Gospel Story Finder

I breathed a sigh of relief as we walked down the street to our last appointment. I was tired, and my feet were swollen and sore. It had been a particularly long day of proselyting in the sweltering heat of Bangkok, Thailand. Two days earlier, my bike had been stolen. I was trying not to be frustrated, but two days of walking had taken its toll. I took comfort in the fact that we were heading to an appointment with a newly baptized member—Kee. What a joy it had been to witness her conversion and growth in the gospel over the past two months.
The neighborhood where Kee lived was, without a doubt, the saddest place I had ever seen. The houses were makeshift shacks constructed of wood, tin siding, and cardboard built on stilts above four feet of sewer water and floating trash. Children with no shoes ran around on wooden planks suspended above the sewer. Men lay passed out in a drunken sleep while teenage boys sold drugs on the street corners. I had cried the first few times I had come to this neighborhood, being overcome by the sorrow, poverty, and awful stench. But out of this neighborhood had come two of our favorite investigators, the kind of people missionaries dream of finding.
Kee greeted us as we entered the gate leading to the group of houses we often visited. She immediately asked, “Sister, where is your bike?” We told her how my bike—a beautiful red bike with all the newest parts and gears—had been stolen. She and the neighbors listening nearby became greatly concerned over our loss and current situation. They asked, “How are you supposed to do your work? How are you going to visit all the people you need to visit?” These, of course, were our concerns also, but we told them not to worry.
After visiting with Kee, we headed home. That night we prayed, asking Heavenly Father for help, that things would work out, and that we would be able to do all we needed to do.
The next day we found ourselves heading back to Kee’s neighborhood. As we approached the gate, we noticed all the neighbors sitting out front whispering to each other. Their secret could not be held in any longer as they revealed that one of them had found an old bicycle. They had all pitched in to get it fixed up. Their smiles stretched ear to ear as they proudly presented their gift—a purple bike, scratched and dented, rusty with age. On the crossbar was a big fluorescent sticker which read “Super Bike.” The tires and gears had been lovingly washed and polished. Kee quickly wiped away the remaining smudge marks with the bottom of her shirt. Tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks as I beheld this little purple bike, given out of sacrifice and love.
I realized that these people, who had but few worldly possessions, had taught the sister missionaries a lesson about love, the pure love exemplified by our Savior. In the eyes of the world, my Super Bike was a sad-looking, beat-up, rusty bicycle. But in my eyes and, I believe, in the eyes of our Father in Heaven, it was the most beautiful bike in the world, a priceless gift from the heart.

Gaining a Testimony
Brad Barber, 14, Farragut Ward
It was about two years ago, and our family was driving home from Utah. I was talking to my mom. I had heard a bunch of people say that they had this burning feeling and they knew the Church was true. I told her that I had never felt anything like that. I asked her if I was too young to have something like that happen. She said I wasn’t too young. That night at the motel, when I was getting ready for bed, I prayed real hard about it. I asked the Lord if the Church was really true and if it was the right place for me to be. As soon as I was done, I felt that feeling that I had always heard about in sacrament meeting. I felt a warmness and happiness that said, “Everything’s okay.” It was peacefulness. I’ve heard it called a burning inside your chest. I guess that’s what it feels like. It makes you feel at ease with everything.

In 1998 my family moved to the Netherlands. My siblings and I attended the American School of The Hague. My mom couldn’t drive us in the mornings, so we rode the bus and train to get to school. My older sisters attended early-morning seminary and left an hour earlier than my younger brother, Shaun, and I. We made it to school easily for the first half of the year, but then the bus routes changed because of construction.
One day we were waiting for our bus when I saw one with a different number but the same destination. I thought the number didn’t matter much, so we got on the bus. After about 20 minutes, I had a sick feeling in my stomach. Shaun and I noticed we were nowhere near our school, and we both felt very lost and afraid.
We got off the bus, and I said a prayer in my heart, asking Heavenly Father for comfort and help. I had been learning Dutch in school and realized I could ask someone for help. I asked around until I found a lady who spoke a little English. She gave us directions to catch the right bus to school. Soon we were headed in the right direction and feeling much better.
I will never forget the lost feeling I felt when I realized I was on the wrong bus. I know that the Lord helped me get back on track as He does constantly in our lives—not only physically, but spiritually. We all will feel lost in life’s decisions if we are not on the right track, but the Lord will always give direction and a way for us to get back on the path toward the right destination.

