja-son! Ja-son!”
Soon Jason had beaten two more challengers. Jason was on his way to becoming the Map Champ! Lindi thought she knew Jason’s secret to success: he never took his eyes off the map.
Then Ms. Werner called, “Lindi!”
Lindi stood up and walked toward the front of the class. Megan gave her a high five as she passed her desk. Lindi tried to forget about everything else as she stood next to Jason and scanned the map. Focus! she told herself. You can do this.
Jason and Lindi both stared at the map. Out of the corner of her eye, Lindi could see Ms. Werner open her mouth to say something. But just then, a bunch of kids started shouting.
“Ja-son! Ja-son!”
Jason’s finger shot out and hit the map. “I win!” he said.
Lindi’s mouth fell open. What had just happened? “I didn’t hear!” she said. She turned to Ms. Werner. “I really didn’t hear what you said.”
Ms. Werner looked at Lindi. Lindi looked at Ms. Werner. She wondered what Ms. Werner was thinking.
The chanting faded. “What’s going on?” someone asked
Megan spoke up. “Lindi didn’t hear. Everyone was making too much noise. It wasn’t fair.” This time Jason’s mouth dropped open.
“She just said that ’cause she doesn’t want to lose!” Matt said.
Lindi’s stomach felt tight and sort of queasy. It shouldn’t matter so much, she thought. But it did matter. The truth mattered.
Soon the whole class was quiet and waiting to hear what Ms. Werner would decide.
“I have never known Lindi to lie,” Ms. Werner said firmly. “If she says she didn’t hear, then she didn’t hear. We’ll have a rematch.” She smiled at Lindi.
The tight, queasy feeling drained away. It really does pay to be honest, she thought. People notice. Lindi smiled back at Ms. Werner.
The class was quiet now, and she turned to the map. Jason faced the map too. Anything can happen, Lindi thought. We’re both ready this time.
“Lisbon,” Ms. Werner said.
“There!” Lindi quickly stabbed her finger onto the map. Jason’s finger nearly poked the back of Lindi’s hand. He was that close to winning again. But Lindi’s finger was already there.
“You did it!” Megan squealed.
“No way!” Matt shouted.
Jason turned to Lindi. “You won, fair and square.”
Lindi couldn’t help but grin.
Then she faced the map again because Ms. Werner had called up the next challenger. It was time to focus!

Primary lessons can sure stir things up! Last week Sister Pierson said that since we were all getting baptized this year, we should try to do what Jesus would want us to do and follow his example. “Melissa,” she asked me, “why did Jesus do things for other people?”
I said, “Because he loved them.”
So we talked about serving people out of love, not for thanks. Then Sister Pierson’s eyes started to sparkle, and Josey groaned because she knew that that meant that Sister Pierson had an assignment for us. “I would like each of you to do something for someone every single day this week,” she challenged us, “without their knowing. Small acts of service can make a big difference in peoples’ lives.”
Boy, would that be hard in my family. Mom and Dad notice everything we do, especially since they usually have to ask umpteen times before it gets done. They’d be really suspicious if things just started happening.
Monday after school, Mom said she had to take Jeanette, my big sister, to the doctor. As soon as she left, I peeked outside to see my brother, Billy, shooting baskets. I knew he wouldn’t be coming into the house for a while. I unloaded the dishwasher and put everything away exactly right. I even got the glasses up high without dropping one. It was really Billy’s turn to unload the dishwasher, but he waits until Mom’s practically yelling before he does it. This time Mom wouldn’t yell, and Billy would think she did it for him, and no one would guess that I’d done it.
It felt strange that evening—sort of peaceful. Billy did his homework without being told to, and Jeanette and Mom cheerfully cleared up after dinner. No one said anything about the dishes having been put away.
On Tuesday we made oatmeal-walnut-chocolate chip cookies. After we were finished, I took six out of the cookie jar, wrapped them in a napkin, and put them into a small paper bag. Mrs. Henderson next door is a widow and lives by herself. I know that she loves Mom’s cookies, so I put them on her doorstep, rang the bell, and ran behind some bushes to watch. She was really pleased when she found the cookies.
On Wednesday after school, I noticed Jeanette hadn’t made her bed, so I made it for her. It was hard because I had to get the bedspread tucked under the pillow just right so that there was still enough to pull over the top. I finally did it, but when I took one last look, there was a whole bunch of extra sheet hanging down on one side. I almost cried. I tucked it under the mattress, because I didn’t have the heart to start all over again, and I just hoped she wouldn’t guess that it was me who’d made the bed. When she came home that night, Jeanette didn’t say anything about it.
I got up the next morning, wondering if it was even worth doing anything, since nobody seemed to care. I mean, nobody had noticed anything enough to even ask who had done it! But I wanted to tell Sister Pierson that I had done the entire week, so I kept going.
Dad still had mud caked on his boots from last weekend, and I knew he’d need them again this Saturday, so when I got home from school, I found the old knife he uses as a scraper and spent a whole hour getting them clean again. Most of that time I was thinking that he’d better appreciate it.
Friday morning, my lunch was all fixed and ready to go when I got downstairs. I guess Mom did it—I even got cheese crackers! So I gave her an extra-big hug and felt good again. In the afternoon I quietly put all the clean clothes away while she was peeling carrots and potatoes for dinner, and I felt even better.
Saturday morning Billy and I got up early to watch cartoons. We get to do that until everybody’s up and it’s time to do chores. Dad came clomping in, in his boots, tickled Billy and me for a minute, then gave Mom a kiss. “Thanks for cleaning these off, Honey,” he said. “I’ve been putting it off all week.”
Mom looked surprised. “But I didn’t. I—”
But Dad had clumped out the door already. I just kept my eyes on the television and smiled inside, where Mom couldn’t see.
Mom let us watch TV an extra half-hour before she turned it off and said, “Get dressed—time for chores.” Her voice was happy, so we knew that it would be a fun workday instead of a drag.
I got all the way across my room to the dresser before I realized that someone had already made my bed—corners tucked up, sheets and blankets perfectly even, and my pillow all smoothed out. Downstairs, Mom was whistling. I smiled, inside and out. Little things do make a big difference. I’d have a lot to tell Sister Pierson on Sunday.

