Gospel Story Finder

It was a cold December day in 1988 in San Luis Obispo, California. Stricken with a rare disorder, I struggled with rigid muscles in my abdomen and legs. The cold aggravated my symptoms, making walking difficult and painful.
After our children left for school, I hobbled out to the mailbox to send some letters. In the box I found a damp, crumpled envelope. I glanced at the address.
To my surprise, scrawled across the front was “To Santa, From Sarah.” Sarah, our nine-year-old daughter, was a sensitive and loving child who cared deeply for those around her.
The thought occurred to me that this might be my chance to discover what she really wanted for Christmas. I opened her envelope and read: “Dear Santa, I am nine years old and all I want is this. My mother has been very sick and has not been able to walk, and I am hoping you can get her better for Christmas. That’s all I want. Love, Sarah.”
Icy raindrops blended with the tears on my cheeks. I thought my heart would break, for there was nothing I could do to give Sarah what she wanted for Christmas, and I regretted that her belief in a generous Santa would have to be shattered on Christmas morning.
As I prayed about what to do, I realized I had never prayed to be made well. I had let hopelessness seep into my soul, and despair had replaced my faith.
After a great deal of prayer, I composed a letter from Santa to be delivered to Sarah on Christmas morning. I explained that Heavenly Father has reasons for why things happen as they do and that if she would just believe in Him and keep on praying and doing what she could, things would work out for the best.
Sarah learned that Christmas in 1988 that Santa could not make her mother well but that Heavenly Father could one day, if it was His will. Our daughter quietly transferred her belief in Santa to faith in a loving Heavenly Father.
During the following years, Sarah never ceased praying that I would be made well. After more than six years, a breakthrough in medical technology placed me soundly back on my feet and eliminated my need for either a cane or a wheelchair. Sarah knelt in prayer to express her deep gratitude to Heavenly Father.
Years ago as I opened Sarah’s letter to Santa, I thought I was going to deepen her belief in a fun Christmas tradition. Instead, her selfless request taught me to have childlike faith in a kind Heavenly Father, and that lesson turned out to be my most precious gift of all.

At times these gifts are associated with spiritual promises the Lord will fulfill. A former stake president from Brazil shared with me this experience:
“A faithful single mother with four teenage children was struggling economically. I asked her, ‘Sister, are your children attending seminary regularly?’ She replied, ‘I have many challenges and live far away from the chapel. It is dangerous.’ At that moment, I felt a strong prompting to counsel and promise her. I said, ‘If you don’t have the money, you need to walk the kilometers with them. Go with them; sit in class with them. If you will do that, you will save your children, and all will marry in the temple.’ I was startled by what I had said but could not deny the powerful inspiration.
“She accepted the counsel and for many years walked with her children to seminary. Her promise has now been fulfilled. All are married in the temple, and her son is serving as bishop in his ward.”

Ten years ago, my marriage ended. My ex-husband’s priorities did not include our family and, for more than nine years, my daughter and I struggled to live a normal family life. After the divorce, I worked hard to build a business, but it failed. I felt lost and unsure of my purpose in life.
In 2018, everything began to change. One day, I opened a fortune cookie that contained a verse from Psalms 18:1: “I will love thee, O Lord, my strength.” I had never read the Bible before; I grew up in Taiwan, following family traditions and worshiping ancient idols. Yet I was drawn to the promise of love and strength in that verse and kept the note in my wallet for months.
Later, I shared the note with a Christian friend and asked her about its meaning. She invited me to attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When I entered the chapel I felt peace. A young missionary greeted me and, though I initially thought it was arranged, I learned he had simply followed a prompting to welcome newcomers. He invited me to learn more and I accepted.
At first, I struggled to connect with the teachings. However, when the missionaries shared Alma 32:21—“faith is not to have a perfect knowledge of things”—I was intrigued. I wanted to learn how to develop faith in unseen things. As I continued the lessons, I felt God’s love for the first time in my life. I knew He understood my loneliness and struggles.
Through prayer and study, I witnessed miracles and felt peace. But I hesitated to be baptised. One day, while reading Alma 32:16, I realised God was inviting me to humble myself and trust Him. With a full heart, I chose to be baptised.
Three months later, I received my patriarchal blessing. I began to change as I followed God’s guidance. I felt inspired to search for my ancestors and pray for ways to help them. That same day, I discovered a 3,000-year family history, including an emperor from the Tang Dynasty. Weekly, I took their names to the temple to complete sacred ordinances by proxy.
When the COVID-19 pandemic disrupted my work as an immigration consultant, I sought to dedicate my time to the Lord. I applied to serve as a service missionary and temple worker. During this time, I also prayed for my daughter, who wanted to study in Canada. In the celestial room of the temple, I received the clear inspiration: “Everything is ready; go with faith.”
God provided miracles. My ex-husband agreed to pay my daughter’s school fees, and a missionary helped us find a place to live in Canada. I learned that as I drew near to God, He truly drew near to me (Doctrine and Covenants 88:63).
Later, I longed for an eternal marriage and prepared myself spiritually. After several failed relationships, I learned to see myself as a precious daughter of God. I eventually met my husband on a dating app and, through the Holy Ghost’s guidance, I knew he was the one.
In 2023, my husband and I moved to Scotland, where we faced many challenges. Yet God never abandoned us. Church members helped us find shelter and, through faith and prayer, we found joy in adversity. I obtained a visa just before stricter rules were enforced, allowing us to stay in Scotland permanently.
Today, I serve as a temple ordinance worker and look forward to assisting members in the future Edinburgh Scotland Temple, especially Mandarin speakers.
I testify that Jesus Christ is our Saviour and Redeemer. Because of Him, I found love, strength, and new life.

