Gospel Story Finder

Emalyn, a 16-year-old young woman, described a favorite tradition she’s been doing since she was 7. “I participate in a live Nativity from Thanksgiving to Christmas,” she says. This is no simple gathering of siblings wearing bathrobes either, mind you! It’s a free community offering that’s been going on for many years.
Emalyn performs as the narrator in a live nativity that blesses thousands each Christmas.
Here’s a typical performance day: Emalyn starts at 9 a.m. with her mother and the main organizer. They spend six hours making 500 donuts for that evening’s guests, and then Emalyn dresses in costume to be the narrator. The live Nativity offers scenery, lights, animals for the manger, a cast of 20–30, and a 15-minute performance that is seen by thousands each year.
“The Spirit is so strong when we perform,” she says. “Last year a little boy I’d never met came up and gave me a hug and said, ‘This is exactly what I needed!’”

Daniel stared out the window. He saw his friends heading to the park with their basketballs. He wanted to go too.
““I can’t take you today, Daniel,” Mom said. “Your sister has a bad cold. And you’re not quite old enough to go alone. I’m sorry.”
Daniel frowned at his sister, Elise. She was sitting in her wheelchair with her toys on her lap. She was five, but she couldn’t walk or talk yet. Elise coughed hard. She got sick a lot, and she couldn’t go outside if it was too hot or too cold. And she had to eat through a tube in her stomach.
Daniel loved his sister, but sometimes he felt angry too. It was hard to always do what was best for Elise. He just wanted to play with the other kids. His stomach knotted in frustration.
“It’s not fair!” he said to Mom. “Everything is always about Elise!” He ran down the hall to his room.
Two days later Elise’s cough got much worse, and she had to go to the hospital. Daniel’s grandparents came to stay with him. Mom and Dad spent most of their time at the hospital with Elise for the rest of the week.
Daniel’s grandparents could take him to play with the other kids. But now Daniel was worried about Elise. He was sorry for what he had said to his mom that day. He didn’t like how sometimes he couldn’t go play because of Elise. But Daniel loved how she smiled when he talked to her, and being with her made him feel happy.
Daniel looked out the window, hoping to see Mom and Dad bringing Elise home.
Suddenly Daniel saw Mom’s car turn into the driveway. He ran to meet her.
“Mom, I’m sorry for what I said about Elise that day I got mad,” he said, hugging her tight.
“It’s OK,” Mom said as she hugged him back. “I know you love her. It doesn’t seem fair that we can’t always do the things you want to do. It’s hard sometimes for everybody. But I know we are blessed to have Elise in our family.”
Daniel said, “I miss her.”
“Me too,” said Mom. “The doctor said she can probably come home tomorrow.”
Two weeks later Daniel and Elise were both in Primary.
“Everyone find a partner and form a circle!” the Primary president said.
Daniel hurried forward and grabbed his sister’s wheelchair.
“Elise is my partner,” he told her teacher. He wheeled her up front to join the circle of children.
He looked over at Elise. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.
Daniel was glad Elise could be home again. He wanted to be a special brother to her.

Eighteen months after becoming a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints I went on a mission to Ireland at the age of twenty-two. In the Salt Lake City mission home, just three days prior to my departure, it became apparent to me that I lacked a very important missionary aid. I knew through prayer that the Church was true, so I knew that the Book of Mormon must be true. But the Book of Mormon had not been a part of my conversion and I hadn’t read it. I started reading that day and finished my first reading about a month later. I knelt down by my bed in Dublin, Ireland, and reported to the Lord that I had read the Book of Mormon and desired a spiritual witness of its truth. After a period of pondering in my prayer I received a revelation through the power of the Holy Ghost that was strong, clear, and definite. Brothers and sisters, I know that the Book of Mormon is true. And I know that it has nourished my spirit, and it has strengthened my conviction, as I have continued to read and to study over the years.