I was a Latter-day Saint missionary and had been sent, along with an American Indian from California, to establish a small school in the mountain village of Ayancocha. The village lies on the east side of the Andes in central Peru and is situated on the banks of the Huallaga River that cascades toward Peru’s rain forests and finally meanders through the flat jungles to join with the Amazon.
The first night Pedro entered the adult education class, he looked like any other older mountain Indian. Decay had robbed him of many of his teeth and eaten parts of others. Improper diet and years of scraping at the unproductive, rocky Andean soil had wrapped the flesh tautly around his frame. Calloused welts protruded from under the leather thongs that tied his llantas (rubber treaded sandals made from worn truck tires) to his feet. His nose bore angular testimony to his membership in the royal Incan family.
But, in fact, Pedro was not like many of the other mountain Indians. He had not numbed his mind by chewing cocaine leaves, which serve as an antidote for the cold, fear, and frustration for so many of Peru’s older mountain people.
Pedro’s adult memory extended back past the time when the first trucks crossed the Andes and rumbled through his village toward Peru’s wood- and fruit-laden jungles.
But his mind was young and he wanted to learn to read.
Somewhere he had picked up the basics of the written language. He knew the letters and sounds of the Spanish alphabet. And when we opened the adult reading class in his village, Pedro was the first to enter.
The class dwindled as the weeks passed by. Learning is not easy for adults who measure their formal education by the number of days they have spent in a classroom. But Pedro hung on.
Soon he could sound out the syllables. The process was slow: he would sound out each syllable and then put the word together; it would sometimes take an hour to read one paragraph.
When Pedro learned to read, he cut a large window through the adobe in his living room to let the light in.
Nothing was too dull or unimportant. Old newspapers, government pamphlets, anything that had words on it was slowly devoured.
And when the sun had dropped behind the towering Andes that guarded the village to the west, I could see the dim flicker from a coal-oil lamp coming from Pedro’s new window. He would be squinting across the top of his glasses, with the lamp across the wooden table and the book between, slowly sounding out the syllables.
But Pedro’s academic curiosity was not his only asset. He had not succumbed to the pressures of a practical society where art and craftsmanship were considered unneeded luxuries. Plantation owners would have paid Pedro well for the use of his carpentry skills.
Rather than go to work making rough door frames and unpolished fruit boxes, Pedro would spend a month and a half sculpturing a harp that would sell for around 20 American dollars. To make sure there was food on the table for his wife and five children, he tilled a small plot of ground and raised chickens and guinea pigs. (Guinea pigs are kept by the mountain people of Peru much like rural Americans keep rabbits. One mountain specialty is to soak them in hot pepper juice and roast them over an open fire.)
Watching Pedro make harps was a lesson in concentration. He would pick out a prospective candidate for the harp from his seasoned wood pile, and like a raccoon selecting his food, pass the stick from hand to hand, eyeing it from this angle and that, all the while running his fingers across the grain; an appropriate grunt would finish off the process. The grunt meant that judgment had been affixed: the stick would either become a polished part of the finished instrument or serve as kindling to roast Pedro’s speciality: pepper-dipped guinea pig.
Then, using primitive carpenter’s tools, Pedro would build a precision musical instrument. For many, beauty exists only when perceived, but not for Pedro. His harps were art inside and out. No matter where the wood was used, it had to be the best. Even unnoticed ribs well within the dark interior were seasoned and planed.
But while Pedro’s academic curiosity and craftsmanship would have made him stand out in any community, one other quality made him unique. There have been few characters in the course of written history with whom faith and fact were synonymous. Pedro was one of these.
Even for those of us who use the term daily, faith is a paradox. Conspicuously absent in many who bear its robes, it sometimes finds a more congenial soil under homespun wool and leather thongs.
At any rate Pedro’s faith was both simple and factual. We had bought a diesel engine that generated electricity for our school and church building. A film arrived from Church headquarters depicting the struggles of early pioneers in southern Utah. President Lorenzo Snow, president of the Church at that time, promised the pioneers that a devastating drought would end if they would pay their tithing.
That year Pedro’s village was experiencing a drought. Potatoes and corn were drooping in despair at the rainy season’s slow arrival.
Pedro arrived the morning after the film was shown to pay ten soles (less than 50 cents) in tithing. He then went home and sat on his porch to wait for the rain.
It rained.
It is nearly ten years now since I have seen Pedro. He was an old man then. Perhaps the murmur of articulated syllables no longer escapes from the adobe dwelling’s open window.
On my dining room table rests an 18-inch replica of a Peruvian harp, a cherished gift from the Noria workshop. Its finger-stained ribs and hand-carved bridge are surrounded by machine-planed woods, synthetic carpets, and imitation hickory paneling. The bridge of the instrument ends in the sculptured head of a bird. Its unblinking eye and symmetrical bill are fitting memorials to Pedro Noria de Toledo.