1. Did you notice how focused this is? When you’re telling a story, just cut to the chase! Your listeners will appreciate it, and you’ll help them know what to look for as they hear the story.
2. Check out how this sentence sets the stage for the entire story without giving away the ending. That’s classy storytelling.
3. Now that’s a great balance of details-enough to explain the situation but not so many as to distract the listeners from the main point of the story.
“There are many ways bishops and quorum members can help to relieve the suffering and anxiety of the unemployed. 1Phil’s Auto of Centerville, Utah, is a testament of what priesthood leadership and a quorum can accomplish.2 Phil was a member of an elders quorum and worked as a mechanic at a local automobile repair shop. Unfortunately, the repair shop where Phil worked experienced economic trouble and had to let Phil go from his job. He was devastated by this turn of events.3
4. In just a couple of sentences, Bishop Edgley captures the essence of brotherhood in a priesthood quorum.
5. By showing how members of the quorum became actively involved, he helps listeners understand that the priesthood is a principle of action. He also gives ideas for how others can help in their quorums.
“On hearing about Phil’s job loss, his bishop, Leon Olson, and his elders quorum presidency prayerfully considered ways they could help Phil get back on his feet. After all, he was a fellow quorum member, a brother, and he needed help.4They concluded that Phil had the skills to run his own business. One of the quorum members offered that he had an old barn that perhaps could be used as a repair shop. Other quorum members could help gather needed tools and supplies to equip the new shop. Almost everyone in the quorum could at least help clean the old barn.5
6. See how he points out the blessings that came through the priesthood. There’s not dramatic fanfare or extra detail, but this story shares a powerful message.
7. Bishop Edgley’s closing ties the whole story together and reminds us of the main point of the experience.
“They shared their ideas with Phil; then they shared their plan with the members of their quorum. The barn was cleaned and renovated, the tools gathered, and all was put in order. Phil’s Auto was a success and eventually moved to better and more permanent quarters—all because his quorum brothers offered help in a time of crisis.6 Priesthood quorums can and must make a difference.”7
Bishop Richard C. Edgley, former First Counselor in the Presiding Bishopric, “This Is Your Phone Call,” Ensign, May 2009, 54.

Cameron and Mom did everything together. They read stories. They played with blocks. They had fun.
Then Nathan came. Nathan was Cameron’s new baby brother. Nathan changed everything.
“Mom,” Cameron said, “can we go to the park?”
“Not now,” Mom said. She was trying to feed Nathan. Milk dribbled down Nathan’s chin.
“Maybe later,” Mom said. “Right now, Nathan needs his nap.”
Mom used to spend all day with me, Cameron thought. Now she was always busy with Nathan. Nathan. Nathan. Nathan.
A few days later, Mom needed to do laundry. She asked Cameron to watch Nathan. Cameron didn’t want to. He sat down slowly next to his brother.
Soon Nathan started crying. He wouldn’t stop. Cameron wanted to call Mom. Then he had an idea. He made silly faces. Nathan laughed!
Mom came back in the room. “Good,” she said. “Nathan’s feeling better.”
“I helped him stop crying!” Cameron said.
“Thank you,” Mom said.
“I like it when Nathan laughs!” Cameron said.
Mom smiled. “And I like it when both of my boys are happy! I love you and Nathan.”
Now Cameron smiled. Mom loved him too. Cameron didn’t feel sad anymore.
The next day Cameron helped Mom get Nathan dressed. He held Nathan. He sang to him. He patted his back. And when Nathan got tired, Cameron helped put him down for a nap.
Cameron liked helping. It felt good.
“Want to read a book while Nathan is sleeping?” Mom asked.
“Yes,” Cameron said. “And can we read one when he wakes up?”
Having a little brother was turning out to be fun after all!

Todd and his four younger brothers were raised in Pleasant Grove and Lindon, Utah. They enjoyed what he describes as an “idyllic” and “wholesome” childhood, one in which the boys enjoyed unstructured time to play, invent, and learn.
“We had a very secure, happy home life,” Elder Christofferson remembers. “Father and Mother taught us through their examples and showed us how to live according to the pattern of the gospel.”
His parents, in turn, remember Todd as an obedient, happy son. “Todd was a good boy and always knew what kind of life he wanted to live,” his father says. “He was a great influence on his brothers.”
His parents also recall that he was eager to help wherever he saw a need. When Todd was 13 years old, his mother underwent significant surgery as part of cancer treatment. Elder Christofferson’s father, who was with her at the hospital, learned that Todd had gathered his brothers to pray for their mother.
The surgery was successful, but it limited Sister Christofferson’s ability to complete some routine household tasks. Todd knew how much his mother loved homemade bread—and how difficult it would be for her to continue to make it. He asked his grandmother to teach him how to bake bread, and he made it regularly for his family until he left for college several years later.
When Todd was about 15 years old, his father, a veterinarian, took a new job in New Brunswick, New Jersey. At the time of the family’s move, Lindon, Utah, had very few people, so the transition to the more populated setting of New Jersey was a dramatic shift for the entire Christofferson family. Still, the next several years—full of new places, people, and opportunities—would be some of the most formative of Todd’s life.
The only Church member in his high school class, Todd enjoyed friendships and associations with people from a variety of cultural and religious backgrounds, something that would continue throughout his life. Todd discovered that many of his friends felt their beliefs as fervently as he felt his own, which caused him to think deeply and pray fervently about what he knew. “I began to see that the Church wasn’t just nice,” he says. “It was life-and-death important. I began to appreciate what I had.”
Greg Christofferson, one of Elder Christofferson’s brothers, who shared a room with him for over 16 years, remembers, “Todd was always spiritually inclined and exemplary in his conduct.” Greg notes that a few years after his brother graduated from high school, one of Todd’s outstanding classmates had been praying with his wife about how to raise their young children. When Latter-day Saint missionaries came to their door, the man recalled how good and honorable Todd, one of the only Latter-day Saints he knew, had been. Because of that memory, the man invited the missionaries in, and he and his family joined the Church.

It was almost midnight in South Africa when President Russell M. Nelson announced in the last conference session on April 4, 2021 that 20 new temples would be built.
Sister Shelly Herbert, who had been watching the session in bed whilst her husband slept, sat up a little straighter. President Henry B. Eyring’s earlier address, in which he invited the saints to ready themselves “for the increased opportunities for temple experiences that are coming for us,”1 had piqued her interest.
When the Prophet read the words ‘Cape Town, South Africa’, “the tears were just streaming down my face,” says Sister Herbert. “As I cried, I shook my husband to wake him up and said, ‘it’s happened!’”
“There were so many people who doubted that we would get a temple, but we expected it, because we believe in petitioning the Lord.”

“We learned about commitment when he told us about receiving his mission call. His parents had both recently passed away and, after their burial, left him with a few debts to pay. When the bishop talked to him about going on a mission, he mentioned these debts to the bishop and said that it would take him six months to pay them if he saved everything that he could.
“At the end of the six months, the bishop returned and asked if the debts had been paid. My father said yes, but that he didn’t have any money left, adding, ‘But I’ll go, even though I don’t have a nickel to my name.’ So he went to the bank, where, because of his reputation for integrity, he was able to borrow enough money to support himself on his mission. When he returned from his mission, he worked and paid the money back.
“I don’t remember how old I was when he first told me that story, but I have remembered it all my life. It helped me understand that you do what you’re asked to do.”

