Gospel Story Finder

“If someone gives you a valentine, do you have to give one back?” I asked my mom. She was stirring some pudding for dinner.
“Well, Elizabeth, if you ‘have to give,’ you’re not talking about giving anyway—you’re talking about obligation or repayment. Giving means you do it because you want to, out of love.”
My mom never misses a chance to give a little lecture like that. “I guess I won’t, then, because for sure it wouldn’t be ‘out of love.’ I can’t stand Jeremy Rawlins.”
“But, Elizabeth, isn’t everyone in the class supposed to bring a valentine for everyone else?”
“Yes, but Jeremy told me that he’d made a special valentine for me in family home evening. He’s sure I’m just going to love it.” I couldn’t keep from adding sarcastically, “Sure I will.”
“Family home evening?”
“It’s something they do every week at his house. He’s always talking about what they did during family home evening—how they went to this place or that, how they made something, or how somebody special came over. I get pretty sick of hearing about it.”
“It sounds like fun. So why don’t you like him?”
I had to think about that. I didn’t really know exactly why I didn’t like him. “He’s just so annoying,” I said.
“In what way?” My mom never gives up.
“I don’t know. He’s just so nice, so cheerful all the time.”
Mom stopped stirring. “Cheerful and nice are annoying? We could use more annoying people like that around here.”
I didn’t know how else to explain it. “Well, anyway, I think he’ll just get a regular little dumb valentine from me.”
Mom gazed out the window. I knew she was hatching up something. “You know, we could do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Have a little family home evening and make some valentines. Not for Jeremy—for our grandparents and each other.”
“No we couldn’t. Family home evening is on Mondays, and this is Tuesday already.”
She looked at me sort of blankly. “Who says it has to be on Monday?”
“I think it’s a rule of his church.”
“Well, since we don’t belong to his church, we can have it whenever we want. Thursday night would be just right. Ask Jeremy a little more about it tomorrow, like what kinds of things they do and how they organize it.”
Great! Now I had to talk to Jeremy. Once my mom gets an idea, she never gives up on it.
By the next day after school, things were getting worse. When Mom walked in from work, I just kept watching the TV and didn’t speak to her.
“Well, let’s not get annoyingly cheerful like that awful Jeremy person,” she said. I think she meant to be funny, but I didn’t laugh. “Thanks to you, he’ll be here any minute,” I grumbled, still not looking at her.
“Jeremy is coming here?” She dropped a big shopping bag on the chair.
“He’s bringing over some book, something he called the Family Home Evening Resource Book.”
“Well, that’s nice.”
“Yeah, nice.”
Just then the doorbell rang. I let Mom answer it.
“You must be Jeremy. How very nice of you.” I couldn’t hear what he was saying. “Will you come in? Elizabeth is here.”
Oh great, I thought. But I guess Jeremy declined the invitation, because Mom came back by herself. “He has basketball practice,” she explained. “He’s a very pleasant boy.” She sat right down and started looking at the book.
After dinner the next night, she put out all this stuff on the kitchen table—red paper, lace doilies, glue, markers, old magazines, and seed catalogs. We cut and pasted great big valentines for my grandmas and grandpas and for each other. I have to admit, it was kind of fun.
Afterward I cut out a picture of a basketball star, glued it on some red paper, and wrote, “You’re a star!” I thought I might give it to Jeremy the next day. I mean if he gave me a really good one, at least I’d have something to give back and I wouldn’t have to feel stupid.
When I went to bed, my mom was still sitting in the kitchen, reading more in the Family Home Evening Resource Book.
I really had bad news for her when she got home the next night. I waited until she’d hung up her coat and kind of settled down to rest in her favorite chair before starting dinner. She was looking at me, kind of waiting. “I got lots of valentines,” I said.
“Good. I hope you didn’t eat so much candy that you won’t want dinner.”
“Not too much,” I said. “Jeremy gave me a valentine with a wrapped chocolate heart pasted on the front. I ate that.”
“Did you give him yours?”
“Well, yeah. I mean what else could I do? I stuck a few little candy hearts on his. I hope he likes glue.” I laughed.
“What else?” she asked. My mom always knows when you haven’t told her everything. I handed her Jeremy’s valentine. She opened it and read:
“You’re so smart and funny, and I like you a lot.
P.S. Would you and your mother come to our house for a special family home evening next Monday night at 7 P.M.?
P.P.S. If you can, bring a story about one of your ancestors—maybe a grandma or grandpa.”
“How nice,” my mom added. “I’d like to go and see how they do a family home evening.”
“Well, I told you he was annoying—but nice.” I sighed, and then I smiled at her. “I kind of want to go, too,” I confessed.