Our grandson was only four when a policeman picked him up on the side of the highway. He said he was headed to Grandma’s house, about five miles (8 km) away.
It was the second time he had run away from the unhappiness at home, trying to get to me. Over the next few months, I came to realize that the responsibility of raising my grandson and his two younger sisters was probably going to fall on my shoulders—an idea I did not readily embrace.
My husband and I had done our best to raise our children with gospel principles, but they eventually rejected those principles. I was in my 50s and felt that I had finally earned the right to pursue my own interests. I cherished the goal my husband and I shared of serving a mission together when he retired. The notion of going grocery shopping with preschoolers, organizing mealtimes, doing thousands of loads of laundry, and someday again mothering teenagers reduced me to tears.
One afternoon, however, something changed my heart. A small thing had upset my grandson, so I took him onto my lap and wiped away his tears. As I held him, we talked about how much Jesus loved him. Nearby I had a wall calendar featuring paintings of the Savior, so we looked at those beautiful images one by one.
My grandson was especially interested in a depiction of the Savior sitting in a stone doorway with a small, brown-haired girl on His lap. In the painting, both the Savior and the child radiate peace. My grandson looked closely, pointed to the girl, and called her by his sister’s name.
“How can Katie sit on Jesus’s lap, Grandma?” he asked. “I want to sit on His lap too!”
“You can’t sit on Jesus’s lap now, sweetheart, but you can sit on my lap,” I said. “Jesus gives little children grandmas to love them and hold them and take care of them when they need it.”
Suddenly my heart embraced a future of loving—as the Savior would love—three beloved children who needed me. They were no longer a burden but a wonderful blessing and opportunity to serve our Lord.
I will be forever grateful for the tender mercy of the Lord given to me that afternoon. It changed my life and continues to strengthen and bless our home.

One day when Vanessa was about eight and Joanna was six, their classical violin teacher gave them a little fiddle tune to learn. Fiddling is a way of playing traditional American folk tunes on a violin. The music is often intricate and always lively. It is used to accompany square dancing. And for Vanessa and Joanna it was great fun to play.

