Gospel Story Finder

When an earthquake struck Haiti in January 2010, Jean-Elie René raced home to make sure his family was safe. Upon arrival, he spotted one of his three sons crying in the street, and he could hear the screams of another son from beneath the rubble where the family’s home once stood.
The 32-year-old father followed the cries and dug through the rubble until he found his five-year-old son and the body of his pregnant wife, still sheltering their nine-month-old baby from the collapsed roof of their home.
Brother René serves as ward clerk in the Leogane Ward, Port-au-Prince Haiti Stake. Although he lost his wife, his unborn child, and his home, he doesn’t complain or get angry about his situation. Most days following the earthquake, Brother René could be found at the meetinghouse, with the baby on his lap and his two other boys at his side, helping the bishop coordinate relief to ward members and others who made the meetinghouse their temporary home.
The story of Brother René is touching, but it is not unique.

It was hot—too hot to do anything but think about how to get cool. The grass-hoppers were popping from spot to spot like sprinkles on a hot griddle, and the grass along the roadside was singed brittle and brown.
Papa liked the hot weather. He said it was good for the crops.
“I think I’ll just walk down to the field and listen to the corn grow,” he announced after breakfast. “Anyone want to come along?”
“Not me,” I said. “It’s too hot.”
“Me neither,” Ed agreed.
“What are you going to do, hon?” he asked Mama.
“As long as it’s miserable anyway, I figure I might as well do a hot job and get it over with,” she said. “I’m going to make apple butter from the windfalls the kids picked up last night. I’ll save my resting time for a day when I can enjoy it.”
“Do you ever have any resting time?” Papa wanted to know.
“Not much,” she answered. “‘A man works from sun to sun, but women’s work is never done.’”
Then turning to me, she said, “Dora, if you’ll just wash the bottles for me, you can go play when you’re through.”
Washing the bottles was a nice sloshy job in the sudsy water and usually good to cool me off, but today the effort left me sticky and uncomfortable. I sat down under a tree and leaned against the rough bark. How I longed for a nice drink of cool water. The drinking water in the barrel got warm so fast in hot weather that it was no use to try to keep it cool. I looked up idly at our water tank. The water was always cool after the windmill pumped it from deep in the ground. If I climb up the ladder with a cup, I mused, I could have my drink. But I didn’t want to move. I just wanted to lie in the shade of the tank with a little trickle of cool water running into my mouth. If I had a long, thin tube, I thought, I could siphon it out and do just that. I could even let it drip over me and cool me off. But I’ve never seen a small one like I need. What can I makeone with? Straw? Not big enough, probably, and not long enough, either, unless I slide one length inside the other.
“I know,” I almost shouted. “Onion stems!” There were long, hollow ones in the garden holding up the fat white blooms, tapered just enough that the top of one would slide into the bottom of the next one. It would take a lot of stems to reach all the way to the top of the tank, but we had a big onion patch.
I forgot how hot I was and ran to make my long green pipe. Then I climbed with it to the top of the tank. I had separated it a few links short of the top and sucked up enough water to start the siphon action when I accidentally let the long piece fall to the ground. That meant another trip down the ladder to get it and one up to connect it again. By the time my refreshing onion-flavored drink was flowing, I was nearly melted with the heat. I lay under the tank and let the water drip over me and into my mouth. What luxury! A little breeze danced by and already I felt cooler. I didn’t want to move—ever—just lie there and guide the end of the hose around to cool me off.
I drizzled water over me until my hair had shrunk into corkscrew curls and my clothes were damp. I was cool as a cucumber. I guess I smelled a little like a pickle too. Whenever I’d had enough water for a while, I’d shut it off by tying a knot in the end of the onion stem. Soon this one section was wearing out and I needed to replace it.
“Dora … Dora!” Ed was calling me in his coaxing voice. That usually meant he wanted me to do something for him. I dropped my spigot and walked over to where he was.
“We’re going to go swimming. Do you want to go with us?”
“Nah, I don’t want to.” I started to walk away.
“How come you never want to swim?” he asked.
“I don’t like drowning. That’s why.”
“You’ve never drowned yet,” he reminded me.
“I don’t intend to either,” I told him. “Even if I did go swimming, it wouldn’t be a hundred miles up in the air where you can’t climb out on the ground.”
“Ah, come on, Dora,” he coaxed. “We need you for a lookout so we don’t get caught.”
“What’ll you give me?”
“A pretty bottle. I found one where Papa was digging. Been buried a long time, and it’s purple.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Will you come?”