My faith impacted my work life as well. One time, a supplier of goods to my employer walked into my office and told me he had brought a “small gift” for me in appreciation for the purchases his company had received that year. I was then in charge of the purchasing department for all consumable supplies. I asked him if any of my staff had solicited the “small gift” from him. He said no one had done so but it was standard practice in other companies he dealt with. I asked him to convert the value of his “small gift” into additional goods and deliver them free of charge to the company store the following day. He was visibly shocked by this response but went away and complied.

Jim had just turned 18. He was sitting across from a General Authority of the Church, obviously nervous, filled with frustration, and showing a lot of animosity. His request was forthright, simple, and came out like he couldn’t wait to say it.
“I want to be excommunicated from the Church—today!”
“How long have you been a member?”
“About three years,” came the answer.
“Why do you make such a request?”
“Because I have lost my free agency. I like to smoke, and the Church is depriving me of my free agency to live the way I want to live.”
Jim failed to recognize that his most important exercise of free agency occurred when he decided to be baptized and to live in accordance with gospel standards.
Jim had obviously acquired associations with peers outside the Church who had gradually dulled the spiritual sensitivity and uplift that he had felt at the time of his baptismal commitment.
He was no longer a free young man. He had fallen prey to one of the adversary’s many ploys and deceptions which deceives the very elect at times and entices people away from the truth. Jim complained that the Church was depriving him of his freedom. But in actuality, it is the truth of the gospel that makes us free. We all have a great need to be free.

Speaking of a marriage meant to last, let me just share some tender remarks made by President Hinckley about Sister Hinckley near the end of their lives. He said:

"May I be personal for a moment? I sat at dinner across the table from my wife the other evening. It was fifty-five years ago that we were married in the Salt Lake Temple. The wondrous aura of young womanhood was upon her. She was beautiful, and I was bewitched. Now, for more than half a century, we have walked together through much of storm as well as sunshine. Today neither of us stands as tall as we once did. As I looked at her across the table, I noted a few wrinkles in her face and hands. But are they less beautiful than before? No, in fact, they are more so. Those wrinkles have a beauty of their own, and inherent in their very presence is something that speaks reassuringly of strength and integrity and a love that runs more deeply and quietly than ever before."[14]

Now this is an example of lasting love! When you marry, don’t marry for looks, wealth, or any other fading quality. Look for someone who will “wear well” as we like to say in my family. Look for a marriage that will last.

On 5 October 1856 at general conference, the commanding figure of Brigham Young, 55-year-old prophet of God, stood at the pulpit in the Tabernacle. Said he—and I’d like to have you think about our day, about the General Authorities who have their talks prepared—to the congregation:
I will now give this people the subject and the text for the Elders who may speak to-day and during the Conference, it is this, on the 5th day of October, 1856, many of our brethren and sisters are on the Plains with hand-carts, and probably many are now seven hundred miles from this place, and they must be brought here, we must send assistance to them. The text will be—to get them here! I want the brethren who may speak to understand that their text is the people on the Plains, and the subject matter for this community is to send for them and bring them in before the winter sets in.
That is my religion; that is the dictation of the Holy Ghost that I possess, it is to save the people. . . . This is the salvation I am now seeking for, to save our brethren that would be apt to perish, or suffer extremely, if we do not send them assistance. [JD 4:113]
He then called on the bishops for sixty good mule teams, twelve or fifteen wagons, forty teamsters, twelve tons of flour, and other supplies; then he said:
I will tell you all that your faith, religion, and profession of religion, will never save one soul of you in the celestial kingdom of our God, unless you carry out just such principles as I am now teaching you. [And then I believe he must have said this with all the fervor of a prophet:] GO AND BRING IN THOSE PEOPLE NOW ON THE PLAINS. [JD 4:113]

At that time, Samuel and Margaret Pucell, husband and wife, were out on the plains with their two daughters: Maggie, 14, and Ellen, 10. Listen to their circumstances:
Margaret became ill, so had to ride in the handcart part of the way. [So Brother Pucell was then pulling not only the 500 pounds but also his wife who was on top of the handcart.] Her husband grew so weary and weakened from the lack of food that this additional burden caused him to slip and fall one day as he crossed the river. Having to travel in the cold, wintry weather with wet clothing he, too, became ill and died from hunger and exposure. His wife died five days later, leaving ten-year-old Ellen and fourteen-year-old Maggie orphans. . . . Many died and many others suffered from frozen limbs, among them the Pucell girls, both having badly frozen feet and legs. . . . When shoes and stockings were removed from the girls’ feet, the skin came off. Although Maggie’s legs were frozen, she would not allow them to do more than scrape the flesh off the bones, but Ellen’s were so bad they had to be amputated just below the knees. [Hafen, Handcarts, p. 138]