“We tried it and really liked it and asked her for more,” said Vanessa. But fiddle music is not often written down because there are so many variations possible on each melody. The girls started taking lessons from a fiddling teacher. Students learn new pieces by listening to their teacher and then reviewing the pieces by listening to them over and over on tapes. Having had ear training with the Suzuki method, the girls learned quickly.

At first the fiddle music was used as a treat or a reward. After they practiced for an hour on their classical pieces, then they got to practice a half an hour of fiddling. Just one little tune started Vanessa and Joanna, and later another sister, Mindy, and little brother, Jesse, on some interesting adventures. They really got into the fiddling music, and now they perform, with guitar and piano accompaniment from their mother and father, for the wards in their area and for special occasions such as county fairs and conventions. And they have been competing in fiddling contests for several years, including the national fiddling contest held yearly in Weiser, Idaho.

My Young Women president challenged all of the young women in my ward to read Jesus the Christ in just five months. As I sat down to read it, I was disappointed at first. I had expected the heavens to open and light to pour down, instantly filling me with the Spirit. However, that did not happen. Instead, I struggled to get through even the first chapter without my mind wandering off. I put the book down, frustrated at the seeming lack of divine inspiration.
I decided I needed to change my approach to reading. The next evening I knelt by my bed and asked Heavenly Father to allow me to have the Holy Spirit accompany me, that I might better understand and be able to read this book about His Son and my Savior. After that prayer, I felt a subtle wave of peace come into my room as I settled down to read. I understood the book better and enjoyed it more.
Every night after that, I made sure I started and ended my reading sessions with a prayer, in which I thanked my Heavenly Father and invited the Spirit to guide me as I learned more of the Savior.
I struggled at times and became discouraged that I couldn’t just zip through this 800-page book. But I continued on with my reading and even felt sad as I turned to the last page, knowing the book was ending. The Spirit that was present as I read Jesus the Christ was so indescribably sweet and comforting, and I came to know my Savior on a deeper level. My testimony of the Savior and of the Atonement grew so much from the simple act of reading a book for a few minutes every night.

Something momentarily caught the light when Grandmother Jo showed Christopher a miniature Eagle Scout pin that she had received from Christopher’s dad when he became on Eagle Scout. “Oh, I was proud of him as he stood so straight and tall to accept the award. Then he gave me the pin and kissed me.”
How happy Grandmother Jo looks, Christopher thought. When pirates found their treasures, they were very happy, but not in the same way that Grandmother Jo is right now.