When I was five, my family traveled from Tonga to New Zealand to be sealed in the temple. First, we sailed from Tonga to Fiji. The Church members traveling with us sang the entire way. A storm came. The waves were bigger than the ship we were on! As the storm got bigger, we sang louder. Finally the storm passed.
When we got to Fiji safely, we had to ride a bus to the airport. Then we got on a plane to New Zealand.
After the plane landed in New Zealand, we had another two-hour bus ride. It was a cool morning with low clouds. Everyone on the bus was talking. It was loud! Then the temple came into view, and suddenly, the bus was totally quiet. Everybody rushed to that side of the bus to see it. I thought the bus was going to tip over!
Dad lifted me up against the bus window so I could get a good view of the temple. The temple seemed to float in the clouds. It looked heavenly.
Even though that happened many years ago, I can still feel that same special spirit today. We knew we were looking at the house of God. Before, we had only seen it in pictures. We were amazed. I remember thinking, Is God in there? And just as quickly, I thought, This is God’s house. Of course He is. We may not see Him in the temple, but we know we can feel His Spirit there.

Photograph by iStock/Thinkstock
The greatest strength in my life has been the priesthood of God. I believe it will also be a sure anchor for you young men. But for it to have power in your life, you need to understand and use it.
I grew up in a comfortable environment in Logan, Utah. I had no childhood worries about food or shelter or education. But perhaps because life was easy, I needed something to hold on to that would anchor me.
For me that anchor was the priesthood of God. I was in an unusual situation when I was growing up. My dad was called to be the bishop when I was a year old, and he was my bishop for 19 years. His fatherly and spiritual guidance was a tremendous help to me.
I think that is mostly why I looked forward to receiving the Aaronic Priesthood on my 12th birthday. I remember the special day I felt my father’s hands on my head as he ordained me. After that, I advanced through the offices of the Aaronic Priesthood and received callings I enjoyed very much.
Passing the sacrament was very special to me. You could see people commit themselves to obey the Lord and keep His commandments as they partook of the emblems of His body and blood.
As time progressed, I graduated from high school, and then after a year in college, I was called on a mission. I enjoyed every minute of it and loved my companions. One in particular was a strength to me. I learned much from him as we fulfilled our responsibilities.
Because the country was at war, when I returned from my mission I joined the United States Marine Corps. When the war was over, I returned to college, married, and started a family. Successive professional moves took me to many places across the United States, where I learned much as I served in many priesthood callings. I finally landed in Boston, Massachusetts, where I served as a stake president. It was from there that I was called to be an Assistant to the Twelve and then, after 17 months, to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.

When the Americans had cleared the mountain and were gone, we left the house and marched on again toward home. A few days later, we were stopped once more by the Americans. At first I didn’t speak. I wanted to act like I didn’t know English. I heard them say, “Well, we’ll just let them sit here, and we’ll put them on the next truck that comes to transport them to a camp.” Trucks had been going by every two to three minutes.
We sat there waiting for a truck to come by any second. We waited and waited, for an hour or longer, but no truck came. I finally went up to the MP who was chewing gum. I had never seen anyone chew gum before—and he was talking at the same time.

I told him who we were, and he said, “Oh, all of a sudden you speak English.”
“Yes, I speak English. I learned it in school. I was just scared.”
“How old are you?” he asked me. I told him I was 17-and-a-half years old.
“Where have you been?”
I explained the whole thing—what we had done, why we had civilian clothes on, where we wanted to go—home. He called up on the phone and checked the outfits where we had been to see if the information I had given him was correct. Then he looked at me for a long time and said, “I have a boy about your age, and if he would say to someone, ‘I’d like to go home to Mother,’ I hope they’d give him the chance. If you take this road, there is an American headquarters; but if you take that road, they can’t see you. Good luck.”

Finally we were almost home. Everything was shut down. There was no train, no car, no bus, no telephone—nothing. So we continued crawling through the forest, following the creek. I knew that area well. We reached my neighborhood, and I just wanted to go through the gate of our neighbor’s backyard. I left the others and opened the gate. A little gun that had been put there to shoot the gophers went off. It scared the wits out of me and the neighbors, who quickly came running. But they were glad to see that I was home safely. I sent my sister back to the forest with some food for my friends before they continued on to their homes.

I myself have been the beneficiary of the Lord’s tender mercies and witness to his perfect sense of timing. A few years ago, I was struggling to keep my own head above water. I was experiencing some significant health issues that I felt severely limited in my ability to be at my best. It got so bad that I seriously contemplated giving up teaching. I felt that I could not give my students everything they deserved. I vividly remember the moment I nearly gave up. I was at Maverick, putting gas in my car. I was overwhelmed with a feeling of discouragement and despair. I knew I couldn’t continue. At that exact moment, there was a screeching of tires and a car pulled up next to me. The window rolled down and there was one of my students. He said, “Brother Embree! I just wanted to tell you I love your class! You are my favorite teacher!” And then, vroom, he was gone. I was speechless. If that had happened five minutes earlier, or five minutes later, it would not have had the impact that it did. Coming right at that moment, it was a clear message and a tender mercy. I knew I should not quit. I knew I could endure. I knew all would be well.

