Gospel Story Finder

On April 1 of 2024, Air Marshall Islands (AMI) held a surprise ceremony for Captain Albon “Al” Jelke at Amata Kabua International Airport in Majuro to commemorate his final flight as chief pilot for the national airline.
Brother Jelke, a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, was the longest-serving pilot in AMI’s history, with over 43 years of flight service. US Federal Aviation Administration regulations prevent pilots above 65 from flying commercially, a milestone Brother Jelke reached in April. He will remain with AMI as general manager, a post he’s held for over two years.
Strong emotions were displayed by his fellow employees at the ceremony on April 1, including president of the Marshall Islands, Hilda Heine, who honored Brother Jelke for his commitment and service. The admiration expressed by AMI employees and people on social media attests to his friendly nature and dedication.

Fabian is also helping with an elder’s quorum project. There is a sister in their branch whose husband died five years ago. Later she joined the Church. Her family disowned her and refused to help her and her two daughters. The branch is building them a home. Fabian helps work on the house with the elders. Sometimes the full-time missionaries and the young people in the branch also help. Fabian shovels sand to make cement, and under the direction of the elders, he helps with the building and cleaning up. He is happy when he is helping others.

One of the biggest delights for Chelsea is helping the children she directs gain an appreciation for Shakespeare’s writing, as well as a better understanding of the gospel through the good things his works teach. She recalls one experience when she was trying to help a young girl understand her role as Katherine in The Taming of the Shrew.
“There’s a speech that Katherine makes about how wives need to obey their husbands and how both need to be partners and work together. The girl playing Katherine had no idea what the speech was saying, so I was telling her how husbands and wives should love each other.
“Another girl was listening and said, ‘Isn’t that in the scriptures somewhere?’ and then this little girl’s face just lit up and she said, ‘Oh, yeah! I know that scripture!’ talking about the New Testament where it says, ‘Husbands, love your wives’ (Eph. 5:25). It was fun to watch her read the speech after that because I knew she understood it.”

Before I was baptized, I decided to invite my friend Thomas to church. He said OK, and we went to sacrament meeting and then to Primary. When everything was done, we went home.
I thought that next time I needed to invite every member of Thomas’s family to come to church. On the next fast Sunday, I decided to fast for Thomas and his family. In the morning when I got up, I prayed to Heavenly Father that all of Thomas’s family would agree to come to church. I didn’t eat breakfast or lunch. I took the sacrament but had nothing else to eat or drink. During the day, I prayed about four times for Thomas and his family.
That night we went to the chapel to hear the Christmas Devotional broadcast from Salt Lake City, but the satellite dish wouldn’t work, so we sang Christmas hymns and bore testimonies instead. I got up and bore my testimony for the very first time, and I asked everyone to pray for my friend and his family. A couple of Sundays later, he and his family did come to church, and his mom is now taking the missionary discussions. I think prayer and fasting work.

I testify that miracles and ministrations are continually occurring in our lives, often as a direct result of priesthood power. Some priesthood blessings are fulfilled immediately, in ways we can see and understand. Others are unfolding gradually and will not be fully realized in this life. But God keeps all of His promises, always, as illustrated in this account from our family history:
My paternal grandfather, Grant Reese Bowen, was a man of great faith. I vividly remember hearing him recount how he received his own patriarchal blessing. In his journal, he recorded: “The patriarch promised me the gift of healing. He said, ‘The sick shall be healed. Yea, the dead shall be raised under your hands.’”
Years later, Grandfather was piling hay when he felt prompted to return to the house. He was met by his father coming toward him. “Grant, your mother has just passed away,” his father said.
I quote again from Grandfather’s journal: “I didn’t stop but went hurrying into the house and out on the front porch where she lay on a cot. I looked at her and could see there was no sign of life left in her. I remembered my patriarchal blessing and the promise that if I were faithful, through my faith the sick would be healed; and the dead would be raised. I placed my hands on her head, and I told the Lord that if the promise that He had made to me by the patriarch was true, to make it manifest at this time and raise my mother back to life. I promised Him if He would do this, I should never hesitate to do all in my power for the building up of His kingdom. As I prayed, she opened her eyes and said, ‘Grant, raise me up. I have been in the spirit world, but you have called me back. Let this always be a testimony to you and to the rest of my family.’”