Speaking of Brigham Young has reminded me of the Perpetual Education Fund which we have established. It was only a year ago that I first spoke of this in our general conference. The contributions of generous Latter-day Saints have come in to assure us that this endeavor is now on a solid foundation. We will need more yet, but already it has been demonstrated that vast good will come of this undertaking. Young men and women in the underprivileged areas of the world, young men and women who for the most part are returned missionaries, will be enabled to get good educations that will lift them out of the slough of poverty in which their forebears for generations have struggled. They will marry and go forward with skills that will qualify them to earn well and take their places in society where they can make a substantial contribution. They will likewise grow in the Church, filling positions of responsibility and rearing families who will continue in the faith.

I have time to read only one testimonial. It comes from a young man who has been blessed by this program.

He says: “It is so wonderful that I do not have to just dream anymore about my education or my future. The Lord has cleared the way, and I am doing it!
“I am currently attending a great technical institute in our country, where I am studying to become a computer technician. … By going to school, I am discovering my abilities. The discipline I developed on my mission helps me to succeed. … Never before has any young man felt more blessed than I do. The PEF has strengthened my faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. Now, more than ever, I feel the responsibility the gospel places upon me to prepare myself to be a better member, a better leader, and a better father. …
“My dear mother, who has sacrificed so much, gets so emotional that she cries when she prays at night because of her gratitude to the Lord. …
“Now, I envision my town being blessed because of me. I envision the Church with leaders who have financial stability and who can support the Lord’s work with all their might, mind, and strength. I see the Church prospering. I am excited to start my own family and teach them that we can be self-sufficient. So I must finish my education. I will then repay the loan quickly to help my fellowmen. … I am grateful for the Savior’s mercy. He truly sustains us with His love.”

And so it goes, my brothers and sisters. As this great work moves across the earth, we are blessing now some 2,400 young people. Others will be blessed.

