Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago, when Arturo Toscanini was musical director of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra in New York City, he had a Saturday afternoon radio broadcast. And one day he received in his mail a crumpled little note on some brownish paper which read:
“Dear Mr. Toscanini, I am a lonely sheepherder in the mountains of Wyoming. I have two prized possessions: an old violin and a battery radio. And the batteries are getting weak and beginning to run down on my radio, and my violin is so out of tune I can’t play it anymore. Would you please sound an A next Saturday on your program?”
The next week on the program, Arturo Toscanini announced: “To a newfound friend in the mountains of Wyoming, the New York Philharmonic Orchestra is now, all together and in unison, going to sound a perfect A.” And they sounded the perfect A. Then that lonely little man was able to tune the A string and then the E string and the D and the G from that perfect A.

I have to say that I wasn’t the bravest patient, and I still am not. Every day during my recovery I had a phone call from Elder Jeffrey R. Holland. I think people thought he was just my imaginary friend when I first told them, but then he turned up twice with police and security, and then a lot of people wanted to see him! I told him that I had been very grumpy and that I was worried about losing my feet.

One night, when I was at my lowest, a tiny white-blonde-haired five-year-old girl—let’s call her Stella—came up to me as I was standing gloomily outside my room. She grasped my little finger with her tiny hand, turned me round (now that is a sight to see!), and made me walk around the ward with her. She wouldn’t let go until I kissed the top of her head. Her parents and the nursing staff chuckled, but I can tell you that the characteristic hallmarks of God in Christ were there; this was indeed an angelic visitation. I had been told to turn around—teshuvah, metanoia, repent—and had been led by a little child.

Those in a healing community build a beloved community around them, often without completely comprehending what they are doing. That, in a nutshell, is what I believe we are called to do together after the long history of difficulties and division and schism between Christian communities. Beautiful friendships can flower and bear fruit between Christian communities if we are taken by the finger and turned around, after the pattern of the University of Utah burn unit.

We had just moved to a small rural town where not many members of the Church lived. Our little branch was a friendly, close-knit group, and we enjoyed each Sabbath day and the opportunity to attend church. Our only concern was for our children, who had few playmates their ages in our branch. My husband and I decided to look for ways to make friends outside of the Church so our children could have new friends and get to know people from different faiths.
My hopes were soon dashed, however, when a local children’s group told me that because we were “Mormons,” we were not welcome in their group. I had belonged to similar groups in other areas where there weren’t many Latter-day Saints, and religion had never been an issue before. I assured the leaders of the group that I would not try to proselytize or force my religion on anyone; my family and I just wanted to make friends and meet new people. But they remained firm in their decision and did not allow us to join.
I decided that I would be kind, Christlike, and friendly to the people of this town so they would see that members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are good people. We started inviting other children over to play, inviting neighbor families to dinner, and visiting with others in an effort to get to know people. I read conference talks, Church magazine articles, and scriptures about fellowship, kindness, and serving others. Then I worked to put these principles into practice in my life. I knew if I could show the people of this town how kind and loving Latter-day Saint families can be, this group would be sure to accept us in time.
Time passed, however, and although we were able to befriend the leaders of this social group, they remained firm in their “no Mormons allowed” position.
I decided then to continue being neighborly and kind to the people in my town, but I also decided to search out a similar social group in a neighboring town. But even there I was told that Latter-day Saints were not allowed to join their group. By then I was so frustrated I wanted to cry. What was wrong with the people in these two towns? Couldn’t they see that we were a kind, fun family?
I prayed for the Spirit to guide me and help me be as friendly and Christlike as possible. I prayed that those who knew me would feel in their hearts that we were good people. I prayed they would experience a change of heart that would lead them to accept us. Still, I felt as if my prayers weren’t being answered. No matter how hard I tried, I was unable to soften their hearts.
Then one evening I received a phone call that shattered my hopes altogether. The leaders of the group called and told me once again that my family was not welcome in their group. They were concerned that we might be expecting to join in the future because we had made so many friends in the community. They said some very hurtful things, and I cried with a broken heart. All of the dinners, service projects, cookies, and sidewalk chats had meant nothing to these people. Where had I gone wrong?
That night I prayed a heartfelt and sincere request for help in dealing with those who had such strong feelings against the Church. I felt as if I were now entitled to their favor because of my efforts, and I explained this to my Father in Heaven.
The answer was stronger than any impression I had received for quite some time: “Follow Christ.”
It confused me at first. “Yes,” I thought, “but I already do.” The cookies, the friendship, the reaching out—I was being as Christlike as I could. Still, the only impression I received was “Follow Christ.”
I then realized that when my energies are focused on following Christ, I am not affected as much by the opinions of others. I serve them because it is right and not because it will help my image as a Latter-day Saint. I am friendly and neighborly because I feel friendly and neighborly, not because I have some self-centered reason for being friendly.
“Follow Christ” has become my motto whenever I am troubled by those who dislike us because of our faith. I now find joy in serving others regardless of their reaction to my kindness, and I am blessed for it. I did not come to earth to win the approval of others. I came here to prepare to return to my Father in Heaven, and the only way to get there is to follow the Savior.

