Gospel Story Finder

Soon after the march of Zion’s Camp, young Wilford began his great missionary career by serving in the southern United States, Canada, and the northeastern United States. As a missionary, he often experienced the guidance of the Spirit. At the time of his departure from the mission field, as he was helping groups of converts gather to Zion, he wrote:
“After spending two years and a half in New England and Canada, getting the Saints out, I started back with the last lot, about a hundred from Boston. We landed in Pittsburgh at dusk. We were anxious not to stay there, but to go on to St. Louis. I saw a steamer making steam ready to go out. I went to the captain and asked him how many passengers he had. ‘Three hundred and fifty.’ ‘Could you take another hundred?’ ‘Yes.’ The Spirit said to me, ‘Don’t go aboard that steamer, you nor your company.’ All right, said I. I had learned something about that still, small voice. I did not go aboard that steamer, but waited till the next morning. In thirty minutes after that steamer left, it took fire. It had ropes instead of wheel chains, and they could not go ashore. It was a dark night and not a soul was saved. If I had not obeyed the influence of that monitor within me, I would have been there.
“I have been governed and controlled by the Spirit. I have been acquainted with this Spirit. It was not the blow of trumpets nor thunder and lightning; it was the still, small voice to me.”

Six years ago, my home was filled with family members who had gathered after the passing of my husband. On the morning of the funeral, one of our sons noticed that water was dripping through the sliding glass door in the bedroom where his family of six was sleeping. We did the best we could to soak up the water, and after everyone had gone home, I found a contractor to figure out the cause. It turned out that it wasn’t just a leaking sliding glass door; there was water damage covering half of the entire back of my home, necessitating the replacement of the stucco and repairs to the deck. How could I move forward with all that needed to be done, I wondered, when I was still striving to simply go through the motions of daily life?
One day the contractor told me to buy four things at a home improvement store to help with repairs. I took the list and drove down that evening to the store. As I got out of the car, I walked into the store behind a couple who were holding hands. Tenderhearted, I walked into the store to complete my errand. However, it went downhill from there. I was not familiar with the items I was purchasing, and so even when I did find the right aisle, there were many choices, and I had no idea which one to choose.
I went looking for someone to help but couldn’t find an employee anywhere. After more than a half hour of fruitless searching, I was near tears. I stepped into an empty aisle, bowed my head, and pleaded for help. I finished my simple prayer and looked around, trying to decide what to do next.
A minute later, around the end of the aisle stepped an employee. She looked at me, smiled, and said, “May I help you?” Her brightness of spirit and knowledge of the store changed everything, and she helped me complete my purchases in about ten minutes.
I drove home and sat pondering. The gift was not what was given but what was received.
Weeks earlier, while Bruce was hospitalized in critical condition, many joined with our family in fasting and prayer for his recovery, but this, we came to know, was not the will of the Lord. After Bruce’s passing, I received many gifts, but none more priceless than the knowledge I received on a dark Friday evening in a deserted aisle in Lowe’s. There I received a witness to my soul that God was with me and would be with me in the days and years ahead.

I punctuate the point that change takes time with excerpts from remarks given by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland as he describes the suffocatingly slow process the early saints endured to build the Salt Lake temple.

In July of 1847 President Brigham Young stood on the site where the temple now stands and declared, "Here we will build a temple to our God!" This was a task that seemed impossible from the start. The foundations had to be dug 20 feet wide and 16 feet deep by hand. This alone took nine thousand man days of labor. No sooner was the foundation finished than it had to be filled in and covered because of the approaching U.S. army that was intent on waging war with the Mormons. Once this threat passed, the foundation had to be re excavated and readied to receive stone walls. The stones used for the temple were not common, readily available building materials. They selected granite boulders found twenty miles from the building site. Each stone had to cut to precision by hand and then transported usually one at a time twenty long miles by wagon to the site. It took three years to complete just one row of 600 hundred stones. By 1871, two full decades into the project the walls of the temple were barely visible above ground. "When President Young died in 1877, the temple was scarcely twenty feet above ground. Yet the work continued. Ten years later President Young's successor John Taylor and the temple's original architect Truman O. Angel were dead as well. Not until April 6 1892, nearly forty years after it was begun, did President Woodruff set the capstone of the Salt Lake temple in place.

Great works do indeed take time. Can we expect any less of ourselves as we strive to build of our lives what our Father has always seen in us?

Seminary students in the Capitol Ward, Annandale Virginia Stake, had the memorable experience of assisting at the prededication activities of the new Washington Temple. Their duties were varied. Some of the young people were ushers, elevator operators, parking attendants, and errand runners. Many helped tourists in wheelchairs.
It was a special, spiritual feeling to help in the house of the Lord, and it was a thrill to hear the comments of the visitors as they viewed the magnificent temple.

Shortly after I had returned from my mission, I married a wonderful young woman named Wendy. A little over a year later, we experienced the pure joy of welcoming our precious daughter, Aubrey, into the world. Life felt full of promise. However, just shy of our two-year anniversary, everything changed in an instant.