On 30 November, a Sunday (now think about the weather and the time and season and how cold it is—oftentimes we’re skiing after Thanksgiving), the Saints were assembled in the Tabernacle again with President Brigham Young presiding. Having been apprised of the imminent arrival of the immigrants, the Martin Handcart Company, he spoke to the congregation:
When those persons arrive I do not want to see them put into houses by themselves; I want to have them distributed in the city among the families that have good and comfortable houses; and I wish all the sisters now before me, and all who know how and can, to nurse and wait upon the new comers and prudently administer medicine and food to them. To speak upon these things is a part of my religion, for it pertains to taking care of the Saints. . . .
As soon as this meeting is dismissed I want the brethren and sisters to repair to their homes, where their Bishops will call on them to take in some of this company; the Bishops will distribute them as the people can receive them. . . .
The afternoon meeting will be omitted, for I wish the sisters to go home and prepare to give those who have just arrived a mouthful of something to eat, and to wash them and nurse them up. You know that I would give more for a dish of pudding and milk, or a baked potato and salt, were I in the situation of those persons who have just come in, than I would for all your prayers, though you were to stay here all the afternoon and pray. Prayer is good, but when baked potatoes and pudding and milk are needed, prayer will not supply their place on this occasion; give every duty its proper time and place. . . .
Some you will find with their feet frozen to their ankles; some are frozen to their knees and some have their hands frosted. . . . We want you to receive them as your own children, and to have the same feeling for them. [Hafen, Handcarts, p. 139]

Then in a way of the prophets, this great man, Brigham Young, told the bishops to send all of the immigrants for whom accommodations were lacking to his home.

Many of the pioneer faces in my mind are the faces of friends in Nigeria, West Africa. When I first arrived there in January 1984, I met Cecilia and learned of her creative pioneering in what seemed to me the overwhelming task of day-to-day living. I said, “You are my teacher.”

She responded, “I will be your teacher.”

I told her that I didn’t know if I could learn very fast, because she had so much to teach me. She smiled gently and said, “I will teach slowly.”

And she did. I lived as Cecilia’s neighbor for several months, and I will be grateful all my life for the things she helped me learn. I am a better pioneer because of this great soul and others in our neighborhood who allowed me to follow in their footsteps for a little while.

It still amuses me that my companion, Ann, and I were sent to teach Cecilia and others about self-reliance. While I hope we were able to share some information about health and sanitation that made a difference for them, I know that I personally learned the greatest lessons. Most of those lessons I learned from them had to do with self-reliance. I’m convinced that Cecilia and her sisters can handle any emergency. Forging onward, ever onward, they are indeed blessed, honored pioneers.

When Theany Reath, a young adult in Cambodia, was investigating the Church two years ago, she worried that her family would be offended when she stopped praying to their deceased ancestors. To her relief, her parents have been tolerant of her new beliefs and behaviors. “I feel the love of my parents a great deal,” she says. “They respect my new practices, such as fasting, and they no longer expect me to drink tea with them.” Today she serves as a branch Young Women president.

During my freshmen year, I was required to take religion courses. The doctrine was all new to me. The family of Lehi, the Book of Mormon, Zion and calling others on campus Brothers and Sisters were new and different. I began to study and learn more about the teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My family and I believed in God but it wasn’t something we practiced daily in life as a member of my religion. During the basketball season, I was receiving “the discussions” from the full-time missionaries and also struggling in my religion classes. I remembered that I was not only receiving a secular education, but also the teachings of God and if you loved him you will keep his commandments. One day before basketball practice in the locker room, I found a wallet on a wooden bench. I picked up the wallet and told my teammate Frank Buttel what I had found. I looked in the wallet to see who it belonged to and I noticed it had approximately a thousand dollars in cash. My teammate looked at me to see what I would do. I remembered the religion courses that I was taking and the discussions I was receiving from the full-time missionaries. There was no doubt, I was going to locate the owner and return the wallet. I found the owner and he was frantically looking for his lost wallet. He said he had cash in the wallet and it was to pay for his schooling. He took the wallet and thanked me when he noticed nothing was missing from his wallet. I felt good about myself because I applied what I learned about God. That weekend we had a basketball game and I was in the zone. I scored 65 points in the game. Later that week on December 16, 1977, I scored 57 points in another game. Did it have anything to do with finding and returning the wallet? Maybe. Maybe not.