President Nelson: When my grandfather A. C. Nelson was a young husband and father, just 27 years old, his father died. About three months later, his deceased father, my great-grandfather, came to visit him. The date of that visit was the night of April 6, 1891. Grandfather Nelson was so impressed by his father’s visit that he wrote the experience in his journal for his family and friends.
“I was in bed when Father entered the room,” Grandfather Nelson wrote. “He came and sat on the side of the bed. He said, ‘Well, my son, as I had a few spare minutes, I received permission to come and see you for a few minutes. I am feeling well, my son, and have had very much to do since I died.’”
When Grandfather Nelson asked him what he had been doing, his father answered that he had been busy teaching the gospel of Jesus Christ in the spirit world.
“You cannot imagine, my son, how many spirits there are in the spirit world who have not yet received the gospel,” he said. “But many are receiving it, and a great work is being accomplished. Many are anxiously looking forth to their friends who are still living to administer for them in the temples.”
Grandfather Nelson told his father, “We intend to go to the temple and get sealed to you, Father, as soon as we can.”
My great-grandfather responded: “That, my son, is partly what I came to see you about. We will yet make a family and live throughout eternity.”
Then Grandfather Nelson asked, “Father, is the gospel as taught by this Church true?”
His father pointed to a picture of the First Presidency hanging on the wall of the bedroom.
“My son, just as sure as you see that picture, just as sure is the gospel true. The gospel of Jesus Christ has within it the power of saving every man and woman who will obey it, and in no other way can they ever obtain salvation in the kingdom of God. My son, always cling to the gospel. Be humble, be prayerful, be submissive to the priesthood, be true, be faithful to the covenants you have made with God. Never do anything that would displease God. Oh, what a blessing is the gospel. My son, be a good boy.”
A. C. Nelson, grandfather of President Russell M. Nelson.
Illustrations by Bjorn Thorkelson
Sister Nelson: I just love all those B’s. “Be humble, be prayerful, be submissive to the priesthood, be true, be faithful to the covenants you have made with God. … Be a good boy.” Six B’s brought to you by your departed great-grandfather. He certainly sounds a lot like President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) with his six B’s.1
President Nelson: He does, doesn’t he? It’s so precious to me that my grandfather would leave that record for us. We learned that his father’s children were subsequently sealed to him. So the reason for his visit was accomplished.
President Nelson: A name of great significance in the scriptures explains why the family is so important. That name is Elijah. EL-I-JAH in Hebrew literally means “Jehovah is my God.”2 Think of it! Embedded in Elijah’s name are the Hebrew terms for both the Father and the Son.
Sister Nelson: Elijah was the last prophet to hold the sealing power of the Melchizedek Priesthood before the time of Jesus Christ. Elijah’s mission was to turn the hearts of the children to the fathers, and the hearts of the fathers to the children, so they could be sealed, or else “the whole earth would be utterly wasted at his coming” (Joseph Smith—History 1:39; emphasis added). That’s pretty strong language.
President Nelson: I like to think about the spirit of Elijah as “a manifestation of the Holy Ghost bearing witness of the divine nature of the family.”3 According to the Bible Dictionary, “The power of Elijah is the sealing power of the priesthood by which things bound or loosed on earth are bound or loosed in heaven” (“Elijah”).
Sister Nelson: So when we say that the spirit of Elijah is moving upon people to encourage them to seek after their kindred dead, we’re really saying that the Holy Ghost is prompting us to do those things that will allow families to be sealed eternally.
President Nelson: It’s wonderful to turn the hearts of the children to their fathers by telling important family history stories in ways that are accessible and memorable. Perhaps having family history documents, stories, photos, and memorabilia always before our eyes can strengthen our testimonies (see Mosiah 1:5). As we place them on our walls, our tables, our computers, our iPads, and even our cell phones, maybe we will be prompted to make better choices and draw closer to the Lord and to our families.
If we leave it at that level, however, we really haven’t done enough. As Church members, our interest in family history work has been motivated by instruction from the Lord that our ancestors cannot be made perfect without us and that we cannot be made perfect without them (see D&C 128:15). That means we are to be linked together by the sacred sealing ordinances of the temple. We are to be strong links in the chain from our ancestors to our posterity. If our collections of stories and photos should ever become an end point in themselves—if we know who our ancestors are and know marvelous things about them, but we leave them stranded on the other side without their ordinances—such diversion will not be of any help to our ancestors who remain confined in spirit prison.
Sister Nelson: Preserving ancestral stories is important, but it should never be at the expense of completing our ancestors’ ordinance work. We need to make time for our ancestors’ ordinance-qualifying information.