The peccaries eagerly pushed and shoved, and their dark hooves churned the sand into a dust cloud. They squealed and bit each other in their haste to slake their thirst. Forgotten was the danger that might lie in wait at the water hole.
Suddenly an unknown sound startled the herd. For an instant, the small gray animals with their collars of white stood motionless. The stiff hairs on their necks and backs bristled. Then one barked sharply in warning, and the spell was broken. Abruptly they stampeded, discharging a strong, musky scent from a gland located on the ridge of their backs. Males, females, half-grown young, and even the newborn peccaries were swept along in a mad rush to escape.
One peccary, no bigger than a cottontail rabbit, lost his footing and fell. Though the others tried to avoid trampling the fallen animal, one flying hoof struck him hard. Stunned by the blow, the little animal lay still, his eyes closed. Blood trickled from his head. Only the slight rise and fall of his belly and the occasional twitch of his nubbin of a tail showed that he was alive.
Several ants from a nearby anthill were out scouting for bits of food to carry back to their colony. One of the foragers found its way blocked by a strange object lying in the sand. It scurried up the long, hairless snout to investigate. Another ant followed, then another. Soon there was such a parade of curious insects that the ticklings of their threadlike legs roused the little peccary.
He shook his head and blinked his eyes. He snorted and coughed the grains of sand from his nose and mouth. Then he struggled up onto his wobbly legs. Except for the ants hurrying away and a red-tailed hawk sailing overhead, the little peccary was quite alone.
For the first time in his short life, the peccary was separated from his mother, his twin, and the rest of the herd. Confused and afraid, the little animal took a few hesitant steps forward, then back. Finally he limped slowly away to search for the herd.
The sun was setting, and a cool wind blew down from the mountains. The peccary shivered and felt the first pangs of hunger. An older peccary would have eaten almost anything, from a spiny cactus to a poisonous rattlesnake. But the little one had known only the nourishment of his mother’s milk.
Aimlessly he wandered. Now and then he stopped, pricked up his ears, and raised his snout to sniff the wind. But there were no familiar grunts and squeals, no trace of scent on the rocks and bushes.
The animal soon became so tired that he could not go on. Looking for a safe place to hide and rest, he spotted a hollowed-out space under the overhang of a huge boulder. The little peccary dropped into it and dozed off, but his sleep was fitful because of the strange night sounds.
When he fully awoke, the sun was up, and the young animal squinted against the brightness. Suddenly hearing strange sounds, he tried to hide by scrunching back as far as he could. But the space was too shallow.
“Look, Maria, a baby peccary!” exclaimed Pepe. “And he’s all alone!”
When his sister knelt to stroke the grizzled head, her hand touched the dried blood. “Oh, you poor little thing!” cried Maria. “You’ve been hurt. We must take him home with us, Pepe. If we leave him here, he’ll die of thirst or starvation.”
“But what will Mama say?” Pepe asked.
“Oh, I’m sure she won’t mind—when we explain,” Maria assured him.
Pepe and Maria lived in a small village in northern Mexico. That morning their mother had sent them out to gather cactus fruit. However, their errand was quickly forgotten as Maria pulled off her bright serape and picked up the peccary. The little animal was so frightened and so weak that he didn’t even struggle.
Carrying her bundle, Maria started back to the village. Pepe followed, carrying the empty baskets.
In their adobe home Mama was busy cooking the noon meal. As she stirred the stew of beans and meat, the door burst open and two excited voices cried, “We found a baby peccary, Mama! May we keep him?”
Mama turned from the stove and stared at the children. “What is this? You are sent to gather cactus fruit, and instead you return with this little wild one? Are not a lame burro, a blind rooster, and an orphan lamb enough?” she asked.
“But he’s been hurt!” Pepe declared.
“And he must be hungry and thirsty,” Maria added in a pleading voice.
Mama sighed. “All right. Put him in one of the empty pens. He can have some fresh goat’s milk from the jar on the shelf.”
“Oh, thank you, Mama!” Maria and Pepe cried. Then they took the little peccary outside to get acquainted with his new home and the other animals.
The children’s new pet soon learned to come when he was called. Sometimes Pepe and Maria would scratch his head and rub his belly. The little peccary would grunt softly, flop down on the ground, and beg for more. Though the peccary made whimpering noises if he was left alone very long, he seemed content.
Soon he began to grub for his own food, using his snout to plough up the ground in search of buried roots, bulbs, insects, and worms. To keep himself clean, he rolled in the sand and dirt. Every once in a while he would stop whatever he was doing to lift his head and sniff the wind. Every day he grew bigger and stronger. And every day Pepe and Maria were kept busy adding mesquite branches and rocks to weak places in the sides of his pen.
One morning when the children went to feed their animals, the peccary was gone. Tracks led away from a hole in the corner of his pen. Pepe and Maria followed the tracks to a spot in the desert where they merged with many others.
“The little peccary has probably found his mother.” Maria said, her eyes filling with tears. “We’ll never see him again.”
“Don’t be sad,” Pepe said, trying to comfort Maria. “That is the way it should be. Come on—I’ll show you where a roadrunner with a broken wing hides in the chaparral.”

