Gospel Story Finder

1. Bobby knocked on his sister Alicia’s door. “Will you help me button my white shirt? I want to look just like the bishop.” Alicia smiled as she helped him. “You will look just like the bishop,” she said.
2. Bobby went to his brother Chris. “Will you help me tie my tie? I want to look just like the bishop.” Chris tied Bobby’s tie and said, “You will look just like the bishop.”
3. Bobby saw his sister Sarah fixing Laura’s hair. “Will you help me tie my brown shoes?” Bobby asked. “I want to look just like the bishop.” Sarah tied his shoes. “You will look just like the bishop,” she said.
4. “Don’t forget your suit coat,” Laura said. She helped him put his arms in the sleeves of the coat. “You will look just like the bishop.”
5. Bobby saw Mom looking in the mirror. “Mom, will you comb my hair? I want to look just like the bishop.” Mom sprayed Bobby’s hair with water and combed it. “You will look just like the bishop.”
6. Bobby stood at the front door. “Are we ready to go?” Bobby asked. “I want to be on time, just like the bishop.” “Don’t forget your scriptures,” Dad said. “You will need them to look like the bishop.”
7. Bobby picked up his scriptures. “Am I ready?” he asked. “You look just like the bishop,” Dad said.
8. At church, Bobby sat reverently as he waited for sacrament meeting to start. Then he saw a hand stretched out in front of him. It was the bishop! The bishop shook Bobby’s hand. “Is that you, Bobby?” the bishop asked. “I thought it was me!”

President Hinckley’s grandfather, Ira Nathanial Hinckley, lost his parents and was sent from Michigan to Springfield, Illinois, to live with his grandparents. As a teenager he walked to Nauvoo, Illinois, and met the Prophet Joseph Smith.
He traveled westward with the pioneers. During the U.S. Civil War he volunteered for service in the Union army guarding the transcontinental telegraph line. Later he was sent by Brigham Young to Cove Creek, Utah, where he built the fort that stands today.
On the trek west, Ira Hinckley stayed back for one season to plow the prairies and plant grain that he would not harvest. The harvest belonged to those who came afterward. The forebearers of Brother and Sister Hinckley planted fields of faith for those who followed them.

A Relief Society sister in Ghana visits a woman who thirsts for truth but cannot read. To give her sister the opportunity to drink deeply of gospel truths, the visiting teacher tries to be with her as often as possible. She reads the scriptures to her sister and explains their meaning, in her native tongue.
Through their daily acts of service, these women partake of and pass on to others the water springing up into eternal life.