They met in the kitchen for the priests quorum lesson. John sat in the back row and idly played with a set of keys while his adviser gave the lesson. He never volunteered any answers; it was a practice he had acquired early in school.
Brother Stewart came into the kitchen and interrupted the lesson. He had a large bald spot that made his head look like an eagle’s nest. John never did know what calling Brother Stewart had, but he always carried a clipboard.
“We need some help with the ward welfare project next Saturday,” Brother Stewart announced.
John hunched over in his chair, trying to make himself as small as possible.
Seconds of silence passed. Finally one of the priests cleared his throat: “I can’t next Saturday. That’s when we’re going to practice for the roadshow.”
“That’s right!” another remembered happily. “I can’t either.”
Brother Stewart waited, his pen ready to pounce on a name.
“John,” his adviser asked, “are you in the roadshow?”
“Are you kidding?” John scoffed, “No way.”
“Well, could you work for a couple of hours next Saturday?”
“I don’t know anything about the welfare project,” John complained.
“No trouble,” Brother Stewart replied, already writing down the name, “we’ll show you what needs to be done. Anybody else?”
Before he left, one other priest had agreed to work.
On Friday night John was involved in his usual TV marathon when the phone rang. His father answered it, took the message, and relayed it to John. “It was Brother Stewart. He just wanted to remind you about working on the welfare project tomorrow.”
Since his father now knew about the assignment, John realized that he wouldn’t be able to conveniently forget it.
“I guess that means you’ll need the car,” his father said.
“Yeah,” John brightened, “I guess I will.”
John stopped by Saturday morning for the other priest who had volunteered to work. On their way out, they stopped at a drive-in and had a milk shake.
They arrived a half hour late.
The welfare project was honey production, and the ward had 50 hives. The efforts on that February day involved building new hives for the coming season. John was given the job of collecting nine newly assembled wax frames from the assembly line of ten people making them. He put the new frames into a newly constructed box that people called a “super.” Then he carried the new super to a storage area.
On the second that the two hours he’d been assigned to work had elapsed, John was heading for the door. Before he made it out of the building, he was intercepted by Brother Stewart.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” John answered. “I’ve worked my two hours.”
“But you’re not smiling.”
“So?”
“When I see someone leave here who isn’t smiling, I get concerned.”
“Oh wow,” John cynically thought to himself.
“Aren’t you happy that you worked here today?”
“Sure, and I’m also happy to be going home.”
Brother Stewart thrust his arm around John’s shoulder. “You can’t go home yet.”
John felt himself being escorted back to the assembly line.
“Why not?”
“You haven’t worked here long enough to catch the vision of Church welfare projects. You need to work here until you do.”
John stopped and squared off, facing Brother Stewart.
“You can’t make me stay.”
“I know, but please stay. Working on welfare projects is supposed to bring you blessings. It’s supposed to make you feel good. Stay here just a little while longer. I’ll even give you a different job.”
John was given a hammer and a place in the assembly line.
“Work with Brother Mattson. Ask him about bees.”
Brother Mattson was at least 70 years old. He had worked with bees all his life and helped the ward start its honey project two years ago.
“If you’re going to work here, you’d better learn how to build the frames right. Next summer, each of these frames will hold 20 pounds of honey. They’ve got to be built right so they won’t fall apart.”
Brother Mattson showed him each step in assembling the plastic laminated sheet and wooden frame together.
The first frame that John built needed some work by Brother Mattson before it was good enough. On the second frame, John had to pull out one of his nails and redrive it.
Finally, after 15 minutes, John showed Brother Mattson a frame that was built exactly the way he had been told. Brother Mattson examined it carefully, and then smiled and said, “I couldn’t do better myself. Now all you need to do is work on speed.”
At what seemed a short time later, his friend from the priests quorum came over to John.
“Let’s go. I finally got away from Brother Stewart. Let’s get out of here before he puts us back to work.”
“I think I’ll stay,” John said.
“Are you crazy? We’ve already been here three hours.”
“Can you get a ride with someone else? I’m staying.”
Sunday morning during their quorum lesson, Brother Stewart came again with his clipboard.
“We need to build some more frames next Saturday. We didn’t finish yesterday.”
Two of the quorum members began to tie their shoes.
“I’ll go,” John said.
“You went last week,” his adviser said.
“That’s okay. I don’t mind.”
“We need two crews, one to work in the morning and one to work in the afternoon. When do you want to work?”
“I don’t mind working all day,” he said. The priest next to John looked at him strangely.
On Monday morning John faced the ordeal of school and, much worse, American History and Mr. Lattimer, who had a theory that the more uncomfortable a student was in class the more he learned.
John was gazing out the window, coveting the cars in the parking lot, when Mr. Lattimer confronted him.
“You seem bored by our discussion.”
“No,” John answered. He had learned long ago that you never tell a teacher that you’re bored—even when you are.
“Maybe it’s because you already know about the Civil War. Let’s see, can you tell me when the Civil War began?”
“No.”
“Can you tell me when it ended?”
“No.”
“Can you explain the extent of foreign intervention in the war?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” Mr. Lattimer derided. He had a habit of repeating what a student said and making it sound ridiculous. “Did you read the assigned material?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. There must be a better reason than that.”
“I don’t like to read,” John confessed.
“You don’t like to read. If you don’t like to read, then why don’t you pay attention in class? Do you think that might help?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how important an education is today? What kind of a job do you think you can get if you don’t read?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know? Let me tell you. I might as well give you a broom and let you practice using it because that’s all you’ll do in life unless you show a little interest in school. Do you read anything?”
“No.”
“I bet you watch TV though, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
Mr. Lattimer then went on about how TV was wrecking the education system. John sat quietly in his desk, outwardly quiet, but inside furious and embarrassed.
The winter months passed slowly. John’s grades that year were even lower than they had ever been before, which prompted several discussions between him and his father.
“How do you expect to go to college on these grades?”
“I don’t. I’m never going to school again after I graduate.”
“What will you do to make money?”
“I’ll work.”
“You need an education to get anywhere today,” his father said.
“Okay,” John exploded, “I won’t get anywhere!”
The next time the ward built new frames was in May. Again John volunteered to work. By then he was almost as good as Brother Mattson in assembling frames.
While he was working, Brother Stewart escorted a girl over to the assembly line. “John, this is Cathy Barker. Her parents just moved here a few weeks ago. Cathy’s just come back from BYU, and she’s here for the summer. Will you show her how to build frames?”
Cathy stood next to John and observed as he put a frame together. He found it hard to concentrate on his work. Her pale blonde hair flowed gently around her face. Once as she leaned over to see where he placed a nail, he could feel her hair brushing against his arm.
John knew guys at school who had clever sayings that could start up a conversation with a girl, but John didn’t remember what they were. The more good-looking a girl was, the less he could say to her. With Cathy he couldn’t say anything at all.
“How old are you?” Cathy asked.
“Seventeen.”
“I’m 19,” she said.
“Oh.”
Several minutes passed as they both worked silently.
“You must be the strong silent type,” she said.
“Why?”
“You don’t talk much.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘Tell me about yourself.’”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Tell me about yourself.”
Cathy talked about where her parents had lived before they’d moved, and about BYU and her roommates, and how she didn’t know anybody in the ward.
“How about yourself?” Cathy asked. “Tell me about you.”
“There’s not much to tell. I’ll be a junior in high school next year. That’s about it.”
“That’s not much.”
“No.”
At noon they walked outside and ate their sack lunches together.
“John, would you consider … no, forget it.”
“What?”
“Well, I’m going to go crazy this summer unless I get out of the house. Could we go roller skating or fishing or something this summer?”
“Me take you out?” John asked. “There must be plenty of guys who want to take you out.”
“Well, there’s a 26-year-old returned missionary I met last Sunday in church. But I’m a little wary of him. He keeps talking about how much he wants to get married and about the rising price of houses. He says if he waits any longer, he won’t be able to afford a house. I think he’d marry me just to avoid spiraling inflation. Anyway, he makes me nervous.”
“I can take you fishing, but I still don’t see why you’d go with me.”
“I’m waiting for a missionary who gets back in 18 months, and I don’t want a romance, but I could use a friend. Okay?”
“Okay,” John agreed. Before John left that day, Brother Mattson asked him if he’d go out with him next Saturday to work the hives. “I’ve got to install some new queen bees. The ward has a bee suit you can wear. How about it?”