It wasn’t until a couple of months later that I received a knock on my office door. It was this same student. He said, “Brother Embree, do you remember when I saw you at Maverick?” Oh, yes. I remembered. “Well, I was just sitting in my apartment when I had the strongest feeling that I needed to get up right then and go to Maverick. So I did. And you were there.” I will be forever grateful to someone who was willing to get up right then and do something that made no sense.

My love for teaching young children prompted me to search for information about Sunbeams and the beloved children’s hymn “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” (Songbook, 60–61). I learned that the song was written by Nellie Talbot in 1899:
Racking her brain for material for her Sunday School class in rural Missouri, she thought to herself, “How can you say there’s nothing to teach about when you have the sun and the sky and the trees and the flowers!” [www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/i/l/l/illbeasb.htm]
Edwin Othello Excell, composer of “Count Your Blessings” (Hymns, 1985, no. 241) and the predominant arranger of “Amazing Grace,” wrote the music to the Sunbeam song, which was originally entitled “I’ll Be a Sunbeam.”
As I continued my search for the history of the Sunbeam song, I discovered that it had a connection to the first Sunbeam Band, an organization for the Christian training of young children (see Encyclopedia of Southern Baptists [Nashville, Tennessee: Broadman Press, 1958], s.v. “Sunbeam Band,” 2:1314). The Sunbeam Band was formed in 1886, when Anna Louise Elsom, a young mother who taught children ages four to 13 at Fairmont Baptist Church in Nelson County, Virginia, “prayed that God would send someone to help her teach the boys and girls about missions” (www.vaiden.net/baptist.html). Soon George Braxton Taylor, a young pastor “with a ‘heart all aglow with a fire for missions,’ came right from Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville to become the new pastor for the Fairmont Baptist Church” (ibid.). It was this young pastor who organized the first Sunbeam Band.
His name, George Braxton Taylor, jumped out at me. I thought to myself, “That name sounds familiar. I wonder if we are related.” So I went to the Taylor family tree that my father had compiled and found several George Taylors listed—which obviously meant it is a common name in my family. Upon viewing this chart more closely, I found that indeed there was a George Braxton Taylor who was born and lived in Virginia at about the same time as the pastor I had been reading about.
After going back and forth over a lot of historical and genealogical information, I found that the George Braxton Taylor who organized the first Sunbeam group was the same George on my family tree. It’s funny that I found him online when, meanwhile, gathering dust on my bookshelf was a 1908 copy of a book he wrote about his father, who was also a Baptist minister. Looking around my home for more material connected to George Braxton Taylor, I realized that I had two books written in the early 1800s by his grandfather—James Barnett Taylor, a prominent leader in the Baptist church—and I also had James’ personal spectacles and handcrafted desk.
Feeling a familial and even tangible connection to George Braxton Taylor, I became more interested in his service as pastor of Fairmont Baptist Church. It was there that Anna Louise Elsom called her class Sunbeams, “because the sunshine illuminated and warmed the corner of the church where she taught the children” (ibid.).

In August of this year, the Aaronic Priesthood young men of our ward had the assignment to administer the sacrament to the residents of a local rest home. I went along with them in case they needed some assistance. Naturally, they didn’t. Everything was under control. But as a result of my attendance there, I had a great experience. After the meeting, the branch president came to me and asked: “Would you happen to be related to Billy E. Dunn?”
I said, “Yes, sir. He’s my father.”
He then said: “Your dad was one of my favorite missionary companions. We served on the mission board together. And I’ll never forget when President Murphy sent us out in the mission’s old Model A Ford to tour the island. …” And he went on reminiscing for some time, telling me of his missionary experiences with my father in Hawaii fifty years ago. By the way he spoke, the light in his eye, and the smile on his face, it was as though he lived those cherished experiences only yesterday.

From the time she was a young teen, Emilie struggled with substance abuse. Experimentation led to habit, and habit eventually hardened into an addiction that held her captive for years, notwithstanding occasional periods of wellness. Emilie carefully concealed her problem, especially after she became a wife and mother.

The beginning of her deliverance did not feel like deliverance at all. One minute, Emilie was undergoing a routine medical exam, and the next, she was being driven by ambulance to an inpatient treatment facility. She began to panic as she thought of being separated from her children, her husband, her home.