When I was very young, I loved to play ball, any kind of ball. As I grew older, it became obvious that the Lord had given me a special talent in athletics, and of all the sports in which I participated, I was most attracted to basketball. I came from a relatively poor family, so when I was old enough to throw a ball through a hoop, my folks couldn’t afford the hoop or the ball. I found an old tin band from a wooden barrel and nailed it on the side of a building. Then I got some rags and tied them together until I had a good-sized rag ball. Every night after school I would go outside and shoot that rag ball through the hoop. Many times, I would have to climb up on the garage to straighten the band because it would bend from the rag ball hitting it so often. I could hardly wait to get home in the evening so I could start shooting my rag ball through the hoop.
It was during my 13th year when Dad took me aside one day and said, “Bobby, how would you like to have a real basketball hoop?” He had made one out of a rod of iron, had made a backboard, and had attached the hoop to it. I could hardly believe my eyes! Dad and I mounted it on the back of the building. He then gave me my first rubber basketball. Boy, was I excited! Night after night, as soon as I got home from school, I practiced.
In my mind I would always picture myself as one of the great ball players of the day. I always pretended I was in the national basketball finals with just a few seconds left in the game. I had the ball and the score was tied. I would run down the basketball court, shoot a long shot, and as it went through the hoop, I would sense the feeling of being a hero. I won more national titles than you can ever imagine. I could see it in my mind’s eye. I thought about it a lot. I knew I could do it. I practiced and practiced. I also dreamed of one day playing in a famous sports arena. It was the most famous basketball arena in the world at that time. There was no other place like it.
When I graduated from high school, I accepted a basketball scholarship to Utah State University in Logan, Utah. During my junior year, we were invited to Madison Square Garden to play in the first holiday festival tournament ever held there. My dream had come true! I had seen it! I had worked hard for it. Along with Utah State and other teams from the United States, the two top teams in the nation had been invited to the tournament. Our team played the number two-rated team the first night, and the game was really close, but in the last seconds, we won. I was highest scoring man and played one of my best games ever. The next night Utah State played another great team, and again it was a close game. We won, and once more I was high-point man.
Our team was now in the finals against the number one team in the nation. It was a tough and close game. We were never separated by more than four points. As we approached the final two minutes of the game, Utah State was leading by four points. We had the ball and had planned to use up some time but our opponents gained possession of the ball and one of the players stole a pass and went down and scored. Now Utah State had only a two-point lead with about a minute and a half to go. We came down the floor again and worked around the court until an open shot came. One of our players ran in and missed the shot our opponents got the ball again and scored. Now the score was tied with a minute or less to go. We had the ball, came down the court, and missed our shot, and did not get the rebound. Now they had the ball with about 35 seconds to go. We didn’t dare foul them. What a terrible position to be in! At times like that, you wonder why you ever took up the sport. They worked the ball around until there were about 10 seconds left, and then the player who had been scoring all night went to the basket and shot. I can still see that ball as it rolled around the rim but finally fell off. One of our players pulled down the rebound and threw it to me. I came down the side of the court and let the ball fly from about 30 feet out. It was a score! The final buzzer rang, and we had won the national holiday festival tournament! As that buzzer went off, I thought to myself, “I’ve done this before.” I had. In my mind’s eye and in the backyard, I had done it hundreds and hundreds of times. I had practiced and practiced. I had worked for it. Because of my faith and work, the Lord blessed me.

I have just finished reading “Taking upon Us His Name” in the April 1982 New Era. It is exactly the article I needed to read at this time. Thank you!
My only daughter, Audrey, and I were both baptized in 1976. She was 15 at the time. She went on to Ricks College, where she met her husband. They were married in the Idaho Falls Temple in December of 1980, and they are expecting their first child in late June. I’m so very happy for them.
On the other hand, since Audrey is gone, I’m all alone in the Church. I have gone to church alone and prayed alone. My spirituality has slowly dwindled away. It’s not much fun when an individual doesn’t have anyone in the family to communicate with on a spiritual level. I have prayed for my spirituality to come back. This article by Sister Ardeth Kapp has increased my testimony quite a bit.
How frail our mortal testimony can be when we are not encouraged by others, be it family or friends. I realized while reading that article that I don’t really need outside help. What matters most is what I feel deep in my heart. All I need is to know that our Heavenly Father loves me unconditionally.
I will continue to pray that other members of my family will be touched by the Holy Spirit as Audrey and I were. I pray that they will someday soon know all about the only true Church here on the earth. I read the New Era from cover to cover every time it comes.
Marina DouganCalgary, Alberta, Canada