On our way to my grandmother’s funeral, a driver ran a stop sign and crashed into our car. In the harrowing hours that followed, my world was shattered. Wendy passed away, leaving me alone to care for our seven-month-old daughter. The grief was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It tested my faith and resilience in ways I could never have imagined.

Some people wondered how I found the strength to trust God rather than curse Him for what they perceived as a terrible injustice. That answer lies in the Lord’s tender mercies—those quiet, undeniable moments when His hand had prepared me for what was ahead. One such moment had occurred just prior to Wendy’s passing, during an unexpected journey.

Just before the tragic accident, I had joined a close friend and recent BYU graduate on a whirlwind two-day trip to move his family’s belongings to California prior to him starting a new job. His wife was enduring a difficult pregnancy, and he was deeply anxious about her health and the health of their unborn child. My friend felt an urgent need to complete this trip and return to Provo quickly to be by his wife’s side before their baby arrived.

As we drove through miles of open road, our discussion gravitated to an unusual topic. We began to discuss what either of us might do if our wife were to pass away. For hours that was all we talked about—how one might cope with such a devastating loss, how faith in Jesus Christ could provide strength, and how understanding God’s plan might carry us through even the darkest moments.

On that journey I thought I was offering solace and perspective to my friend. I never imagined that just days later I would be standing in a hospital looking at the lifeless body of my wife. As the weight of Wendy’s passing crushed me, I suddenly realized that God, in His infinite kindness and understanding, had been preparing me for this moment. That conversation with my friend was not a coincidence—it was a tender mercy from a loving Father.

Through those hours of discussing grief, faith, and His plan, Heavenly Father had knowingly and tenderly been preparing my heart and mind to face the unimaginable. When the time came, the Spirit whispered to me that death—including Wendy’s passing, as heart-wrenching as it was—is part of a greater plan, a plan guided by a loving Heavenly Father who knew my pain and who would not leave me alone in it.

That understanding strengthened my faith in the Lord immeasurably. I learned in a most poignant way that He is aware of every detail of our lives and is constantly working to prepare and sustain us. It was an assurance that I would lean on heavily in the coming years. Through my friend’s need for help, I had been given a sacred gift: the assurance that God’s hand was in my life, even during my most devastating trial.

Anne Luthy, Annette’s mother, knows Finnish well, and she helped translate Annette’s testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel onto the inside cover of several copies of the Book of Mormon. Annette took the books to school, where she is one of only three members of the Church, and gave them to five of her teachers and several of her classmates. She also found occasion to tell her friends the Joseph Smith story.

Stan, a dear friend of mine, was stricken by cancer. He had been robust in health, athletic in build, and active in many pursuits. Now he was unable to walk or to stand. His wheelchair was his home. The finest of physicians had cared for him, and the prayers of family and friends had been offered in a spirit of hope and trust. Yet Stan continued to lie in the confinement of his bed at University Hospital.
Late one afternoon I was swimming at Deseret Gym, gazing at the ceiling while backstroking width after width. Silently, but ever so clearly, there came to my mind the thought, “Here you swim almost effortlessly, while your friend Stan is unable to move.” I felt the prompting, “Get to the hospital and give him a blessing.”
I ceased my swimming, dressed, and hurried to Stan’s room at the hospital. His bed was empty. A nurse said he was in his wheelchair at the swimming pool, preparing for therapy. I hurried to the area, and there was Stan, all alone, at the edge of the deeper portion of the pool. We greeted each other and returned to his room, where a priesthood blessing was provided.
Slowly but surely, strength and movement returned to Stan’s legs. First he could stand on faltering feet. Then he learned once again to walk, step by step. One would not know that Stan had lain so close to death and with no hope of recovery.
Subsequently Stan spoke in church meetings and told of the goodness of the Lord to him. To some he revealed the dark thoughts of depression that engulfed him that afternoon as he sat in his wheelchair at the edge of the pool, sentenced, it seemed, to a life of despair. He told how he pondered the alternative. It would be so easy to propel the hated wheelchair into the silent water of the deep pool. Life would then be over. But at that precise moment he saw me, his friend. That day Stan learned literally that we do not walk alone. I, too, learned a lesson that day: never, never, never postpone a prompting.
Later, as Stan’s youngest son was married for all eternity and the family had assembled in the sacred temple of the Lord, we paused and remembered the miracle we had witnessed. Words did not come easily from emotion-filled hearts, but a silent chorus of gratitude spoke the feelings that words were inadequate to express.

Seventh, we must live our religion. We must each consistently live our religion so that other people will recognize what we stand for. Many years ago now, when I served in the armed forces, I think I never had a close non-Mormon companion who didn’t know that I was a member of the Church and who didn’t know I had been a missionary. They treated me with the utmost respect and admired my standards. I don’t believe that I ever gave my companions cause to think less of the Church in all those years that I served with them.
One of those companions joined the Church. I didn’t preach a word to him about the gospel. Somebody else found him and taught him, but I suppose he remembered a young fellow named Bangerter who was a Mormon and remembered the way I had lived. I hope so.