That night, alone in a cold, dark room, Emilie curled up on her bed and sobbed. Her ability to reason diminished until finally, overcome with anxiety, fear, and the oppressive darkness in that room and in her soul, Emilie actually thought she would die that night. Alone.

In that desperate condition, Emilie somehow summoned the strength to roll off the bed and onto her knees. Without any posturing that had sometimes been part of previous prayers, Emilie completely surrendered herself to the Lord as she desperately pleaded, “Dear God, I need You. Please help me. I don’t want to be alone. Please get me through this night.”

And immediately, as He had done with Peter of old, Jesus stretched forth His hand and caught her sinking soul.11 There came over Emilie a wondrous calm, courage, assurance, and love. The room was no longer cold, she knew she was not alone, and for the first time since she was 14 years old, Emilie knew everything would be all right. As she “awoke unto God,”12 Emilie fell asleep in peace. And thus we see that “if ye will repent and harden not your hearts, immediately shall the great plan of redemption be brought about unto you.”13

Emilie’s healing and ultimate deliverance took a long time—months of treatment, training, and counseling, during which she was sustained and sometimes carried by His goodness. And that goodness continued with her as she entered the temple with her husband and children to be sealed together forever. Like the people of Zarahemla, Emilie now gives thanks as she reflects on the immediate goodness of God and His power in delivering her from bondage.

Last Saturday, I had the experience of visiting Joe and Linda in their home in Boise, Idaho. They gave me permission to share their story with you in the hope that it might help someone who has to make a similar decision in his or her life. About three to four years ago, Joe was an alcoholic. Linda, while she did not drink, was codependent emotionally on the behavior of an alcoholic husband. She was nearing a nervous breakdown. She had made the decision to save herself and the children from the manipulative behavior of a husband suffering from alcoholism. So she left home, taking the children, except for a fourteen-year-old son.

Joe related to me the depression and despair he felt the night Linda left him. Somewhere in the middle of the night, about 2:00 or 3:00 a.m., Joe awoke. He reached out in prayer to his Heavenly Father and prayed until dawn. It was his Gethsemane. He cried out to the Lord and asked for help with his affliction and expressed love for his caring wife, who had confronted him with his abusive behavior.

When Joe arose in the early morning light, he made a commitment not to take another drink of alcohol. Joe has lived up to that commitment. His testimony as he talks with others in Alcoholics Anonymous is that God lives and answers prayers.

I joined the Church in May 2009. Since then I have quickly come to value the blessings that come from consistently attending family home evening. One memorable experience occurred when our young single adult ward played “chair soccer,” a variation of indoor soccer, in the cultural hall of a local meetinghouse. The point was to defend your chair while attacking other people’s with a rubber ball. I formed an alliance with two other players; by the end we were the only three still in the game, and we promptly turned on each other. Instead of getting upset about it, we couldn’t stop laughing! It was the most fun I have had in ages, and I know that I would be hard pressed to find an experience like that anywhere outside of the Church. Everyone was having a great time, even if he or she didn’t win, but that’s not what made the experience special to me. What really made it memorable was the spirit of friendship I felt at the activity.
Moments like this help me lighten the overwhelming stress of graduate school. No matter how the week has gone, I know that I will always feel better if I go to family home evening. I may not always be thrilled about the activity and I may not always want to take the time, but I never regret going.
Matt Adams, Nebraska, USA

Another missionary couple was called and assigned to a branch in the United States that was so inactive that it was about to be disbanded. The Church had a very poor image in the area.

The elder was a member of the Lions Club (a civic service organization) in his hometown, had served as a city administrator, and was an expert gardener. So he and his wife got acquainted with the local Lions Club, and the elder was invited to speak at one of their regular meetings. He talked about who they were and why they were there, and he also mentioned their need for a building in which the branch members could meet.

After the meeting, those present introduced themselves and offered to help in any way they could. One of them featured the missionaries in his newspaper which had 15,000 subscribers. They were also invited to participate in a television interview and were able to answer many questions about the Church and about genealogy.

Because the elder was an expert gardener, he used that skill to help him activate inactive members and to interest nonmembers in the gospel message. He obtained the use of a couple of acres of ground, prepared it for planting, and then invited people to come and participate. Everyone who joined in was assigned a piece of land, and he showed them how to raise a garden. They all had a good harvest and said it was one of the best gardens they had ever seen in that area. Many doors were opened to the missionaries. Today that branch is thriving, and the members are well on their way to having their own meetinghouse.