President Nelson: And that means sacrificing time we normally spend on other activities. We need to be spending more time in the temple and in doing family history research, which includes indexing.
Sister Nelson: Sacrifice does indeed bring forth the blessings of heaven.4 I have been blessed to find many ancestors who I feel confident were ready to make covenants with God and to receive their essential ordinances. Over time, I realized that if I was working on an overwhelming project and I was out of time, energy, and ideas, if I would make a sacrifice of time by finding the ordinance-qualifying information for some ancestors or by going to the temple to be proxy for them, the heavens opened and the energy and ideas started flowing. Somehow I had enough time to meet my deadline. It was totally impossible, but it would happen every time. Temple and family history work bring me a joy that is truly not of this world.
President Nelson: If I were a missionary today, my two best friends in the ward or branch where I served would be the ward mission leader and the ward temple and family history consultant.
People have an inborn desire to know something about their ancestors. That becomes a natural opportunity for our missionaries. As missionaries learn to love the people they teach, they will naturally ask about their families. “Are your parents living? Are your grandparents living? Do you know your four grandparents?” Conversations flow easily when those who are drawn to speak with the missionaries are invited to talk about the people they love.
At that point it can be natural for the missionaries, including member missionaries, to ask, “Do you know any of your great-grandparents? Do you know their names?” The probability is that investigators will not know the names of all eight of their great-grandparents.
Then the missionaries can make this suggestion: “I have a friend at our church who can help. If we could find the names of some or maybe even all of your great-grandparents, would it be worth a couple of hours of your time to find out who your great-grandparents are?” That friend at church, of course, is the ward temple and family history consultant.
Sister Nelson: I think it can be comforting for missionaries to know that they are never alone when they are finding and teaching those who are receptive to the truths of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. President George Q. Cannon (1827–1901), who served as a counselor to four Presidents of the Church, taught that in these latter days, those who are joining the Church are joining precisely because their ancestors have been praying for one of their posterity to join the Church so that they, the ancestors, can receive their essential ordinances by proxy.5
President Nelson: Exaltation is a family affair. Only through the saving ordinances of the gospel of Jesus Christ can families be exalted. The ultimate end for which we strive is that we become happy as a family—endowed, sealed, and prepared for eternal life in the presence of God.
Sister Nelson: Each Church class we attend, each time we serve, each covenant we make with God, each priesthood ordinance we receive, everything we do in the Church leads us to the holy temple, the house of the Lord. There is so much power available for a couple and for their children through the sealing ordinance when they keep their covenants.
President Nelson: Every day we choose where we want to live eternally by how we think, feel, speak, and act. Our Heavenly Father has declared that His work and His glory is to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of His children (see Moses 1:39). But He wants us to choose to return to Him. He will not force us in any way. The precision with which we keep our covenants shows Him just how much we want to return to live with Him. Each day brings us closer to or farther from our glorious possibility of eternal life. We each need to keep our covenants, repent daily, and seek to be more like our Savior. Then and only then can families be together forever.
Sister Nelson: It is my testimony that however fabulous your life is right now, or however discouraging and heartbreaking it may be, your involvement in temple and family history work will make it better. What do you need in your life right now? More love? More joy? More self-mastery? More peace? More meaningful moments? More of a feeling that you’re making a difference? More fun? More answers to your soul-searching questions? More heart-to-heart connections with others? More understanding of what you are reading in the scriptures? More ability to love and to forgive? More ability to pray with power? More inspiration and creative ideas for your work and other projects? More time for what really matters?
I entreat you to make a sacrifice of time to the Lord by increasing the time you spend doing temple and family history work, and then watch what happens. It is my testimony that when we show the Lord we are serious about helping our ancestors, the heavens will open and we will receive all that we need.
President Nelson: We can be inspired all day long about temple and family history experiences others have had. But we must do something to actually experience the joy ourselves. I would like to extend a challenge to each one of us so that the wonderful feeling of this work can continue and even increase. I invite you to prayerfully consider what kind of sacrifice—preferably a sacrifice of time—you can make in order to do more temple and family history work this year.
We are engaged in the work of Almighty God. He lives. Jesus is the Christ. This is His Church. We are His covenant children. He can count on us.