In a remote part of Ireland, Brid Harrington lived with her father and mother in a thatched cottage covered with ivy. A low stone wall surrounded the yard and yellow primroses, daffodils, and roses filled the summer air with perfume.
One morning as the sun rose over Wicklow Mountain, Brid yawned and stretched and wiped her clenched fingers across her eyes. Getting out of bed, she swung her window open wide and leaned on the windowsill. A song thrush was singing in a nearby tree, and the sheep were grazing down by the lake beyond.
“Brid!” Mother called. “Breakfast’s on, luv!”
She quickly splashed her face with water from the basin, made her bed, and dressed. Her mouth was watering for honey and biscuits as she hurried toward the kitchen.
“The road’s up,” Father explained as they ate. “I don’t know how we’ll get the sugar beets to market,” he sighed, “and we surely need the money.”
“Can you go by way of Woodenbridge?” Mother asked hopefully.
“The bridge would never hold my weight and the beets at the same time,” Father explained.
“Can’t I pull them?” Brid asked brightly.
“No, lass, you might not have the strength to pull the cart.”
“But I’m strong, Father. I could pull the sugar beets, I’m sure. The bridge could certainly hold me,” Brid pleaded, “and I did help with the planting.”
“If we don’t get the beets to market,” Mother added, “we’ll lose the crop, that’s sure, and all our work for nothing.”
Brid’s father was thoughtful for a few minutes. Mother’s look showed her mixed feelings. Finally, he spoke. “You’d have to stay to the middle of the bridge then, and be very careful. Still, it’s a worry.”
Brid ran around the table and hugged him. “I’ll be ever so careful,” she promised happily.
“Well then, that’s settled,” Father said, sighing with relief. “Will you keep the sheep in pasture, Mother, and not forget them while you do your chores?”
“Sean Harrington! I’ve kept sheep in pasture for years! Now off with the two of you and be careful!” Mother said, smiling.
Brid helped her father load the wooden cart and, waving a kiss to her mother, they followed the path through the fields of yellow gorse to Woodenbridge. When they came to the river, the swollen stream was lapping at the planking. Beyond the bridge and farther downstream, a small waterfall churned and splashed.
“Mind you stay to the middle, and don’t look down!” Father shouted over the roar of the water. “I’ll wait right here for you!” he added assuringly.
Brid stepped carefully onto the bridge but, when she reached the halfway point, a wheel wedged between the planks and she glanced down. Between the boards, she could see the white swirling water. Suddenly she felt dizzy. Closing her eyes a moment to steady her balance, Brid glanced back at her father who gave an encouraging smile and then waved her on. She returned the motion with a smile. Then tugging at the wheel with all her strength, she worked it free. Brid glanced over the side of the bridge. Her legs felt wobbly and she couldn’t move!
“Look up! Look up, lass!” Father called.
Brid looked at the sky. A lone songbird circled slowly overhead. The sky was blue and the sun shone brightly. She started to sing to herself, “Look up, look up.” Then with her eyes straight ahead, she pulled the cart safely to the other side.
“I made it! I made it!” she called jubilantly to her father.
He waved back. “Good lass! I’ll be with you in a minute!” And he stepped lightly across the bridge. Then together they continued to market.
“I hear the road is up,” Mr. Molloy said while counting out their pay for the beets. “Do you know how long they’ll be working on it?”
“No,” answered Father, putting his arm around Brid. “We had to come by way of Woodenbridge, and Brid had to pull the cart over by herself.”
“That was a brave thing to do, lass,” Mr. Molloy said. “By tomorrow the price for sugar beets will be going down, I’m afraid. It was a good thing you made it today.”
Brid and her father hurried back to the bridge. Father crossed with the empty cart first to see if it would still hold and then waited for Brid.
“Keep your eyes on me, lass,” Father called.
Brid took a deep breath and stared straight ahead, keeping her eyes on her father. Slowly she crossed Woodenbridge for the second time that day.
“Good girl!” her father cried, and hugged her tightly. “You are a brave one.”
“I was afraid I would fall,” Brid confessed, smiling nervously.
“But you did as you were asked and you did just fine.”
“Was I a help, Father?”
“The best little helper I could ever have had. I’m very proud of you. Your mother will be proud too,” he added. “You saved our crop, young lady!”
Brid climbed into the cart and dangled her legs over the sides. And while Father pulled her along, their happy singing echoed throughout the countryside.