Benjie was smiling from ear to ear when I picked him up after Primary. In his chubby hand he held out a picture of Mary and Joseph and the Baby Jesus in a manger. “See, Dano. Baby Jesus.”
“Did you get that in Nursery, Benjie?”
His head bobbed vigorously up and down as he proudly displayed the picture.
“Hello, Daniel.” Sister Williams, Benjie’s teacher, was holding her brand-new baby. “Benjie sure had fun in Nursery today. We had a play about the birth of Jesus, and he played the part of Joseph.”
Baby Jesus was all that Benjie talked about all week. For family home evening, Mom brought out the manger scene, and Benjie arranged each figure in the stable. Instead of having the shepherds and the Wise Men and the animals all nicely spaced out, he crowded them around the manger, “so that they can see Him real good.”
It wasn’t until the Saturday afternoon before Christmas that Mom could take us Christmas shopping.
When Benjie saw all the decorations in the store, his mouth dropped open. We walked past mountains of toy trucks and rows of new bikes. There was even a “Christmas elf” dressed in a green top and red tights, handing out tiny candy canes to all the children.
I was checking out a display of radio-controlled cars, when I felt a tug on my coat. Benjie’s brow was all puckered. “Where’s Jesus?”
“What?”
“Where’s Jesus, Dano?”
I followed his gaze as he looked up and down the rows of fake Christmas trees and tinsel and toys. He’s right, I thought. There’s not a sign of Jesus anywhere, let alone shepherds and Wise Men. But how do you explain all that to a not-yet-three-year-old?
Fortunately Mom is pretty good at things like that. She leaned over, cupped his chin in her hands and looked him right in the eyes. “Benjie, lots of people don’t know about Jesus. They think that Christmastime is only about presents and Santa Claus. But we know that the real reason we celebrate Christmas is Jesus—right?”
He nodded solemnly.
She glanced at the banner hanging from the ceiling—Merry Xmas!—and sadly added to me, “The world has taken Christ right out of Christmas.” Then she looked at her watch. “Uh-oh. We have to hurry—tonight’s the ward party.”
Mom had helped plan the party for three months. This year our ward was doing something different. Instead of a fancy dinner with Santa Claus giving goodies or small toys to the little ones before someone read the Christmas story from the Bible, the cultural hall would be decorated like a marketplace in Bethlehem. Everyone would come dressed in biblical clothes. “Daniel, it’ll be just like we’re there on the night Jesus was born,” she’d told me.
I didn’t think much of getting dressed in a costume, but Benjie’s excitement kind of rubbed off on me. I helped him find his bathrobe and tied a rope around his waist. Then I put on a robe that used to be Dad’s and made a head-covering with a towel and a couple of safety pins.
When we arrived at the church, Mom dashed to help get the food ready. The sidewalk leading to the front door was lined with paper sacks with a flickering candle, nestled in sand, in each one. Benjie had to look into each sack at the tiny flame. I held his hand because I was afraid that he’d try to blow out the candles.
The foyer and hallway were dimly lit. A “Roman soldier” who looked an awful lot like Brother Bingham, our home teacher, stood guard. Benjie gave him his “taxes”—a can of vegetable soup for the needy—and solemnly signed a big squiggly B on the “census.”
In the cultural hall, white fluorescent Christmas tree decorations sparkled like stars. There were food shops, a tailor shop, and even a gift shop. It did look sort of like I thought Bethlehem would.
When Benjie spotted the bright star shining above the manger on the stage, he made a beeline toward it. We had to stand right there by the stage while he sang the first half of “There Was Starlight on the Hillside”* over and over. Finally he saw the cardboard lamb and chicks in a pen in the corner of the room and ran over to see them.
After that, we were hungry, so we “bought” our supper at the little shops, using the “gold” in the bags we were given by a “centurion.” Benjie would not have been more pleased if it had been real gold instead of spray-painted rocks.
We sat on a blanket on the floor because “there was no room in the inn,” and munched on pita bread and orange slices. Benjie had wanted to sit right by the stage, and he kept looking up at the manger. Finally he asked, “Where’s Jesus, Dano?”
“He hasn’t been born yet,” I told him.
“Oh.”
Then he started yawning. Before long he lay down on the blanket. Mom came over and sat beside us. She gently smoothed Benjie’s sweaty hair from his forehead.
He was asleep when “Mary” and “Joseph” walked through the crowd to the stage. We all sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem,”† and Brother Dickson began to read from the Bible as some of the grown-ups acted out the Christmas story.
“‘And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger …’”‡
Everyone was quiet as Sister Williams, who was Mary, cradled her baby in her arms. He made some cooing sounds that sounded just like Brother Sampson’s doves.
Then Benjie’s voice, soft with wonder, broke the stillness: “There’s Jesus, Dano! There’s Jesus!”
My little brother had awakened and was standing, pointing excitedly at the manger scene. His face was beaming with joy. I looked over at Mom. She was smiling, her eyes shiny with tears.
I felt all warm inside. Suddenly it was as though I wasn’t in the cultural hall dressed in Dad’s old robe at all. Somehow, it felt like I really was in Bethlehem—on that long-ago night.
Nobody wanted to break the magic of that moment. Then someone started quietly singing: “Silent night! Holy night!” One by one, all of us joined in: “All is calm, all is bright …”**
I put my arm around Benjie and quietly said, “Yeah, Benjie. Jesus. He truly is the Son of God.”