After President Hardy died we had a memorial service for him. I’ll never forget the native who was up speaking, saying what a calamity it was to the mission to lose this great New Zealand missionary who could do so much for them as one of the Authorities of the Church.

He was talking along that line, and all of a sudden he stopped and he looked around at me and said, “Wait a minute. There’s nothing to worry about, not a thing to worry about. When President Cowley gets home he’ll fill the first vacancy in the Council of the Twelve Apostles, and we’ll still have a representative among the Authorities of the Church.” Then he went on talking about President Hardy. When I arrived home the following September I filled the first vacancy in the Quorum of the Twelve. Did that just happen by chance? Oh, I might have thought so if it had been one of you … that had prophesied that, but not from the blood of Israel. Oh no, I could not deny, I could not doubt it.

For a number of years I represented a retired attorney named Larry Beilenson. He was one of the most brilliant men I had ever met—a Harvard graduate in the true tradition. He also was a man of exacting integrity—a refreshing combination of traits. For years he served as the personal attorney for Ronald Reagan when he was in the entertainment field. Later he served as one of his political advisors.

It was about three days before the end of the year. Mr. Beilenson was negotiating the purchase of a large supply of equipment. It would give him a tax write-off and a good return on his investment, but he needed to conclude the transaction before December 31. The other party called back to say that there was simply not enough time to draft and prepare the necessary documents before year-end. I will never forget the instructions that Mr. Beilenson then gave me: “Tell them that they have my word. It is better than a written contract.” And then he added, almost parenthetically, “If I were bound only to a written contract, I might find a loophole, but there are no loopholes in my word.”

One of the acid tests of our integrity is whether or not we keep the commitments and promises we have made or whether there are loopholes in our word.

Cole Negebauer, a priest in the Shiloh Ward, knows all about being nervous to perform such a sacred ordinance. When he was asked to baptize his younger sister, Corie, he had been a member for only three years. His own baptism and the baptism of his parents and younger brother were still fresh in his mind, and he remembered how important it was to him.

So when it came time to baptize his sister, he was more than a little nervous about doing it right. The baptismal prayer isn’t a long prayer, but like the sacrament prayer, it must be said word for word. “I prayed about it a lot. I prayed that I’d not be nervous and that I’d be able to remember the words.”

It helped. But like Dan, Cole was in for a surprise when his family arrived at the church the day of the baptism. “It was packed,” he says. “We had to move into the chapel.”

When the important moment came, though, as Cole recited the words “having been commissioned of Jesus Christ,” he learned that when you’re acting worthily in the name of the Lord, you’re not alone. “I felt calm. I could feel the Holy Ghost there with me. It felt right. I knew I was doing something Heavenly Father wanted me to do.”

To Cole, blessing the sacrament and baptizing are important, but there’s more to holding the priesthood than that. Holding the priesthood means living right and being an example so he can perform those ordinances worthily.

“Some of my friends at school don’t understand why I don’t do some of the things they do, like watching R-rated movies or drinking and stuff like that. It’s hard to explain the priesthood. But they know I won’t do those things. Some think it’s cool. Some think it’s weird. But everybody knows.”

Honoring the priesthood has helped Cole prepare for his mission. Through Cole’s example and friendship, one friend and his two brothers were baptized. Another friend is playing basketball every week with some of the young men in the ward.

“I’m glad I have the priesthood and can use it more than just every Sunday,” he says. “It has strengthened my testimony. It’s given me confidence to do what’s right.”

When I turned 18, I was definitely happy about it. What teenager isn’t? Sure, I was still in high school, still had acne, and still had to do chores around our family’s house in California, USA, but I was an adult. I was entering a whole new stage of life, and I was excited about it. What I wasn’t exactly excited about was the idea of being with all the “old ladies” in Relief Society. They had kids and careers and Crock-Pots and probably liked to bake pies in house slippers. I had homework and swim meets and blue nail polish and liked to avoid cleaning my room for as long as possible. How could I possibly relate to anyone there? I was sure it was going to be awkward, lonely, and boring. And then I went.
First of all, Relief Society wasn’t at all boring. There was a ton of smiling and laughter. They shared interesting and heartfelt comments, but they weren’t afraid to laugh either. Second of all, they weren’t that different from me. Sure, they were older than me, but they were joking around with each other the same way my friends and I did. More than once, someone asked the exact question I had been wondering. And when they announced the enrichment meeting that week, I was shocked. They were learning self-defense! I wanted to do that!
I was super nervous when Sister Larsen, the Relief Society president, asked me to stand and introduce myself, but that wasn’t bad either. Everyone was beaming at me. Sister Edwards, my sophomore seminary teacher, gave me a thumbs-up, and Sister Richards, who remembered me from Primary, said she couldn’t believe I was already “all grown up.” And they really treated me like I was “all grown up.” I felt like a little kid playing dress-up, but to most of the women that day, I was a new sister.
Since then, I’ve loved Relief Society, no matter what ward I’m in. As soon as I walk into a Relief Society room, I can feel it: that sisterly bond and sense of belonging. I love doing my best to uplift my Relief Society sisters and learning all I can from them.
And as it turns out, I’m pretty good at baking pies.