During his lifetime, President Smith lost his father, his mother, one brother, two sisters, two wives, and thirteen children. He was well acquainted with sorrow and losing loved ones.
When his son Albert Jesse died, Joseph F. wrote to his sister Martha Ann that he had pled with the Lord to save him and asked, “Why is it so? O. God why had it to be?”
Despite his prayers at that time, Joseph F. received no answer on this matter. He told Martha Ann that “the heavens [seemed like] brass over our heads” on the subject of death and the spirit world. Nevertheless, his faith in the Lord’s eternal promises were firm and steadfast.

Many years ago I had the privilege of teaching early-morning seminary. The class was held between 6:30 A.M. and 7:30 A.M. each school day. For two years I watched sleepy students stumble into class, challenging their instructor to wake them up. After prayer was offered and an inspirational thought given, I watched bright minds come alive, to increase their knowledge of the scriptures. The most difficult part of the class was to terminate the discussion in time to send them on to their regular high school classes. As the school year progressed, I watched each student gain greater confidence, closer friendships, and a growing testimony of the gospel.

I gained my testimony of the power of prayer when I was about 12 years old. I had worked hard to earn some money and had managed to save five dollars. This was during the Great Depression, when five dollars was a substantial sum of money—especially for a boy of 12. I gave all my coins, which totaled five dollars, to my father, and he gave me in return a five-dollar bill. I know there was something specific I planned to purchase with the five dollars, although all these years later I can’t recall what it was. I just remember how important that money was to me.
At the time, we did not own a washing machine, so my mother would send to the laundry each week our clothes which needed to be washed. After a couple of days, a load of what we called “wet wash” would be returned to us, and Mother would hang the items on our clothesline out back to dry.
I had tucked my five-dollar bill in the pocket of my jeans. As you can probably guess, my jeans were sent to the laundry with the money still in the pocket. When I realized what had happened, I was sick with worry. I knew that pockets were routinely checked at the laundry prior to washing. If my money was not discovered and taken during that process, I knew it was almost certain the money would be dislodged during washing and would be claimed by a laundry worker who would have no idea to whom the money should be returned, even if he had the inclination to do so. The chances of getting back my five dollars were extremely remote—a fact which my dear mother confirmed when I told her I had left the money in my pocket.
I wanted that money; I needed that money; I had worked very hard to earn that money. I realized there was only one thing I could do. In my extremity I turned to my Father in Heaven and pleaded with Him to keep my money safe in that pocket somehow until our wet wash came back.
Two very long days later, when I knew it was about time for the delivery truck to bring our wash, I sat by the window, waiting. As the truck pulled up to the curb, my heart was pounding. As soon as the wet clothes were in the house, I grabbed my jeans and ran to my bedroom. I reached into the pocket with trembling hands. When I didn’t find anything immediately, I thought all was lost. And then my fingers touched that wet five-dollar bill. As I pulled it from the pocket, relief flooded over me. I offered a heartfelt prayer of gratitude to my Father in Heaven, for I knew that He had answered my prayer.

Even with my career under way, however, the goal of marriage continued to occupy my mind. As a lifelong member of the Church, I had learned the importance of eternal marriage all through my teenage dating years. I had always fully expected to have a temple marriage.
However, I had spent four years at Brigham Young University, where thousands of young Saints find their eternal mates, without being blessed with any marriage opportunities. As an African American at a predominantly Caucasian university, I did not find many dating partners who were seriously interested in marriage.
In Maine, my challenge was different: the area simply had very few Latter-day Saint men. I began dating a young man named James, a less-active member of the Church. When I learned that he still had a testimony of Jesus Christ and the gospel, I felt hope that he might come back to church. I prayed often that the Lord would help him do so.
As I began to fall in love with James, my prayers grew more desperate. He started to attend church regularly, but after a year he was still having challenges with the Word of Wisdom. He asked me several times to marry him, but I was hesitant to make a commitment under the circumstances. Nevertheless, I came to feel that James was the right person for me.
I eventually realized that I couldn’t keep putting off my decision indefinitely. Knowing that I did love James and believing that the Lord approved of our union, I consented to a civil marriage, with the intention that we would strive for a temple sealing later. My decision was bittersweet: I loved James, but I found it hard to accept that ours would be a lifelong marriage rather than an eternal one.
Still, I held fast to my decision. As I went to bed the night before the wedding, I began to feel uneasy and ill. I had heard of brides who get last-minute jitters, and I thought that might be happening to me. To my dismay, I discovered that instead of easing as the night progressed, the tension grew worse toward morning. Scenes flashed through my mind of what my future life might be like without a temple marriage. I could see myself in church alone or possibly not at all. I feared that one of us might die before we made it to the temple.
Thoroughly distraught and confused, I sought counsel from my bishop just hours before the wedding. As I talked with him and received a priesthood blessing, the Spirit bore witness to me that I shouldn’t go forward with my plans. To James’s great heartache and my own, I called off the wedding. Through my hurt, however, I felt a calming influence and an inner peace.
Crying and praying often, I spent the following days humbly reflecting on the situation and pondering what to do next. Instead of putting the Lord first in my decision making, I realized that I had put my desire for marriage first. Instead of having the faith to believe that the Lord would help me achieve the righteous goal of an eternal marriage, I had given up and convinced myself that a civil union was the best I could do in my circumstances.
I decided to put the Lord first in my life. As I prayed for forgiveness for my lack of faith and misguided sense of direction, I felt a burden lift, and a new sense of power began to grow within me. I knew that the Lord would carry me through my difficult situation. I was able to say, “Thy will be done,” even if it meant that I would not marry James.
I didn’t realize it at first, but James was going through a similar experience. He too made a decision to put the Lord first in his life. It was wonderful to see him take on a new glow as he became worthy in the eyes of the Lord. Shortly afterwards, he obtained the Melchizedek Priesthood and asked me to marry him in the Washington Temple.
Today, James and I are active members of the Sanford Ward in Maine. I am overwhelmed at the blessings the Lord has given me. I’m so grateful that he has greater insight than I do and knew that a temple marriage was a realistic expectation for me.