For centuries, black powder was the most powerful explosive available. It could launch cannon balls, but it wasn’t effective for most mining and road construction projects. It was just too weak to shatter rock.
In 1846 an Italian chemist named Ascanio Sobrero synthesized a new explosive, nitroglycerin. This oily fluid was at least a thousand times more powerful than black powder. It could easily shatter rock. Unfortunately, nitroglycerin was unstable. If you dropped it from a small height, it’d blow up. If it got too hot, it’d blow up. If it got too cold, it’d blow up. Even placed in a cool, dark room and left alone, it’d eventually blow up. Most countries banned its transportation, and many banned its manufacture.
In 1860 a Swedish scientist named Alfred Nobel began trying to stabilize nitroglycerin. After seven years of experimentation, he achieved his goal by absorbing nitroglycerin into a nearly worthless substance known as diatomaceous earth, or kieselguhr. Kieselguhr is a porous rock that can be crumbled into a fine powder. When mixed with nitroglycerin, kieselguhr absorbs the nitroglycerin, and the resultant paste can be shaped into “sticks.” In this form, nitroglycerin was much more stable. It could be safely stored, transported, and used with undiminished explosive power. Nobel named the combination of nitroglycerin and kieselguhr “dynamite.”
Dynamite changed the world. It also made Nobel wealthy. Without a stabilizer, nitroglycerin was just too hazardous to be commercially valuable, as Ascanio Sobrero found out. By itself, as I mentioned, kieselguhr was of little value. But the combination of the two components made dynamite transformative and precious.
In a similar way, the combination of the gospel of Jesus Christ and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints provides powerful and transformative benefits for us. The gospel is perfect, but a divinely commissioned church is required to preach it, maintain its purity, and administer its sacred ordinances with the Savior’s power and authority.
Consider the combination of the Savior’s gospel and His Church as established by the Book of Mormon prophet Alma. The Church was responsible for preaching “nothing save it were repentance and faith on the Lord, who [would redeem] his people.” Using God’s authority, the Church was responsible for administering the ordinance of baptism “in the name of the Lord, as a witness [of entering] into a covenant with him [to] serve him and keep his commandments.” The people who were baptized took on themselves the name of Jesus Christ, joined His Church, and were promised great power through an outpouring of the Spirit.
People flocked to the Waters of Mormon to hear Alma preach the gospel. Though they revered those waters and the surrounding forests, the Lord’s Church was not a location or a building, nor is it today. The Church is simply ordinary people, disciples of Jesus Christ, gathered and organized into a divinely appointed structure that helps the Lord accomplish His purposes. The Church is the instrument through which we learn the central role of Jesus Christ in Heavenly Father’s plan. The Church offers the authoritative way for individuals to participate in ordinances and make lasting covenants with God. Keeping those covenants draws us closer to God, gives us access to His power, and transforms us into who He intends us to become.
Just as dynamite without nitroglycerin is unremarkable, the Savior’s Church is special only if it is built on His gospel. Without the Savior’s gospel and the authority to administer the ordinances thereof, the Church isn’t exceptional.
Without the stabilizing effect of kieselguhr, nitroglycerin had limited value as an explosive. As history has shown, without the Lord’s Church, humanity’s understanding of His gospel was likewise unstable—prone to doctrinal drift and subject to the influence of different religions, cultures, and philosophies. An amalgamation of those influences has been manifested in every dispensation leading up to this last one. Though the gospel was initially revealed in its purity, the interpretation and application of that gospel gradually took on a form of godliness that lacked power because the divinely authorized framework was absent.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints enables access to God’s power because it is authorized by Him both to teach the doctrine of Christ and to offer the gospel’s saving and exalting ordinances. The Savior yearns to forgive our sins, help us access His power, and transform us. He suffered for our sins and longs to pardon us from the punishment that we otherwise would deserve. He wants us to become holy and be perfected in Him.
Jesus Christ has the power to do this. He didn’t simply sympathize with our imperfections and lament our eternal condemnation in consequence of sin. No, He went beyond that, infinitely beyond that, and restored His Church to enable access to His power.
The core of the gospel that the Church teaches is that Jesus Christ bore “our griefs, and carried our sorrows.” He had “laid on him the iniquity of us all.” He “endured the cross,” broke “the bands of death,” “ascended into heaven, and … sat down on the right hand of God, to claim of the Father his rights of mercy.” The Savior did all this because He loves His Father and He loves us. He has already paid the infinite price so He can “[claim] all those who have faith in him [and advocate]” for them—for us. Jesus Christ wants nothing more than for us to repent and come unto Him so that He can justify and sanctify us. In this desire, He is relentless and unwavering.