Jacob lunged off the step. “I am Global Guard,” he hollered, arms thrown out, fists clenched, “protector of planet Earth.”
“Mr. Guard,” Jacob’s father called from the kitchen, “do you think you can stop defending Earth long enough to have your bedtime snack?”
“It’s not Mr. Guard, Dad.” Jacob flung himself onto the chair at the kitchen table. “It’s Global Guard, protector of planet Earth. If you watched the show, you’d know that.”
Jacob’s father placed a glass of milk and a plate of graham crackers in front of his son. “You watch enough Global Protector for all of us.”
“It’s not Global Protector, it’s—”
“Eat,” his father ordered, shaking his head.
Jacob popped a piece of cracker into his mouth as his mother shuffled into the kitchen, tying her bathrobe.
“How are you feeling?” Dad asked.
“About the same,” she said, slumping into a chair at the table.
“Wow, Mom,” Jacob exclaimed, staring at her, “you look sick!”
His mother nodded in agreement.
Jacob took a gulp of milk. He imagined himself as Global Guard protecting his mother from evil invaders, mutant monsters, and from any other bad guys. He was picturing himself scaring off vicious villains, when he felt a hand on his head. He glanced up.
“Are you ready for family prayer?” Dad asked.
“Yep.” Jacob pushed himself from the table, swinging his hand within inches of his father’s nose. “I have the power, Dad,” he said with a grin.
“Uh-huh,” Dad said.
Jacob followed his parents into the family room.
Dad offered the prayer. Although he tried to concentrate on the prayer, Jacob’s mind wandered to a Global battle, with himself as the hero.
The next morning, Jacob felt himself being gently shaken. It must be time to get up for school, he thought. He was going to wear his new Global Guard shirt.
“Jacob?”
Jacob’s eyes opened in surprise. It wasn’t Mom’s or Dad’s voice he heard. It was his grandmother’s.
“What are you doing here?”
His grandmother forced a smile. “It’s all right, Jacob. Your parents aren’t here right now.”
“Where are they?” Jacob kicked the blanket off his legs.
“Your mother became very ill during the night, and your father took her to the hospital. After you get dressed and have breakfast, I’ll drive you there to see her.”
At the hospital, Jacob saw that his dad looked tired and worried. Mom was lying on a hospital bed, her eyes closed. A clear fluid went through a thin tube into her arm. Dad explained to Jacob that Mom had a serious infection.
Jacob sat in silence in a large chair. He felt scared and helpless. “I wish I could do something,” he finally said in frustration. “I wish I could make her better.”
His father gave him a tired smile, then glanced at his watch. “Brother Davis ought to be here any minute. We’re going to give your mother a priesthood blessing.”
“Will the blessing help?”
“Yes, Jacob,” Dad said, “if it’s Heavenly Father’s will. The power of a priesthood blessing to help someone is very strong.”
“Power?” Jacob stared at his father.
Both turned as Brother Davis, one of the family’s home teachers, entered the room.
“Thank you for coming,” Jacob’s father said, reaching into his pocket for a vial of consecrated oil.
Jacob watched as his father poured a few drops of oil onto his mother’s head. Dad and Brother Davis then gave his mother a blessing. Jacob relaxed slightly as his mother was blessed that she would recover. As his father continued the blessing, Jacob felt calm for the first time since his grandmother had awakened him.
At home that night, Jacob and his father knelt and prayed that Mom would recover. Jacob concentrated harder than he ever had before on the words his father said.
“Dad,” Jacob said after the prayer. “Before Brother Davis came, you said something about priesthood power.”
“That’s right.” His father sank onto the couch.
“Is that like Global Guard’s power to protect people?”
“No, Jacob.” His father pulled Jacob next to him. “Global Guard is a TV show. We’re talking about something real—the priesthood. Remember, if you are worthy, you will hold the priesthood in a few years.”
“And then I’ll have the power?” Jacob asked, swinging his hand in front of his father’s face.
His father took Jacob’s hands in his. “Actually, Jacob, God has the power.”
“Oh.”
“But if you live right and have faith, you can hold His priesthood and act for Him. That’s an important thing to remember. You’re acting for God.”
After school the next day, Jacob and his father went to the hospital. When they entered his mother’s room, her eyes were open. Smiling weakly, she beckoned them to come closer. Jacob dashed to the side of her bed.
“How are you?” his father asked, taking her hand.
“The doctor said that with some rest, I’m going to be fine.”
“Dad, you were right!” Jacob exclaimed. “The power really works!”
“I know that it does, Jacob.”
“This can’t be talk about Earth Guard,” his mother said, glancing at Jacob’s father.
“Honey,” his father said, looking relaxed for the first time in two days, “you mean Global Guard—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Mom,” Jacob interrupted, pushing a chair next to his mother’s bed. “Global Guard’s only pretend.”
Then, kneeling on the chair by the bed, Jacob explained what he had learned about real power—priesthood power.