Dad made each of us kids feel special. He loved us and would forgive easily. He did his best to make sure that each of us was happy, and he made it clear that he wanted the best for us. I loved him so much.
When I was in sixth grade, my dad died in a car accident. My family and I were totally devastated. There was a big hole in our family. Dad was the one I leaned on, the one I went to if I was having problems. Instead of seeking help, I let the anger and hurt stay. I finally decided it was God’s fault. I stopped reading my scriptures and saying prayers. I went to church only because Mom wanted me to. I tried to stay far away from my Heavenly Father.
Then I went to Young Women camp for the first time. I liked meeting new friends, but I still didn’t read my scriptures. On the last night, we had a testimony meeting. I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: the Spirit. I admired the girls who got up and bore their testimonies, but I stayed seated because I thought I didn’t have one. All of a sudden I felt like I had to get up. I opened my mouth, wondering what to say. So I said I was glad for Young Women camp. Then I found myself saying that I knew Jesus Christ died for me and that my Heavenly Father loved me and that the Church was true.
I was filled with a remarkable peace. Thanks to this experience I can say that I know I will see my dad again because of the Savior’s Atonement and Resurrection.

“But the teacher I remember best was Sister Call. She was just a jewel. I remember how impressed I was that she was willing to go on hikes with the Trail Builders. She’d plan scavenger hunts, but they were not just the regular kind. Each one would have a connection with some part of the lesson. As we would find each thing, it would teach us another part of the lesson. Then there was always a nice reward—some special treat at the end. I can’t believe the creative ways she used to keep our attention as young boys.
“Sister Call is a person who keeps on giving. Recently I received a phone call from her son. He wanted to bring a gift Sister Call had just completed for me. He brought to my office a beautiful quilt she had made. Thousands of careful stitches prepared in a beautiful pattern. She is ninety-one years young. I could not hold back a tear as I thought of the kindness of this great teacher.”

by Craig Manscill
During the spring, when much of the Northern Hemisphere is recovering from the grips of winter, the Southern Hemisphere, particularly the South Pacific, is soaking up the warm rays of the sun.

That’s when the youth in the Fiji Suva District retreat to their own secluded, tropical island for three glorious days in search of their destiny.

As the chartered boat, the Noolooloo, departed from the jetty, 57 youth and 16 leaders, one live pig (Friday’s dinner), and assorted camping gear were about to make history in the third annual youth conference. The sea cruise to Nukulau Island was only the beginning of a beautiful experience.

“Determine Your Destiny” was the theme for the conference. The theme song, “Morning of Your Life,” was taken from the October 1980 New Era. It was the objective of each youth to plan and set goals for his or her immediate future and distant tomorrows. “We are charting our own destiny,” said Elizabeth from Suva Sixth Branch, “rather than allowing fate or outside circumstances to dictate to us.”

Once camp was established, the Young Men president called a general assembly. Journals were handed out to each youth with instructions that while in search of their destiny, the recording of thoughts and goals would greatly increase the chances of successfully accomplishing those goals. One girl recorded in her journal, “I never thought three days could make the difference for me in sorting out my course toward my destiny.”

The following three days were filled with activities and seminars. Seminars were conducted in first aid, lifesaving and swimming, pioneering, tie-dyeing, and goal setting.

“Campfire is burning, campfire is burning,” was signal enough from the campfire mistress, Cheryl Bukarau, for all to gather on the beach for mimes, skits, singing, and stories. The charismatic mood of the South Pacific seemed to mesmerize everyone. The reflection of the tall palm trees, silhouetted by the fire, cast interesting shadows on the beach. The mood was amplified by the lapping of the waves on the shore as if it were the sound of Fijian drums in the distance.

The highlight of the conference was when the mission president, Wilford E. Smith, ferried across from the mainland to be guest of honor for dinner and to deliver the keynote address. President Smith encouraged all to consult with the Lord in prayer, refer to patriarchal blessings, and listen to the prophet’s counsel.

Saturday morning dawned clear and crisp as the fasting youth gathered for separate Young Men and Young Women meetings followed by a joint testimony meeting, where the testimonies of youth and leaders brought the youth conference to another spiritual high.

It was with regret that camp was broken. During the final moments a special ceremony, unseen by most, was held at the base of a large tree, where a time capsule was buried. The capsule held the history of the conference and the written goals of 57 youth and 16 leaders. One year later, the capsule will be opened for those who return to the next youth conference to evaluate how well they have shaped their own destiny.