Thirty years ago, while I served as a missionary in the Near East, my companion and I were assigned to visit a branch that had been torn apart by division and apostasy. We approached our assignment humbly and prayerfully. A crucial meeting was held involving the disaffected parties. My companion was selected to preach the sermon that we hoped would bring everyone together again. After we had fasted and prayed earnestly, he stood with confidence and worked the miracle. He spoke with the tongue of an angel. That young, inexperienced elder’s words healed wounds festering in the hearts of men much older than he, prompted confessions, and literally saved a branch of the Church.

An acquaintance of mine used to live in a ward with some of the highest statistics in the Church—attendance was high, home teaching numbers were high, Primary children were always well behaved, ward dinners included fantastic food that members rarely spilled on the meetinghouse floor, and I think there were never any arguments at Church ball.

My friend and his wife were subsequently called on a mission. When they returned three years later, this couple was astonished to learn that during the time they were away serving, 11 marriages had ended in divorce.

Although the ward had every outward indication of faithfulness and strength, something unfortunate was happening in the hearts and lives of the members. And the troubling thing is that this situation is not unique. Such terrible and often unnecessary things happen when members of the Church become disengaged from gospel principles. They may appear on the outside to be disciples of Jesus Christ, but on the inside their hearts have separated from their Savior and His teachings. They have gradually turned away from the things of the Spirit and moved toward the things of the world.

In the early stages of my friendship with Michelle, all I knew about her was that her values were much stronger than those any of my other friends had. It wasn’t until I was invited to her house for a family home evening that I found out she was a Mormon.
At this family home evening I was introduced to the gospel by two wonderful missionaries. When they asked if I wanted to hear the discussions, I was filled with an unfamiliar but comfortable feeling. I accepted.
After I had received the discussions and had many of my concerns resolved, I set a date for baptism. But, even though I felt good about my decision, I wanted some kind of confirmation that I was doing the right thing. I started to search desperately for the answer to my question, “Is the Church true?” I prayed morning, noon, and night, but I didn’t seem to be getting an answer.
Then I met Davie Wilden, a Church member. After spending many hours together talking and reading, we decided it was time to pray. We knelt, and Davie prayed first, asking Heavenly Father to help me; then it was my turn to pray.
I had just begun my prayer when I heard a voice. It said, “Say sorry. Just say sorry.”
I prayed with all my heart for Heavenly Father to forgive my sins. I felt a warm, tingly feeling come right down through my arms and seem to pierce me to the very center. Five days later I was baptized.
Since then, my testimony of the gospel has grown stronger and stronger. Exactly one year and two days after I was baptized, I entered the New Zealand MTC, having been called on a mission to Perth, Australia. I now experience the same joy as the people who taught me the gospel by sharing my testimony with others.

I was skeptical when the missionaries taught me about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. My first thought was that Joseph Smith, like many other so-called “prophets,” may have brought a false book into the world seeking to become wealthy, famous, or heroic.
I had no intention of reading the Book of Mormon. But over time the missionaries’ friendship and their enthusiasm for the gospel allowed my curiosity toward their message to grow.
As I read the verses the missionaries gave me in the Book of Mormon, I found Moroni’s invitation to ask God with a sincere heart, real intent, and faith in Christ if the Book of Mormon is true (see Moroni 10:4–5). I thought, “Who, knowing the book was fake, would dare challenge us to ask God with real intent and sincerity if the Book of Mormon is true?”
Then one day the missionaries explained that Joseph Smith and his brother, Hyrum, were martyred for their testimony. Suddenly, a thought came to me that they would never have given up their own lives for something they knew was false. At that moment, a warm feeling, like a burning fire, spread through me. It was a witness of the Holy Spirit confirming to my heart that Joseph Smith was a true prophet. With this witness, I was baptized and confirmed.