“Okay,” John said.
A week later Brother Mattson picked John up about 10:00 in the morning. They rode in his old battered pickup.
“Sweet clover looks real good this year, don’t it?” Brother Mattson remarked as they bounced along a gravel road toward the ward’s beehives.
John looked out the window. It was the first time he’d ever noticed the tiny yellow flowers on what he thought were just weeds along the side of the road.
After they arrived at the site, they put on their bee suits over their clothes. By the time John got on the white coveralls, the veil, the long gloves, and put elastic bands around the cuffs of his suit to keep bees from crawling up his leg, he felt like an astronaut about to set foot on the moon.
Brother Mattson opened up a hive and examined each frame to find the old queen. When he found her, he killed her and set a small cage with the new queen carefully into the super.
“See that plug there,” Brother Mattson said, pointing to a plugged hole in the cage. “It’s made of candy. The worker bees will go to work clearing the plug, and by the time they get it open and get the new queen free, they’ll be accustomed to her and they’ll accept her.”
As they worked, Brother Mattson pointed out the drone bees, the larva cells, and explained about beekeeping. Even though there was a cloud of bees around them, John felt his fear leaving and being replaced by deep respect.
After they got back to town, Brother Mattson loaned him two books about beekeeping. John read the books in two weeks.
From that time on, he went out with Brother Mattson every chance he got.
A few weeks later in priesthood meeting opening exercises, Brother Stewart announced that a local beekeeper wanted to sell his 50 hives. The ward was going to buy 20 of them, but any members who wanted to buy any of the other hives should contact him.
As they were leaving to go home to get the family for Sunday School, John told his father, “I want to buy ten hives.”
“What for?”
“I can provide the family with honey for food storage and sell the rest.”
“I don’t know,” his father said. “The last project you started and didn’t finish was selling Christmas cards. That cost me $20.”
“That was four years ago. Besides, this is different.”
“Let me think about it. Okay?”
On Monday night after family home evening, the family talked about John’s plan. Finally they decided that John would borrow $500 from the bank on his father’s signature, and he’d also throw in $200 of his own savings to buy 15 hives.
By Wednesday, John found a place to put his hives. It was in the middle of an alfalfa field in a small valley whose hills were covered with sweet clover.
He took Cathy fishing a couple of times a month. She was easy to please, she could bait her own hook, and she seemed happy just to be with him without feeling pressure about getting serious. But John felt himself falling in love, although he didn’t tell her because he knew it would upset her.
Once that summer he took her out to see his bees. As he helped her get her bee suit and veil and gloves on, she half-seriously threatened, “If I get stung, you’re in real trouble.”
“Don’t worry. Bees don’t hurt anybody unless they’re being hurt.”
He took off the top hive cover, and pulled out a frame of honey, covered with bees. He gently brushed them off with a small brush. A cloud of bees surrounded them. He showed her the pattern of eggs laid by the queen, and, after some searching of some frames from another super, he showed her the queen.
“You love it here, don’t you?” she asked him thoughtfully.
He nodded his head. “I really do.”
After they were through, they moved several hundred feet away from the hives, took off their veils, and sat down and ate lunch. John looked up from his sandwich, and it seemed that his mind etched the scene forever into his memory. Cathy, her hair the color of ripe wheat, talked happily about the Church; her voice was like a pleasant song. The field of alfalfa was a sea of purple blossoms. Further up on the hill, the yellow sweet clover blanketed the ground. John watched a steady stream of his bees returning to the hives, each one carrying a small bead of pollen. Small puffs of clouds hung lazily in the sun-drenched sky.
It was a moment that lasted forever.
“Are you listening to what I’m saying?” Cathy asked.
“Cathy, you’re so beautiful.”
“Oh sure,” she said with embarrassment, “in a pair of coveralls.”
“Really you are.” He thought about telling her that the sun made her hair look like a tan flame, and that he loved her, and that the moment seemed perfect, as if all nature had contrived to give him one moment when all his senses would come alive and record forever in his mind one instant of his life, and that no matter how old he got he’d never forget this one moment.
“It’s real nice out here, isn’t it?” was all he said.
The next Sunday the bishop called him to be an assistant beekeeper for the ward welfare project. John learned as quickly as he could. When Brother Mattson applied powdered antibiotic mixed with powdered sugar to the church bees, John helped him and then hurried to his bees and did the same thing. When Brother Mattson split some hives, John split some of his hives.
By the end of the summer, he had extracted 1,800 pounds of honey from his hives, sold it for $900, paid off his loan, and put $100 dollars in the bank.
From that time on, John knew what he’d do with his life. He’d be a beekeeper.
A day before Cathy was supposed to go back to BYU, he took her out fishing. As they sat in a small rubber raft in the middle of a lake, he finally got the courage to say it.
“Cathy, I think I love you.”
“Do you? I think a lot of you too.”
“If I were older, and if I’d already been on my mission, I’d ask you to marry me.”
She touched his cheek. “I guess our timing’s not too good, huh?”
“I guess not,” John said.
“But you’ll always be one of my best friends,” Cathy told him.
The next day Cathy left for the Y.
The next summer, John set aside $2,000 for his mission from money he’d earned from his hives.
That November John worked with Brother Mattson to winterize each hive. They reduced the entrance holes and wrapped tar paper around each hive to cut down the flow of cold air. The hives were then two supers high, giving the bees just enough honey to survive the winter.
In January of that winter, Brother Mattson died. John learned about it from his father when he got home from school one day.
“It was a heart attack. It came in the night when he was asleep. Maybe he never even woke up.”
John didn’t cry at the funeral or out at the burial site. The graveside service took place in a snowstorm as the prairie winds whipped across the cemetery, slowly drifting over the flowers set there by friends.
The next day John drove out to the ward’s hives. Walking ankle deep in fresh snow, he trudged across the barren fields to the hives. It was too cold to open up the hives, and he didn’t really have a purpose to be there, but he just stood for a long time, his hands in his pockets, looking at the black, tar-paper-covered hives standing alone in the middle of the cold white field. It’s like the bees are in mourning, he thought, seeing the blackness covering each hive. And then the memories of Brother Mattson flooded into his mind, and he heard himself sobbing loudly, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself for a long time.
Two weeks later John was called in to talk with the bishop. “John, you’re the only one in the ward now who knows the details of beekeeping. We’d like you to take Brother Mattson’s place and be the ward’s beekeeper. You’ll work with the priesthood quorums when you need help. Will you do it?”
“Nobody can ever take Brother Mattson’s place,” John said.
“I know, but he’d want us to continue on, wouldn’t he?”
“He would,” John agreed.
“He told me once how proud of you he was, and how much you’d learned. He said that you knew as much as he did. After we cleaned out his apartment, we found a couple of books about beekeeping. I think he’d want you to have them.”
They were the same books Brother Mattson had loaned John after the first time they’d gone out together to work the bees. John handled the worn books with care.
“Bishop, I’ll be glad to accept the calling.”
“I knew we could count on you.”
“There’s just one thing. I’ll need to train someone who can look after the bees while I’m on my mission.”
“Who would you like?”
“My dad.”
“Okay, we’ll call him to be your assistant.”
That winter John spent an hour a week with his father, training him. It brought them close together again.
In April John received a wedding announcement from Cathy, who was getting married to her returned missionary. John attended the reception in the ward cultural hall. She and her husband looked radiant.
“I gave you some honey for your honeymoon,” he told Cathy in the reception line.
“How sweet,” she countered, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
“Have you met my cousin yet?” she asked. “She’s going to be staying with my parents this summer. I’ve told her all about you, and she wants to learn about beekeeping.”
He looked four places down the reception line where a girl with long blonde hair smiled back.
“She’ll be 19 when you return from your mission,” Cathy said with a scheming smile.
The last semester of his senior year, John took an elective course from Mr. Lattimer. It was a class in which each student could specialize in some aspect of American history. John chose to write about beekeeping in America.
“You’re the last person in the world I would have thought would take another course from me,” Mr. Lattimer remarked one afternoon.
“People change,” John said.
“You have. You seem like a different person. You seem to know what you want from life.”
“I do,” John answered, proceeding to outline his plans for a mission, marriage in the temple, and becoming a professional beekeeper.
“What’s made the difference to cause you to change?”
John thought back over the past two years and finally answered, “I guess it all came because I agreed to work on a Church welfare project.”