Ron had no time for school sports once he reached high school because he always had a job, but he made time for loyal friendships that have lasted a lifetime.
“I’ve always admired Ron for who he is, but he wasn’t perfect,” says childhood friend Kraig McCleary. With a smile, he adds, “I’ve told him that if he gets to heaven, I’ll get there too because we did the same things growing up.”
Ron left on his mission in early 1970, but Kraig was thinking about postponing missionary service until after that fall’s hunting season. That’s when Ron called him from his mission.
“I don’t know how he got permission to call, but he chastised me for not being more excited about getting right out on my mission,” Brother McCleary says. “Of course, I didn’t postpone it.”

Elizabeth wanted to be the best baby-sitter in the world. She knew how important it was to be reliable and responsible. A file box, just like her big sister’s, helped her keep track of important information. Each family she baby-sat for had a card. There weren’t many cards in the bright blue box yet, but there would be soon.
Early Saturday morning, Elizabeth took out the Burroughs’s card and scanned the information. “Two children—Billy and Kristi. Kristi likes picture books,” she read. Elizabeth remembered the little girl’s favorite book and put it and some other books in her box before leaving her house. She briskly walked the three blocks to the familiar yellow house and rang the doorbell.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Burroughs greeted her. “You’re right on time as usual. Billy’s spending the day at the zoo with John and some of his other friends. He’ll be home by five. You remember John’s mother, don’t you?”
“Sure. She brought Billy home when I baby-sat before.”
“She’s going to drive him home today too. If she invites him to spend the night with John, it’s fine. Just remind Billy to pack his toothbrush.”
“Did you leave me a note about Kristi’s lunch and dinner?” asked Elizabeth.
“It’s on the kitchen table. We should be back by seven if the traffic isn’t too bad. We’ll try to call you this afternoon to be sure everything’s OK.”
Elizabeth knew Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs were fixing up a mountain cabin. The cabin didn’t have a phone, so they usually called from a nearby store to check on things. She wasn’t worried.
After carefully locking the door when Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs left, Elizabeth slid the safety chain into position. She put the file card right by the phone. The card was an easy way to keep track of important details. It had the Burroughs’s address printed on it just in case Elizabeth couldn’t remember it if there was an emergency. Billy and Kristi’s pediatrician’s phone number was there too. Mrs. Burroughs had explained to Elizabeth that the doctor had a special permission form on file in case Billy or Kristi needed treatment and their parents couldn’t be reached.
Police and fire department numbers were printed in red so Elizabeth could find them in a hurry. She’d even made notes about what Mrs. Burroughs liked the children to have for snacks. “NO VISITORS” was printed at the bottom of the card.
There was one other thing Elizabeth wanted to do to prepare for an emergency. She and Kristi played the “creeping, crawling game.” Kristi loved it. She was much too young to realize that this was Elizabeth’s way of making sure she would be able to get the toddler safely out of the house if there was a fire.
“Hungry,” Kristi said later, when Elizabeth finished reading the last page of the picture book.
“How about some banana wheels?”
“Yes! Yes!”
Elizabeth peeled a banana and carefully sliced it into little wheels. Since Kristi liked to do things by herself, Elizabeth reached for a plastic plate. If the toddler dropped it, there wouldn’t be any sharp pieces to worry about.
“Yummy ’nana,” Kristi said.
Suddenly the doorbell rang.
“Who is it?” Elizabeth asked as she looked through the peephole. She didn’t recognize the long-haired man. Something about the bulge in his scruffy jacket made her shiver. Maybe he has a gun! she thought.
“I’m Ted Burroughs.”
Was he really Ted Burroughs? The last name was printed bold and black on the mailbox where anybody could read it. Elizabeth didn’t know if Mr. Burroughs had a relative named Ted.
Kristi was at the stage where any man she saw was “Daddy,” so she wouldn’t be any help. If only Billy were home …
Looking through the peephole again, Elizabeth couldn’t help staring at that bulge.
“Come on, honey. I’m much too tired to play games. Open the door.”
Instead of reaching for the chain, Elizabeth hurried toward the phone. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. Those bright red digits on the card made it easy to dial the right numbers quickly.
Elizabeth told the police dispatcher the exact address where she was baby-sitting. “There’s a stranger at the door. I’m not positive, but I think he may have a gun.”
“We’ll send an officer over immediately. Just keep the door locked. Give me the phone number there; I’ll call you right back on a nonemergency line.”
Elizabeth hung up and gathered Kristi in a big bear hug. “Everything’s going to be fine,” she promised.
Grabbing the phone before it rang a second time, Elizabeth felt better just hearing the familiar voice. The police dispatcher sounded so friendly, so calm. There couldn’t be anything to be afraid of—not really. Help was on the way.
The dispatcher kept talking until Elizabeth heard a car stop out front. “I think the officer is here,” Elizabeth told the dispatcher.
“Yes. We’re in radio contact. Just talk to me for a few more minutes until I get a report from the officer on the scene.”
Those few minutes seemed to crawl. Even though Elizabeth knew she was old enough to handle things the right way, she suddenly wished she were Kristi. It would be nice to have somebody hug you and whisper that everything was OK.
“Elizabeth, you can open the door now. Officer Jenkins just reported in.”
“Thanks for talking to me so I didn’t have a chance to get really scared.”
“You’re welcome. That’s part of our job. If you ever have trouble again, be sure to call us.”
Carrying Kristi to the door, Elizabeth slid the chain off the lock and unbolted the door. She couldn’t help shivering when she saw that the stranger was still there. At least there was a police officer right next to him.
“Elizabeth, this is Ted Burroughs. He’s the brother of the man who lives here.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t you dare apologize!” Ted Burroughs interrupted. “You did exactly the right thing. I’m a night watchman. When I got off my shift, I decided to drop by for a visit. I’m sure my brother and sister-in-law will be pleased to know they have such a responsible baby-sitter.”
The stranger didn’t look nearly as scary when he smiled. Kristi smiled right back at him, extended her tiny arms, and yelled, “Daddy!”

