Gospel Story Finder

My wife and I have tried to teach the values of work and service to our children. All seven sons—one was a foster child who came to live with us when he was a teenager—and our daughter worked at my lumber company as they were growing up. And one of the Christmas traditions that we started many years ago is still carried out each year by the entire family, including grandchildren: On the Monday before each Christmas, we take homebaked gifts and visit old friends and the widows in the neighborhood where I grew up.

At one time, Ben, Jr., and Brad, my two oldest boys, belonged to a Japanese Scout troop because our ward didn’t have a Scout troop. One day the Scoutmaster took the boys on a hike in the Zion Narrows in southern Utah. Their progress was slower than anticipated. Concerned that the park officials whom they had checked in with would be worried about them, the Scoutmaster asked my sons and a couple of other boys to hike ahead by themselves and let the park officials know that everyone was OK. The boys took a wrong turn into a dead-end canyon and didn’t know what to do. The other boys were not Latter-day Saints, but they turned to Ben and said, “Maybe you’re the one who ought to pray for us to help us get out of here.” After he offered a prayer, Ben said, “Let’s go,” and they turned and walked out without any problem. How grateful I was that my children had learned to pray, that they had faith in that prayer, and that our Father in Heaven would help them find their way safely out of the canyon.

My message to children is: Follow the counsel of your parents, and know how much they love you. Know the value of having good friends. Choose good friends with the same high standards and values that you have.

“Throw ’em in the rag bag,” Mom would say whenever I outgrew an article of clothing. Sometimes it was hard to think that a favorite blouse or skirt would end up as a cleaning rag.
But one rainy day, Mom told me how I could make something new from my old clothes. “I’ll show you how to make a rag rug,” she said.
We got out the sack of old clothes. First, we tore the clothing into inch-wide strips. These varied in length. For instance, the pieces from a skirt were longer than those from a blouse.
“Roll the strips into balls,” Mom said. “That way, the pieces won’t get all tangled up.” So I made separate balls of woolen cloth strips, cotton strips, and strips made from knit fabric. Mom explained that it was better to make my rug from one kind of fabric. If the strips were similar in bulk, it would be much easier to “work” the rug.
When there was a variety of strips, I sewed them together, end to end. I sewed mine by hand, but a machine works fine, too. By alternating strips in color and design, I created a pretty pattern. It takes many, many of these strips sewn together to make a rug. I figured about 680 yards would make a 24-by-45-inch rug.
Using a large wooden crochet hook (size 15), Mom showed me how to make a chain. This was the base of my rug.
Size 15 (Actual size.)
I made a slip knot with my cloth strip and inserted my hook through it from right to left. By pulling both ends of the strip, I drew the loop up close to the hook (figure 1).
Figure 1.
“Not too tight,” Mom directed.
With my right hand, I held the hook. I looped the strip over the hook with my left hand. Then I pulled the strip through the loop to make a chain stitch. I repeated this over and over until I had 45 chains. That is, I had 45 chains plus the one on my hook (figures 2a and 2b). This made my rug about two feet wide.
Figure 2.
Next, I inserted the hook down through the second chain from the hook. I looped my strip over the hook and pulled it up through the chain (figure 3a). I then had two loops on my hook. Putting the strip over the hook once again, I pulled it through both of the loops. That made one single crochet (figure 3b). This procedure was repeated in each chain. When I got to the end of the row, I chained one more, then turned my work (figure 4).
Figure 3.
Figure 4.
The second row was formed by making a single crochet in each single crochet of the first row. I again chained one before starting the next row.
I kept repeating this until my rug was the length I wanted. Eighty-five rows of single crochet made a 45-inch rug. It took me approximately 56 hours to make it.
To finish the rug, I removed the hook. Pulling the loop out, I worked the end of the strip back and forth through the rug’s stitches.
At times, weeks would go by before I’d work on the rug. Then I’d be in the mood to crochet again, so I’d do a few more rows.
Sometimes my girl friend would help. I’d let her crochet while I watched. Once in a while, Mom and I would work on our rugs together. Those were nice sharing times.
When it was finally finished, it made a colorful spot by our door. I felt good when I’d see my favorite old clothes still being useful in a bright rug.