The access to God’s covenantal power and His covenantal love is through His Church. The combination of the Savior’s gospel and His Church transforms our lives. It transformed my maternal grandparents. My grandfather Oskar Andersson worked in a shipyard on Högmarsö, an island in the Stockholm archipelago. His wife, Albertina, and their children lived on the Swedish mainland. Once every two weeks, on Saturday, Oskar rowed his boat home for the weekend before returning to Högmarsö on Sunday evening. One day, while on Högmarsö, he heard two American missionaries preach the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. Oskar felt that what he heard was pure truth, and he was filled with unspeakable joy.
The next time he returned home, Oskar excitedly told Albertina all about the missionaries. He explained that he believed what they taught. He asked her to read the pamphlets they had given him, and he told her that he didn’t think that any of their future children should be baptized as infants. Albertina was furious and threw the pamphlets on the rubbish heap. Not much was said between them before Oskar returned to work on Sunday evening.
As soon as he was gone, Albertina retrieved those pamphlets. She carefully compared their doctrine with the teachings in her well-worn Bible. She was astonished to feel that what she read was true. The next time Oskar returned home, he received a warm welcome, as did the copy of the Book of Mormon he brought with him. Albertina eagerly read, again comparing the doctrine to that in her Bible. Like Oskar, she recognized pure truth and was filled with unspeakable joy.
Oskar, Albertina, and their children moved to Högmarsö to be close to the few Church members there. A week after Oskar and Albertina were baptized in 1916, Oskar was called to be the group leader on Högmarsö. Like many converts, Oskar and Albertina faced criticism because of their new faith. Local farmers refused to sell them milk, so Oskar rowed across the fjord every day to purchase milk from a more tolerant farmer.
Yet during the ensuing years, Church membership on Högmarsö increased, in part because of Albertina’s powerful testimony and burning missionary zeal. When the group became a branch, Oskar was called as the branch president.
Members of that Högmarsö branch revered that island. This was their Waters of Mormon. This was where they came to a knowledge of their Redeemer.
Over the years, as they kept their baptismal covenant, Oskar and Albertina were transformed by the power of Jesus Christ. They longed to make more covenants and receive their temple blessings. To obtain those blessings, they permanently emigrated from their home in Sweden to Salt Lake City in 1949. Oskar had served as the leader of the members on Högmarsö for 33 years.
The combination of nitroglycerin and kieselguhr made dynamite valuable; the combination of the gospel of Jesus Christ and His Church is beyond price. Oskar and Albertina heard about the restored gospel because a prophet of God had called, assigned, and sent missionaries to Sweden. By divine commission, missionaries taught the doctrine of Christ and by priesthood authority baptized Oskar and Albertina. As members, Oskar and Albertina continued learning, developing, and serving others. They became Latter-day Saints because they kept the covenants they made.
The Savior refers to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as “my church” because He commissioned it to accomplish His purposes—preaching His gospel, offering His ordinances and covenants, and making it possible for His power to justify and sanctify us. Without His Church, there is no authority, no preaching of revealed truths in His name, no ordinances or covenants, no manifestation of the power of godliness, no transformation into who God wants us to become, and God’s plan for His children is set at naught. The Church in this dispensation is integral to His plan.
I invite you to commit yourself more fully to the Savior, His gospel, and His Church. As you do so, you will find that the combination of the Savior’s gospel and His Church brings power into your life. This power is far greater than dynamite. It’ll shatter the rocks in your way, transform you into an inheritor in God’s kingdom. And you will be “filled with that joy which is unspeakable and full of glory.” In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The impact of a Christlike teacher can be everlasting. I know because my life was changed by a teacher who taught in the Savior’s way.
When I was a Mia Maid, my adviser, Sister Chambers, was one of the most Christlike people I’d ever known. She truly understood the importance of loving those you teach. She was always so genuine and kind to everyone. I always looked forward to her lessons because it was clear that she truly cared about the young women. I always felt the Spirit when she taught, and I always felt inspired to do better.
I still remember specific lessons that she taught, including one about how we can draw closer to the Savior when we turn our focus outward and look for ways to help others. Years later, I’m still striving to turn that inner focus outward.
Sister Chambers also happened to be my piano teacher. She was so patient with me, even when I was having a hard time with a piece or when it was obvious that I hadn’t practiced as much as I should have. Sister Chambers was encouraging and gentle, and I think that helped me improve more than anything else. I loved her so much that I didn’t want to disappoint her! In fact, I wanted to be like her.
During one piano lesson, she told me she was moving. After the lesson, I think I cried for about an hour! I loved her so much. I don’t think she ever knew the impact she had on me. But that’s the power that good teachers can have. They can shape you in such a way that their influence is felt long after their presence is gone.