It wasn’t long ago that Lem Guluka became our new bishop. I had never met him before, so I had no strong feelings about his being called. He was a smart-looking man and a convert from Africa. He started performing his duties the very day we sustained him. He’d come to our lessons in Young Women and hold youth activities at his house. The first time he did this, most of the youth were still in the “getting to know you” stage. One of us asked what his favorite animal was. He replied, “The rooster.” The rooster? I was surprised at such an odd response, and the others seemed to share this reaction. Then he broke into an imitation of a rooster’s strut. By this time, we were in hysterics. It was then that I realized how much his calling had really affected me.
I grew to love this man, my bishop, who could make us laugh and who was always there when we needed him. It made me think of our Savior, Jesus Christ, and how getting to know Him, as a convert myself, made a big difference in my life. Bishop Guluka is the most Christlike person I know. As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we gain testimonies by drawing closer to God and His Son. Likewise, by befriending our Church leaders, we can receive guidance. I learned that lesson through one of my most reliable friends—the bishop.

I remember very well sitting in a seminar on biblical studies at an eastern university many years ago. One of the things that stands out in my mind is our discussion of the canon of scripture. For at least two hours the instructor had emphasized that the word canon—referring, of course, to the biblical books that are generally included in the Judeo-Christian collection—was the “rule of faith,” the standard against which we measure what is acceptable in belief and practice. He also stated that the canon, if the word meant anything at all, was closed, fixed, set, and established. He must have stressed those words at least 10 times as he wrote them on the blackboard over and over.

I noticed in the second session on this topic that the instructor seemed a bit uneasy. I remember thinking that something must be wrong. Without warning, he stopped what he was doing, banged his fist on the table, turned to me, and said: “Mr. Millet, will you please explain to this group the Latter-day Saint concept of canon, given your people’s acceptance of the Book of Mormon and other books of scripture beyond the Bible?”

I was startled. Stunned. Certainly surprised. I paused for several seconds, looked up at the blackboard, saw the now very familiar words under the word canon,and said, somewhat shyly, “Well, I suppose you could say that the Latter-day Saints believe the canon of scripture is open, flexible, and expanding.” We then had a really fascinating discussion!

I remember the occasion of more than 50 years ago when, as a missionary, I was speaking in an open-air meeting in Hyde Park, London. As I was presenting my message, a heckler interrupted to say, “Why don’t you stay with the doctrine of the Bible which says in John [4:24], ‘God is a Spirit’?”
I opened my Bible to the verse he had quoted and read to him the entire verse: “God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth.”
I said, “Of course God is a spirit, and so are you, in the combination of spirit and body that makes of you a living being, and so am I.”
Each of us is a dual being of spiritual entity and physical entity. All know of the reality of death when the body dies, and each of us also knows that the spirit lives on as an individual entity and that at some time, under the divine plan made possible by the sacrifice of the Son of God, there will be a reunion of spirit and body. Jesus’ declaration that God is a spirit no more denies that he has a body than does the statement that I am a spirit while also having a body.