As strange as it seems, it was during the Vietnam War that I discovered the great secret to a peaceful, happy life. I had been in sustained combat for two months, and the experience was taking its toll upon my physical and spiritual strength. Mail from home was seldom delivered to the battle front; neither were there sacrament meetings nor Sunday services to boost my spirit each week. My only resource was my own prayers. I felt isolated and alone.
Little by little, the daily grind of combat and the constant scenes of death were wearing me down and hardening my heart. I found myself becoming almost like the Nephite warriors—thirsting for the blood of the enemy (see Morm. 3:9).
On 9 July 1972, after a day-long tactical march, my battalion settled into a tiny deserted hamlet that had only recently been attacked. The huts lay smoldering in the last rays of sunlight. In an adjacent field, we found the body of a young North Vietnamese soldier. As we searched his clothing for intelligence information, I looked upon this enemy with cold eyes.
Papers were found on the fallen soldier and taken to the commander. My interest was kindled when I heard that the papers did not contain intelligence information—but that they were a diary. I marveled that this enemy soldier had taken time to keep a journal, and I wondered what his last recorded thoughts might have been.
That evening, I obtained a rough translation of the diary. I read it by the flickering light of my small cooking fire.
“I do not know where we are,” it read. “Our officers say that we are fighting bravely against American imperialists who have invaded our homeland. We fight bravely, but we are poorly supplied. I am lonely. I miss my family far away. I wonder how they are doing. I miss my home and wish to be back in the mountains and walk in the forests. I wish to see again the flowers, the birds, and the animals of home.”
I stared at the paper, stunned by the words. These were not the words of an enemy. These were the words of a kindred spirit! His people and mine had met as foes, glaring at each other over a seemingly unbridgeable gulf of cultural, ethnic, and political differences. But we were not really enemies in spirit. In other circumstances, we could have been brothers.
Suddenly, I understood that Vietnam was not the real war and that my comrades and I were not the real warriors. The real war was waged first in heaven by Lucifer. On earth, the real enemy was not the North Vietnamese, nor any people, but the unseen forces of evil that wage a war of ignorance and spiritual bondage against all mankind.
The real warriors fight under the banner of Jesus Christ. These warriors do not kill or destroy, but rather heal and offer life—eternal life —through the merits of Jesus Christ and a knowledge of his restored gospel.
That day in Vietnam, as I sat by the fire, I discovered that happiness and peace come from understanding the worth of a human soul regardless of race, creed, or political views, and from knowing that we are all children of our Father in Heaven. To know this is to love all people, even those who may appear to be the enemy.