We stopped at a pizza parlor on the way home from the priesthood session of general conference when I was fifteen years old, and as a result I learned a lesson about tithing that I will never forget.
My father, my two brothers, and I were hungry. As we waited for our order, I saw one of my friends working cleaning off the tables. I asked him how he got the job, and he told me they still needed extra help. A few minutes later he came back and told me that the manager would interview me immediately. Perhaps it was because I was wearing a nice shirt and a tie, but the employer seemed impressed. The interview went well. I expressed my wish not to work on Sundays, and he said there would be no problem—plenty of people would work for me. I was hired to begin work as soon as I could.
During the next two years, I gradually worked my way up to the position of pizza cook. Then one evening as I began my shift, I noticed one of my scheduled days had been taken off the calendar. My boss told me that if I wanted to work the regular number of hours, Sunday was open. I worked one Sunday and felt terrible about it, so I declined to work on the Sabbath from then on. My relations with my employer started to deteriorate, and I began to look for another job.
It was interesting that although I was fairly adamant about keeping the Sabbath day holy, I was lax in obeying another commandment—the law of tithing. I didn’t pay tithing at all, unless my parents prompted me. Then I’d say, “Yes, yes,” and put something in the envelope the next week. I just couldn’t understand the sense in giving away one-tenth of my hard-earned money.
I kept searching for a job but with no results. I prayed to my Father in Heaven sincerely, confident that he would help me find employment. One evening while praying, a thought came to me. Why should the Lord help me find another job if I wasn’t paying tithing on the income from my current job?
I studied a couple of scriptures:
“And prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.” (Mal. 3:10.)
I decided to obey the commandment. I went to the bank and secured a large sum of money from my savings account to pay the tithing I had missed. I took it over to the bishop’s house that very evening.
In my pursuit of better employment, I had applied for work in a shop that installed car mufflers. This was in January, and they said they wouldn’t need any additional help until the following December. Two days after I paid my tithing, someone from the shop telephoned with an offer for me to start work the next day. By the time I left on my mission, I was earning three times as much money as I had earned cooking pizza, plus a good commission. I was able to finance half of the expense of my mission by myself. Furthermore, after I had been in the mission field about a year, my employer from the muffler shop called my parents and asked if he could help pay the rest of my mission expenses.
Some might say that all these things happened coincidentally. I would be inclined to say that I was blessed because I finally started living a gospel principle. Tithing opens a door to blessings from the Lord.

Let me share with you a personal experience from my own youth about the power of righteous motives.
After the turmoil of the Second World War, my family ended up in Russian-occupied East Germany. When I attended fourth grade I had to learn Russian as my first foreign language in school. I found this quite difficult because of the Cyrillic alphabet, but as time went on I seemed to do all right.
When I turned 11 we had to leave East Germany overnight because of the political orientation of my father. Now I was going to school in West Germany, which was American-occupied at that time. There in school all children were required to learn English and not Russian. To learn Russian had been difficult, but English was impossible for me. I thought my mouth was not made for speaking English. My teachers struggled. My parents suffered. And I knew English was definitely not my language.
But then something changed in my young life. Almost daily I rode my bicycle to the airport and watched airplanes take off and land. I read, studied, and learned everything I could find about aviation. It was my greatest desire to become a pilot. I could already picture myself in the cockpit of an airliner or in a military fighter plane. I felt deep in my heart this was my thing!
Then I learned that to become a pilot I needed to speak English. Overnight, to the total surprise of everybody, it appeared as if my mouth had changed. I was able to learn English. It still took a lot of work, persistence, and patience, but I was able to learn English!
Why? Because of a righteous and strong motive!