Some years ago, I was in the mountains camping and hiking with my sons and friends. I wanted to head out on my own, so I informed the group of the terrain where I would be hiking and set off for the afternoon. As I enjoyed a beautiful, brisk, fall day, I hiked a considerable distance in just a few hours.
After a while, I determined I had better head back if I wanted to return to the campsite before dark. Too soon, however, darkness began to set in. I had a general idea where I was, and knew I couldn’t be too far from the base camp, yet the darker it became, the more difficult it was to orient myself towards camp.
I stopped and tried to logically direct myself, which became more and more difficult in the dark. As my heart started to pound harder and my breathing began to increase, fear began to take over. I found myself walking faster, almost wanting to run, but without knowing which direction to head. Adrenaline coursed through my bloodstream. I realized I needed to take special care so as to not lose rationality or allow panic to overtake my emotions. This, unexpectedly, required considerable concentration.
By now it was dark enough and the temperature cool enough for me to know that our group would be comfortably settled around a campfire, and that if I found the right vantage point, the fire would be visible from a long distance.
It was with great relief that I spotted a golden flicker far off in the distance. Remarkably, this small speck of light provided the perspective necessary to immediately reorient myself and plot my return course. The fear that had been building inside of me dissipated faster than it came and was replaced with peace.
Today’s cultural landscape is full of those who would mock and ridicule our beliefs. We worry that if we express our peculiar beliefs—and they are peculiar—that this will somehow become an embarrassment, or ultimately, a disadvantage in our relationships. But we shouldn’t hide among the shadows, trying to blend in. “Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on an hill cannot be hid” (Matthew 5:14). Remember how far away I was from the campfire when I was lost, and how penetrating a single spark can be in the black of night.
And so we end where we began. Once again, out in the darkness, looking for the way back to camp, paralyzed by fear, and then rescued by the vision of a tiny spark of light—the fire of faith, the flame of testimony, the burning brilliance of divine strength, the shining gleam of spiritual armor, and the golden glow of selfless service. These will restore peace, provide direction, and eliminate fear.