It was fast and testimony meeting in the ward. Several young people had stood up and testified of the goodness of the Lord and his blessings unto them. Then an elderly gentleman stood on his feet. There were lines of care on his face, and time had turned his hair to silver. But his voice was clear like the tones of a bell on a frosty morning:
“I know that God lives and guides our destinies. I am here today because he heard my prayers as a boy and guided my footsteps.”
To understand his words we must go back many years to the time when a 12-year-old boy became a man and went to work.
He lived in a coal-mining village in the little country of Wales where almost all of the male inhabitants worked at the colliery (coal mine and its connected buildings). In a few weeks he would be 12, and like other boys in the village he would go down the pit to dig coal. He was a normal boy who understood that he must leave school to go to work to help support the family. But one morning as he was on his way to school, an incident occurred that was to affect his life. He was to learn the meaning of fear.
Coming up the hill toward the cottages where the miners lived was a small cortege. Two men were carrying a stretcher while one walked in front. Their faces were black with coal dust. On the stretcher was a body, a small body covered over with a brown blanket.
“And who is it now?” someone asked.
“It is little Davey Edwards,” the man in front replied. “He was caught by a roof fall, poor lad.”
The boy continued on to school, but his thoughts were not of schooling but of Davey Edwards. Together they had roamed the hills. They had picked chestnuts from the copse on Mynyddyslwyn Mountain and picked wild blackberries along the bank of Gwyddon Brook. They had stood together where the golden gorse ended and the woodland began and listened to the plaintive call of the cuckoo telling of the approach of spring.
“Aye,” he thought to himself, “those days are gone. Soon Davey will be in the graveyard on Llanvach Hill, and it will be the pit for me.” For the first time in his life he knew the meaning of fear. But he kept the fear inside of him.
His 12th birthday came, and his father informed him he was to start work at the colliery come Monday. On Saturday afternoon they went down to the village where his father took him to the haberdashery and bought him a pair of moleskin trousers and a Welsh flannel shirt. He also bought him a tommy box and tea can, and a pair of yorks to buckle below his knees to prevent the coal dust from going up his trouser leg.
Monday morning came cold and wet, but not as cold as the boy’s heart. He was assigned to work as a butty (partner) to Dai Jenkins, an experienced miner. The management discouraged father and son from working together because it looked bad if two members of a family were killed in one accident.
He stood by the side of Dai Jenkins as the cage descended. Through the glimmer of the miners’ lamps he looked across the cage at his father, who smiled back at him. By his father’s side was another 12-year-old boy from the village.
The cage landed on the bottom with a bump. As the gate was opened and the men stepped out, the smell of horses and donkeys assailed the boy’s nostrils. These animals were used to pull the loaded trams out of the headings and the empties back in. A man with the title of hostler took care of the animals.
The boy followed his butty along the narrow tracks until they reached the face of the tunnel where they were to work. Dai removed his jacket and hung it on the nail that protruded from a timber that supported the roof. He did the same with his tommy box and tea can. The boy did the same.
The coal seam was only three feet thick so Dai spent most of his time on his knees swinging his pick. It was the boy’s responsibility to load the coal into the tram and the muck into other trams. The ostler would then come and take them to the cage at the bottom of the shaft where they would be hauled to the surface.
So the days went by, and each day the boy’s hatred for the darkness grew. There were times when there was a squeeze, a time when the earth settled and it seemed the timbers supporting the roof must snap and he and Dai be crushed. It was at times like this he thought of his friend Davey and wondered if he too would be taken home on a stretcher covered over with a brown blanket.
There was, however, a time during the day that he really enjoyed. Dai would lay down his pick and say, “Come, bachen, it’s time for a bit of food and a sip of tea.”
Together they would sit in the dim light of their lamps and eat the food in their tommy boxes. Occasionally, Dai would give the boy a Welsh cake that his wife made. This was like a bit of heaven.
One day while Dai was digging with his pick, a strange and unusual thing happened. They broke through the face of the tunnel into a small cave. It was no bigger than a small room, and the roof seemed to be of solid rock. At about shoulder height a shelf ran across one side of the wall.
One can only wonder why on that same day as they sat together eating their lunch there was a sound like thunder that echoed through the mine. The earth shook. Dai jumped to his feet and grasped the boy by the arm.
“It’s an explosion, bachen; there may be fire. We must put the brattice cloth (temporary partition of cloth) across the opening. It could be the only chance we’ll have.”
Hurriedly they nailed the heavy cloth across the mouth of the little cave and then sat and waited. Soon they felt the heat as the flames approached.
On the surface the villagers crowded around the mine top. Rescue squads had been sent down but came back almost immediately.
“No one could live down there” was their report. “The mine is on fire. God help those who are down there.”
The mine owners met and made a quick decision. A canal that ran close by must be turned into the mine to extinguish the fire.
A woman cried out, “What about our men?”
Her anguished cry was answered with a shake of the head. In the little cave the heat was almost unbearable, but somehow a little air was coming in. Time seemed to stand still and hours went by. Then they heard the water. It came seeping into the cave, first to shoe tops, then to the knees, and it continued to rise.
Dai climbed up onto the shelf and pulled the boy up beside him. As the water rose, the heat subsided. Then came an eerie silence.
“Bachen,” whispered Dai, “can you pray?”
“Aye, I can,” replied the boy. “Before my mam died, she taught me.”
“Then pray for us. ’Tis all we have left.”
The boy closed his eyes, and for a few moments no words would come. Then they came slowly as from a troubled heart:
“Gentle Jesus, we reach out to you in this darkness, having nothing left but your help. If it be thy will, let us see the light once more. Let our feet climb the hill to our homes. Let us hear the song of the birds and see the sun rise over Rhysog Mountain. We are alone and we need your help. Amen.”
He felt Dai’s arm around his shoulder and heard his voice. “Thanks, bachen. It’s not afraid I am anymore.”
Hours went by and night must have come for they slept. When they awoke, their lamps had gone out. Now there was complete darkness, darkness that was black and foreboding. With the blackness came fear, cold, trembling fear. The boy saw himself being carried up the hill on a stretcher, his body covered with a brown blanket. Dai sensed his fear and put a comforting arm about his shoulder.
“Bachen,” he said, “is it a bit of singing you could do?”
The boy hesitated for a while, and then in a fear-stricken voice, he sang: “Jesus lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, when the tempest still is nigh.” In his boyish tenor he sang the chorus: “Hide me, oh my Savior, hide, till the storm of life is past.” He felt Dai shaking with emotion, so he could not continue.
It is hard to know how fast or slow time passes in the darkness, but the pangs of hunger and thirst came to them.
“Chew on a bit of leather, bachen,” Dai reminded him. “It will help the hunger.”
The boy removed the leather york from below his knee and chewed on it. It was new leather, and the taste of the tanning was still in it. But it helped to assuage the pangs of hunger.
Sleep came again and another day passed. Dai was quiet now, as if realizing the end was close. As a result of hunger and thirst, the boy had become quiet and listless. The complete darkness had settled on him like a shroud. He only waited now for that complete sleep.
Then suddenly from far away a voice was heard: “Is anyone about?” The voices came closer. Then someone threw aside the brattice cloth, and his light shone on Dai and the boy.
“A miracle it is,” he shouted to the other rescuers. “It’s alive they are!”
Dai was able to walk, but they carried the boy to the cage that transported them to daylight and life.
The boy’s father had been killed in the explosion, so Davey Edwards’ family took him in. In a few days some relatives from farther down the valley came to pick him up and take him to their home. They were lovely people, it was said, except they had joined some strange church that had originated in America.
Together the boy and his new family made plans, and the day came when they emigrated to America. Here they made their home in the valley of the mountains.
The old man was bringing his testimony to a close. “So, my brothers and sisters, out of fear came faith, and out of darkness came living light.”