Why not? I thought. “If it’s as pretty as you say,” I finally agreed.
He pulled a piece of lavender colored glass from his pocket.
“It’s broken,” I said.
“Didn’t say it wasn’t,” he replied. “But just look at the color when the light shines through it.”
He was right. It was beautiful.
It was a long walk to the swimming spot we had found on the other edge of town. I guess it was worth it to the boys, who liked to be sweating hot when they climbed up the side and dropped into the cool water of the tank that stood by the tracks to fill the tenders of the train locomotives when they came by.
All my coolness had evaporated in the heat, and I stood waiting for the boys in the shade below the tank. I was grateful for any breeze that stirred the air to cool me off, and I kicked back the hot sand with my bare feet to see if there was a cooler spot underneath.
“When are you coming down?” I shouted up. I was answered only by loud splashes and playful laughing. They didn’t hear me. They didn’t even hear the mournful wail of the faraway train whistle or my shouts of “Train’s coming!”
They did hear the wild shriek of the brakes, though, as the engine shuddered to a stop. The sudden suspension of splashing in the tank told me that. I knew it was too late for them to climb out now without being caught, so I hid down in the shadows and tried to look invisible.
The engineer jumped out and turned on the spigot to fill the water tender on his train. If he noticed me, he ignored me. Soon he closed the valve, climbed back in the engine, and with a double toot of the whistle was on his way again.
After the train sounds died away, Ed shouted down, “Turn some more water into the tank.”
“What for? Aren’t you wet enough already?” I teased.
“So we can get out. That train drank half the water, and we can’t reach the top.”
“Can’t reach the bottom either,” Frank added.
“Where’s the tap?” I asked, looking around for it. I could only see the one the engineer used to drain the tank.
“I don’t know,” Ed shouted impatiently, “but find it!”
Finally I found another valve. But the tap had been shut off by stronger hands than mine. “I’m not strong enough,” I cried.
“Oh, come on,” Ed encouraged. “Try harder.”
“Why don’t you stand on each other’s shoulders?” I suggested.
“We tried that, and it doesn’t work. We still can’t reach.”
“Climb up the sides then.”
“It’s too slippery,” Ed called.
“Go get Papa,” Frank insisted.
“He’ll be mad,” I reminded him.
“He sure will,” Ed said, reconsidering.
Finally, however, there seemed to be no other solution, so I started off on a run to find Papa.
I was stumbling from fatigue and panting for breath when Mr. Leslie, one of our neighbors, came along on his horse.
“Why, what’s the matter, Dora?” he asked.
“My brothers will drown in the water tank. They can’t get out.”
“The train tank? They shouldn’t be in there.”
“I know they shouldn’t, but they are. They were swimming and the train came along and took most of the water. Now they can’t reach the top to get out and I can’t turn on the tap and they’ll drown.”
“There, there, now calm down. We’ll get them out,” Mr. Leslie said soothingly. “I have my rope right here.” He reached down and pulled me up behind him on the horse, and we loped all the way back to the tank.
“Ed?” I called to the silence that had settled down as we rode up. “Mr. Leslie’s going to turn on the water.”
When the water started running into the tank in a slow trickle, Mr. Leslie climbed up and pulled the boys out one at a time with the rope. When they were all out and scrambling into their clothes, Ed asked Mr. Leslie, “You aren’t going to tell Papa about this, are you?”
“Can’t think of any reason why not,” Mr. Leslie replied.
“ ’Cause he’ll whip us good,” Frank said.
“A little whippin’ never hurt any boy that I know of,” Mr. Leslie teased.
“He’ll never let us go swimming again,” Frank pleaded.
“It’ll save us a lot of trouble if you could just forget this happened,” Ed suggested. “We’re willing to pay by working for you. We’ll both pull weeds for you for half a day.”
“I’ll help too,” I offered.
The next morning when we got up Papa was waiting with a little green willow.
“Somebody needs a whipping,” he said. I couldn’t figure out how he’d heard about swimming in the train tank so soon.
“Come over here,” he directed, and he led us out by our water tank. “Look at that mess.” He pointed to a mire where the cows had sloshed up and down all night in the mud made by my siphon. He picked up the onion hose that had been pulled from the tank.
“Who,” he thundered, “thought of this?”
“I didn’t do it,” Ed said.
“Me neither,” Frank insisted.
“Well, I’m sure it wasn’t Georgie,” Papa said. “Dora, was it you?”
I turned my face down so I wouldn’t have to look at his blazing eyes, and he could tell I was guilty.
“Run along, boys,” he said. “I have some private business with Dora.”
He had to switch me a little so I’d learn my lesson. Then when he was through he said, “That was really a smart way to get a cold drink, but it sure made a mess, didn’t it? Next time remember to turn it off.”
(To be continued.)