Some years ago I was assigned by President David O. McKay to talk to a group of ministers. Two churches were holding a convention in Salt Lake, and present were their leaders from California, Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Utah, and Nevada. I talked to them for two and one-half hours at their request to tell them what Mormonism really is. I told them before I closed my talk, “When I was the Presiding Bishop of the Church, we were responsible for the building program of the Church. We had the plans prepared for the Los Angeles Temple. We took those plans and showed them to the presidency of the Church one day. We didn’t have the electrical or the plumbing plans complete, and yet we had 84 pages, about four feet long and two and one-half feet wide, with literally thousands and thousands of figures and drawings and designs. There was that temple built spiritually, yet there wasn’t a hole in the ground. All the builder needed to do was to know how to read and execute those plans, and he couldn’t leave out 25 pages and have a completed building.
“You can take those plans and go all over this world and try to fit them to every building in the world. There is only one building they will fit, and that is the Mormon temple down in Los Angeles. Oh, of course, you can find buildings that have materials in them like in that temple, such as electric wiring, plumbing, cement, and lumber, but you can’t find any other building that they will fit.”
Then I held up the Bible. I said, “Here is the Lord’s blueprint. Isaiah said the Lord has declared the end from the beginning. (See Isa. 46:10.) It is all here if you know how to understand it.”
I said, “You can take this, the Lord’s blueprint, and try to fit it to every church in the world. There is only one church that it will fit, and that is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Of course, you can find churches that have some things in them which are in this, the Lord’s blueprint, but you can’t find any other church in the world that this will fit.”
Then I proceeded to illustrate. I took a lot of texts. I will take just one to illustrate. I quoted from John 10:16, where the Savior said, “And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring, and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd.”
I said to these ministers, “Do any of you know why that is in the Bible? Do any of you know any church in the world that does know why it is in the Bible?” Then I tied it in to what I had told them about the promise of Joseph of a new land in the utmost bound of the everlasting hills. (See Gen. 49:26.)
“In describing that land, Moses uses the word precious five times (see Deut. 33:13–17),” I said. “Do any of you know where that land is?” Then I told them what I had already told them, that it was the land of America. I talked about the two records that were to be kept. (See Ezek. 37:15–20.) “Do any of you know anything about the record of Joseph? Do any of you know why it is mentioned in the Bible?” Then I told them that when the Savior visited the Nephites here in this land of America, He told them that they were the other sheep of whom He spoke. He said that never at any time had the Lord commanded Him to tell His disciples who the other sheep were—only that He had other sheep that were not of that fold. (See 3 Ne. 15:11–24.)
We have the whole truth if we would just realize it, and that is why the prophets call it “a marvellous work and a wonder.” I do not think you will do anything in this world that will bring you greater joy than bringing people to a knowledge of the truth. We experience that constantly in our missionary work.
A woman was converted up in Idaho. She comes down to see me often. She calls me after nearly every conference. She is a nurse. She gave me a check for $500 for the children’s hospital because, at the death of her husband, one of our Saints stepped in to tell her what she might expect in the future if she just knew the truth. I got a letter from her recently. She said she had found more love in this church than she had ever known in her life—even from her own mother.
I received a letter from a woman down in Alabama. She had lost her husband. She is a dignified, wonderful woman. The missionaries brought her the truth. Now she writes that she has never known such joy in all her life as she has known since the elders brought the gospel to her, and she is doing a wonderful work in the Church. We get reports like that constantly.
You remember the little story President Grant used to tell about the Scandinavian brother who was converted and came over to America. He hadn’t been taught too much about the Church. So the bishop went to him to teach him the law of tithing. He finally agreed to pay his tithing. Then the bishop wanted some fast offering. He agreed to the fast offering. Then they wanted to build a chapel. The man thought that ought to come out of the tithing, but before the bishop got through with him, he had paid his donation for the chapel. Then the bishop went to him to ask his son to go on a mission. He said, “That’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.” Then this bishop said, “Brother So-and-so, whom do you love in this world more than anyone else, aside from your own family?” He thought a minute and said, “I guess I love that Mormon elder who came up to the Land of the Midnight Sun and taught me the gospel of Jesus Christ.” Then the bishop said, “Brother So-and-so, how would you like somebody to love your boy just like you love that missionary?” He said, “Bishop, you win again. Take him.”
You just cannot get away from it.