“I want you to knock all the cement off these steel posts,” the boss said as he handed me the sledgehammer and stood back to watch me begin. Anxious to impress him with my eagerness for the task, I planted my feet in a wide stance, raised the sledgehammer high above my head, and brought it down hard on the barrel-sized keg of cement caked on the first leg of the extracted guardrail.
Six … seven … eight solid follow-up strokes to the same spot, but all I could feel was the stunning reverberation up the handle of the sledgehammer. Not a single chip of the hard cement seemed to yield under the blows. After resting the hammerhead on the ground for a moment and rubbing my right shoulder, again I raised the hammer high above my head and repeated the effort, but with no better result.
I felt a little embarrassed as the boss watched a minute longer. Then, starting to walk toward the tool shop, he said, “I’ll get you something that may help.”
As I had arrived for work that morning wearing ankle-high work shoes, with cowhide gloves dangling from the back pocket of my denims, I had wondered, as I had on the two previous mornings, if this would be my last day on the job. I hoped not. With only three months before I would enter the mission home, I needed every penny I could earn to help cover my mission expenses, for the first few months at least.
Dad said no sacrifice by the family would be too great for the privilege of supporting me in the mission field, and he meant it. He knew what that kind of sacrifice was. I remember how the family had spread margarine on the bread and then scraped most of it off again while my older brother Ron was in the mission field. I also sensed dad’s special gratitude when occasionally I was able to spare a few dollars of the earnings from my part-time job to add to what was sent to Ron.
Yes, I knew it would mean sacrifice, gladly offered. I also knew I had to do all I could.
I took a firmer grasp on the handle, holding it a little lower this time to get a better weight advantage from the heavy steel head. Several more strokes, and now I could feel myself becoming angry. How could I strike any harder? Why didn’t the cement break?
“I hope he doesn’t get back before I’ve shown some kind of progress,” I said to myself, glancing toward the tool shop.
When I had told the boss on Monday morning that I had quit school to work for a few months so I could go on a mission, I had hoped he would be kind of proud of me. Instead he had said, “Why do you want to waste your time like that?” Ever since then he had seemed bent on going out of his way to make snide comments about the Church and other crude remarks that, I suspected, were designed to shock me. But he was the boss and the one who would let me stay or let me go.
I had been much more comfortable last week when I first got this job and was helping Bert Godfrey lay a brick wall to replace an old wooden one that had burned down. How could I help but like that leather-faced but kindhearted man who had served three missions, two of them building missions.
The company had hired me for ten days, mostly to help build that wall. But Bert and I had worked so well together that we had finished it in a week. He didn’t seem to mind that I was a bit clumsy and lacked experience. He knew I was trying and he knew why. He just kept talking to me about serving the Lord.
Bert hadn’t told me that the real boss was on vacation, and it had come as a surprise when I showed up for work the next Monday morning. So far, though, my strategy seemed to be working. Although I was earning more than I had ever earned before, I figured that if I worked so hard that I was worth still more than they were paying me, maybe the boss would feel he just couldn’t afford to let me go.
I looked again at the long I-beam rail with 13 steel legs extending from it like a giant comb with most of its teeth missing. It had long ago served as a bumper guard, preventing cars in the parking lot from hitting the adjacent building. It had been installed by digging 13 large holes in the ground in a straight line, spaced at eight-foot intervals. A steel post was cemented into each hole, and the connecting bumper rail welded to each post. Recently the entire rail had been removed by having two large Hysters extract the whole thing in one piece, and it was lying in the driveway with each post encased in a barrel-sized cement block.
As I heard boots scuff the loose gravel on the asphalt pavement leading from the tool shop, I let loose a wild flurry of blows. I was glad that a few beads of sweat had formed on my forehead. “Here, try this,” the boss said as he handed me a heavier sledgehammer. That wasn’t quite the kind of help I had in mind.
I smiled as I traded him the smaller hammer, but I could tell that he sensed it wasn’t a completely honest smile. He watched me for a few minutes more, and then without further comment, turned away to supervise the crew working on the remodeling project in the steel fabrication plant.
“The only difference between the hammers is that this one is heavier and harder to lift,” I grumbled silently as the steel head collided with the stonehard cement. Finally one small chunk broke off. After several more strokes my arms started to ache, but the cement still remained intact.
At this rate I knew it would take me three days to complete the job. I also knew that if I didn’t show substantial progress by noon, I’d be out of a job and back standing in the labor lines at the Employment Security Office taking any kind of work available. Three days of that had made me especially anxious to keep this job.
Besides, it was 1954, and thousands of striking workers with families to feed were looking for short-term, full-time employment. How was a 20-year-old youth going to compete with them for the few jobs available?
It took only a few more hard but unsuccessful strokes to persuade me that I had reached my limit and that it was time for me to treat the problem as one needing more strength and wisdom than I possessed.
Resting the heavy hammer on the ground and trying to compose my anger and frustration, I felt the need and desire to discuss the problem with the Lord. Without either kneeling or closing my eyes, I started praying aloud to the Lord and explaining the task I faced. In a conversational but sincere way I reminded him that I wasn’t asking for the money so I could buy a yellow convertible. He had called me on a mission, and I knew he wanted me to go. This job had already been an answer to my prayers, but I needed to keep it. I didn’t expect him to send a host of angels from heaven with sledgehammers, but I knew he could help me.
Never in my life has a prayer been answered more immediately or clearly. Suddenly my mind was filled with a thought so lucid and strong that my heart started pounding. It was a simple solution, as I later considered it. To brighter or more experienced minds it might have occurred earlier, but to me it came as a direct answer to my prayer.
The compelling instruction said to me, “Instead of striking the cement, strike the steel.”
Still not fathoming exactly why, I raised the hammer and brought it crashing down five or six times on the steel post right next to the cement. As a large section of the cement cracked into big chunks and fell off, I realized that the blows to the steel had started a series of strong vibrations that were transmitted all along the steel shaft.
I quickly forgot the weight of the hammer. With new energy I struck the steel again and again, then moved on to the next post, amazed at the magnification of my efforts as the steel vibrated and the cement cracked.
Less than two hours later I had removed the cement from all 13 posts and stacked the large chunks in a pile. With the sledgehammer on my shoulder and a prayer of gratitude in my heart, I went to find the boss.
“I’ll need some help moving the railing out of the driveway,” I said, trying to conceal the excitement I felt inside. Thinking I was giving up on the project, he motioned me to follow him to the parking lot.
As we rounded the corner of the building and he saw the railing and the pile of cement, he stopped quite suddenly. His eyes blinked and opened wide. His chin started to drop a bit. For a full minute he stood silently, looking first at the railing, then at the cement. After a moment more he turned, motioned me to follow him again, and said, “Come on, I’ll give you another job.”
Nothing more was said about the incident, but the following morning when I arrived for work, he simply said, “Lloyd, you’re welcome to stay on as long as you like.”
I worked there for nearly three months before entering the mission home. He then let me come back to work again for another ten days until I departed with my group for the mission field. Never after that memorable morning did he, in my presence, make a disparaging remark about the Church or my plans to serve a mission.
Many times since that day the Lord has helped me strike the steel instead of the cement in solving other problems. But as I departed for the mission field in late November 1954, I knew that I was called of the Lord. I knew that he was listening to my prayers. And I knew for myself that he would give no commandment save he would prepare a way for it to be accomplished.