Growing up I thought the Spirit only spoke in an audible voice, which made me think very few people were privileged to hear that voice. So when I met with missionaries and accepted their invitation to pray to Heavenly Father for a confirmation that the gospel is true, I expected to hear an audible voice. And I was disappointed when I didn’t. Even though I felt their message was true, I was reluctant to be baptized because I had not heard the voice of the Spirit.
As my family members were baptized and bearing testimonies, I felt like I wasn’t doing something right, since Heavenly Father wasn’t “speaking” to me. When my mum and older brother went to the temple, I had a strong feeling that the temple was truly the house of the Lord and that I needed to prepare to go there one day. But I still didn’t recognize that my feelings were promptings from the Spirit.
One day I was reading from the Book of Mormon with the missionaries, and I had a strong feeling that what we were reading was true. I told the elders what I was feeling, and they helped me understand that the witness I felt was the Holy Spirit speaking to me. In that moment I realized I had been feeling the Spirit in so many ways, but I hadn’t considered He speaks with us all so differently. I accepted the invitation to be baptized that day.

I think you will enjoy this example of inviting all to receive the gospel. Seventeen-year-old Cleiton of Cape Verde had no idea what would happen as a result of walking into his ward’s seminary class one day. But his life and the lives of others would be forever changed because he did.

Cleiton, along with his mother and older brother, had been baptized into the Church some time earlier, and yet the family stopped attending. His single act of attending seminary would prove to be a hinge point for the family.

The other youth in the seminary class were warm and welcoming. They made Cleiton feel at home and encouraged him to attend another activity. He did so and soon began attending his other Church meetings. A wise bishop saw spiritual potential in Cleiton and invited him to be his assistant. “From that moment on,” says Bishop Cruz, “Cleiton became an example and an influence to other young people.”

The first person Cleiton invited back to church was his mother, then his older brother. He then widened his circle to friends. One of those friends was a young man his own age, Wilson. Upon his very first meeting with the missionaries, Wilson expressed his desire to be baptized. The missionaries were impressed and amazed at how much Cleiton had already shared with Wilson.

Cleiton’s efforts didn’t stop there. He helped other less-active members return, in addition to sharing the gospel with friends of other faiths. Today the ward has 35 active youth, with a thriving seminary program, thanks in large part to Cleiton’s efforts to love, share, and invite. Cleiton and his older brother, Cléber, are both preparing to serve full-time missions.

My wife and I traveled to Osorno Chile to pick up our son when he completed his mission. As we traveled around the mission with him, we took many pictures and the memory in our camera was getting full. So one evening we left the cottage where we were staying and went to an internet café so we could download the pictures onto a thumb drive. We were only gone a short time but when we returned, we found our cottage had been broken into and we had been robbed. We called the police and by the time they completed their investigation and let us go, it was about 3:00 int the morning. Because that cottage was a mess from the dusting for fingerprints and everything else the police had done, they moved us to a different cottage and we went to sleep but we had to wake up at 6:00 in the morning for a scheduled hike with a group to the top of an active volcano.

Rather than sleep in, we chose to get up and take the hike and created a wonderful memory with our son. We never did get any of our items returned to us. My son could have been very upset because he had lost so many memories from his mission including his missionary bag containing his scriptures, but instead, he simply said that he hoped the robbers would read his scriptures and join the church.

What would have happened if we had just gotten angry at the situation and decided to just sleep through the hike the next morning? In that case, our trial would have taken control of our lives and we would have been miserable. Instead, we chose to be happy, to climb the volcano and we had a wonderful time with our son and the rest of the group. President Gordon B. Hinckley often taught that, “Things work out. It isn’t as bad as you sometimes think it is. It all works out. Don’t worry. I say that to myself every morning. It will all work out. If you do your best, it will all work out. Put your trust in God, and move forward with faith and confidence in the future. The Lord will not forsake us. He will not forsake us. ...If we will put our trust in Him, if we will pray to Him, if we will live worthy of His blessings, He will hear our prayers.”