Karine Dauriat, 12, of Poitiers, talks about life before and after November 1987. “That’s when our family was baptized,” she explains. “There’s a big difference in our home since we joined the Church.”
“That’s true,” says her sister Christelle, 15. “We’re nicer to each other. I think it’s because from the first time the missionaries came, we felt a feeling of joy. We started to understand why we’re here on earth and what we should be doing.”
“We have a common goal now,” says another sister, Sandrine, who is 17. “We want to keep the commandments so we can be an eternal family.”

It had been two years since my first visit to the temple, and I was looking forward to attending again with a group of young adults. My focus was to strengthen myself, make friends, and experience the privilege of performing sacred ordinances.
While in the temple baptistry, I was a bit lost in thought because of nerves. It was only my second time going to the temple, and I was afraid of doing something wrong as I performed ordinances. But then a member of the temple presidency, who was assisting with the baptisms, said to those of us waiting in line that if we could just lift the veil for a second, we could see how many people were in the spirit world waiting to be helped.
That thought pierced my heart, and suddenly I realized how important these ordinances were.
As I reflected on what he said, I remembered a technique that I had learned in a theater class where actors put themselves in the situation of the characters they play in order to portray them more effectively. I wondered if Heavenly Father could help me as I tried to put myself in the shoes of the people I was performing temple ordinances for.
How would I feel if, after decades or even centuries of waiting, I could finally receive the saving ordinances that I had so longed for?
As I tried to think more about those I was doing work for, the Holy Ghost helped me feel a sense of overwhelming joy. I couldn’t hold back my tears. I could sense the happiness of those I had just been baptized for. I felt a strong impression of how they had waited so long for their saving ordinances.
I had been anxious about going to the temple, but I realized that if I forgot about my own worries and feelings and instead focused on fully representing every person I was baptized for, I could feel their joy through the veil.
I was so grateful to be able to serve all day in the temple and help those who needed me to support them so that they could be ready to return to the presence of the Father. I better understood the revelation God gave to the Prophet Joseph Smith in the Kirtland Temple: “All who have died without a knowledge of this gospel, who would have received it if they had been permitted to tarry, shall be heirs of the celestial kingdom of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 137:7).
Before returning home from the temple, all the young adults gathered around to share their testimonies and experiences. The Holy Ghost touched everyone’s heart, and we knew that we were different than we had been when we first arrived at the temple because of our new focus on doing temple and family history work.

Elder Asay has many fond memories of farm work during his childhood. One summer he had a job tromping hay. The hay was stacked loosely on a wagon, and he would climb on the stack, settle the hay, and put it in place so the stack could be high and yet would balance. On the last load, at the end of the day, they would keep it on the wagon and ride with it into town.
One particular day the last load was stacked really high as Carlos and the others rode into town. “Moving up the lane,” Elder Asay related, “we hit some pretty deep ruts, and the load shifted. There was a slope, and as we made a turn from the lane up onto the highway, one of the Jensen brothers, who was driving the team, said he didn’t know if the load would stay on the wagon. Brother Jensen asked me to move to the rear of the load so that if it shifted and tipped over, I would be able to slip off the back. But when I got midway onto the load, the wagon tipped and I was thrown some distance onto a rock pile. I remember landing on my shins and then all the hay came down on top of me. My legs were bruised and bleeding.
“Hay is heavy and I thought I was going to suffocate, but somehow I remembered there was a fence close-by. So I started to crawl toward it, knowing that if I could reach it, I could climb up out of the hay. My progress was slow, but as I came up to the top of the fence, I saw the Jensen brothers frantically looking for me. It was a miracle my life was spared.”

At the rooster’s first call, Juan Carlos opened his eyes and peeked through the cracks in the wooden wall just above his head. The darkness was fading. Today was his first day to help Sister Fuentes make tortillas. Time to get ready, he thought. He slipped from his hammock to the dirt floor below and went outside to wash himself in the cool water from the pump.
Stake conference would be in two months, and last week President García, the branch president, had announced that a General Authority would be coming. That was fantastic, except for one thing—the city boys would all be wearing either fine Panama shirts or white shirts and ties. Even Juan’s father had a Sunday shirt. One of the missionaries who had completed his mission and gone home had given it to him.
Juan Carlos had only one shirt. His mother had stitched it from a flour sack. He wore it every day of the week, even to church on Sundays. It embarrassed Juan to wear a flour-sack shirt to church—even though the branch met in a one-room home—and he had told his father so. His father had just said, “Remember, son, the Lord looks on the inside of a person, not the outside.” But last conference, Juan had felt so uncomfortable about his shirt that afterward he hadn’t waited in line to shake anyone’s hand, and he couldn’t even remember what the speakers had said. This conference would be different, however—thanks to the tortillas.
Juan loved Sister Fuentes, who was the Primary teacher in their little branch of only four families and six children. She was also the village tortilla maker. It was hard work to soak and grind the corn, haul buckets of water, and search for firewood in the forest up the hill. Tortillas had to be made early, for before breakfast nearly every family in the village would send a child to Sister Fuentes with a small coin to buy some of the steaming, thick, pale, perfectly even circles of dough that she had patted out. Before they left to work in the fields, the men wanted hot tortillas. And later, for lunch, they would eat them cold, folded over some beans.
Saturday Sister Fuentes had come to his home. “Juan Carlos,” she said, “I am looking for someone to help me. So many want tortillas in the mornings! I have tried, but I just can’t make enough for everyone by myself. I was wondering if you would help me. It is very hard work, but I will pay you two lempiras every week.”
Two lempiras! That was a lot of money—why, he could earn enough before conference came to buy a white shirt, if he saved carefully!
Sister Fuentes was already working when Juan Carlos arrived on Monday. The morning passed quickly. He built the fire, hauled water, and ground corn between two stones. He was amazed to see how fast her hands could fly as she worked with the tortilla dough. After the tortillas were sold, there were pots to scrub and wood to gather for the next day.
Day after day he spent his mornings working. Sometimes it was hard to leave his hammock while others in his family still slept. But he just imagined wearing a new white shirt to conference and shaking a General Authority’s hand, and it became easy. Every Saturday he tied two more little silver coins into his handkerchief and hid them under a rock in the corner of his home.
Nearly every week President García traveled by bus to the big city on business. On his last trip to town before conference, after his usual errands, he had a special purchase to make, for in his pocket was Juan’s money, still tied in the handkerchief.
The shirt was beautiful! It was sparkling white, with four pleats down the front and shiny buttons. Juan had never seen such a beautiful shirt. Carefully he folded it and put it back in its crinkly sack. In just a few more days, he, Juan Carlos, would wear it to conference. He certainly wouldn’t be embarrassed then.
The next morning, Juan, eager to tell Sister Fuentes about the shirt, ran all the way to her home. He was surprised to find her still lying on her cot. That wasn’t like her at all. Then his eyes shifted to her ankle, and a cold chill ran down his spine. It was swollen to twice its usual size, and the purple and black colors told him the injury was serious.
“The clinic nurse thinks that it is broken,” Sister Fuentes said. “She has no way to treat broken bones, so I must go to the city to the hospital if I want it fixed. Otherwise, I must stay in bed for a very long time.”
Traveling to the city and then to the hospital by taxi would be very expensive. Juan knew that few people from the country could afford it. Several villagers limped from poorly healed bones, and Juan remembered how his grandmother’s hand had hurt her for many years after she broke it. As he began making the morning tortillas alone, he promised in his heart to help Sister Fuentes get to the hospital—no matter what! A plan had already formed in his mind when he hurried home that day. He would sell his new shirt and give Sister Fuentes the money for the hospital visit. …
A soft breeze blew the scent of flowers through the louvered windows and over to the church bench where Juan Carlos sat. How very warm he felt inside. His sister, Lizeta, was on his lap as usual. Sister Fuentes was on one side, her ankle and foot covered with thick white plaster. His father and mother sat on his other side. He listened carefully to the speakers and was sure that this was the best stake conference ever. The closing prayer was said, and a few minutes later—it was a million times better than he had imagined—he was shaking hands with the General Authority.
“Juan Carlos,” the General Authority said, “I would like you to know that the Lord loves you and is proud of you.”
Juan Carlos’s heart was flooded with joy. His father was right—the Lord did look on the inside, not the outside. No one had even noticed his flour-sack shirt. Not even Juan Carlos.