As our plans progressed, however, I began to become excited about the prospect of aiding the elderly. I recalled the verse in James 1:27, which reads: “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction.” The previous year at Christmastime my Laurel class had baked cookies for all the widows in the ward. Sister Kirkham, a 90-year-old woman who walked with two canes, had wept when we came to her door and, when we were leaving, thanked us again and again for our visit. We all felt good afterwards. That’s what the gospel is all about, I thought as I anticipated the upcoming service project. The only thorn in my plans was Earl. He irritated me.
I couldn’t understand why he didn’t lose weight, or find a shampoo that would help control his problem with dandruff. If he’d exercise and eat nutritious foods he’d be in a lot better shape, I’d thought critically, proudly reviewing the personal health program I followed.
Too, his intellect was lacking and his wit was dull, a fact manifested by his love of simple puns and riddles. At one of our meetings when we were relaxing for a moment, he’d asked me jovially, “What’s black and white and read all over?” “A newspaper,” I answered quickly. He chuckled, “Ah, you already heard the joke.” I wondered who hadn’t heard the joke.
I also had serious doubts about the genuineness of his charity. His voice didn’t seem to contain a proper amount of pity when he spoke of the bedridden and ways to include them in the festivities. Nor did he seem to feel much sorrow for the plight of the elderly in general. “Old folks are a real kick,” he’d say. “My grandma can spin a yarn that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat. Course she’s in a rest home now, but that don’t get her down none.”
“He just drives me nuts!” I complained to my roommate, Carol. “Everything about him just drives me nuts.” But despite my irritation with Earl, preparation for the party progressed. Halloween came.
We arrived at Sunshine Terrace nursing home early to begin decorating and set up the refreshments.
“Hello, Earl,” the receptionist smiled as we walked through the door. I briefly wondered how she knew him. We proceeded to the big gathering room. Ancient-looking people sat along the walls in the hallway. One man with a walker had warts that covered half of his face. Another woman sat in a wheelchair which had been tied to the handrailing on the wall. Her head flopped and she drooled continually, wetting a large portion of her dress bodice. As I stepped by she clawed my skirt. I pulled away and muttered a hasty hello. Earl, his smile as usual planted on his face, walked beside me. Old eyes crinkled at him and toothless mouths grimaced his way. Some extended greetings to him and he chuckled out, “Howdy, Doris” and “Lo there, Howard” in return.
I felt tense and faintly nauseated, my charitable zeal overshadowed by fear and revulsion. Earl remained his same chortling self. I soon realized that he knew these people. He was friends with them. I hung close to his shadow, letting his greetings and handclasps compensate for my own silence and lack of response.
But despite my mere surface participation, the party was a success. The elderly people seemed delighted with the drooping orange and black crepe paper (one of Earl’s ideas), and one woman said that the cider and sugar cookies reminded her of the autumn baking days of her youth. They chilled at the ghost stories and retold the eerie tales recalled from their own childhoods.
I began to realize that these were real people with real thoughts and feelings. Nevertheless, my own self-consciousness and discomfort kept me from becoming an active participant and enjoying their company. I had never seen a man without arms or a woman with spastic palsy. I didn’t want to see them, so I focused my eyes on the floor or ceiling or I watched some of the other students in the branch or Earl.
Earl remained, well—Earl. He was still overweight. His hands were still moist, his dandruff unchecked. His remarks and jokes still displayed an amazing lack of originality, and his chuckling remained incessant. I looked at him with those people. His damp hand comfortably clasped a withered, dry one. That was when I first began to feel ashamed. Earl was naturally what I was only pretending to be. I’d come to Sunshine Terrace full of self-righteous charity, artificial smiles, and condescending words of tenderness. Earl had simply come.