This quote is now printed over the top of a picture that I took of the volcano in Chile that we climbed that day and it sits in my office as a reminder of how we can find joy even in the midst of trial and adversity if we choose to be happy.

Katie Patterson, 12, and Ingrid Millard, 13, were buddies to Kathy. She, too, is wheelchair bound with cerebral palsy and severe retardation. A lack of vital brain chemicals causes her to bite herself. For this reason, her arms were strapped to boards.
“I was scared at first,” said Katie Patterson. “But after I pushed her around for a while I wasn’t scared anymore. She’s nice.”
Ingrid Millard agreed. “We take her to see everything.”
What does Kathy think? Well, she had a big smile, which is her way of telling the world she’s happy.

The construction worker lay where he had fallen, precariously balanced on a plank nine inches (23 cm) wide and 100 feet (30 m) in the air. He had been struck by a falling steel beam that had partially severed his left arm and leg.
In this case, the victim could not be moved safely until his injuries were assessed. I was hoisted up by crane on a metal cargo platform. Once I reached the victim, a construction worker held onto the back of my reflective jacket, serving as a human “crane” to allow me freedom of movement to examine the victim.
In situations like this, years of training take over, so I began to assess the man’s injuries. On his knee was an emergency field dressing placed there by the construction crew’s own first aid responder. Normally I would examine the injury to assess the damage since that is the protocol we are trained to follow.
But as I reached out, the Spirit prompted me: “Do not move the dressing.” So I did not touch it. Three more times during the incident, I was encouraged by others involved—the first responder, my colleague on the ground, and a doctor—to examine the knee wound, and three more times, the Spirit prompted me not to touch the dressing. Once we had stabilized the patient, we lifted the man onto the cargo platform, we were both lowered to the ground, and we transported him to the hospital.
In the emergency resuscitation area, the trauma team waited for us. One doctor quickly removed the field dressing from the knee. Immediately an artery ruptured, and the patient began bleeding profusely. In the controlled environment of the hospital, this life-threatening situation was quickly resolved. If it had happened on the plank 100 feet up, the victim may well not have survived.

For several days the Mayflower wallowed in the subsiding storm. At the first hint of sunshine, Ellen tugged at John Howland’s hand. “I need you to walk on deck with me,” she said.
“All right, little sister, we both need the fresh air.”
On the upper deck, Ellen admiringly patted the main beam so securely mended with her father’s clamp. At that moment a capricious wave sloshed over the deck, and John was washed overboard. Clinging to the mast, Ellen screamed and screamed. Swiftly sailors came. Miraculously John had caught hold of the topsail halyard (rope) that was dangling over the side. The halyard ran out at length, but John held on tightly, and the sailors hauled him in.
Relieved, Ellen buried her face in her hands. “Lord, thank Thee for helping John get hold of the halyard,” she whispered.

No one is perfect, but everyone should be striving for perfection. If we should stumble or fall as we travel life’s highway, let us apply the counsel given to us by Cliff Cushman, a member of the 1960 U.S. Olympic team. He won the silver medal in the 400-meter hurdles and was a top candidate for the gold medal in the 1964 Olympics; but in the American trials, he hit and tripped over a hurdle and was eliminated. Messages of sympathy poured in to him, and he replied with an open letter to the youth of his hometown, Grand Forks, North Dakota. He wrote:
“Over 15 years ago, I saw a star—first place in the Olympic Games. I literally started to run after it. In 1960 I came within three yards of grabbing it; this year I stumbled, fell and watched it recede four more years away. …
“In a split second all the many years of training, pain, sweat, blisters and agony of running were simply and irrevocably wiped out.
“But I tried! I would much rather fail knowing I had put forth an honest effort than never to have tried at all. …
“Certainly I was very disappointed in falling flat on my face. However, there is nothing I can do about it now but get up, pick the cinders from my wounds, and take one more step followed by one more and one more, until the steps turn into miles and miles into success.
“I know I may never make it. The odds are against me, but I have something in my favor—desire and faith. … At least I am going to try. How about you? … Unless your reach exceeds your grasp, how can you be sure what you can attain? …
“Let me tell you something about yourselves. … You are spending more money, enjoying more freedom, and driving more cars than ever before, yet many of you are very unhappy. Some of you have never known the satisfaction of doing your best in sports, the joy of excelling in class, the wonderful feeling of completing a job, any job, and looking back on it knowing that you have done your best. …
“I dare you to look up at the stars, not down at the mud, and set your sights on them that, up to now, you thought were unattainable. There is plenty of room at the top, but no room for anyone to sit down.
“Who knows? You may be surprised at what you can achieve with sincere effort. So get up, pick the cinders out of your wounds, and take one more step.
“I dare you!”
The last report I had on Cliff Cushman indicated that he was missing in action in the Vietnam war.