As the years go by, Thelma continues to be a source of inspiration. She handles adversity better than anybody else I know. She takes care of her wonderful son who has Down syndrome, our elderly mother, and a husband with a serious health condition. Also, if those things weren’t enough, she has health issues of her own.

A few years ago, Thelma underwent brain surgery to relieve pressure from a brain cyst. Given the needs of her loved ones, the prospect of any complications was intimidating. She prayed for help and inspiration and visited the temple. Through it all, her faith did not waver, but she had reservations about putting her life in the hands of the doctor who would perform the delicate surgery. Thelma was visiting with a dear friend during this time and confided her concerns about the surgery. Thelma’s friend asked for the doctor’s name and upon learning the name, Thelma’s friend said that the doctor was a member of her ward. She told Thelma that he was a faithful member of the Church and a worthy priesthood holder. He often played Church hymns while he performed surgeries. Although a simple piece of information, this was a tender answer to Thelma’s prayers. Thelma’s life and spiritual experiences are a source of continuous strength and testimony in my own life.

I had never understood this scripture. Jesus had healed the blind man so that the works of God could be manifest. But what about all those who are not healed? What about my sister with disabilities, who had died when I was a child? What about Cameron, our home teacher’s son who had cerebral palsy and was in a wheelchair?
As I thought of Cameron, scenes flooded my mind.
We are sitting on our back porch with our home teachers. Cameron is in his wheelchair. He is bearing his testimony, slowly, painstakingly—fighting the obstinate, uncooperative muscles in his face.
“I know God loves me,” he says. “I love God.” It takes much effort, much time before he is finished. My husband, Van, leans forward.
“Cameron,” he says earnestly, “you are improving so much on your speaking. I can understand every word!”
Cameron beams with pride. I see my husband’s tender, compassionate face, and I wonder: Are not the works of God made manifest?
At twelve, Cameron is old enough to pass the sacrament. One of the brethren in our ward has designed and fitted his wheelchair with a special tray. The bread and water are placed on his tray by members of his Aaronic Priesthood quorum.
He wheels to the end of the pew, where a member lifts the tray to partake of the sacrament. Are not the works of God made manifest in that sacred act?
I see Cameron, my sister, and others I have known who have disabilities in mind or body. Others carry them; others are their arms, their legs, their minds. I see these same individuals with disabilities giving others gifts of love and hope.
I see the works of God made manifest for them and by them.

While serving a mission in Bolivia, I was confronted for the first time by extreme poverty. As I saw the difficult circumstances of the people that I taught, I began to wonder how God could demand tithing and needed Sunday work-time from his children. Many of them worked twelve hour days, seven days a week, and still couldn’t pay their bills. I often felt bewildered as I taught the Ten Commandments and the law of tithing. How could they be expected to feed their families on 90 percent of their income, working six days a week instead of seven?
For four and a half months, my questions went unanswered. Then came a transfer to the tropical city of Santa Cruz and, with it, a new companion. Sister Hurtado had dark skin, short black hair, bright eyes, and was well under five feet tall. She had been a missionary for less than a week, and I felt I would need to teach her a lot about missionary work.
During our first week together we taught a family the discussion on the Ten Commandments. Both husband and wife and one son worked in the family store on Sundays. I had previously encouraged them to attend Sunday meetings, and they were sending the son who was not tending the store. They felt they could afford to send only one family member to church.
When we asked them to commit to keeping the Ten Commandments, they began making the familiar excuses. I knew the struggle they had to pay for necessities. How could I explain that some blessings could not be seen or calculated into the month’s budget? I felt confused. Then, humbly, my new companion began to tell the story of her own family’s decision to obey the commandments.
As the weeks went by, my companion repeated her story many times. Gradually, I began to understand why God would require so much of his children. As we exercise the necessary faith to obey the commandments, we actually put ourselves in a position where we can receive God’s blessings. His blessings are not always tangible, but he does help us overcome our problems.

Amid my despair, I remembered a time that our ward held an activity called “Christmas in Bethlehem.” Ward members came dressed up as if they were living at the time Jesus was born. Erica, who was four years old at the time, wore a hand-me-down long, white dress and a scarf wrapped around her head. The culmination of the evening was a reenactment of the Nativity in a mock stable decorated with bales of hay and a manger. A young couple with their newborn played the parts of Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus.
As we gathered around the nativity, I noticed that Erica was missing from my side. I panicked until I caught a flash of her white dress near the nativity. Then my panic shifted from fear for her welfare to fear that she would disrupt the scene. I was about to call out to her, but I paused and watched as she made her way to the manger.
Erica quietly knelt next to Mary and looked up at her as if to get her permission. Then Erica reached out and tenderly caressed the sleeping baby. I was not the only one who noticed. Others soon quieted and watched as she knelt close to the baby. A tender feeling permeated the group as they realized that this baby was the Christ child for Erica.
In my grief, this Christmas memory brought feelings of peace and comfort as I recalled my young daughter’s devotion. My mind had been full of questions about life and death—questions that didn’t seem to matter as much before Erica’s death. As I pondered the Resurrection and the Crucifixion, I identified with Mary. She loved her newborn Son, and she later endured terrible pain and anguish as she witnessed His suffering and death. Christ was not spared the cross, and Mary was not spared her grief.