To begin with they were all in the same ward, but then the wards were split. Melissa ended up in one of the new wards, and Marny and Nancy were in the other.
“After they split the wards, and we figured out who wasn’t going to be where, we all started crying,” Nancy remembered.
But there were still chances to get together. There are plenty of excuses in this beautiful land, whether on river, bayou, lake, land, marsh, swamp, or sea.
And if none of those places work out, there is one even better spot. Sometimes on a Sunday morning when they get a little lonely for one another, the three friends get together at church. “Sometimes I just stay and go to their ward’s meetings after mine are over,” Melissa says. “And sometimes they’ll come early and go to mine before going to their own.”

I would like to share with you a story of my home life and my growing up years. To set the stage, you need to know that I am the youngest of three children. In fact, my siblings and I were separated in age by several years, so by the time I was a teenager, my parents had been married for several years and were well-seasoned in this thing called marriage. Growing up, I had never seen my parents argue or even raise their voices at each other, so you can imagine how I felt the first time my husband and I had a disagreement. Thoughts crossed my mind that I must be a poor wife, or that I may have picked the wrong guy to spend eternity with. After all, I was sure I was right and he was wrong.

It was not until later in life when I spent some tender time with my mother. This is when I learned how mad my dad had been when mom cut her long hair off. She said he wouldn’t even talk to her for days. I also came to the realization that all those times when my mom would go missing and I would find her sitting in an idle car out in the garage, this was her time spent communicating with her Father in Heaven, praying that He would help her get through those less than perfect days. It was then that I realized what I had hoped for at the beginning of my marriage was something my mother and father had worked many, many years to develop.