The next morning I was up a little before five, tossing bundles of the Herald onto the back seat of the car. During the night the snow had stopped and the world was buried under its wet cottony mass. I glanced down the driveway and wondered if I should take a few minutes to push some of the snow away before pulling out. Blowing on my numb fingertips and stomping the snow from my feet, I shook my head. I didn’t have time, I reasoned. And I was sure I could get out without getting stuck.
The first stop I made was at Sister Rencher’s. With most people I didn’t make the effort to set the paper inside the front door. I just tossed it in the general direction of the porch. But with Sister Rencher I made an exception because it was so hard for her to get around. I snatched a paper off the back seat, stepped from the car, and sprinted for the front steps. I stopped at the end of the walk and stared in disbelief. The front walk and steps were swept completely clean. I glanced at my watch—5:15 A.M. “Boy, somebody’s sure been up early this morning,” I muttered, hurrying up the clean walk and setting the paper inside the storm door. “Maybe Sister Rencher can get around with that walker better than I thought,” I grinned.
“That was quick,” Dad called to me as I burst in from the cold 90 minutes later. He was just putting on his coat and stuffing papers into his briefcase before heading out the door for work.
“There’s a ton of snow out there,” I remarked. “It must have snowed another four inches after we went to bed.”
“I guess you cleaned off the walks and driveway,” Dad joked.
“What did you want me to do, get up at three o’clock?” I grinned back. “I was lucky to get the papers delivered. But somebody was sure up early. Sister Rencher’s walks were clean as spring.”
Dad smiled. “What about Sister Hatch’s and Sister Ballard’s?”
“Dad, I was delivering papers, not home teaching. I don’t go over that way.”

When I was about 17, I began to feel I couldn’t relate to people at church anymore. Around the same time, my parents divorced and stopped attending church. I still went, but I had lost faith in eternal marriage. When I met Kristian,* it wasn’t hard to turn my back on the Church and walk away. So I did.

We lived together for almost four years before we split up. I wanted to start going to church again, but I was afraid everybody would ask all sorts of questions. I went to visit my sister. In her ward no one knew me or how long I’d been away from the Church, and during my stay I started going to church again. I continued going in my own ward when I returned home. The first Sunday I was really scared, but people were just happy I was there.

I knew I had to choose a side; I couldn’t keep walking with one foot on the Lord’s side and one on the world’s. I started meeting with my bishop. He has helped me understand the Atonement. It’s been a long road of repentance—at times a very difficult one. I’m still in progress, and I still have a lot of things to learn, but I’m happier now. I know I chose the right when I decided to come back to the Church. It was about making up my mind about what I felt and what I knew was right and then just going for it.

Women and men who can hear the voice of the Lord, and who respond to those promptings, become invaluable instruments in His hands. I will never forget an experience I had following a stake conference. I was asked to participate in a blessing for a young woman your age who was suffering with cancer. The family were converts, and they had found peace through the promptings of the Spirit. Prior to our giving the blessing, this dear sister said to me: “Elder Ballard, I am not afraid to die, but I would like to live here with my family. I am prepared to accept the will of my Father in Heaven. Please bless me to find peace and to know that He will be with me.” What faith, insight, and courage the Spirit had blessed her with! A few months later the family advised me that Heavenly Father had called her home. She died in peace, and the family lived in peace because they were familiar with the Spirit. One of the sweetest messages the Spirit will relay is how the Lord feels about you. And that reassurance will strengthen you in a way that almost nothing else can.