In the fall of my third year of teaching junior English in the adult high school program at Seminole Community College, I met William. He was small, dark eyed, with tight blonde curls, rather unattractive, unwashed, and, as I soon came to discover, almost totally illiterate. It was the early ’70s when long hair, drugs, and flower children were the order of the day. I thought, “Here’s another victim of the drug culture,” and my heart sank.
After making my introductory remarks, I asked the class, as I always do on the first day, to write about themselves. Looking from student to student, I noticed that William worked very hard on his paragraph, grasping the pencil in a strangle hold, licking the point every few minutes. William’s face was close to the paper, his brows knit close together.
The rest of the class completed the assignment rather quickly and grew restless. I let them leave. It took William 40 minutes to print a few lines, and when he at last handed it to me, I found it was nothing I could read. He stood at my desk staring at me while I looked at the paper.
“You want I should read it for you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“My name is William and I live off social security in my car in an empty garage in Lake Mary. I’m 19 years old and since I was 11 I been a drinker. Now I’ve decided to be a learner.”
I had never taught a student who could hardly read and write before. I didn’t have a clue how to handle the problem.
“You’ve misspelled every word,” I said.
William looked dismayed. “I can learn,” he said.
“All right. I’ll print them correctly, and when you come to class tomorrow, plan to write them for me.”
“A spell test,” he said, as though it were some magical word.
I looked away from him. “Look, William …” I meant to tell him that the class would be impossible, that his skills were so poor that he would fall behind immediately, and that there was no hope for him to catch up. I meant to tell him that he could not possibly succeed. But instead I said, “Your basic skills are somewhat limited. How hard are you willing to work?”
He stared at me.
“We’ll be studying difficult writers—like Shakespeare and Twain.”
“Who?”
“William Shakespeare. Mark Twain.”
“Oh,” he said, and after a pause he added, “I can learn.”
“It won’t be easy for you,” I said, “but if you work hard …”
I didn’t expect to ever see him again, but the following day William was the first one in the room. He took a front-row seat, and as I taught, his eyes followed me intently, his brows knit into the same shaggy line, his mouth slightly open as he listened. After class ended, he stood by my desk staring at me for the longest time.
“What is it?” I asked, irritated.
“I’m ready to spell,” he said.
And he was. He had memorized all the words, and as I called them out to him he wrote them quickly.
He stood watching as I marked his paper, putting a check by each correct word and then an A+ and a large I AM SO PROUD OF YOU at the top of the page. For the first time, I saw William smile. He took the test, folded it carefully, and put it into his shirt pocket.
“Now,” he said, “I’d like to pick up some on my reading. You got anything I can borrow?”
“I don’t think I have anything appropriate,” I said. Opening the desk drawer I began to look through the papers and books.
“What about that?” he said, pointing to a copy of Huckleberry Finn.
My hand hesitated, and then I shook my head. “It would be too hard for you.”
“I’ve done hard things all my life,” he said.
I pulled Ellie the Elephant Learns to Fly, one of my daughter’s books, from my desk drawer.
“That’s for little kids,” he said.
“It’s for new readers,” I said, handing it to him.
“I want that other one.”
Ignoring his comment, I opened the child’s book and began to read aloud, resting a finger under each word while he stood beside me watching and listening.
“Let me do it now.” He read hesitantly and with great difficulty. “See, if somebody shows me, I can learn. If I had that other book, I could work at it. I’m not stupid.”
I gave him Huckleberry Finn.
Each day I sent William home to the garage with a list of words clutched in one hand and one of my daughter’s books tucked under his arm. Every morning he came back with the material mastered. A few weeks later he returned the Twain text. “I read it,” he said, and the look of pride on his face brought tears to my eyes.
That week I gave him a bag containing a bar of soap, a washcloth, a towel, and deodorant. “This is an important part of education, too,” I said.
He looked in the bag and then at me, stunned. But the next day William was reading and writing and clean. He had progressed to the point that he insisted on taking his turn at reading poems from our American literature text aloud. And every day he stayed after class for an hour and we talked. Actually, he asked question after question, and I tried to answer them. His enthusiasm for learning was contagious, and soon three other students began to stay too.
There was Suzy, who later trained as a registered nurse; Jody, who went on to earn a doctorate in biology; and George, who planned to become a physician but died in a motorcycle accident that spring.
George’s death upset the class deeply, and we spent that day talking about the transient quality of life, trying to answer the eternal questions of man—where did I come from, what am I doing here, and what happens to me when I die? I taught the class that knowledge is power, that the glory of God is intelligence, and that all we take with us from this world to the next is our relationships with others and the knowledge that we gain in this life.
“There are two ways that most people learn,” I told them. “One is to experience—and life doesn’t last long enough for us to get all our knowledge that way. The other is to read.” I encouraged them to spread their wings and learn while they were young and filled with energy and enthusiasm of youth.
One day William came into class with a list of quotations he’d copied from the library, and he shared them with us. He particularly loved “Knowledge is the wings wherewith we fly.”
“Watch me fly, teacher.” He spread his arms and flapped them, bringing laughter from the students and me.
William (this genius—the only true genius I ever taught) was my student for junior and senior English. When he graduated, I sat in the audience and watched with pride, tears brimming my eyes. He enrolled in the community college program and continued his education. On occasion he stopped by my office during the week, sharing with me the excitement of his new world. Each Friday afternoon he borrowed one of my books, which he quickly read and returned. On one occasion, he asked to read my Book of Mormon. I gave him a copy and learned a week later he’d called the missionary number left with my testimony on a front page. At his baptism, I gave him the Pearl of Great Price.
Last spring I received a card from William. He was teaching Spanish and American literature at a large university. “We’re reading Huckleberry Finn,” he wrote, “and I’ve never been happier. I seem to have a gift for languages,” he continued. “Remember years back when you had to teach me English? For all you did for me, I thank you, teacher. Thank you for lending me your wings while I was growing my own.”