A second category is enduring the individual conditions of this life—the unique set of circumstances peculiar to us at any given time. These may be small, such as why the guy you like doesn’t seem to know you exist or why you did not achieve an A in a class in spite of every diligent effort. They may be big, such as prolonged health problems or the death of a loved one. They might be financial burdens that seem insurmountable. Or, as parents, we may have to endure the often incorrect use of free agency by our children. For others it may be the inability to be a parent when the desire to be great. And some seem destined to live this life without a mate in spite of earnest desires otherwise. Finally, it may be an offense by a Church official such as a bishop or stake president or General Authority. In all these, the test comes in not denouncing our faith or blaming God for our trials. So many times strong members of the Church, when faced with such conditions, denounce God for not righting the set of conditions that brings them agony. By so doing they cease enduring and stand to risk all they have worked for spiritually to that point.

One example of this came when I was a bishop in Iowa while doing my graduate work. We had just sent out the first missionary that ward had ever had, a quality young man who was loved and admired by all who knew him. Unfortunately, the young man had leukemia, which was in remission. Six months into his mission the symptoms reappeared. He returned home for treatment, but the Lord needed him for a different mission. In spite of group fasting and adamant prayer in his behalf, he died, still a full-time, set-apart missionary. The grief and mourning were difficult. But I always remember the greater anguish I felt when one faithful ward member came to me right after the incident and stated, "I do not know how a just God could allow this to happen. It is not right. He was a good boy. Why would God take him from us?" No amount of consoling helped this person. For this person, God ceased to be a loving God when he did not give us what we desperately wanted. This person became bitter and left the Church for a season.

There is a story told of an unscrupulous character who approached a trusted employee of a reputable old firm. His intention was to convince the employee to help him steal a considerable amount of money from the company. The employee refused consistently until finally, after being offered one million dollars, he gave in to the scheme.
After the two had successfully done their dirty work, the criminal offered the employee one hundred dollars for his help. The employee was furious. In a voice filled with anger the employee said, “What do you think I am, a criminal?” The man who had planned the crime said in a voice filled with contempt, “We have already established the quality of your character; now we are just dickering over the price.”

Our home in Manti, Utah, was small, and our family was very close. Our sons, Stewart and Chandler, played together constantly and shared a bedroom. The room was small, and the boys didn’t seem to mind sharing a twin bed, one sleeping at each end. Their toes would barely reach to the middle, and often the sounds of giggling would escape as they tickled each other’s feet.
They soon outgrew the bed, though, so we shopped around and decided to get bunk beds. Their excitement was overwhelming as my husband, Rex, set up the new beds. He attached a board across the top bunk to keep Stewart, age four, from rolling off the bed. Chandler was younger and smaller and had the bottom bunk. After family prayer they climbed happily into their new beds, and we heard giggling and whispering through their closed door. Eventually they went to sleep, and the house was quiet.
Housework, dishes, and laundry filled the rest of my evening, and I clutched Rex’s hand tightly as we had our evening prayer. Finally we climbed into bed, exhausted from the day’s work. It must have been only seconds before I was in a deep sleep.
I woke up around 2:00 a.m., opened my eyes, looked at the clock, and was ready to doze back to sleep when I heard a very quiet voice say, “Check the boys.” I looked at Rex to see if he was awake, but he was sleeping soundly. I closed my eyes a second time, but again I heard, “Check the boys.” My body was so tired I wasn’t sure if I was awake, and once more I closed my eyes to go to sleep when I heard the voice a third time: “Check the boys.” My mind began to fill with stories I had heard about the still, small voice. I couldn’t imagine why I should check the boys, but finally I climbed out of bed and headed toward their room.
I walked down the dark hall and through the kitchen. All was quiet. I walked through the family room and finally reached the boys’ door. I heard a faint whimpering in the bedroom. As I quietly opened the door, I looked at the new bunk beds, and to my horror, Chandler was hanging from the top bed. His skinny body had slipped through the space between the mattress and the board, but his head had caught. His small body hung limp. His only cry was a muffled whimper as his face was buried in the mattress. Stewart slept soundly on the bottom bunk, unaware of his brother’s distress. They must have switched beds after we tucked them in for the night.
I quickly slipped Chandler back through the small space and held him tightly in my arms. His frightened, tear-filled eyes met mine. I realized how close he had come to death. I rocked him back to sleep and placed him in the bottom bed beside his brother. The image of Chandler hanging from the top bed haunted me. I knew he couldn’t have survived for more than a few minutes.
As I watched my two sons sleep, I felt the protective Spirit of the Lord within my heart and realized I had been given a miracle that night. After returning to my bedroom, I knelt and thanked my Heavenly Father for the repeated prompting I had received and for the safety of our family.