Following my release from my first mission in 1923, I returned home to Whitney, Idaho, on Christmas Eve. It was a joyful reunion with my ten brothers and sisters, and especially with my father and mother.
Father and Mother always made it a practice to hang the stockings, one on each chair, for the children and to place their limited gifts on or under or near each chair. They took me into their confidence that Christmas Eve. We stayed up all during the night. In fact, we didn’t retire at all. We filled the stockings after going to the granary and elsewhere on the farm to get the presents which had been secretly hidden. This took a good part of the night. The rest we spent in visiting together, with Father and Mother telling me of the progress made by each of the children while I was away, and with me reporting to them and responding to their questions regarding my wonderful mission to the British Isles. My love for my parents had never been quite so great before as it was that night.
It was a happy morning. I could not hold back the tears as I watched with pride the reactions of my six brothers and four sisters and the loving expressions of my noble parents as they watched their posterity partake of the Christmas spirit and as they felt of the unity which prevailed in our family circle.
(December 1988, p. 21.)

I knew Shannon couldn’t help being talented and intelligent. It wasn’t her fault that she always came home with straight A’s and that she had a natural talent for music and art. It also wasn’t her fault that her hair flowed softly over her shoulders and that she had the long willowy body of a model. But none of these things helped me any.
It was the summer before I was to enter high school. Everytime I looked in the mirror there was another freckle until they were all over everywhere, even on my toes. I was plump and dumpy, and I had hair that would only go the way it wasn’t supposed to go. I marveled that our parents’ genes could play such a dirty trick. How could one child turn out so lovely, enchanting, and full of grace, and the other turn out to be a homely little 16-year-old nobody.
That summer things were at an all-time, record-breaking low for me because I was to enter Jackson High School in September. I wasn’t looking forward to it. I begged my parents to let me transfer to another school, but they could see no sense in it. It made perfect sense to me. Shannon had been junior prom queen and secretary of her class and had sung the lead in the big musical just the year before. How could I follow in those footsteps? I also got nauseated at the thought of hearing those words again—the words I had heard all through Everest Elementary and Weston Junior High: “Is Shannon your sister?” (with the accent on the your). “Why she’s so beautiful … so talented …” (so everything you’re not). I knew I would hear those words dozens of times. They would bring tears of anger to my eyes. Yet how could they help being amazed? It wasn’t anyone’s fault.
Even though I knew no one was to blame, certainly not Shannon, I took my unhappiness out on her. There are subtle ways to persecute a sister. I knew them all. When she was trying to take a nap, I turned up my radio. When she tried a new recipe, I refused to eat it because it looked “funny.” I slipped into the shower just as she was getting ready to take one. I borrowed her shoes without asking. And I hurt her in thousands of more painful psychological ways.
But, Shannon never complained. It was always “Good morning, Janet.” Her cheerfulness made it worse, and I tried to think of more ways to make her angry. Nothing I did, however, seemed to stir her quiet grace. I guess the worst way I hurt Shannon was when I tuned her out of my life. I stopped telling her things, stopped sharing secrets, and stopped listening. When she came into my room just to talk, I would cut her off with “I’m busy right now.” She would walk out of my room sadly, and pretty soon she quit coming in. Our communication deteriorated to one- and two-word sentences. That summer we stopped being close because I wanted it that way.
Then it happened. It was just two weeks before school would start, and I had a date with Robert Bates. It was only the second date I had had all summer, and Robert was a pretty super guy. I had no idea why he had lowered himself to asking me out unless it was because we had had some fun times during roadshow rehearsals. I was excited and nervous, but I knew we’d have a good time because we got along pretty well. We doubled with Jill Quigley and John Turnbine and the date turned out to be even more fun than I had anticipated. In fact, I hadn’t had so much fun all summer.
Afterwards we stopped at my house for ice cream, and then we all sang around the piano. Jill could play the piano almost as well as Shannon.
“All I can play is the bass viol,” I proclaimed. No one believed me, so I went upstairs to get it. I had taken up the bass viol because I knew Shannon would never try to play one. She wasn’t the bass viol type.
The wall between our bedrooms is thin, and I was puzzled to hear Shannon in her room because I knew that she had had a date with Jack Smithson. I liked Jack because he was nice to me, and I set great store in a man who can be nice to his date’s little sister. The next thing I heard puzzled me even more. It was the sound of subdued sniffling. Shannon rarely cried. What did she have to cry about? My first reaction was curiosity, but I forced myself not to speak. I didn’t want to get involved.
Picking up my bass, I started toward the stairs. Getting it down the stairs was always the most difficult part. I had gone only a few awkward steps when I heard another sniffle. I wanted to just pretend I hadn’t heard: I could just go down the stairs and no one would know I had heard Shannon crying. Well, except me. I leaned my bass against the wall, walked back to Shannon’s door and knocked.
“You okay?” I didn’t get an answer and my duty was done, so I turned back toward the stairs, but there was another sob.
“I know you’re in there. Now, what on earth is the matter?” My voice was icy.
“Nothing. Just leave me alone,” she squeaked. “Just please, please, leave me alone.”
“Well, I’ll be back.”
I showed the group my bass viol and played for them. I think Robert was impressed even though I made a couple of bad mistakes. It was getting late, however, and everyone was tired, so they left—but I knew Robert would call me again.
When I went back upstairs, Shannon was sitting by her dressing table brushing her hair, pretending that nothing was wrong. I must say she didn’t look beautiful. Her skin was blotched and her aristocratic nose was swollen and red.
“What is it? Can I help you?”
“What?”
“Can I help?” I was as surprised as she was that I had said it. I guess it was because she looked so pitiful sitting there trying to pretend nothing was wrong. The shock of my concern set her off again, and she began sobbing like smooth, collected Shannon had never sobbed since we were small. It affected me so much that I put my hand on her shoulder and patted it.
“Come on. Come on. Things aren’t that bad, are they? Does it have something to do with Jack? You can tell me if you want to. I mean I’d like to hear if you feel like telling me.”
“You would?” I was ashamed at her amazement.
“Yes, I would.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind? Oh, Janet, I’m so miserable.”
“Come on; tell me about it.”
She sobbed again, gulped, and got control of herself.
“I’ve wanted so much to tell you about Jack. He’s all I’ve been able to think about for weeks. I can’t explain what it is about him. He’s different from the other boys I’ve dated. He’s so good-looking and intelligent and a good athlete, but it doesn’t seem to affect him. None of that has gone to his head. He’s always courteous and kind to people, even little children. Now I’ll never see him again.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, it was just awful. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was nervous and jittery, and my stomach was all twisted inside. I was a bore. Finally I asked him to take me home early. I knew he was having a lousy time.”
“Oh, come now, Shannon. It’s all your imagination. Things couldn’t have been that bad.”
“They were. They were.” She began crying again. Then suddenly she blurted out some words that took me entirely by surprise.
“And it’s your fault.”
“My fault?” I couldn’t imagine what she meant. “What do you mean my fault?”
“I guess I might as well tell you what ruined the date. Just as we were going out the door, you had to come in and do one of your cute little routines. You always do that when I go out with someone—come in and show off your personality. Then, on the way out to the car, Jack said, ‘Wow, your little sister is sure a little firecracker. What a personality!’ After that the whole date was ruined. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was like a dead battery. If I could have been like you, he would have liked me. You can always think of funny, witty things to say, and you always remember jokes and sayings. I get sick of people saying, ‘Is Janet your sister? Why she’s so bubbly and so full of energy!’ What they’re really saying is that I’m a bore.”
I was so stunned that I just sat there on her bed in a stupor. “Is she your sister?” I had almost hated her for those words. Then I began laughing, but I was crying at the same time.