The Young Women in the Hemet Third Ward, Hemet California Stake, used their artistic talents to provide a quiet activity for children waiting to be sealed to their parents in the temple. The girls painted wooden dolls and puzzles for the children to play with.
After their project was completed, the girls were told they could see their toys in use when they went on their next trip to do baptisms for the dead. Now they have other reasons to look forward to going to the temple!

I used to be the same way. I reserved my best behavior for people I didn’t live with and let my family have what was left over. My mom and I fought constantly for years. I exploded over stupid things, and I was grouchy all the time. I’m a little older now and married. I don’t even know where most of my friends are, let alone what they’re doing. The people I thought were most important to me are gone. Now I realize that my best friends are at home.

Friends come and go, but families stay forever. Literally! Eternity will be much more fun if we’re friends with the people closest to us.

Start out small. Smile, give compliments, and express your love! When something makes you angry, pause and ask yourself, “Is this worth getting angry about?” Nine times out of ten it won’t be. Remember that your moods are your own and that you can set them. You can make yourself be cheerful. And it gets easier with practice.

You’ll find that a change in your mood and behavior will affect everyone in the house.

Ruth Boston, 21Salt Lake City, Utah
I know just how you feel! I go through that sometimes too. It’s sad how much we take our family for granted. We can’t act that way toward our friends for fear of losing them, but we know our family can’t go anywhere! Try to be more patient. Get more rest. Start your days with a prayer to Heavenly Father to help you be cheerful and loving. Then let your first words be kind ones! Try serving them, and don’t forget to let them know you love them! Good luck!
Wendy McGraw, 16Edmond, Oklahoma
When you go home, put yourself in a positive frame of mind. Tell your brother or sister that they look good. Compliment your mother on her cooking. Ask your dad if he had a good day at work. You’ll find that you enjoy being at home a lot more, and your family will love being with you.
Dawn Whetten, 13Plano, Texas
Just a couple of months ago I too was great to my friends, but when I came home, I would pick fights over the littlest subjects with my parents. I began to be depressed with my actions. I love my parents very much, and I wanted to find a solution to my problem. I found that prayer, scripture reading, attending and really taking Church meetings to heart, and speaking to my parents about my problem soon led me to the path back to being the real daughter of God that I should have been all along. I’m not perfect yet, but then again, neither is any of us. So just keep trying!
Laura Kim Wright, 17Franklin, Indiana
Well, if you want to change, that’s the first step. Now doing it is sometimes awkward. With my friends I always felt comfortable. They knew my secrets, and I knew theirs, but at home there was a distance, and it took help from both sides to pull us together.