On one occasion, a missionary in the final week of his mission reminded me that I had given him clearance two years previously to serve a mission. The clearance had been extended with some reservations on my part because he had indulged in a number of transgressions before his mission. He said: “Elder Asay, you allowed me to go into the field after due repentance and after I promised that I would be strictly obedient and would work diligently. I can assure you that I have worked hard and have obeyed every rule.” Then he said something very significant. “I feel that my sins have been forgiven. I feel perfectly clean.” He had been cleansed through selfless service and by developing a close association with the Holy Spirit. He had been through the refiner’s fire, and impurities had been burned away.

President Hinckley shared the following story about Sister Hinckley’s grandfather at the rededication of the Manti Temple. He said:
“Yesterday morning as we came here, Sister Hinckley and I were brought to the east temple door. They wanted to get us in quietly, I guess. But in any event we were brought privately to the east temple door, and the door was opened. There are two of them there (two sets of them), but the one we came through was opened—a very, very heavy door, some three inches thick, beautifully milled, beautifully put together, beautifully hung on substantial hardware. And it was a very touching experience because her grandfather, who was a young man then, at the time twenty-four years of age, married with one child and another one coming, hung those doors. And in the course of hanging those very heavy doors he suffered a hernia which became strangulated. He suffered terrible pain for a few days and died, literally a martyr to the faith which had prompted him to work on this temple as a finish carpenter over a long period of time, for which he received no compensation other than a pound of butter or a dozen eggs now and again” (fifth session, 15 June 1985).

When I went to youth conference one year, I had no idea of the impact it would have on me. We had three days packed full of fun activities, and I was excited to see old friends, meet new ones, and get involved. But my favorite part was the testimony meeting. The Spirit was strong as we bore our testimonies of the gospel, and many of us were moved to tears. For me this beautiful feeling lasted for days after the conference, and I wanted it to stay. I didn’t even watch TV or listen to non-Church music. This experience truly strengthened my testimony of the Church.
The Spirit is the only way for us to know the Church is true. We must do things to allow the Holy Ghost to be with us, like studying the scriptures, praying sincerely every day, and thinking of times when we have felt the Spirit. When we live with the Spirit, we can feel His warmth and know the Church is true. I love the gospel; it has answers and direction. I wish that everyone in the world could know what we know.
Tahnee H., age 20, South Australia

Thomas hoed a stubborn weed out of the corn as the sun beat down on his back. Wiping the sweat from his face, he lifted his eyes longingly to the cool mountains. How he wished he was in the whispery shade of the trees there!
He loved the rustle of the white pines and the cool breezes that created soothing music among their branches. He loved the smell of the fresh wind filtering through the pines. Those ancient trees standing straight and tall seemed to him like soldiers on guard.
How he loved it when it was time to head for the hills! Every fall they took their team up to the mountains to cut firewood. He knew that they needed the wood to keep their family warm, yet every time one of those giant pines fell, he hurt inside. He felt a reverence for them. They had lived so long. They were so tall and straight.
When they brought the wood down to their farm, they sawed and chopped the logs into firewood. Thomas had a natural love for good wood and saved any exceptionally nice pieces. Then, during cold, snowy, winter days, he carefully sawed, carved, and fitted wood pieces together to make fine furniture. He loved the feel of this good wood in his hands.
Thomas remembered Grandfather Heiler. He, too, had a feel for wood. Before he had left Germany, Grandfather was a master cabinetmaker. He had planned to teach Thomas his craft but died in Winter Quarters before he could teach the boy much. Crossing the prairies was not a good place to learn woodworking. Still, it made Thomas feel good to turn this beautiful white pine wood into pieces of furniture that his grateful mother lovingly polished.
Returning to his hoeing, he stopped dreaming of cool pine forests. It wasn’t likely that he’d get up to the mountains for weeks. There was too much to do here. Even craftsmen had to delay their work to grow crops. There were no stores to buy food at in this pioneer land. His family must grow what they ate, and they worked hard to get it.
As he hoed, he spotted a carriage pulling up to their home. He watched as their neighbor, Brother Erickson, got out. Ether, Thomas’s little brother, ran to the fields to fetch his father. What was happening? What would bring a neighbor out during farming season on a Tuesday morning?
Thomas kept one eye on his hoeing and one eye on the house. When his father came in from the field and greeted Brother Erickson, Thomas worked his way closer to hear their conversation.
“The word is out that Brother Brigham [President Brigham Young] is looking for some fine wood to help build an organ for the new tabernacle,” Brother Erickson told Father. “I thought you’d like to know that.”
“Yes,” Father said slowly. “That’s interesting. But what has it to do with me?”
Brother Erickson pointed to their cabin. “Just look at those logs. The finest logs I’ve seen anywhere. They’re long and smooth, and there is not a knothole in the whole of it!”
“That’s true,” Father said. “Those logs made a snug cabin for us. Are you thinking we should let Brother Brigham know about the pine we have around here? It’s over three hundred miles to Salt Lake City! Couldn’t they find some closer?”
“Brother Robert Gardner and his son William have been traveling all over the territory, searching out good wood. Brother Brigham charged them with that responsibility. I don’t think the distance would be a problem if the wood was good.”
Father nodded. “Pine Valley would be proud to help with the furnishing of that great building. Let’s do it! Let’s send a piece of one of our very best logs.”
Over the next weeks, several men from the valley gathered at their cabin to help select and cut just the right wood to send to Salt Lake City.
Thomas wished that he could be the one to take the wood there. He ran his hand over the smooth surface of the pine chest he was making. He knew that when the Gardners saw this wood, they would want it.
“We’ll send it with one of the missionaries heading that way,” Bishop Johansen told the men. “There’s no need for a special trip.”
Hanging his head, Thomas went back to work. He longed to travel to Salt Lake City and see how the work on the organ and the tabernacle was getting along. But he knew that his family still needed every spare moment they had to provide a living for themselves. There just was no time for trips anywhere.
Over the next months, Thomas waited to hear if their beautiful white pine had been chosen for the organ. No word came. Then in the spring, men came with ox teams to haul the superb logs to Salt Lake City.
“Dad,” Thomas exclaimed happily when he saw the teams snaking up the mountain, “they’re going to use our wood!”
His father smiled at him. “It was the best they found in the territory. They’ll use our wood for some of the pipes. The metal pipes are being made back East by the Simmons company. But the largest of the wood pipes are of our wood. And they’re encasing some pipes in pine that comes from a canyon close to Salt Lake City. They’ll paint that wood to look like oak.”
Thomas grinned from ear to ear. “I sure would like to hear that organ when it’s completed.”
His father put his hand on his shoulder. “I think we could manage a trip, even one that far, to attend general conference one of these years.”
It was a promise he kept, but Thomas had to wait two whole years for the organ and the Salt Lake Tabernacle to be ready for a conference. However, in September 1867, after the crops were safely in their bins, Thomas’s family began the slow wagon ride to Salt Lake City. They arrived in plenty of time for the conference on October 6.
That morning, Thomas slid into his seat. He listened in awe to the partially finished organ. He knew that it would take Brother Ridges several more years to finish it, but he loved the sound.
Here in the wilds of Deseret, beautiful music was forming. The organ would someday be world famous. Thomas knew that as it was completed, it would only become better. For now, he was happy just to listen to its beautiful strains.
Later that day, his father introduced him to Joseph Ridges. When he found that Thomas was interested in the instrument, he showed him what they were doing. Then he introduced him to Niels Johnson, Shure Olsen, David Anderson, William Pinney, and John Sandberg, men he had been training to work on the organ, too. They were all there that day to hear its beautiful tones.
The following Wednesday, as his family traveled home, Thomas was still marveling at what he’d seen and heard. Here in the wilds of Deseret, the Lord had helped his servants use what materials they had, and what skill they had, to begin building one of the greatest organs in the world. He had felt the Spirit very strongly as its music flowed through that great building. He thrilled at the messages of the prophets. He loved the music the choir sang, accompanied by the organ. How proud he was that some of the wood inside it came from his valley.