Our little blue car rolled down the country road, carrying us farther and farther away from the home we had grown to love so much during the past five years. Mom was driving the car, which contained my two younger sisters and me, and Dad was ahead in a borrowed truck that was loaded high with beds and tables; our old upright piano; and boxes of dishes, dresses, and collected memories. Leaving our little town (population 880) for the big city of 26,000, was traumatic. I was 12 years old, and I knew that this strange new place I was moving to could never replace the fresh country air and close friendships I was leaving behind. I was sure the best part of life was over, and I tried to resign myself to my fate.
After we were settled in our new little home, I spent most of the hot summer days lying on my bed listening to records, reading, and writing letters to my friends. Yet, as August came to an end, I began to get more excited about attending this big school that had almost as many people as the whole town I left.
With a new dress and a nervous smile, I entered the building that September and went to my first period class. I took a seat near the front of the room and was delighted when the girl in front of me turned around and introduced herself.
As the days continued, I found that the students here were really not so different from my other friends. They also liked the music I liked and football games. They also weren’t too excited about math tests, cold weather, or the rival school. I began to feel a part of things and even quit plotting to return to my old school for my last year of school. I played the clarinet in the school band and quickly found that being in that organization offered me the security of belonging to a group. I didn’t know then that there was an even greater group that was soon to enter my life.
Although I was a member of the Church, I had usually attended a Protestant church located just behind my house where I used to live. There was at that time no branch there and our family seldom traveled the distance to the nearest ward. When we moved, however, we began attending Sunday School at the LDS church. It was large, and the people seemed quite friendly—I couldn’t believe how welcome they made me feel! I became good friends with a girl named Teresa and one day she invited me to come to Mutual. I had no idea what that was, even after she explained it to me. What a surprise to find that both boys and girls attended and that we had interesting classes and fun activities! I became involved in Church activities and hardly ever missed Mutual. Mutual was the place where I felt the greatest warmth and acceptance. I didn’t have a testimony of the Church at that time, and the reason I attended was because of the love and friendship extended to me by my friends and leaders. I could feel a warmth there that influenced my life in a very positive manner.
Today when I hear the names of inactive boys or girls, I try to remember that each of them is a potential active member. I am grateful to Teresa, a wonderful friend who kept inviting me to Mutual until I came, and for those open-hearted people in my ward who loved me into activity. I am grateful they did not say, “there is another inactive girl. I wonder what her problem is?” I’m glad that instead, they thought, “I wonder what her strengths are? We need her.”
Mutual gave me so much—firesides, girls’ camp, slumber parties, eternal friends. And perhaps most important, it gave me the beginnings of a testimony of the gospel and the understanding of what a tremendous influence Mutual can be in the lives of young men and women. For many years I was one of the many inactive little girls throughout the Church; how grateful I am that I wasn’t allowed to remain one forever! I wonder how many inactive members are waiting for us to invite them back into the Church? President Harold B. Lee once said, “What you have to give just may be enough.” From personal experience I know that sometimes that doesn’t have to be very much at all.

Recently the Philadelphia Pennsylvania Stake held a fathers and sons’ outing to commemorate the 148th anniversary of the restoration of the Aaronic Priesthood. The outing was held in a wooded campground only a few hours drive from the spot where the priesthood was actually restored. Over 200 attended the event that started Friday afternoon at 4:00 P.M. and lasted through the next day until 3:00 P.M.
The games, food, and fellowship were all good activities, but the main event was the lesson learned from the service project. The boys and their fathers all pitched in to help Wally, the camp ranger, clean out the debris accumulated through the winter in the creek bed so the stream could run clean. They also helped get the campground ready for the summer season. Stake President R. D. Jess said, “The boys learned that they could have fun and do a good turn all at the same time—a good lesson for anyone.”
The stake presidency was especially pleased to see so many men and their sons with nonmember neighbors and friends. Brother M. Soto, first counselor in the Spanish-speaking North Philadelphia Branch, had a group of boys with him from families who are investigating the gospel. And the men of the stake took their responsibility a little further and brought boys who did not have fathers who could come with them. More than one father took the boys they home teach.
The camp had lean-to shelters for 50 bedrolls, with a campfire set in front of each shelter. Tent trailers and tents accommodated the rest in the same area, and that evening you could count as many as 20 fires at once.
Each ward put on a skit for entertainment that evening. Everyone sat out on the lawn by the campfire in front of a makeshift stage of canvas strung on a rope between two trees. The young men decided that President Jess needed to be involved. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be measured for a coffin or simply play the part of the radiator on the people car. He soon found out that he would get wet either way.
After the skits, a full-length feature movie was shown in spite of the fact that the wind blew the screen down several times. A midnight snack was then served before the bugler John Dorny, Broomall First Ward deacons quorum president, blew taps. Hot chocolate and doughnuts warmed everyone so that even the fathers were ready to face the night in sleeping bags on boards in the shelters or on the ground in tents.
The next day began with reveille at 7:00 A.M. Breakfast was served by members of the Order of the Arrow. A local farmer had sold them whole, fresh, unprocessed milk. It had stayed cold through the night, and it was the favorite item on the menu.
The morning’s activities included hiking, racing, catch ball, basketball, softball, kickball, and touch football.
The Order of the Arrow also served lunch, and after eating, everyone was ready to get into the service project. That afternoon as the campers left the area, the ranger said he would like to have this group back next year.