My younger brother was going on his first date. I had called home from college to talk to Mom, and she told me that Chris was preparing to leave soon. I insisted on talking to him, and Chris and I visited for a few minutes. I told him I loved him and was very proud of him, and we said good-bye.
That was the last time I spoke to my brother. Less than two weeks later, I received the news that Chris had died in a car accident, and I needed to come home.
A flood of memories washed over me as I made the long journey of more than 3,200 kilometers home.
As I settled into my seat on the airplane, I remembered fondly the day we picked up my mother and baby Chris from the hospital. I was only three and a half years old, but I remember that moment clearly. Mom had wrapped him in a yellow blanket she had made for him, and he was with her in the front seat as we drove home in our old station wagon. I was sitting in the backseat with the rest of my family, but I couldn’t help leaning as far forward as I could to see my new baby brother.
I remembered the time one of my older brothers and I wrapped five-year-old Chris in bathroom tissue until he looked like an Egyptian mummy. His blond hair was barely visible through the white tissue covering his entire body.
About a year later, Chris fell and broke his arm because he was following my lead and jumping on and off Mom and Dad’s bed. Mom quickly let me know that it was my fault, too, for being such a bad example. I felt so bad for him that I decided right then that I would try to be a better sister to my younger brother. And I was. Chris really looked up to me, Mom said.
Before long I was looking up to him. When I came home for Christmas after my first semester at college, I was surprised to find that Chris had outgrown me by a couple of inches. I looked up to him, but not just because of his height. Chris had turned into an impressive young man.
He often shared his spiritual experiences with me. One night when I was in high school, Chris and I were outside on the driveway looking at the stars. It was a beautiful, clear night, and we were reluctant to go inside. We started to talk about the beauty of the earth and all of God’s creations. Chris bore his testimony to me, and I remember thinking how proud I was of him.
Chris and I were friends, and although we didn’t always get along, we were always glad to be brother and sister. I took my job as older sister very seriously. I taught him how to dance, how to drive a car with a manual transmission, and how to be a gentleman. Every year after I got my driver’s license, we would go shopping for Christmas gifts together and talk about anything and everything.
As the memories flooded my mind, I wished with all my heart that I could have had one more chance to hug my little brother and tell him how much I loved him. Tears streamed down my face as I heard an answer to my heartfelt desire. “You will,” a clear voice spoke comfort to my mind. “You will.”
I knew it would be a long time before I would see Chris again, but the sweet peace of the Comforter had now filled me with hope. I knew with certainty that Chris’s spirit was not dead. Because of the Savior, I could someday see Chris again. Jesus Christ died for us that we might live, that through our faithfulness we might return to our Heavenly Father, that families might be together forever. I could be with my younger brother again because Jesus Christ had provided the way!
As I stared out the airplane window at the clouds and sky, I prayed that both Chris and the Savior would know how much I missed and loved them. And I prayed for strength to do what is right so that I might be able to be with them again.
When the airplane landed for refueling, I wiped away my tears. I knew that the rest of the journey home to my family would be difficult, but with the Lord’s help, I would make it. And I know, too, that with the Savior’s help I can make it home to my Father in Heaven to be with my family and loved ones there.

It was a beautiful September day with a warm sun shining. It was only the beginning of the school year, but I was already anxious to finish high school and seminary forever.
“And this scripture I want you to mark with a star,” said Brother Eliason, my seminary teacher. It was Genesis 39:9 [Gen. 39:9], and I automatically marked the scripture, emphasizing “… how then can I do this great wickedness, and sin against God?” We went on to verse 12 [Gen. 39:12] and marked “… fled, and got him out.” Then I drew a star in the margin, which was Brother Eliason’s code for “Very Important Scripture.”
He told us about Joseph’s situation and how it took a great deal of strength for him to run away from Potiphar’s wife. Joseph knew he was in a situation where he needed to have made his decision beforehand. Then Brother Eliason said, “If you ever remember a scripture in your life, remember this one.”
Soon, that day was over, then that week, the month, and then the year. I was planning to go to college, but my plans changed drastically when my mother was diagnosed with cancer. She and my stepfather and I moved to a small apartment close to the hospital she needed.
My stepfather and I took turns driving Mom to the hospital. The medical treatment made her terribly sick, and soon she lost all of her hair. She had been a strong woman who had survived the death of her first husband and the problems of bringing two families together when she married my stepfather, so to see her so weak was very depressing for me.
I enrolled in a community college to take classes and get out of the house, and it was there that I met Ron. He was the friend I needed, and we soon started spending all of our time together. He was older, although he’d never been married, and he had a nice car, a house, and a boat. He was not a member of the Church.
It was easy to forget my problems at home when I was with him, because we did so many fun things together. He even came to church with me regularly. But soon he was suggesting that we spend the night together, since that was the way his relationships usually progressed. I repeatedly told him about my religious conviction against this, but he didn’t give up.
I needed a friend, and I mistakenly continued to see him. I started to weaken at the same time I knew being with him was wrong. I was weak and vulnerable, and it because easier to ignore the Spirit.
Then one night, in one of my weakest times, I started to rationalize. I believe that Ron loved me, and I knew he could take care of me. I suddenly felt very secure in his arms. Then I heard a voice in my head that said, “… fled, and got him out.” I was startled that I would remember that phrase after all that time. Then the voice seemed to come even louder, “… fled, and got him out.” Without another thought I literally fled from the room and the situation.
When my head cleared, I could see how close I had come to making a mistake that would have changed my life forever. I could see how Satan used my emotions to cloud my judgment, and I could also see how one scripture had saved my life.
I often wonder if Brother Eliason knew the impact of what he was teaching us on that ordinary fall day. I am thankful for him and for both a Heavenly Father and an earthly father who love me more than Ron ever did. And I’m thankful for the scriptures—especially for the one I remembered so well.