President Anthon H. Lund told us missionaries years ago when I went on my first mission that the people would love us. He said, “Don’t get lifted up in the pride of your heart and think they love you because you are better than other people. They will love you because of what you bring to them.” I didn’t know what he meant then, but before I left the little land of Holland, I knew. I shed a thousand times more tears when I left there than I did when I left my loved ones at home to go to Holland.
I went with my companion into one home where I had been the first missionary. One little short woman, with tears rolling clear down the front of her apron, looked up into my eyes and said, “Brother Richards, it was hard to see my daughter leave for Zion a few weeks ago, but it is a lot harder to see you go.” Then I knew what Brother Lund meant when he said, “They will love you because of what you bring to them.”
I went to tell a man good-bye who stood in the uniform of his country. He was tall and wore a little Dutch beard. He got down on his knees and took my hand in his and hugged it and kissed it. Then I think I understood what Brother Lund meant when he said they will love you.
If we go back far enough, each one of us is indebted to some missionary for our being in this Church. Why shouldn’t we assume the responsibility to pass it on?
I want to tell you, when you bear your testimony of the divinity of this work, it is going to do something.
Do you remember when Peter stood before the people, following the day of Pentecost, and they heard the gospel preached in their own tongue? They were pricked in their hearts, not just because of philosophy, but because of the witness that Peter bore that Jesus was the Christ, the Son of the living God.
I tell the missionaries when they go out into the field that they will never raise their voices to testify that Jesus is the Redeemer of the world, and that Joseph Smith was His Prophet, and that the Book of Mormon is true, without the Lord causing their bosoms to burn within them; and if they will bear their testimonies, with the Spirit of the Lord accompanying it, so that their words are not as sounding brass and tinkling cymbal, the words will pierce the hearts of the honest, and they can all be instruments to bring people into the Church.
I was in New York some time ago. I told the Saints I met with there that the president asked them all to be missionaries. I said, “Now, won’t you all stop and think for a minute of someone you know who isn’t a member of the Church—someone you work with, your neighbor, your friend, or a relative—someone you can bring to a knowledge of the truth? They will love you for it throughout the eternities. It would be worth more to them than if you would give them a million dollars.”
Not long after that I received a letter from a young man in Houston, Texas. He had been in New York attending a convention in his particular field and had attended our meeting. The letter went like this. He said, “Brother Richards, I heard you invite each one of us to be an instrument in the hands of the Lord in bringing someone to the knowledge of the truth. I wrote a letter to my wife and told her that I had a proposition to make to her when I came home.” When he got home he told her what I had said. He said, “There is a young man who works in the office with me. He knows I’m a Mormon, but I have never told him why. I would like to invite him over, with his wife, for supper some night. After supper we will have something to talk about.”
To make this story short, he wrote me a two-page letter telling me the joy he had had in leading this man and his wife into the waters of baptism. I have since met them down in Houston. I believe he is now the stake president of the Sunday School.
I heard a young missionary up in the Northwest say that he wouldn’t take a million dollars for the experience of his mission. I sat behind him and said to myself, “Would you take a million dollars for your first mission in the little land of Holland?” I began counting the people I had been privileged to bring into the Church, and I have lived to see their boys and girls and their grandchildren and now their great-grandchildren going on their missions. What kind of a man would I be to sell them out of the Church for a million dollars? The son of one man alone has done enough for this Church to more than compensate me for everything that I did.
Brother Matthew Cowley was one of the great missionaries of the Church. Talking in one of the BYU devotionals, on March 12, 1946, he made this statement. I would like to give it to you because it so clearly voices my feeling toward the great missionary program of the Church. He said:
“As you have heard, I have been on two missions to New Zealand. I have attended two universities, and I will say now at the outset, if I had my life to live over again and I had to choose between the missions to New Zealand and my education in two universities, I would select my missions to New Zealand from every standpoint: from the standpoint of education, from the standpoint of spiritual development, of character development, and every other angle of development that we might consider. I would not exchange one for the other for anything. And so, I am pleased to stand before you now, not as a lawyer, not as a college graduate, but as a missionary.” (Matthew Cowley, Man of Faith, p. 203.)
That is my feeling. I think the missionary program of the Church is the greatest thing in all this world, and it is a program that we can all be engaged in, no matter where our lot is cast—not only in the words that we speak, but in the nobility of our lives, to let our light so shine, that the world, seeing our good works, can glorify our Father which is in heaven. (See Matt. 5:16.)