Six years into marriage, we found that we were expanding our family. We were so excited to raise our son and teach him the gospel. But 24 weeks into the pregnancy, our little boy was born fighting for life. After just eight weeks he returned to Heavenly Father. As I held him for the last time, I recognized yet another wonderful blessing of the temple: our son had been born in the covenant and could be ours forever.

Dan was born in Flintshire, Wales, on August 4, 1811. After receiving a college education there, he immigrated to the United States and became the owner and captain of a little river streamer called The Maid of Iowa. He operated it as a freight and passenger boat on the Mississippi River above St. Louis, Missouri. One day as a group of converts to the Church were leaving his boat at the wharf in Nauvoo, they were welcomed by the Prophet. Dan stood quietly watching the greeting. Suddenly the Prophet left the group and walked over to Dan. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he said, “God bless this little man!”
Dan was so touched by those few words of praise that he decided to investigate the church that had such a thoughtful man as its leader. To the many converts to whom he preached the gospel in the British Isles he always declared: “I have come in obedience to the counsel of the martyred Prophet, as a messenger to my native land.”

Today is Valentine's Day. You might know about the BYU-Idaho English student who received a B-minus on an important paper. In hopes of bettering his grade, and in the spirit of the Valentine's season, he left for his professor an extravagant heart-shaped box of chocolates with a preprinted inscription: "Be Mine." The following day he received in return a Valentine from the teacher. It read, "Thank you, but your grade is still be mine-us."

A couple of weeks ago I was in Hong Kong and Europe, courtesy of good friends. I'm constantly aware of my responsibility to share the gospel. Our good friends have not been active for over 18 years. Their youngest daughter, who's 18 now, did not know much about the church and was never baptized. After spending time with her as I stayed in her parents' home, I asked her if she'd be willing to learn more about Jesus and the purpose of our life here and bore her my testimony that it would be one of the most important things in her life. She said yes! I made sure the best missionaries would teach her and I heard from her that she is very happy and the members told me she wants to be baptized. I told her parents the last day I was there what I had done! I do not think they'll be mad at me, though I didn't wait around to find out.

As you know, President Monson absolutely loves Canada. He considers himself part Canadian. The Canadian Saints consider him to be their own, too. This was very evident in May 2010, when he traveled to Vancouver, British Columbia to dedicate the temple there. The night before the dedication, a youth cultural celebration was held in a local ice hockey arena. This gathering began as a regular Church meeting with song and prayer.

Instead of singing the hymn on the program, President Monson directed that the congregation sing the national anthem, "O, Canada!" The crowd, including some 2,000 youth, erupted into cheers! As he got up to speak, President Monson gently touched the lapel pin on his suit coat and the Canadian Maple Leaf flag began to flash red and white! The arena went wild! The youth had made two huge cards for him with their greetings. When he held one of them up to show his appreciation, once again total pandemonium from the youth!

May I share with you an experience I had many years ago in the southern area of the United States when, after a stake conference, a woman came forward and asked, “Do you know Elder Delbert L. Stapley?” I replied that he and I were Apostles of the Lord, serving together in the Master’s work. She then handed me a copy of the Book of Mormon which contained an inscription and the signature of Delbert L. Stapley. She indicated the volume had been given to her grandmother when Elder Stapley was a young missionary. She added, “Could you present this book to Elder Stapley and tell him hundreds of my grandmother’s descendants have been converted by this volume; and they, in turn, conveyed the message of the Book of Mormon to others.”
I presented that signed copy of the Book of Mormon to Elder Stapley. He listened attentively when I explained where and how it had been given to me. Quietly he examined his signature and said, “This is one of the happiest days of my life.”