Elder John Sonnenberg’s parents joined the Church in Germany just prior to his birth. His father had been a Lutheran, his mother a Catholic. The missionaries knocked on the door of their home in Schneidemühl and said, “We’re missionaries from America. We have the gospel of Jesus Christ, and we would like to teach it to you.” His father invited them in, and the missionaries taught them the gospel. Elder Sonnenberg’s father joined the Church first.
His mother, a brilliant lady with a photographic memory, “was a little resistant to their message. She wanted to prove the Book of Mormon. Upon reading the challenge given in the tenth chapter of Moroni, verses four and five, she recognized that the Book of Mormon could only have been written under the instrumentality of Jesus Christ. She came to know for herself that it was of the Lord.”
Elder Sonnenberg’s father emigrated to America in 1927, going ahead of the family to earn enough money to bring them over. A year later Elder Sonnenberg and the rest of his family sailed to America on the Columbus. “It was a scary trip for my mother,” he recalled. “She had three little children to care for, and she spoke no English.
“On arriving in America, we moved to a suburb of Chicago. Because we couldn’t speak English, we were frequently ridiculed. Mother often escorted us to school for our protection. My brother and I, in turn, were very protective of our little sister.
“We attended the Logan Square Branch in the Northern States Mission and usually had to walk the five miles to get to church, but we enjoyed it. Sometimes we had enough money, three pennies or so, to ride the streetcar. A number of the members were of German extraction, and we were greeted with open arms. Two of my choice teachers were President Marion G. Romney’s sisters, Merlyn and Jasmine. Joseph Janse and Carl Waldvogel also spent much time with us. We lived very humbly, and they looked after our needs. I have a well-worn copy of the Book of Mormon that was presented to me when it was new by my Primary teacher for good attendance in 1929, my first year in America.
“When we left Germany, the country was in the midst of skyrocketing inflation; a million marks wouldn’t even buy a loaf of bread. Upon arriving in America, we found it in the throes of the Depression. My father’s professional skills as a tool and die maker were in short demand, and he couldn’t find work. My mother, however, was able to find housework. Because she was an extremely good cook, she also was able to get a job with a German salad-making company. She worked hard just to put food on the table for us. Then Dad got a job as a maintenance man, and I helped him during much of my growing-up years. We would go early in the morning to about fourteen or fifteen different buildings and shovel coal into the furnaces.
“Because we had to work hard, we developed strength. My brother and I participated in basketball, baseball, football, tennis, table tennis, and swimming and became quite good. Our classmates began to accept us more readily. Our family still enjoys sports together.
“My father was the oldest of eleven children, and he was the only one who accepted the gospel. Some of our children who have gone on missions to Germany have testified to my relatives, but none of them have yet accepted the gospel.
“I was born in a land that is now behind the Iron Curtain. Probably one of my choicest experiences was to be at the dedication ceremony of the Freiberg Temple. The temple is very near the place where I was born. It was a soul-stirring experience to see my own people waving white handkerchiefs to President Gordon B. Hinckley and Elder Thomas S. Monson as the bus pulled away at the conclusion of the dedication.
“My suggestion to children is this: Live each day so that the Holy Ghost will be your constant companion. Serving the Savior will bring abundant blessings to you, and family ties will be made stronger and homes will be more heavenly. Sustain your leaders and follow their counsel.”

The article tells about an event in the life of Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin (1917–2008) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. When he was a college student, Elder Wirthlin played in a championship game of American football. He was handed the ball, plunged forward, but ended up two inches (5 cm) short of the goal line. At the bottom of a pile of players, rather than pushing the ball ahead, he remembered the words of his mother that he should always do what is right. He left the ball where it was.