To those who faithfully and honestly live the law of tithing, the Lord promises an abundance of blessings. Some of these blessings are temporal, just as tithes are temporal. But like the outward physical ordinances of baptism and the sacrament, the commandment to pay tithing requires temporal sacrifice, which ultimately yields great spiritual blessings.
I know of a couple who lived thousands of miles from the nearest temple. Although they earned little, they faithfully paid their tithing and saved all that they could to journey to the house of the Lord. After a year, the husband’s brother—not a member of the Church—unexpectedly came forward and offered them two airplane tickets. This temporal blessing made possible the spiritual blessings of their temple endowments and sealing. An additional spiritual blessing came later as the brother, touched by the couple’s humble faithfulness, joined the Church.

In the spring of 1848, my great-great-grandparents, Charles Stewart Miller and Mary McGowan Miller, who had joined the Church in their native Scotland, left their home in Rutherglen, Scotland, and journeyed to St. Louis, Missouri, with a group of Saints, arriving there in 1849. One of their 11 children, Margaret, would become my great-grandmother.
While the family was in St. Louis working to earn enough money to complete their journey to the Salt Lake Valley, a plague of cholera swept through the area, leaving death and heartache in its wake. The Miller family was hard hit. In the space of two weeks, four of the family members succumbed. The first, on June 22, 1849, was 18-year-old William. Five days later Mary McGowan Miller, my great-great-grandmother and the mother of the family, died. Two days afterward, 15-year-old Archibald passed away, and five days after his death, my great-great-grandfather, Charles Stewart Miller, father of the family, succumbed. The children who survived were left orphans, including my great-grandmother Margaret, who was 13 years old at the time.
Because of so many deaths in the area, there were no caskets available, at any price, in which to bury the deceased family members. The older surviving boys dismantled the family’s oxen pens in order to make caskets for the family members who had passed away.
Little is recorded of the heartache and struggles of the nine remaining Miller children as they continued to work and save for that journey their parents and brothers would never make. We know that they left St. Louis in the spring of 1850 with four oxen and one wagon, arriving finally in the Salt Lake Valley that same year.
Others of my ancestors faced similar hardships. Through it all, however, their testimonies remained steadfast and firm. From all of them I received a legacy of total dedication to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Because of these faithful souls, I stand before you today.

At the end of that year, I added another thing to my testimony box. The temple. I felt for a while like I needed to go to the temple. I needed to receive my own endowment. I was just 21 at the time, and in those days, women didn’t go through the temple unless they were getting married or going on a mission. I wasn’t getting married, so I assumed that I was supposed to go on a mission. I prayed and prayed and couldn’t get an answer to go on a mission. I went to my branch president and told him my impressions. He calmed my heart and let me know that he had been praying for his own answers recently, and my telling him this impression answered a question that he had been diligently seeking clarity for.

I received a calling in my branch that needed me to be endowed. I went through the temple a few short weeks later. I had a profound experience. It was sacred and has provided me with spiritual clarity ever since. During the years after, I was able to bring people to Christ in a way that only could have been seen by God beforehand. I was able to add both the temple and how interconnected we all are in the eyes of God to my testimony box. He gives us opportunities to be linked together. I was the answer to someone else’s fervent prayer. And in turn, I received my response. God always uses us for good.