Nicole Davie and Luwana Qummou of Brisbane, Australia, built a bridge together. It wasn’t a massive stone-and-steel structure like the one that arches over the bay behind them as they stroll the waterfront of Brisbane’s business district; Nicole and Luwana built a bridge of trust and love.
While they were teenagers, Nicole met Luwana at Sunnybank High School. They became good friends and have known each other for five years, including the past two years as university students.
“If the full-time missionaries had come to my door, I’m not sure if I would have listened to them,” Luwana says. “But Nicole was my friend. We had lots of fun at school, and I vaguely remember her talking about the Church. It took years before I felt comfortable asking about her religion.”
That finally happened late in 1993. “The first time we had a spiritual talk, she just wanted to learn more,” Nicole says. “She had a lot of questions and was troubled by some things she’d heard from others. I said a prayer for her that night, and I think the Holy Ghost went to work on her.”
“The next day, as we talked again, everything I’d been upset about didn’t seem to matter anymore,” Luwana says. “I felt the Holy Spirit strongly. I felt calm and happy. I knew I needed to study the Church, so I took the missionary discussions and started reading the Book of Mormon. The feelings got stronger and stronger.”
Friendship became a bridge of trust between Nicole and Luwana, and helped Luwana build a bridge of faith linking her to her Heavenly Father. With that kind of path to understanding, it wasn’t long before Luwana was baptized and became an enthusiastic member of the Church.
Now, as Luwana looks out over the waterfront in Brisbane, she knows she is building more bridges—bridges to eternity. Soon she will be married to a returned missionary in the Sydney Temple, and she thanks Nicole for the knowledge that made that possible.
“We’re best friends,” Luwana says. “To know that she wanted to see me marry a worthy man in the temple, that she wanted me to have that happiness, that’s really wonderful.”

Recently I attended a sacrament meeting given by children with special needs. Each was disabled in hearing or sight or mental development. Beside each was a teenager assigned as a companion. They sang and played music for us. Facing us on the front row was a young girl who stood and signed to those behind us who could not hear.

Jenny gave a brief testimony. Then her parents each spoke. They told of the utter agony they had known when they learned that their child would never have a normal life. They told of the endless, everyday trials that followed. When others would stare or laugh, Jenny’s brothers put an arm protectively around her. The mother then told us of the love and absolute joy Jenny brought to the family.

Those parents have learned that “after much tribulation … cometh the blessing” (D&C 103:12). I saw them bound together by adversity and refined into pure gold—true Latter-day Saints.

They told us Jenny adopts fathers. So when I shook hands with her, I said, “I’m a grandpa.”

She looked up at me and said, “Well, I can see why!”

Let me give you some examples from my college years at BYU, which is when I made a commitment to follow this pattern in my life. During my first two years at BYU, I worked for Custodial Services every day from 4 a.m. until 7 a.m. My first class was English at 7 a.m. It seemed logical to schedule my classes early because I would already be on campus. However, as you can guess, it wasn't always worth that convenience. The temptation many days after work was to find an empty recliner or cot in one of the women's restrooms on campus and skip that first class. If I did, and fell asleep, I could easily miss the whole morning of classes. (In those days we didn't have cell phone alarms.) I had to resist that temptation and walk sleepily to class repeating to myself, "Be where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there."
Following the pattern was great because it got me to class! But on those days when I had prepared by getting plenty of sleep the night before, I was much happier to leave work and go to class, and my participation in class was much more meaningful!

The peace that you want takes time. It won’t happen overnight. My mother died about five years ago of cancer. It isn’t easy to lose someone we love. I only wish that I had communicated with my dad and my brothers and sisters and told them how I felt. Instead I tried to hide my feelings. Because of my stubbornness, it only got worse when my dad remarried and we moved to a new town. I was heartbroken because all my memories of my mom weren’t around anymore. I blamed my Heavenly Father for doing this to me and making my life miserable.
I now feel peace within because I decided to let go of all my past hurts and look toward the future. Yes, I still have my days when I wonder why, but Heavenly Father has the whole eternal perspective of life, and we only have a narrow view.
I hope that you will keep communications with your family open. Let them know how you’re feeling.
Please stay close to your Heavenly Father. He loves all of us, and he will comfort you when you’re really down. I can testify to that.
Mary Beth Bentley, 18Danville, California

May brings Teacher Appreciation Week, and youth of the Jurupa California Stake did not let their teachers be forgotten. Each student invited the best teacher he or she had ever had to a teacher appreciation dinner held at the stake center.
During the dinner, the young men and young women provided musical entertainment, and Bishop David Hanson of the Jurupa Fourth Ward spoke about Christ as the Master Teacher. Many of the 50 teachers who attended the dinner wrote thank-you notes commenting on how impressed they are with the youth of the Church and with the Church’s emphasis on education.