Otavalo, a beautiful city in northeastern Ecuador, is even more beautiful in my memory because of an experience I had there while serving in the Ecuador Quito Mission. One afternoon in September 1996 my companion and I were walking to a teaching appointment. Suddenly, some children ran out of a small, humble house, crying, “A blessing! A blessing! Give us a blessing!”
We were astonished and didn’t know what to think. We considered ignoring them and continuing on, but something prompted us to find out what was happening. We feared something terrible had taken place.
The children quickly ran back inside the house. We followed them and found a lady who was as surprised to see us as we were surprised to see her. We explained what had happened, and smiling, she told us, “The children were just playing.” We talked for a few minutes, took her name as a referral, then left.
Two days later we returned and discovered she was a member of the Church. She hadn’t gone to church for a long time, she said, mostly because she hadn’t felt anyone had encouraged her. Her children were not members of the Church. We sensed that she wanted the gospel of Jesus Christ to be part of her and her children’s lives.
We shared the message of the gospel with her children, and they were baptized two weeks later. At the baptismal service, one of the children began to cry with joy. He said his mother had changed, and he was very happy the Lord had sent the missionaries to their house.
Little did those children know that when they so playfully asked for a blessing, the Lord would answer them—in abundance. Today, the family continues to be strong and faithful in the Church.

Since 1929 the government in Mexico has been trying to improve the lives of children through what is currently known as the National System for the Integral Development of the Family (DIF). Operated on federal, state, and city levels, DIF has been instrumental in strengthening families and helping low-income individuals. Now the Church has teamed up with DIF to continue improving the lives of children.
Luis Camarillo, area welfare manager for the Mexico North Area, has seen the problems children in his area face and wanted to help those children. He and others started to look at problems children faced in the area and found that many suffered from two things.
“Nuevo Leon State has no street children; however, it has children suffering from abuse or who are abandoned,” Brother Camarillo said.
Brother Camarillo and other members found out about DIF’s efforts to help the children through a local foster-care program and decided that they would like to assist DIF. He contacted Dr. Alejandro Alberto Morton Martínez, the child and family protection director at DIF, and offered to partner with the group to help the program. Since then, members have been working with Dr. Morton on the foster-care program.
Thanks to offers from the Church and the State of Utah’s foster-care system, the DIF and others involved have been able to receive valuable training on the topic of foster-care.
“A couple of service missionaries came down here to Monterrey from Utah and provided basic training to about 50 potential trainers,” Brother Camarillo said.
Through Humanitarian Services, Brother Camarillo, Dr. Morton, and several others have been able to travel to Utah to receive intensive training from the Utah Department of Children and Family Services. The training covered the basics of how to set up and keep a foster-care system functioning and also offered participants field experience. While in Utah, the participants visited with the Church Welfare Department and LDS Family Services.
Although the foster-care program in Nuevo Leon is still progressing, the training Brother Camarillo and others have received thus far has already started to pay off.
“Because of the training, DIF has improved the recruiting and selection process of potential foster families,” Brother Camarillo said. “The children are expected to have better experiences … than others placed in families who were not recruited applying the new process learned through the Church.”
Thus far the experience of working with DIF has been a good one for everyone involved, including Brother Camarillo. “It is hard to find an organization whose members are as committed to doing good as are those working for DIF,” Brother Camarillo said. “It has been a wonderful experience working with such an organization.”
In addition to helping start the foster-care program, Brother Camarillo has helped orchestrate several humanitarian and service projects with DIF, in which wheelchairs, medical equipment, and furniture were donated.