Dated Tuesday, September 7, 1999. I titled it "Meeting the Prophet." I wrote,

Today was one of the greatest days of my life. It was like a dream come true for me. I was able to meet the prophet today. The spirit has been in such abundance on the college campus this week, in anticipation for President Gordon B. Hinckley to be here to dedicate the new Spencer W. Kimball building.

I have been serving on the dedication committee and felt the spirit preparing me for what he would teach us. The tickets for the dedication were being handed out to random staff, faculty and students to be present at the Kimball building. Upon receiving a ticket in the campus mail to attend, my heart felt as if it had stopped and I was touched by the spirit to know I would be seated in the first row directly in front of President Hinckley.

As I sat there that day, I was able to look into the eyes of the prophet, and, without any doubt, I knew he was a prophet of God. The Spirit bore in my mind a strong testimony of him to me. I know that he talks with God. His eyes were filled with the greatest love for all. He was a gentle giant. Elder Eyring sat next to him, and he treated him with the greatest love and respect, knowing he was the true prophet of God on earth today.

What an awesome experience, to have sat at the feet of the prophet. It was also a pleasure to be able to attend a luncheon with President Hinckley after the dedication, and I was able to meet him and shake his hand.

I then wrote this: "It has been a great day for me in my life. This is a journal entry day.

Little did I know the Lord had been preparing me for this day several years prior, while serving as a bishop. I remember a dream I had where I met the prophet. In that dream it was President Brigham Young. Not knowing what that dream would mean to me when I had this experience with President Hinckley, I was touched to know he was a true prophet of God. Later that day, we were all taught by him, in the Hart Building, about not breaking the chain of eternal families.