Now I would like to tell you a story that I heard from a good friend of mine this past spring, and I really appreciate the permission to use this story, because it’s very personal. Prior to this, we had talked many times about school related things and never talked about our own families. At this time, however, he mentioned to me that he had a son who had passed away. His son Adam, through a series of poor decisions, ended up in jail. He also suffered from a drug addiction and eventually died because of this addiction. He told me he never would have chosen this life for his son, and I imagine that all of this would be difficult for any parent to witness. In the wake of his passing, there was still something be learned from the experience, however. At the funeral for Adam, there was an opportunity given for anyone who knew him to be able to get up and speak and say something about him. As it turns out, there were quite a few people who wanted to say something about their experiences with Adam. While he was incarcerated, there were some people with him who could not read or write, so one of the things he would do for his fellow inmates would be to read the letters that were written to them, and then assist them further by writing letters back to their families. Another person got up and talked about her own drug addiction and how she would never have been able to recover from that addiction without Adam’s kindness and encouragement. I got the impression that he was really able to make a positive difference to people in a place where maybe no one really wants to be, but the need is still there, and possibly the need is even greater there than a lot of other places in the world. For me, this shows that we don’t have to necessarily be a leader to make a difference in someone else’s life. We can be filled with our own problems and difficulties and still help out others or “see them through.”

In early 2004 we were devastated to learn that Juanita’s cancer had returned, this time in her lungs. In somber tones our doctor told us he would try to keep the cancer under control as long as possible, but there was now no possible cure. At first I felt betrayed and hopeless. Juanita and I had righteous desires and plans. What about the missions we were going to serve together? What about the grandchildren we were going to strengthen spiritually? How could this happen to us?
As I went through the proclamation again, this time it was as if someone turned a flashlight on to highlight the words “Children are entitled to birth within the bonds of matrimony, and to be reared by a father and a mother.” I recognized my children were entitled to be raised by a father and a mother. This statement filled me with hope that in the face of very large medical odds Juanita would be blessed with a miracle and be healed.
We lived a fairly normal and hopeful life for about six months, but then the cancer began to take its unmistakable toll. Juanita lost weight rapidly and acquired a nearly constant and uncomfortable cough. Even the smallest exertion left her struggling for breath. Things seemed always to get worse and never better. Soon it became apparent that it was not God’s will for Juanita to live very much longer. I was at a complete loss to explain why God had not stepped forward with the miracle we so badly needed and so sincerely hoped for. But then again the words of the proclamation provided inspiration and comfort: “Sacred ordinances and covenants available in holy temples make it possible for individuals to return to the presence of God and for families to be united eternally.” Through many tears my understanding was enlarged to see that Juanita would indeed receive a miraculous healing. Because of the plan of salvation, Juanita would pass from this life into a beautiful place to be greeted by her father, our daughter who had passed away, and the Savior. Because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, Juanita would be healed and at the Resurrection receive a perfect body, free from cancer and any other illness. I could also see that through all eternity our children would have access to her influence as their mother—another miracle.
I also felt impressed that there was much we could yet do in this life to give the children continued access to her wisdom. I received a clear impression that it was time for us to stop focusing our faith on a physical miracle that was not in keeping with God’s will and focus instead on learning as much as we could from Juanita in the short time we had left. We needed to be better prepared “to return to the presence of God and for [our family] to be united eternally.” In our family testimony meeting we expressed these feelings poignantly, and their truth washed over us all. Then we went to work.
Juanita wrote her testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, and I wrote mine as well. We printed and laminated them along with our pictures in a size that would fit in the children’s scriptures. Juanita then wrote long letters in her own hand to each of the children, expressing appreciation and offering words of encouragement and advice. We recorded Juanita’s sweet voice singing hymns, Primary songs, and childhood lullabies and made CDs for each of the children and for future grandchildren. We also recorded messages to be listened to on special occasions such as going to the temple, leaving on a mission, getting married, giving birth to a child. Juanita crocheted baby blankets and bibs for future grandchildren. Our lives now became focused, full of activity, and we received great comfort from the Spirit. All this came as a result of inspiration from the proclamation.
All of our children were at Juanita’s side when she died, and each had the opportunity to share tender communication with her. She was alert and talked to us until about 10 minutes before she passed away. That’s when I told her, “I love you,” and she responded in Spanish, “Lo mismo,” which means “Same to you.” Those were her last words. Her passing was sweet.