Two young women who are serving as missionaries with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Fiji made a surprising discovery recently.
Lolene Tuiqali and Josephine St. John were recently assigned to be companions, where they would live and work together.
Not long after they began their missionary service as companions, Sister Tuiqali made a video call to her father. While talking together he recognized his daughter’s companion as the daughter of a man he had served with when he was a missionary in Fiji in 1987.
Lolene Tuiqali and Josephine St. John have been teaching people the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and giving community service as missionary companions in Fiji since February this year.
The young volunteers are currently serving in the Nadi area, not too far away from where their fathers were companions.
“We emailed our mission president that day and said, ‘Fun fact: our dads were companions in Fiji,’” said Sister Tuiqali.
“I was really happy, but my dad was even happier when he found out I would be serving with Sister Tuiqali,” said Sister St. John. “He gave me lots of advice about serving in that area of Fiji.”
“Sister Tuiqali and Sister St. John have been a blessing to the Fiji Suva Mission,” said Brad Markus, president of the Fiji Suva Mission.
“The fact that they are companions is a testament that Heavenly Father is mindful in every detail of our lives. It’s gratifying to know our Father in Heaven provided an opportunity for the fathers to be companions and then 34 years later blessed them again by allowing their daughters to serve as missionary companions.”
The two sister missionaries have been able to meet many of the same people that their fathers served on their mission, and many people have shared stories with them about their fathers.
“I wanted to experience the same things that my dad always told me about his mission,” said Sister St. John. “When I found out I was going to be serving in Fiji, it really boosted my eagerness in serving.”
They also explained that before they were companions, their fathers kept in touch a little bit, but since they’ve been companions, the fathers talk every week.
“It’s been fun seeing the miracles,” said Sister Tuiqali. “They are not the exact same miracles that our fathers experienced, but miracles of our own. It has been very good for both of us, especially as companions.”
Due to COVID-19 restrictions in Fiji, missionaries have needed to be creative in finding ways to reach those around them. Many have been able to find and teach people online. Sister St. John explained that her understanding of technology has increased as she has learned to use it during her mission.
Sister Tuiqali has been serving as a missionary for over six months, and her most recent assignment has been training Sister St. John, who began her service in February.

When I was stake president of the BYUH First Stake, I witnessed the power of generous giving in humble ways to make a significant difference in the life of a needy individual. Reyne Justo, a young man from Saipan, a member of the 2 nd Ward, suffered a brain aneurysm while working out in the exercise room. He was rushed to the ER at Kahuku and then to Queen's hospital in a coma. When our presidency visited him one Sunday, we found him lying in bed with his eyes open, fixed and staring. The doctor said he was probably in what he called "lock down syndrome", where he could understand what was going on around him, but could not move nor express himself. This was similar to a very serious stroke. He said that he might improve with stimulation, with company and people talking to him. Bishop Beaver put out the call to his ward, full of busy students like yourselves. A shuttle was organized by the ward student leaders and there was a different carload of ward members who went almost every day to spend some time with Reyne. They sang hymns, prayed with him, held his hand and talked to him. Eventually he could move one hand. He could squeeze your hand once for yes, twice for no. Then he could raise one eyebrow in a code. Eventually he could blink his eyes. The ward visitors continued for weeks.

Bishop Eric Beaver, a lawyer by training, researched Medicare laws and rules, welfare laws, student insurance policies and coverage. When Reyne's time in the hospital ran out, the Bishop helped qualify him for a care center where he would get further rehabilitation. He eventually arranged for a donation of a hospital bed, a free trip home to Saipan on a U.S. military plane, and even coordinated with the branch president in Saipan to have a member of branch flown here to be trained in how to care for Reyne and to fly home with him and his grandmother. There were many good Samaritans in this true story.

Again, my young brethren, in my boyhood I remember one time when the sheriff startled us when he came and announced that under the floorboards of the porch of the home just up the street from where we lived they had found a considerable cache of stolen articles. The young man who lived in that home was termed a kleptomaniac. He seemed to have a mania for stealing things, even items he had no use for himself. Numerous people in the town had been reporting that their buggy whips and their buggy robes were taken. Here they were under the porch, and this boy finally admitted to having stolen them. I remember how shocked we fellows were—how we pitied him because he had developed this terrible weakness!
Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Every man takes care that his neighbor shall not cheat him. But a day comes when he begins to care that he [does] not cheat his neighbor. Then all goes well. He has changed his market-cart into a chariot of the sun.” (The Complete Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson, New York: Wm. H. Wise and Co., 1929, p. 585.)
This boy did not know how our acts follow us and how that which we sow we are sure to reap. And every experience we have adds to or draws from our lives. We cannot think ugly thoughts or do ugly things without retribution.