This was an event in my life where I had heard and witnessed things, and I could not find anything in this life to tell me it was not true.

As members of His church, one of the things we can do to live by faith and not by fear is to magnify our efforts to share the gospel. I am fortunate enough to have wonderful parents who were great examples of living their faith and who had absolutely no fear when it came to sharing the gospel. I admit that I didn’t think their boldness was anything to admire at first. When I was younger, I remember my mother always talking to people she didn’t even know about the gospel. Every time we’d take a taxi to go somewhere in the Philippines she would sit in the front seat of the cab, even if there was enough room for her in the back seat, just so she could talk to the cab driver. She wouldn’t start with small talk because she knew our ride wouldn’t take that long. Her usual approach started with a question: “Do you have a family?” And when they would say “yes,” she would continue to say “well, next time you see those two young men in white shirts with a black nametag on their chest walking on the street, you should talk to them and listen to what they have to say!” She would go on to ask if they’d heard about the Mormons and the conversation would continue that way until we reached our destination. During this time, I am ashamed to admit that I sat in the back seat, completely embarrassed, and wishing I could disappear. She would always end by saying “You will find real happiness when you listen and accept what our missionaries have to offer your family.” She had such love for her fellowmen that she had no fear of what their response would be – she just wanted them to find the happiness she had.

Her example gave me strength later on when I found myself having opportunities to share the gospel with my nonmember friends at school. I attended an all-girls Catholic school during my elementary and high school years. At the beginning of my junior year, I decided to borrow my father’s seminary filmstrip projector - the old style where you have to bring a separate cassette player to play the sounds and manually turn the filmstrips. I showed my favorite seminary filmstrips to my friends and they laughed and cried. They asked questions here and there when certain Mormon phrases came up like “baptisms for the dead,” “Personal progress,” and “temple marriage.” After the first showing, they kept begging for more. It was such a hit that watching seminary filmstrips became our lunch- break ritual until our family moved when my parents got called as mission presidents in the middle of my Junior year. Little did I know then that one of my good friends in that group would end up joining the church.

The next thing that needed washing was a large pot. “Ah, yes,” Jenny thought, “Mother cooked macaroni and cheese in this pot.” She lived close enough to her school to walk home for lunch. When she had come home today she had brought her friend Melinda. Jenny’s mother had made them macaroni and cheese with cut-up hot dogs. While they ate, the girls told Jenny’s mother all about the art project they had worked on at school that morning. After they finished lunch, they hurried back to school.
Jenny was glad that she was able to come home during the day, and she was also glad her friends felt welcome in her home. Jenny scrubbed out the macaroni-and-cheese pot carefully. She wanted to make sure it was clean and ready for future lunches with her friends.

The importance of such obedience comes home hard to me when President Benson telephoned with an assignment to speak at a funeral service for a missionary who had lost his life in the mission field. Do you have any feeling, brothers and sisters, for what it is like to speak at a service for a missionary who was serving well and lost his life on his mission—who was called home, in effect, to continue to another mission? I was impressed to tell that family that he had been transferred to a greater work, a higher work; but can you sense the feeling that goes through a General Authority’s mind in that position? Oh, how grateful I was that I could call the mission president and ask him this brief question: What kind of an elder was he?
“Outstanding,” the president said. “He could have been as assistant. He could have had any assignment in our mission. Brother Ballard, I just didn’t have any finer missionary than this young man.”
What a thrill it was to know that that missionary was living the celestial law on his mission. I am sure that he did not expect to be called home. I am sure that he did not expect that accident to occur. But it happened. He was alive and well in the morning and gone in the afternoon. Gone where? Back to the presence of our Father in Heaven.
Do you think that it was important that he was living the celestial law to the best of his ability? Will you ponder and determine as you walk through this experience at Brigham Young University or on your mission that you are going to live as close to that celestial law as you know how?

One day I was at an after-school book club. While I was reading the book out loud, I came across a sentence that took the Lord’s name in vain. I got a little scared to say that sentence. So I paused and said a little prayer in my head asking Heavenly Father what I should do. Everyone was staring at me. I was uncomfortable, but I knew the right thing to do. I changed the sentence and didn’t swear. My book-club teacher corrected me and said it the other way, but I didn’t care. I had a warm feeling inside of me. I knew I had made the right choice to not say the Lord’s name in vain.

David’s father, Raymond, had taught him two important secrets to obtaining goals: give it your all and never quit. David was used to giving his all, so it was no surprise when he was back at school the Monday after he left the hospital.
“I was in a body cast and neck brace,” David says. “I had absolute faith I would get better but soon realized I was completely unlike the other 800 kids in my school. After that first hard week, though, I knew I could do anything I wanted; I just had to find a different way.”
A few months later his brother suggested David run for student body president. David again gave it his all, and he went from sports star to school leader. “That year was awesome,” he says. “It was the perfect preparation for my mission.”