Megan’s older brother Jake looked handsome in his military fatigues. But Megan wished he didn’t have them on today. He stood by his packed suitcases in the hallway, ready to leave for active duty, as the whole family gathered around wishing him good-bye. After a big bear hug for Megan, Jake was gone.
On Monday night, everyone gathered in the living room for family home evening. Megan sat on the center cushion of the couch next to the empty spot where Jake always sat. A letter from Jake had let the family know he arrived at his military base safe and sound, but Megan missed him—especially tonight. Family home evening was a special time for compliments, songs, stories, lessons, and testimonies. Jake had often whispered the answers to questions in Megan’s ear so she could get them right, his strong arm around her shoulders.
When Megan’s older sister Liz began playing the piano for the opening song, Megan missed Jake even more. “Families can be together forever through Heavenly Father’s plan,” Megan sang. “But Jake isn’t here together with our family,” Megan thought. She sang the next line. “I always want to be with my own family, and the Lord has shown me how I can.”* “How can we be together with Jake?” she wondered. “He is thousands of miles away.”
Megan heard her father’s voice asking her to say the opening prayer. Her heart skipped a beat. She hopped to her feet and folded her arms. She would ask Heavenly Father to show them how their family could be together when Jake was so far away. “Dear Father in Heaven, we’re so thankful to be here in family home evening. But Jake isn’t here. He can’t sing with us and learn with us. He is going to be especially lonely on Monday nights. Help us to know how we can be a close family even though he is far away. And please watch over him so he’ll be safe.”
Megan sat down. She saw her purple school notebook on the floor by the couch and grinned. She had an idea. She picked up her notebook, opened it, and began writing furiously.
Dad opened the family council part of the evening by announcing, as always, “Greeps, Gripes, and Grumps.” No one could remember how this silly name came to be. Greeps were calendar items and compliments. Gripes and Grumps were comments and complaints to be addressed. Megan usually had lots to say. But this time she was busy writing.
Dad soon began giving the lesson, which was from an article in the Ensign about humility.
“Megan, can you tell us what becoming like a little child means to you?” Megan, who was busy writing, didn’t hear him.
“Is that homework, Megan?” Dad asked. “We’re having our lesson.”
Megan stopped writing. “I know how we can be a family!” she said excitedly. The whole family stared at her. “With Jake gone, I mean. I know how we can still have family home evening together!”
“How?” everyone asked.
Megan turned her notebook around for them to see. It said,
Megan’s family gathered around, patting her on the back.
“What a great idea!” Liz said. “But you could leave out the part about the mistakes!”
“He’ll love it!” declared Mom.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Josh asked.
“Jake won’t be here,” Megan said. “But every week in the mail he’ll get our family home evening in an envelope, sealed with a hug!”
“I think Heavenly Father answered your prayer,” Dad said.
Megan was already writing again, her pen bobbing across the paper and her face beaming bright.
Family Home Evening, October 8
Opening song: “Families Can Be Together Forever”—accompanied by Liz with only a few tiny mistakes, led by Josh who is still wearing his sweaty soccer uniform.
Opening prayer: Given by Megan who asked a special blessing on Jake who is far away and who Megan is missing very much because he won’t be whispering the right answers in her ear.
Greeps, Gripes, and Grumps: Josh told everyone what time his soccer game is this week. Liz said she loved the new sweater she wore today that Mom gave her and could everyone please come to the school choir concert she’s in next Thursday. Jillie asked what we’re having for treats after the lesson. Mom said rice pudding. Jillie asked if we could have ice cream sandwiches next week. Mom said we probably could if Jillie reminded her in time.
Lesson: Given by Dad—about humility, taken from Elder Marlin K. Jensen’s talk in the Ensign. We shouldn’t compare ourselves to others. This is what makes us have pride. It is a great thing to become as a little child and love everyone.