Now the second story, if I might delve back into a personal experience of my own as a child. I was baptized at the age of eight; and shortly after my baptism and my confirmation I started taking piano lessons. It was at the early part of the Depression, and shortly after I had completed my first year of lessons the Depression had its full impact on our family and we could not afford the lessons any longer. But that didn’t stop my activity in music, and I continued to practice. Like many of you who have taken first-year piano lessons and studied such an illustrious author of children’s books as John Thompson, I continued my work. Over at school they provided violin lessons free, and since the price was right I started taking violin lessons. After about six months or a year the teacher needed a violist in a student string quartet, and since I had a longer arm than the next fellow, I was transformed into a viola player—not a very good one, but there I was on the viola.
At home I started to do what many of us do who learn a little at the keyboard—I started to improvise. My hands wandered over the keys. Who hasn’t sat down at the family piano and struck a chord or made up a tune? It is a very common experience.
But I was persistent with the improvising idea, and finally after a month or two had improvised a little piece of music. I was elated with this and, in fact, took the trouble to write it down. I didn’t know that you could go to the music store and buy music manuscript paper with lines already printed that you could write your own notes on. So I took a ruler and barred my own five-line staffs. The lines weren’t very parallel and the result was pretty amateurish. It took a long time for me to figure out whether, in a given place in the music, it was a quarter note or a half note, whether it was G or F#, whether it was in 4/4 or 3/4 time, and whether I was playing in the key of C or G. But during the long laborious process, I finally arrived at notating this first “Opus 1, No. 1.”
I called my mother to the piano and I said, “Mother, I have composed a piece!” And what mother wouldn’t be happy at that announcement? She patted me on the head and said, “Well, how nice. Why don’t you play it for your teacher at school?” Well, my classroom teacher at school didn’t know very much about music, so she said, “Why don’t you play it for the class?” All of a sudden I became very famous in the third grade as a composer of a piano piece which I entitled “Brownie’s Ponies,” which shows my level of maturity at that time.
As a result of the recognition that had come from my third-grade class I decided, “Well, I’ll write another piece.” So I improvised for a few days or a week and took the trouble to notate the second piece. Then one after another of these things rolled off over a period of four years, until I had collected about ten of them. At age 12, I had ten pieces that I had written down, all for the piano.
Then it was that I made a startling discovery. I still hadn’t taken any more piano lessons, but I had worked on the violin and viola and continued to practice my piano to the degree one can as a 12-year-old without a teacher. I went back over my old piano books, and I made this horrifying discovery—that my “Opus 1, No. 1” wasn’t really mine after all, but it was page 25 of John Thompson’s children’s piano book, We’re in the Navy. I had subconsciously absorbed this page and thought it to be my own when I started to improvise. I went into the same patterns that my fingers had already been trained to follow. And without recognizing this relationship, I had assumed that this was my own work.
This is a horrifying discovery to a 12-year-old. It would be disturbing for anyone, but it was particularly devastating to me at that time. I thought my career as a composer was going to end in fraud. Did I dare reveal to anybody that I was a fake? I could have copied the piece directly from the page of John Thompson. Instead, it had taken me three months to write it down. I could have gone back to page 25 and copied it out in half a day! However, I did transpose it. There was one thing unique in my version—I changed it to a different key. But even that isn’t very difficult. So I went back and thought, “Where did the other nine pieces come from?”
So for the next hour or so I went through all the pieces I could possibly find. I found that “No. 2” had a little snatch of “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” in it, and “No. 3” had a little bit from somewhere else. As I got a little further along I found there was a snatch here, a touch there, and a fragment there, but I couldn’t find that any of the other nine were actually lifted totally from another source as “No. 1” was.
Rather than going back and blurting out my confession to my class, I started to think, “Well, what does it really mean to be original after all? Certainly ‘Opus 1, No. 1’ isn’t original and a lot of the others don’t seem to be too original. How do you become original as a composer?” After all, there are only 12 notes in a scale, and there must be a hundred million pieces that have been written in the last thousand years. If you actually made a computer analysis of the pieces that have been written you would find just about every possible combination has been used! How, then, do you become creative as a composer with the same 12 notes that everyone else is using?
I’m not sure that I have the answer to that question, but I would like to suggest that a similar question exists for us all in any of a thousand other fields. How does my contribution to the world mean anything or have any uniqueness? As I said, I don’t have the answer to that, but I would like to give just one thought which may approach a solution.
It seems to me that part of the genius of our creation is the fact that each one of us is different from the next one—that the Lord didn’t make two leaves exactly the same way, or two of anything. Even identical twins really have some significant differences in them. Each of us is a little universe all of our own. And after the stamp of our particular creation was made, the unique cast was discarded. Of course, we all have a pancreas, big toenails, eyelashes—but even here the stamp is different for each one. One of the tasks of this life is to find that difference and to express it—meaningfully. If we do that, then in some way our contribution to the world, to the Church, to the community, to our families, and to everyone else, is unique and original.
Our contribution may have some superficial similarities or even some significant similarities to the contributions of others. Much of our daily work is similar to the next person’s. Our food is similar; we all wear apparel that is similar to the next person’s; we drive similar kinds of cars; we live in similar kinds of homes. But may I suggest that because each of us is significantly different that that difference has meaning, and that meaning can be translated into some kind of service that is meaningful to those around us. Herein lies an element of creativity and originality that is meaningful.

About two months before his children turned eight years old, one father would set aside time each week to prepare them for baptism. His daughter said that when it was her turn, he gave her a journal and they sat together, just the two of them, and discussed and shared feelings about gospel principles. He had her draw a visual aid as they went along. It showed the premortal existence, this earth life, and each step she needed to take to return to live with Heavenly Father. He bore his testimony about each step of the plan of salvation as he taught it to her.

When his daughter recalled this experience after she was grown, she said: “I will never forget the love I felt from my dad as he spent that time with me. … I believe that this experience was a major reason I had a testimony of the gospel when I was baptized.” (See Teaching, No Greater Call, 129.)