Years ago, before a temple was completed in South Africa, the Saints planning to visit a temple had to travel the long and costly route to London, England, or, later, to São Paulo, Brazil. When I visited South Africa, they, with all the strength of their hearts and souls, petitioned me to importune President Kimball to seek the heavenly inspiration to erect a temple in their country. I assured them this was a matter for the Lord and His prophet. They responded, “We have faith in you, Brother Monson. Please help us.”
Upon returning to Salt Lake City, I discovered that a proposed temple for South Africa had already been approved and was to be announced immediately. When this occurred, I received a telegram from our members in South Africa. It read, “Thank you, Elder Monson. We knew you could do it!” You know, I believe I never did convince them that though I approved of the proposal, I did not bring it about.

As visiting teaching supervisor in our ward, I felt a particular concern for the less-active sisters. I frequently prayed and asked the Lord to guide me in letting these sisters know we still cared about them. We made sure to inform them of our activities, and we had active sisters write a monthly note to each one.
One night as I was using a ward list to prepare a visiting teaching chart for our Relief Society president, I found an unfamiliar name and address of a sister within our ward boundaries. I thought it strange that I had not seen her name before, and I felt prompted that she should receive letters from a specific sister in our ward.
When I suggested this to our president, she agreed and made the assignment. However, even after several months, there was no response to the letters. Finally, the sister writing enclosed a self-addressed, stamped envelope and asked the less-active sister if she would like to continue receiving letters. When the return letter came, this less-active sister explained that a few years earlier she had committed transgressions, and Church disciplinary action had been necessary. Since then, she had felt hurt and bitter. However, now she would welcome a monthly letter.
Shortly after this happened, as I was typing a new visiting teaching list, I realized this less-active sister’s name was no longer on our ward list. I looked through old ward lists in my desk, but I could not find her name anywhere. I called the Relief Society president and ward clerk, but neither of them had any information. Where had I found her name and address? It became apparent to me that they had come from the Lord.
A few weeks later, I awoke from a deep sleep at 2:00 A.M. with the strong impression that I should write to this less-active sister immediately and tell her of the experience I had with her name and address. I felt the Spirit very strongly telling me what to write.
About a week after I mailed the letter, I received a phone call from this sister. She told me that for a long time she had been convinced that the Lord no longer knew she existed. But then my letter had come and she knew she had not been forgotten. This sister has now returned to activity in the Church.

Nearly one year ago, our daughter Alisa died. She had struggled with cancer for almost eight years, with several surgeries, many different treatments, exciting miracles, and deep disappointments. We watched her physical condition deteriorate as she came to the close of her mortal life. It was excruciating to see that happen to our precious daughter—that bright-eyed little baby who had grown up to be a talented, wonderful woman, wife, and mother. I thought my heart would break.
Last year at Easter time, a little over a month before she passed away, Alisa wrote: “Easter is a reminder of all that I hope for myself. That someday I will be healed and someday I will be whole. Someday I won’t have any metal or plastic inside of me. Someday my heart will be free of fear and my mind free of anxieties. I am not praying that this happens soon, but I am so glad I truly believe in a beautiful afterlife.”
Each of us has physical, mental, and emotional limitations and weaknesses. These challenges, some of which seem so intractable now, will eventually be resolved. None of these problems will plague us after we are resurrected. Alisa researched survival rates for persons with the type of cancer she had, and the numbers were not encouraging. She wrote: “But there is a cure, so I’m not scared. Jesus has already cured my cancer, and yours. … I will be better. I’m glad I know this.”
I long to see my mother again and feel her gentle touch and look into her loving eyes. I want to see my father’s smile and hear his laugh and see him as a resurrected, perfect being. With an eye of faith, I picture Alisa completely beyond the reach of any earthly troubles or any sting of death—a resurrected, perfected Alisa, victorious and with a fulness of joy.
A few Easters ago, she wrote simply: “Life through His name. So much hope. Always. Through everything. I love Easter to remind me.”

When I was nine, I moved away and no longer got to spend time in the garage with Grandpa. A few years later the distance multiplied when my grandparents were called to serve a mission in Hawaii. However, it was truly a blessing. My grandpa finally got the chance to serve the Lord as a missionary. Growing up in such a large family meant that money was limited, and a full-time mission wasn’t possible for him when he was young. While my grandpa had the desire to serve, a full-time mission involved a great deal of sacrifice. I had always wanted to serve a mission, and seeing my grandparents serve and the blessings that came from their service bolstered my desire. When my grandpa came back, the garage was waiting for him. The sounds of power tools and metal once again reverberated through the walls.