When President Spencer W. Kimball was 15 years old, he attended stake conference and heard a speaker ask everyone who had read the entire Bible to raise their hands. I heard President Kimball say, “I cared not what others were thinking. I knew that I had not read it and I was filled with shame.” After the meeting was over, he ran home as fast as he could, grabbed the Bible off the shelf, and climbed the stairs to the attic. His brothers teased him, saying, “Why try? You’ll never finish it.” But he did. Almost a year later he finished reading the Bible. The integrity he had as a 15-year-old boy was one of the things that made him a great prophet of God.

Ricardo and his friends stood outside one of the sealing rooms in the São Paulo Brazil Temple, wondering why they couldn’t go in. No one was stopping them; after all, the temple was being rededicated, and this was its open house. They asked the leader they were with why they couldn’t go in, but he couldn’t tell them. He felt the same restraining spirit. It was a good spirit, but still it stopped them from entering.
Then it occurred to the leader. This room was reserved for President Gordon B. Hinckley. He would be there shortly, looking for some time alone in the Lord’s house, seeking the Lord’s peace and inspiration in prayer.
Ricardo and his friends quietly left.

Several years ago, my wife, Shelly, and I were called to preside over the Washington DC North Mission. Shortly after we began our service in June 2019, local Church members Brent and Meg Pratt invited us and our five children over for dinner at their home in Potomac, Maryland. Brent and I happen to be distant cousins. Before we sat down to eat, Brent showed us a painting that he had commissioned from the talented Latter-day Saint artist Julie Rogers. The painting features our shared great-great-grandparents, William and Rachel Atkin, pulling a handcart with all their worldly belongings and two infant children across the fast-moving Green River in Wyoming.

This is how William Atkin later remembered that moment from August 1859:
We again labored in pulling our cart, and when we came to Green River, we found the [handcart] train had crossed and gone; and we were alone on its banks. We looked at the river, and I said to my wife, “We cannot cross this river alone.” She said, “No, but the Lord will help us over.” At these words, my heart seemed to leap for joy, and I said, “Yes, He surely will.” . . . [We] then knelt down on the ground, in all humbleness, and in the sincerity of our souls we told our Heavenly Father that we were doing all in our power to keep His commandments to gather to the land of Zion and now we had come to this river, and we could not cross it alone, and we knew that all power was in His hand, and we relied on Him to assist us over.

After pleading for help, William and Rachel then experienced a miracle:
We started into the stream, and as we did so we could see the deep water just ahead of us, and the next step we expected to step into the deep water, but when we took that step, the deep water was still ahead, and thus it was all the way across, and to our surprise we had not wet the axletree of our cart, and we were truly thankful to our Heavenly Father that we landed on the other bank in safety.

My great-great-grandparents’ difficult choices to accept the gospel in England, cross the Atlantic by ship, pull a handcart a thousand miles over rocky terrain, and remain faithful to their covenants in a new home profoundly changed generations of people. The decision by the Atkins to consecrate and gather with the Latter-day Saints, even if it meant crossing the Green River at their loneliest moment, made it possible for me, as their great-great-grandson, to be here today enjoying the blessings of the gospel.

I would like to introduce you to the Vargas family. Christine and I met them on a mission tour in San Antonio, Texas, last fall. Andrea was serving as a Primary president. Luis was not a member. The missionaries scheduled an exterior tour of the temple, and the mission president shared with me that one of the factors holding Brother Vargas back was his fear of trying to be perfect.
At the start of the tour, I said, “Brother Vargas, can I first make it clear that no one in this Church is perfect save Jesus Christ? We all are just trying to do our best to become something more in Christ.”
The missionaries gave a great tour, and at the end of the evening, they said, “Brother Vargas, how are you feeling?”
Brother Vargas turned to his wife and said, “Honey, I’ve been coming with you to Church for five years. I want to join this Church so that I can become a better father and a better husband.”
Sister Vargas jumped into his arms. Their daughter wasn’t sure what was happening, but she rushed in and began hugging them as well.
Brothers and sisters, you don’t need to be perfect to be in this Church. You just need to do your best—which includes repentance—as you strive to become something more in Christ.