Several years ago, I approached one of my daughters and said, “My dear, it’s time for an interview.” Her response was less than enthusiastic, and I determined within my own mind that I was boring her terribly. So instead of subjecting her to a formal conversation, I invited her into the car and drove to the Dairy Queen where we both enjoyed a root beer float. All the way to and from the store, I asked questions, and she freely responded. She didn’t even realize that she was being interviewed—or at least that is what I thought. A few weeks later, I announced once again that I wanted to interview her. This time she promptly asked, “Wet or dry?”
I wonder if our conduct of good practices—even the conducting of interviews with our children—is sometimes done in a dry and deadening manner. Is it possible that in our drive to perform or fulfill a Church expectancy we collide with purpose? Can we not become so obsessed with form that we forget family? If so, perhaps we should ask ourselves whether within we are “full of dead men’s bones.” (Matt. 23:27.)
When I think of dry performances, my mind turns to the ancients who altered the lesser law. They multiplied rituals, ceremonies, and symbols to the extent that the law itself was worshiped more than the Lord. In fact, the law was so abused that it pointed people away from, not forward to, the Messiah.
The acceptable performance, I feel, is made “wet” and given zest by the living waters which issue from Christ. It is a performance founded upon inspired teachings such as:
“[You] must have no other object in view … but to glorify God, and must not be influenced by any other motive than that of building his kingdom.” (JS—H 1:46.)
“He that is greatest among you shall be your servant.” (Matt. 23:11.)
“For the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.” (2 Cor. 3:6.)
“When thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.” (Matt. 6:3.)
Living performances are void of roteness and stiffness and self-centered tendencies. They are made by Saints who speak and act according to the feelings of their hearts and the Spirit of the Lord which is in them. (See 2 Ne. 4:12.)
Alma’s interview with Helaman is a classic “wet” and refreshing performance. It is a short, three-question, forty-five-second exchange between father and son. According to the record, Alma was approaching the end of his ministry. He knew that he must select someone to assume prophetic and record-keeping responsibilities. Helaman was his choice. Therefore, Alma came to his son and asked: “Believest thou the words which I spake unto thee concerning those records which have been kept?”
Without hesitation, Helaman answered: “Yea, I believe.” He might have said, “Yes, I believe in the scriptures; and yes, I believe all that you have taught me.”
Alma’s second question was simply: “Believest thou in Jesus Christ, who shall come?” Again, without delay, Helaman stated: “Yea, I believe all the words which thou hast spoken.” (See Alma 45:2–5.)
What a tribute to the father! He had talked of Christ, rejoiced in Christ, preached of Christ, and taught his son to know the source to which he might look for a remission of his sins. (See 2 Ne. 25:26.)
Up to this point in the interview, the father’s questions were sampling the son’s basic beliefs. Now it was essential that those beliefs be tested and determined as being more than idle lip service. Alma’s capstone inquiry was, “Will ye keep my commandments?”
I am not certain what went through Helaman’s mind as he prepared to give his final response. He knew the necessity of honoring his parents and respecting priesthood authority. His previous actions had verified this fact. I like to think that Helaman’s reply was promoted by a heartfelt desire to be obedient rather than by a fear of authority. Deep love of God and father were reflected in his words: “Yea, I will keep thy commandments with all my heart.”
It is a marvelous thing when a father is able to make his commandments square perfectly with God’s expectations. Apparently, this condition was achieved by Alma, for Helaman was ready and willing to obey with all his heart.
This short, informative, and inspiring interview must have pleased Alma greatly. Not only had he communicated heart-to-heart and soul-to-soul with his son, but the son had openly declared his faith and pledged his devotion. To culminate the exchange, Alma, under the inspiration of the Spirit, prophesied and extended this blessing: “Blessed art thou; and the Lord shall prosper thee in this land.” (See Alma 45:6–8.)
I wonder if our interviews with our children are as inspirational and building as the one between Alma and Helaman. I find it significant that the father came to the son; the son was not summoned to stand inspection or to give a report. I find it refreshing that the conversation was direct and without any verbal sparring; it was not labored or rehearsed. I find it exemplary that commitment was drawn without prying, wringing, or pressuring. And I find it most beautiful that the father concluded with a tender blessing.
Is this not a performance, or a pattern of communicating, that we should follow? And I refer to the principles involved, not necessarily to the form.
On one occasion when I arrived home late from an assignment, my wife expressed concern about one of our sons. She was worried that his mind was not riveted upon serving a mission, and she said as much to me. Her concerns certainly captured my attention, and I asked where the son was. She told me that he was in his room preparing to retire. Immediately I went to the room and sat on the edge of his bed. When I asked if I could speak with him a moment, he said, “Certainly.”
The hour was late. He was tired, and so was I. I, therefore, could see that nothing would be gained by a long conversation. And following the direct Alma-and-Helaman approach, the conversation went something like this:
“Son, are you still planning on serving a mission?”
“Yes,” he answered. “I’ve always planned on serving, and I haven’t changed.”
“Son, do you know what qualifies a young man to serve a mission? Do you know what worthiness means?”
“Yes, Dad,” he said. “I understand the requirements and standards of worthiness that must be met.”
I said, “Thank you. I have one last question: Are you clean and worthy to serve? Could you accept a call if one were issued you today?”
There was a moment of reflective silence; then he declared: “It isn’t easy. Temptation is real and found everywhere. However, since you’ve asked, I am clean and I am worthy to serve.”
This was a wonderful, beautiful, spontaneous, and sanctifying experience.
I thanked my son, kissed him, assured him of my love, and bid him good night. I returned to my bedroom and told my wife that all was well and that she could go to sleep.
I do see great wisdom in the practices and performances which we encourage parents to follow in the Church. There is virtue in sponsoring family home evenings; in conducting family prayers, as Elder Perry has mentioned; in giving father’s blessings; and in holding parent-child interviews. All of these are important and have their place. However, the participation in such performances and the reporting of such activity must not become the end. They are means of involving, means of teaching, and means of blessing people. All should be engaged in for the purpose of saving and exalting souls.
I thank God for my wife and my children; they make life so very meaningful. I thank God for the restored Church and living prophets who have provided me inspired programs for the benefit of those around me. And I’m grateful for the gospel which comes from the fountain of living waters—even Jesus Christ. But I pray humbly that I will be blessed not to confuse means and ends or become confused with performances at the expense of the spirit underlying all commandments. May our interviews, our prayers, our communications with our children be sanctifying and free of dryness and “dead men’s bones,” I pray, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I didn’t always pay attention. After hearing the sacrament prayers every week since childhood, I had started to tune them out. If there was something I found more interesting to think about, I’d let my mind wander.
But then one Sunday as I bowed my head to take the sacrament, I noticed my hands. They had many scrapes from various sources. One was caused by a bicycle crash on a night my parents had told me not to go out, and another scratch was from falling down stairs because I was careless. My hands had several marks caused by things I had done.
Some marks had been there longer than others, but I knew that most of them could be healed with time.
As I gently touched the scrapes on my hands, I thought of the wounds on someone else’s hands and how those scars are so vital for us. Jesus Christ went through intense suffering for our spiritual well-being.
I realized that just as my body had physical scars it was trying to heal, my spirit was also pocked and scarred by careless things I had done. Heavenly Father knew we would hurt ourselves spiritually on earth, so he sent his Son to help us heal our wounds.
I started to listen to these sacred prayers and I realized that by taking the sacrament and renewing my covenants, I could wipe away the inward bruises on my soul. Through the years, I had been unpleasant to my family, ungrateful to my Young Women leaders, and imperfect in other ways. My soul was blemished from its original perfection. I knew the formula for healing physical wounds, but the way to heal spiritual scars hadn’t seemed so obvious.
“… keep his commandments which he has given them; that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (D&C 20:77).
By listening closely, I realized that I could be healed through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
I’m thankful for the hint from heaven that reminded me to pay attention when my slightly scarred hands reach out to partake of the sacrament. Each Sunday I commit to try to keep myself from getting more inward scrapes during the next week, and I remember that the wounds I have on my soul can be healed as I keep the commandments and listen to the Holy Ghost.