Joseph Smith learned well the relationship between being humble and receiving the Spirit of the Lord. David Whitmer said:
“At times when brother Joseph would attempt to translate … he found he was spiritually blind and could not translate. He told us that his mind dwelt too much on earthly things, and various causes would make him incapable of proceeding with the translation. When in this condition he would go out and pray, and when he became sufficiently humble before God, he could then proceed with the translation. Now we see how very strict the Lord is, and how he requires the heart of man to be just right in his sight before he can receive revelation from him. …
“To illustrate so you can see: One morning when he was getting ready to continue the translation, something went wrong about the house and he was put out about it. Something that Emma, his wife had done. Oliver and I went upstairs and Joseph came up soon after to continue the translation but he could not do anything. He could not translate a single syllable. He went downstairs, out into the orchard, and made supplication to the Lord; was gone about an hour—came back to the house, and asked Emma’s forgiveness and then came upstairs where we were and then the translation went on all right. He could do nothing save he was humble and faithful.” (As quoted in B. H. Roberts, A Comprehensive History of the Church, 1:130–31.)

In Japan, I grew up learning about things that didn’t make sense to me. So, before I joined the Church, I had questions about the universe and the purpose of life.
When I started taking lessons from missionaries, I felt overwhelmed by questions. I explained that I had searched for answers from so many different sources but never felt settled on what I’d found. They taught me that I could always rely on the Lord to lead me to truth.
Since then, I have always been able to seek answers from Him and follow the Spirit to continue deepening my testimony.

I love the hymns that our primary children sing. One of my favorite songs as a child was "Give, Said the Little Stream." The text of this hymn was written in 1860 by Fanny Crosby, one of the most prolific hymnists in recorded history, who composed over 8,000 hymns. Now Fanny had several circumstances that could have prevented her from contributing to society. When she was six weeks old, an inflammation of the eye and its resulting treatment left her blind. Her father passed away when she was only one year old, leaving her mother to find employment in various towns, and leaving some of the care of Fanny to her grandmother. Because she was blind, Fanny did not receive a public education. It wasn't until she was 15 years old that she enrolled in the newly-opened New York Institute for the Blind. She could have been hindered in acquiring knowledge because of her limited access to printed material. Yet Fanny did not let her disability prevent her from helping others. She dedicated her life to serving others, as a poet, hymnist, teacher, lecturer, and provider of assistance for the sick, poor, and needy in blighted neighborhoods and missions.[14]

As a young child, Fanny loved being outdoors where she could feel the sunshine and the wind, and listen to the songs of the birds and the flowing brooks. She would often play "among the shallow streams that fed the Croton River."[15] On long walks her grandmother vividly described nature to her-the shapes and colors of leaves and trees, birdcalls, flowers-so vividly that Fanny could distinguish among them. Fanny experienced firsthand how streams are a life-giving resource, and her Biblical training gave her perspective that "there is something all can give." At age 8 she reflected on her condition:

Oh, what a happy soul I am, Although I cannot see, I am resolved in this world Contented I will be.
How many blessings I enjoy That other people don't! To weep and sigh because I'm blind I cannot nor I won't.[16]

Fanny's love of nature and her optimistic attitude in spite of challenges make the meaning of "Give, Said the Little Stream" more powerful. This hymn teaches us three important messages. First, there is something that all can give. Second, when we give, we lift others. Third, living for God and others will bring such joy that we might be "singing all the day, 'give away, oh, give away.'"

Some years ago I read an article that told of the less-than-spectacular career of a quarterback on the football team of a small rural high school. This young man managed to make the team, but it was clear he was not going to be all-state or all-American. Indeed, it didn’t look like he was going to be all-anything, except perhaps all battered and bruised. He was the fourth of the four quarterbacks.
By season’s end he had never been called into a game and had given up hope. During the final game of the year he pulled off his shoes, wrapped himself in a blanket, and settled on the bench to watch his buddies play.
Midway through the game he heard the coach shout his name. He was startled and wondered if he had been mistaken. Then it came again, right from the coach’s lips, “Hey, you! Get in there and move the ball!”
What should he do? His first impulse was to lapse into a coma. His second was to pretend he didn’t hear. His third was to say, “Wait, coach. Wait while I put on my shoes.” He did the only manly thing. Strapping on his helmet as he ran, he made straight for the huddle; his white-stockinged feet were conspicuous to the players on both teams, as well as to the spectators and the coach, who also must have been ready to lapse into a coma.
He called the play, but the shock of his first game was obviously a little disconcerting. By the time he took the snap from center he had forgotten the play he had called. His teammates moved to the right, but he gamely went left. There, alone against the world, he met the opposition head-on and was swallowed up in the snarl of the onrushing linemen.
He said later, “No one expected me to make a touchdown. Even running the wrong way was understandable. But there was no excuse for a quarterback without shoes” (Improvement Era, Sept. 1969, 44).