On day three of our journey, I learned that even though we may have some uphill struggles in our lives, our attitude will determine how we face them. On that day we crossed the Continental Divide three times, rising from an elevation of 4,800 feet to 8,300 feet. Climbing steep mountain passes on a bike requires the right attitude to get to the right altitude. It’s the same with life. By setting worthwhile goals and keeping your eyes fixed on them, you will learn self-discipline and accomplish much. Yes, there were times when climbing the steep mountain grades was as much as I could bear, but I didn’t give up, because I was fixed in my purpose.

In verse 16 of Ephesians, Paul states that we should take up the shield of faith, wherewith we may be able to quench the fiery darts of the wicked. I learned another valuable lesson on faith as a young missionary in Valencia, Spain. My companion and I were proselyting on the streets of the city of Valencia when a taxi sped up alongside of us and the driver exited the vehicle in an absolute panic. We were not sure what we had done, we were frozen with fear for just a moment. The Taxi driver asked if we were Elders in the Mormon Church; now we were really concerned, but having faith, we responded in the affirmative. The taxi driver said that he had frantically been driving the city looking for us and then he quickly explained that he had a daughter in the intensive care unit at the hospital. He said the baby was two months premature and wasn’t expected to live. He further explained that he had once been a Mormon and he knew that if Elders of the church blessed this baby, surely she would live.

I had just recently been made a senior companion and knowing that I had never given a lifesaving blessing, I hesitated for a moment surmising, that this was too serious of a blessing for a senior companion to perform. He saw the concern on my face and reassured me that I could do it. We climbed into his cab and he sped to the hospital on the other side of the city. Upon entering the room, we were met with suspicious looks from the doctors and nurses. The church was relatively new in Spain and at the time, Mormons were not held in high regard. His wife was there, as well, and she looked weak from childbirth and what appeared to be a continuous flow of tears for the small infant who was lying in the incubator with tubes in her chest and throat. We approached the little glass case where the baby lay. She was no bigger than my hand and her breaths were long and inconsistent. Not knowing for sure what I was supposed to do, I asked the doctor if we could put oil on the baby’s head. In disgust, he exclaimed that I must be crazy as there was nothing that was supposed to touch the baby’s skin. The doctor then tried to convince the father that the blessing was useless, as the baby would not last the night. He told the father that his time would be better spent by summoning a catholic priest to come to the hospital to administer the last rights for the baby.

In spite of this pressure, the father insisted that my companion and I were Disciples of Jesus Christ and we had come to save the child. Nervously, we approached this small incubator and with each of us standing on opposite sides of the glass, we reached into the rubber gloves that extended into the incubator and put one finger each on the tiny head of the infant. We bypassed the anointing, as we were forbidden to put the oil on the head. Then, mustering all of the courage I had, I began to utter a blessing.

Brothers and sisters, I have prayed many times in my life and have given many blessings, but in this instance it was different. For one of the few times in my life up to that point, I began to speak to God. I pronounced our priesthood and I began to bless the baby. These were not my words and as they flowed from my mouth; I remember being shocked at what I was saying. I blessed the baby that she would live, not for the night, but that she would live a full life; that she would be a testimony to her father and mother of the healing power of the priesthood. I realized that I was crying as I spoke and could not control the emotions that filled my soul. I blessed the baby that because of the great faith that her father had, she would be whole. There were many things that were said in that blessing, most of which I have forgotten over time. I will never forget, however, the way that I felt.

When we were finished with the blessing, I opened my eyes. There were six of us in that room, and the tears flowed from the eyes of every one of us. Even the skeptical doctor walked over and put his hand on my shoulder. He didn’t say a word, just squeezed my shoulder and walked out of the room for his emotions had also overcome him. That experience has stayed with me from that moment until this day. The baby did live. When I last saw her, years ago, she was about 13 years old; she was full of life; a beautiful and miraculous example of the healing power of faith, faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and faith in his healing power through the Priesthood.