When Grandpa took Moni out to the garden, she couldn’t believe it! The bushy green foliage was faded and wilted. “What happened to your garden, Grandpa?” asked Moni.
“It’s done for this year,” said Grandpa. “Tomorrow’s Halloween. Look!” He pointed to something glowing at the garden’s edge. Moni ran to see what it was.
“Pumpkins!” she cried. Scattered among the dried vines were bright orange pumpkins that had looked like dark green balls all summer. “They look happier now,” said Moni.
“That’s why I like pumpkins so much,” said Grandpa. “When the rest of the garden is dying, the pumpkins are still there, looking bright and cheerful.”
“They get to stay around for Halloween,” said Moni.
“That’s right,” agreed Grandpa. “Better pick out the best one for your jack-o’-lantern.”
When Moni finally decided on the biggest pumpkin a four-year-old girl could lift, Grandpa cut it off at the stem and put it in her arms. Moni could feel its cold, smooth skin as she carried it to the house.
Later, Grandpa cut a neat lid in the pumpkin’s top, and Moni scooped out the seeds inside.
“It doesn’t smell very good,” said Moni, wrinkling her nose. “But it’s still the best pumpkin, isn’t it?”
“You bet!” Grandpa laughed. He helped Moni draw triangle eyes and a curvy smile with three teeth in it. When he took his pocketknife and started to cut on the lines, Moni wanted to help. Grandpa let her hold the knife handle while he held her hand, and they carefully cut out the pumpkin’s face.
“Who’s your new friend, Moni?” Grandma asked from the living room.
Moni thought for a minute. “Jake,” she said.
“That’s my name!” declared Grandpa.
“I know,” said Moni. “That’s why I like it. It’s the best name for the best pumpkin.”
“All right,” said Grandpa. “I guess we have two Jakes this Halloween.”
On Halloween night Grandma’s kitchen smelled like apples and popcorn. Moni kept taking off Jake’s lid and looking inside. “How are we going to plug Jake in?” she asked. She remembered seeing jack-o’-lanterns glowing in the dark last year.
“Jake’s not electric,” Grandma said. “We have to light him the old-fashioned way.”
After they had affixed a candle inside Jake, Moni followed Grandma to the stove. She was surprised to see what was going into the oven. “What are those stinky pumpkin seeds doing on your cookie pans, Grandma?” asked Moni.
“I’m roasting them for a treat,” said Grandma.
Moni frowned.
“You’ll like them,” said Grandma.
Grandpa helped Moni into her panda costume. “You’re one of a kind, Moni,” he told her, smiling.
Moni carried Jake to the brick porch railing for Grandpa to light. Jake’s big, golden smile warmed the whole neighborhood.
The next day when Mother and Daddy came to take her home, Moni noticed a puddle of wax and some smoky places inside Jake. “Don’t worry. I still love you,” she said, hugging him good-bye. “See you next weekend, Jake.”
“I doubt it,” said Grandma. “I’ll probably turn Jake into pumpkin pie!”
“No!” said Moni. “I don’t want Jake to be a pie.”
“OK,” said Grandma. “Jake will be here when you come back next weekend.”
When Moni saw Jake that weekend, she was worried. His teeth had withered. His cheeks were caving in. Even his triangle eyes had gotten puckery, and his lid didn’t fit right anymore. Inside were black, fuzzy places that smelled funny. “How come he’s getting all wrinkly?” she asked Grandpa.
“That’s what happens to jack-o’-lanterns, Honey,” said Grandpa. “Once they’ve been carved, they don’t last long.”
“Next year when I pick the best pumpkin, we won’t carve it, and it won’t get old,” she said with a frown.
“Old isn’t so bad,” said Grandpa. “I’m old, and you like me, don’t you?”
“You bet,” said Moni, squeezing Grandpa’s hand.
“Remember where we put the leaves you helped me rake?” asked Grandpa.
Moni nodded.
“Tomorrow we’ll take Jake out to that compost pile with the kitchen scraps. By spring Jake will have turned into good humus to help grow more pumpkins next year.”
Moni didn’t like to think of Jake going out with eggshells and moldy leaves. “I don’t want Jake to go to waste,” she said.
“Nature never wastes anything,” said Grandpa. He gave Moni a handful of roasted pumpkin seeds. “Try some of these,” he said.
Moni carefully tried a few, then ate some more. The seeds tasted good. Then she remembered helping Grandpa poke seeds like these into the dirt and watching the plants that had grown up like magic. “Grandpa, will these seeds turn into more pumpkins?” she asked.
“No, Honey. Grandma roasted these seeds to eat. But she saved some seeds to plant. Next spring you can help me plant Jake’s seeds and watch his ‘children’ grow in the garden.”
“Will they all have champion smiles like Jake?” Moni asked.
“You bet!” replied Grandpa. “If you keep saving your jack-o’-lantern seeds, someday Jake’s great-great-grandchildren will be growing in your garden.”
Moni patted Jake’s sunken face. “You’re still one of a kind, Jake,” she said.