Before the temple near their home was dedicated, Olivia invited her grandma to come with her to the temple open house.
I’m happy you came with us to the open house, Grandma.
Thank you for inviting me. I’ve been a little lonely since Grandpa passed away.
I miss him too.
When you turn 12, you’ll get to come here and do baptisms for the dead.
I’m so excited.
Mom told me that when she and Dad come to the temple, they wear white clothes.
That’s right.
Sealings will be performed in this room. Stand in front of this mirror and look at the mirror across the room. What do you see?
It’s as if we go on and on forever.
Just like our family, right? We’ll even see Grandpa again someday.
You’re right. If we keep the commandments, we can be with Grandpa and all of our family because we’ve been sealed in the temple.
Olivia and Grandma followed the tour guide into the temple’s celestial room.
I like how it feels in here. I feel happy.
I do too.
I love the temple, Grandma. Someday, when I’m older, I’ll come back and be married here. I’m happy that our whole family can be together forever—even Grandpa.
That’s right. I’m very thankful for the temple, for the open house, and for you.

Brothers and sisters, I bear to you my personal witness of the divine origin of this gift. I have been blessed of the Lord on occasion to taste of this gift in some small degree. Perhaps in no more profound way, than the first time I stood in front of 150 students like you, having been called several weeks earlier to serve as their new bishop. We were to be a new ward when school reconvened. I was called while they were gone for the summer. None of us knew each other. For the three weeks before school began I had only a list of 150 names.

How could I learn to properly serve these brothers and sisters? How long would it take me to come to truly love them? Time was spent on my knees as I anxiously awaited their arrival and our first meeting together.

I remember vividly that Sunday morning, as these choice sons and daughters of God raised their hands, itself an act of faith and love on their part, to sustain me as their new bishop. As I stood in front of them for the first time, I felt a love so deep, so profound, and so eternal for people I had never before seen, that I knew I was being offered a taste of this divine gift of charity - the very love that Christ feels for each of us. The Lord had heard and answered my prayers.

I bear witness that He will continue to do so in each of our lives, if we will ask in faith, demonstrated by our seeking for, recognizing and following impressions born of the Spirit to love and serve one another.

May I conclude my remarks on fast offerings with portions of a letter I received several years ago from Elder John H. Groberg, who at that time was president of the Tongan Mission.
“Enclosed find a check for $1,000 for excess fast offerings from the Tongan Mission. Normally this letter would end here, but because of an experience I recently had I would like to add a little more.
“As you may or may not be aware, Tonga is one of the poorest countries financially in the world. The average wage rate is only around 12¢ per hour if you are lucky enough to have a job. …
“Recently, while visiting one of the far distant islands that is very difficult to get to, I went late in the day to the home of one of the good widow sisters there.
“When I first approached her hut the sun was still quite bright and I could not help but notice the stark poverty of her surroundings. It had been raining earlier. The mud and decay and the ever-present smell of drying fish were at first repulsive. But the warmth of meeting with a fellow Church member—especially after years of separation—together with tears of appreciation for the long-awaited visit, soon pushed the unpleasantness of the surroundings temporarily into the background.
“As we conversed in her fluid native tongue and she told of her love for and faith in the Church and of all the blessings she had received, I could not help but think about her apparently miserable circumstances. … All sorts of ideas went through my mind, and I must have let my thoughts wander as I suddenly became aware that somewhere between phrases about blessings and poverty and service she had gone to her hut and was now returning with a small knotted rag.
“Suddenly my mind seemed to fill with light, and the words ‘fast offerings’ flooded in. I was so excited with the idea that had come so suddenly and so clearly, that you can imagine my utter amazement and unpreparedness when she took a threepence (a coin worth about 3¢) from her rag and said softly, ‘Here is my fast offering … to help the poor.’
“I wanted to explain that fast offering was to help her, not for her to help others. The explanation never came, for as I looked through misty eyes, first at the threepence then back at the good sister, the whole scene changed.
“The hut was a glowing mansion and the mud was gold. … The world seemed to stand still for a moment. All of nature seemed to stop and listen as from the heavens the whole universe seemed filled with the reassuring words: ‘Blessed are the poor … for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’ (Matt. 5:3.)
“As the setting sun signaled the end of the day, so it also told of the approaching end of her beautiful life of service.
“I took the threepence, and as I write this check the whole experience once again fills my mind and I wonder, ‘How many threepences to make a thousand dollars?’”