Years later, during the summer of 1968, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints visited the home of a family member. She declined the elders’ invitation to learn about the Church but sent them to my home.
At our first meeting the missionaries taught me that “a falling away” had occurred from the Church that Jesus Christ had established (see 2 Thessalonians 2:3). What they taught coincided with my personal study, so when they asked if they could visit me again, I agreed.
During their next visit, I had a list of questions. Did Latter-day Saints baptize by immersion? Did they believe in priesthood authority? Did they believe in the healing of the sick? Their answers supported what I had studied in the New Testament. At the end of the visit, they left me with a book they said testified of Jesus Christ.
I set the book on top of the TV and went to bed. But in the middle of the night, I was awakened by a strong feeling I later recognized as the Holy Ghost. I felt prompted to start reading, so I read for an hour and a half before returning to bed. A short time later, I reawakened with the same feeling, so I read some more.
This pattern continued for the next two nights. I loved what I was reading and recognized that the Book of Mormon testified of Jesus Christ.
I decided to ask God for direction. For the first time since I was a little girl, I knelt to pray. I asked Heavenly Father to help me know what to do with the fire I felt inside of me. When I finished my prayer, I felt prompted to revisit the account of the Lamanites’ conversion in 3 Nephi 9. I read that they “were baptized with fire and with the Holy Ghost, and they knew it not” (verse 20).
The phrase “they knew it not” spoke to me. The thought came to me: “The Church of Jesus Christ really is on the earth!” I was eager to talk to the missionaries about what I had read and what I now knew. But when they responded to my questions with an invitation to be baptized, I told them I couldn’t. My husband wouldn’t understand.
As I continued to think about that verse, however, I realized that it contained clear direction for me to offer the sacrifice of “a broken heart and a contrite spirit.” I prayed and asked my Father in Heaven to help me, which He did. After my husband took the missionary discussions, he gave his consent for me to be baptized.
How grateful I am to a loving Heavenly Father for that precious and powerful experience I had as a young mother in reading the Book of Mormon. It led me to the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. As a result, the influence of the Holy Ghost I felt those nights in 1968 is now a constant gift—something that has guided me during my more than 40 years as a member of the Church.