I was born into a good family. My father and mother were Christians, and they raised seven children in love of God, Jesus Christ, His gospel, and love of neighbor. My father was not a rich man, but he was able to provide for all the needs of the family. We lived in modesty and had everything we needed. But an unfortunate event would happen in my father's life, and it was going to change the course of my future.
When I was 16, my father fell ill and was no longer able to provide for the family. He no longer had the financial means to send us to school, and it was a dark period in my life's history. This situation meant that I couldn't go to school for two years, and I stayed at home without furthering my education because there was no one else to help me continue with my high school education. After several months of illness, my father recovered, but his whole life had changed because he had lost many of his material and financial possessions.
All my dreams seemed to end and my whole future became dark. I had lost hope for a better future. I lost the opportunities to continue my studies and become the man I wanted to be—or the man I dreamed of becoming.
But a year after this situation happened, I got closer to my father, and we had a very open and comforting conversation. I asked him if I still had the opportunity to return to continue my studies because education was the only guarantee in our time to be able to survive and provide for his personal and family needs.
My father was very sincere with me, and he told me, “Alfred we have to work hard to save money that will allow you next year to go back to school and continue your path of education.”
The work we had to do was to make the fields—farming. He was a man who was already fielding in the past. He also enjoyed breeding animals because he was a veterinarian by training and career. So, we decided to work the land. It was necessary to prepare the soil for the seed. Preparation meant cutting down trees and grasses, uproot tree trunks, do ploughing, sowing, weeding. We should use axes, machetes to cut down trees and grasses, and use hoes for ploughing, sowing, and weeding. So, everything was manual.
For a young person (my age of 16) who did not live in these living conditions, it was very difficult for me to have strength for this work of the land that requires endurance and perseverance. It was a very difficult job, and my body was not used to this kind of heavy work. So, I suffered from it the first days and months. My hands were wounded and bleeding. I wanted to give up everything. But because I knew the goal I had to work hard for, I didn't stop trying. I learned, I picked up the pace, and I started working the land.
We had made a field of cassava, maize, and groundnuts. But the main project was cassava.
I am not a specialist of agriculture, but I am telling you the story and the experience that I personally lived.
The cassava species we planted would have to wait a year to grow and be ready for harvest and sale. This work took us practically a year under the sun, in the rain, in the cold, and in the wind.
It was necessary work to watch over the land so that birds or wild beasts did not come to destroy our seeds. From time to time, we would check that there were no weeds growing. The field had to be weeded to allow the plants to grow in favorable conditions.
Eventually, God blessed our efforts and our field. We had a very good harvest. We sold our products and were able to save money. Finally, I went to continue high school after two years of inactivity.

On Christmas Eve, 1997, I met a remarkable family. Each member of the family had an unshakable testimony of the truth and of the reality of the Resurrection. The family consisted of a mother and father and four children. Each of the children—three sons and a daughter—had been born with a rare form of muscular dystrophy, and each was handicapped. Mark, who was then 16 years old, had undergone spinal surgery in an effort to help him move about more freely. The other two boys, Christopher, age 13, and Jason, age 10, were to leave for California in a few days to undergo similar surgery. The only daughter, Shanna, was then five years old—a beautiful child. All of the children were intelligent and faith-filled, and it was obvious that their parents, Bill and Sherry, were proud of each one. We visited for a while, and the special spirit of that family filled my office and my heart. The father and I gave blessings to the two boys who were facing surgery, and then the parents asked if little Shanna could sing for me. Her father mentioned that she had diminished lung capacity and that it might be difficult for her, but that she wanted to try. To the accompaniment of a recorded cassette, and in a beautiful, clear voice—never missing a note—she sang of a brighter future:
On a beautiful day that I dream about
In a world I would love to see,
Is a beautiful place where the sun comes out
And it shines in the sky for me.
On this beautiful winter’s morning,
If my wish could come true somehow,
Then the beautiful day that I dream about
Would be here and now.
The emotions of all of us were very near the surface as she finished. The spirituality of this visit set the tone for my Christmas that year.

I kept in touch with the family, and when the oldest son, Mark, turned 19, arrangements were made for him to serve a special mission at Church headquarters. Eventually, the other two brothers also had an opportunity to serve such missions.

Nearly a year ago, Christopher, who was then 22 years old, succumbed to the disease with which each of the children has been afflicted. And then, last September, I received word that little Shanna, now 14 years old, had passed away. At the funeral services, Shanna was honored by beautiful tributes. Leaning on the pulpit for support, each of her surviving brothers, Mark and Jason, shared poignant family experiences. Shanna’s mother sang a lovely musical number as part of a duet. Her father and grandfather gave touching sermons. Though their hearts were broken, each bore powerful and deep-felt testimony of the reality of the Resurrection and of the actuality that Shanna lives still, as does her brother Christopher, each awaiting a glorious reunion with their beloved family.

When it was my time to speak, I recounted that visit the family made to my office nearly nine years earlier and spoke of the lovely song Shanna sang on that occasion. I concluded with the thought: “Because our Savior died at Calvary, death has no hold upon any one of us. Shanna lives, whole and well, and for her that beautiful day she sang about on a special Christmas Eve in 1997, the day she dreamed about, is here and now.”

It seems to me that when it has been necessary over the years to let someone out for misconduct or failure to comply, it is to have them out so that they can get back in.
At one time I was visiting with an excommunicated member of the Church and used this approach to tell him he had been disciplined and was out of the Church so it would now be possible for him to come back in, with a greater strength and appreciation for the gospel.
Thank God the great majority realize that every policy and standard recommended is to keep them in comfortably and securely and not to drive them out. I have always thought the Savior, Jesus the Christ, drove the money changers out of the temple so they could come back in with righteous desires and new commitments.