The eight children younger than I were adopted. My older sister and I are the only natural children of our parents. Each time we adopted another one, dad would send us to the bishop to get temple recommends. Just recently, the last child was sealed to our family. Now, after my dad says family prayer or holds family counsel, I think of how long it has taken us to progress this far and how much more we must do to gain the celestial kingdom.

Then there was the time they went underground. They heard one day that someone had discovered a cave up a nearby canyon, and from that moment on nothing would do but that they should find a cave of their own. So everyday after school, and all day on Saturdays, they could be seen up in the canyons with their cameras, pretending to be sightseeing and picture taking.

They were really cave hunting and doing it with the same all-out dedication they do everything. They checked out about every crack in every rock in the canyons, looking for the telltale air currents that reveal a cavern behind the crack. They learned to look for the slightest movement in spiderwebs and grasses; they lit matches and held them to cracks to see if the flame flickered under some imperceptible breeze.

For two months they searched, and they were prepared to go on searching until heavy snow made it impossible, and then to start again the following spring. But one day the search suddenly stopped for a moment as they squatted in front of a tiny crack looking at an extinguished match. They fumbled another into flame and held it in front of the crack. It was immediately blown out. Grabbing a nearby stick, they started to dig. The next day they returned with picks and shovels. Their callouses grew during the following days, but the crack remained a crack. They told no one about their search, knowing that many fine caves have been vandalized by thoughtless sightseers.

After 20 feet of hard digging, they came to a little room almost big enough for both of them to sit up in. A couple of anemic stalactites straggled down from the ceiling, but the room ended in a blank wall. They got the matches out, found another breezy crack, and started digging again. Fifteen feet farther in they broke through into a large cavern shimmering with the jeweled spires and daggers that cave hunters dream about. It had taken two months of search and 35 feet of back-breaking, dirty digging, but it was all worth it.

The cave turned out to be about 300 feet deep, fanning out on either side into many smaller rooms. They left a register of their discovery in the largest chamber and covered the entrance back up so that no one could come in and destroy the formations. For several years it was their own private, secret cave, a little magic kingdom that no other human beings had ever seen. Recently, members of a local spelunking club found the signs of digging at the entrance and broke through into the cave, but they too wish to preserve the cave’s beauty and have agreed to keep its location a secret.

My aunt and uncle live on a tiny island in the Caribbean in a part of the world known as “Hurricane Alley.” In 2004 our family learned that Hurricane Ivan was heading straight for their home. My aunt had evacuated to Florida, but my uncle stayed to weather the storm in a bunker that he’d built in the middle of the island and that they always kept supplied with emergency essentials.
Hurricane Ivan slammed into the small island with the full force of a category-5 hurricane. The winds traveled at over 200 miles per hour (322 km/h). And during the worst of the storm, the entire island was completely covered with water—it even disappeared from satellite.
When the storm was over, my uncle emerged from the bunker and looked out to see complete and utter destruction. He slowly walked toward his home on the coast, and his heart sank as he looked at all of the houses that had been destroyed. He was dreading what he’d find when he arrived home.
As he came around the curve, he anxiously looked and saw, amid the devastation, his lone house completely intact and standing tall. The lights were on because his generator had survived too.
When we asked him how his house had survived when the others fell, he told us his strategy for success. When he’d built the house, he’d bored and anchored the foundation into the bedrock 20 feet down. Even a hurricane could not destroy the strong foundation my uncle had built.

“Genealogy is addicting,” the Rexburg, Idaho, resident says. After school and on weekends, you’ll find the sixth grader working as a family history assistant at the Upper Snake River Valley Family History Center at Ricks College. Because he’s so young, some folks find it hard to believe he knows so much. After all, family history is a bit perplexing. That is, until they ask him a question and discover he really does know what he’s talking about.
“Once I’ve helped them, they will sometimes come in and ask, ‘Does Josh know something about that?’” he says. Even one of his trainers, Elder Melvin Dickerson of Rexburg, a former full-time family history missionary, was a bit skeptical at first. “We don’t run a baby-sitting service,” he said more than once.
But Elder Dickerson quickly changed his mind when he discovered Josh was serious about the work. “He learned very fast,” he says. “He just gobbled everything up. He was incredible, and still is.”
While the use of computers is sometimes a stumbling block to some researchers, Josh is adept. Dickerson adds, “He is still a young child in some ways, but when it comes to family history, he knows how to do it and how to run the computers.”

In 1957, Sister Naomi Randall was to make arrangements for a new song to be written for Primary general conference. She called Mildred Pettit, a former Primary General Board member who had written songs and operettas for children, and asked Sister Pettit to help with the music. Sister Randall said she would write the words for the song, then send them to Sister Pettit.
Before retiring that night, Sister Randall prayed for help in finding the right words for the song. Some hours later she awakened, got out of bed, and wrote the words for three verses. Then she thanked Heavenly Father for helping her. Later she mailed the lyrics to Sister Pettit in California.
Sister Pettit also wanted to have the music the way the Lord wanted it. She felt that she knew how the melody was supposed to go, but she worked on the closing phrase over and over and had her children sing it many times until she was finally satisfied that it was right. The two women worked on the chorus together, and within a week the song was completed.
Later Elder Spencer W. Kimball suggested that “Teach me all that I must know” be changed to “I must do.” He explained that “to know isn’t enough. … We have to do something.”