I want to share a story from one of my daughters from her freshman year at BYU. She said:

During my freshman year at BYU, I was assigned what was then called a visiting teacher from my ward. This sister came and introduced herself to me my first day at church. We made small talk for a little bit with get-to-know-you questions like favorite drinks and foods, hobbies, etc. I didn’t think much of the conversation and went throughout the semester with occasional texts from this sister to check in and an occasional drop-by to share a message.

Finals week came, and I remember feeling completely overwhelmed. I was spending hours and hours in the library each day studying and was ending each day exhausted. I remember in these hours feeling alone and unimportant.

I came home one night after a long night in the library to find a bottle of apple juice and a handwritten note next to my door. I picked up the note. It was from my visiting sister. The card read something like “I hope you are doing okay during finals! You have been on my mind all week, and I wanted to find a way to serve you but knew you were busy and wouldn’t be home much. I remembered that when we talked that first Sunday, you told me your favorite drink was apple juice. It’s not much, but hopefully it’s enough to get you through the next few days! I love you!”

In reality, this was a small gesture, but to me it spoke volumes to God’s power to answer our prayers. I’m grateful that sister was so Christ centered that she was able to forget her own finals-week stresses to serve me.

One of the games we played that night was a relay contest. The Primary leaders had placed four plastic bowling pins across the floor of the cultural hall in a staggered formation. Each father was to blindfold his daughter and, without touching her with his hands, “talk” her through and around the pins, across the cultural hall, and then back to the starting point, where the next pair would begin. We were divided into two teams.
When the race began there was much enthusiasm, both teams cheering for theirs to be the fastest. Most of the fathers would holler “go right!” or “go left!” or “stop!” or “go straight!” It seemed such a simple game when we were given the instructions, but it was actually quite difficult. The voice of the opposing team’s father might be confused with your own, and the two girls racing each other would get the instructions mixed up. I was quite surprised at how much trouble some of the fathers and daughters had in getting through this simple course. Some of the father’s were hesitant in their directions and thus lost precious time. Many of the daughters did not follow the instructions quickly and accurately and then either went too fast or moved in the wrong direction, occasionally knocking down the pins. There were, of course, a few who seemed more organized and went through the course quickly.
But there was one father and daughter at the party who surprised us all. This father was afflicted with a serious disease that hampered his coordination. He was somewhat slow of speech and movement. An interesting thing happened when it was their turn to race. When the blindfold was in place, I heard the father say to his daughter, “Don’t worry about left or right or fast or slow. Just walk at a steady pace and listen to my voice. Just follow the sound of my voice. I’ll keep talking the whole time, and we’ll go right through.” At the signal they began, and he gently repeated over and over, “Just follow my voice” or “Don’t listen to the others, just my sounds.” I was amazed as they steadily walked with short steps right through the course, faster than any of the others, so fast in fact that theirs was the winning team.

Study the scriptures. One spring day I came home in a cheerful mood, only to be met by my tearful wife. I quickly asked her what had happened. She explained that my father, who had disowned me some years earlier as a result of my activity in the Church, had called. He had tried to convince her of my failings as a husband. Feelings of anger stirred in my heart that he would upset my wife to the point of tears.
I wanted to call my father to retaliate. However, I decided to wait and calm down first. For the next two days I remained angry and bitter. At the end of the second day, my wife and I knelt to pray. Since I did not feel in the right frame of mind to pray, I asked her if she would offer the prayer.
She took my arm and said, “Before we pray, I want you to read a scripture.” She turned to 3 Nephi and read, “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them who despitefully use you and persecute you” (3 Ne. 12:44).
My heart began to pound. I felt suddenly as if the Savior were speaking directly to me because his words penetrated the deepest portion of my heart. Then I began to cry as I felt my angry heart soften.
When I looked at my wife, she said something I will never forget: “Do you know why I shared that scripture? I want you to be the best person you can be.”
I was overwhelmed. My sweet wife had opened a scriptural door that let the light of gospel principles shine through to my heart, and I was able to forgive my father. I came to appreciate my good wife even more. The gospel has given us a solid foundation in our marriage as we continue to help each other be the best we can be.—Name withheld