Wong Yun Tai has no problem remembering the warm September evening in 1984. Two missionaries were tracting in the Wu Yuet House, a government housing project in the Tuen Mun area of Hong Kong’s New Territories where the Wong family lived. On the 21st floor, 15-year-old Wong Yun Tai, who goes by the English name of Belle, was eating dinner when a knock came at her door. Two strangers wearing ties, white shirts, and curious black name tags were talking to her through the metal gate that remained locked even though the door was open.
Belle was busy eating, so she told her two visitors to come back in an hour. “I was interested in religion, and I really wanted to know what was true. I just didn’t know which church was true. It was just like Joseph Smith. I really wanted to know which church was God’s true church,” recalls Belle.
When the missionaries returned, she listened politely to their message. Afterward, they gave her a Book of Mormon to read, closed with prayer, and then left. It was a simple meeting with powerful results. “When I prayed, I had a very unique, good feeling in my heart,” she says.
A month later, Belle was baptized. Then the real work began. Belle, the second oldest child of Wong Hong Tsuen and Wong Leung Nan Ho, wanted her parents and brothers and sisters to experience the same gospel joy that had become such an important part of her life. Belle began sharing what she had learned. And now, 11 years later, she’s still sharing.

A true story from the USA.
“Are you ready?” Mami asked.
Anika nodded and hugged her teddy bear. She was bringing it to church. She hoped it would help her feel brave.
Anika had a part to say in the Primary program today. But she was new to this country. She didn’t speak much English. She was going to say it in Spanish instead. Would everyone understand?
Mami gave her a hug. “I know you’re nervous. But remember, the Holy Ghost will be with you! You are not alone.”
That made Anika feel a little better. She smiled at her teddy bear. Then there will be three of us, she thought. Me, my bear, and the Holy Ghost!
At the Primary program, Anika’s class talked about what they had learned that year. They went to the stand one by one. Soon it was Anika’s turn.
She hugged her bear. She could be brave!
“My family studies the scriptures with Come, Follow Me every night,” Anika said in Spanish. She took a deep breath. “We learned how Joseph Smith forgave those who hurt him. I can forgive others too. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Anika went back to her seat. Her teacher smiled at her and her bear. “Good job,” she whispered. “Both of you were very brave!”
Anika felt warm in her heart. She had been brave! And she knew the Holy Ghost was with her.
Illustrations by Katie Rewse