So is his sense of humor. There is usually a smile on Si’s face, and he loves a good practical joke. When his mother went to the hospital recently for her daily visit, she was in for a shock. Two orderlies were sitting grim faced near Si’s room, and his door was closed. She opened the door and went in.
Si’s room was darkened, and he was covered with a white sheet. Anita’s heart faltered. She walked over and pulled back the sheet. Si was laughing! Then the orderlies came in, and they were laughing too.
Si had struck again! No one is safe from his jokes, and no one would want to be, because they are as full of fun and laughter as he is himself.

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

We of the Council of the Twelve have heard President Ezra Taft Benson describe how his father was called to fill a mission. He left behind his wife, his seven children, the farm, and all that he had. Did he lose anything? President Benson tells how his mother would gather the family around the kitchen table and there, by the flickering light of an oil-fueled lamp, read the letters from her husband. Several times during the reading there would be a pause to wipe away the tears which flowed freely. The result? Each of the children later served a mission.

I pay tribute to beloved ladies in my life who have taught sanctifying lessons to me.

For a short time during the first year of our marriage, Sister Nelson maintained two jobs while I was in medical school. Before her paychecks had arrived, we found ourselves owing more than our funds could defray. So we took advantage of an option then available to sell blood at $25 a pint. In an interval between her daytime job as a schoolteacher and her evening work as a clerk in a music store, we went to the hospital and each sold a pint of blood. As the needle was withdrawn from her arm, she said to me, “Don’t forget to pay tithing on my blood money.” (When her mother learned I was bleeding her daughter between two jobs, I sensed at that time she may not have been too pleased with her new son-in-law.) Such obedience was a tremendous lesson to me. Sister Nelson’s commitment to tithe became my commitment, too.

Sister Yaeko Seki experienced part of this precious promise. She writes:
“My family and I were spending a day at the Japan Alps National Park. … I was pregnant with our fourth child and was feeling rather tired, so I lay down under the trees. … I began thinking about our financial problems. My heart became overwhelmed, and I burst into tears. ‘Lord, we are full-tithe payers. We have sacrificed so much. When will the windows of heaven open unto us and our burdens be lightened?’
“I prayed with all my heart. Then I turned to watch my husband and children playing and laughing together. … Suddenly, the Spirit testified to me that my blessings were abundant and that my family was the greatest blessing Heavenly Father could give me.”

A few years ago I made my way to the bedroom of one of my sons to say good night. He was a junior in high school. As I approached his room, I heard the strains of Tchaikovsky’s sixth symphony. I was surprised. I knew the boy loved sports, but I didn’t know he loved Tchaikovsky. Months later, as my wife and I were listening to a videotape of three tenors singing, our son came in and sat down. He listened and saw, and a new appreciation developed. He said: “You never told me about opera.” He took the videotape to his room, and I never saw it again. Appreciation of the finest in music does not depend upon your age.

Last spring, while I was visiting a class of young women, the teacher asked the class to write our 10 priorities. I quickly began to write. I have to admit, my first thought began with “Number 1: clean the pencil drawer in the kitchen.” When our lists were complete, the Young Women leader asked us to share what we had written. Abby, who had recently turned 12, was sitting next to me. This was Abby’s list:
Go to college.
Become an interior designer.
Go on a mission to India.
Get married in the temple to a returned missionary.
Have five kids and a home.
Send my kids on missions and to college.
Become a “cookie-giving” grandma.
Spoil the grandchildren.
Learn more about the gospel and enjoy life.
Return to live with Father in Heaven.
I say, “Thank you, Abby. You have taught me about having a vision of the plan Heavenly Father has for all of us. When you know you are walking a path, in spite of whatever detours may occur, you will be OK. When your path is focused on the ultimate goal—that of exaltation and returning to Heavenly Father, you will get there.”
Where did Abby get this sense of eternal purpose? It begins in our homes. It begins in our families. I asked her, “What do you do in your family to create such priorities?”
This was her answer: “Besides reading the scriptures, we are studying Preach My Gospel.” Then she added, “We talk a lot—at family home evening, at dinner together, and in the car while we drive.”
Nephi wrote: “We talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ.” Why? “That our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins” (2 Nephi 25:26).
Talking, listening, encouraging each other, and doing things together as a family will bring us closer to our Savior, who loves us. Our intentional effort to communicate better today—this very day—will bless our families eternally. I testify that when we talk of Christ, we also rejoice in Christ and in the gift of the Atonement. Our children will come to know “to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”