I looked at what made me happy with my friends and did the same things at home. I shared secrets, stories, experiences, and found even my parents had some stories to tell. As soon as I stopped talking and saying me and I all the time and started listening and using words like you and us, I found my best friends were my family. It hasn’t solved every problem, but it sure started smoothing the big ones out. Knowing that my family, especially my parents, are my best friends and love me in spite of my mistakes and faults really made home and family a place I wanted to be.
Name withheld
First of all write down something good about each person in your family and keep this to refer to. Set time aside for your family so that you can do something fun together.
Talk to your family. They can help, and they love you very much. Remember when all else fails or whenever you need help, your Father in Heaven is always there and waiting for you to call upon him.
Wendy Jo Fackrell, 17Nampa, Idaho

I’m very happy with my name, Janetta Ann McBride. Brigham Young gave me that name and blessed me when I was a baby. He was one of the elders who visited at my parents’ home in Church Town, England, where I was born on Christmas Eve in 1839. It isn’t everyone who can claim that a prophet gave them a name and a blessing.
My father was originally from Scotland. He came to England for work. There he met my mother and married her. They joined the Church just a few years later.
When I was six years old, my family moved to Island of Bute, Scotland. I at-tended the School of Industry, where I learned how to sew and keep house. I graduated when I was eleven years old. That’s when most children began working to help their family with expenses.
I, too, would have gone straight to work, except I got sick. Instead, I was sent to live with my grandmother by the seashore. It was thought that the sea air would be good for my health. It must have been, because I got well. But Grandmother had a serious accident one day and died. By that time, my family had moved back to England, and I moved there to live with them.
At the age of fourteen, I was apprenticed to a dressmaker and learned how to make beautiful dresses. I worked for her for two years. Then my family made the decision to move to America. Times were hard in England. Jobs and food were both scarce. Also a call had gone out from the Church for the Saints to gather to Zion.
At age sixteen, I was the oldest of the children in our family. Heber had just turned thirteen. Ether was eight, Peter six, and Margaret was still a baby, not quite two years old. We loved the Lord with all our hearts. We had been commanded to gather to Zion, and so we began our journey, one step at a time. Little did we know what would face us on the journey ahead. I think, though, that even if we had known, we still would have gone.
The Church had a special fund at that time that loaned money to members for travel to Salt Lake City, Utah. In 1856, however, there wasn’t much money in it. To cut expenses, it was decided that my family, along with many others, would travel across the plains by handcart. The journey from Liverpool, England, to Salt Lake City would then only cost about forty-five dollars per person—much less than the cost of using wagons and ox teams to cross the plains.
But first we had to sail to America!
I was excited when my family packed up their belongings and headed for Liverpool. It was a great seaport, teeming with ships of every kind. I loved watching the ships being loaded and unloaded with every kind of article you could imagine. Spices from India scented the air. Passenger ships were a hive of activity as their holds were loaded with food and water. There was so much to see!
Our ship was the Horizon, a good ship. We had fine weather all the way across the Atlantic, except for a few days when it was so foggy that we couldn’t even get candles to burn! On June 30, 1856, we safely landed in Boston, Massachusetts. We were thrilled to be in the land where the gospel had been restored!
I don’t think any of us had any idea how big America really was. When we landed in Boston, we didn’t realize that our long journey was just beginning, rather than nearing its end.
From Boston, we traveled to Iowa City, Iowa, by railroad. The new railroad saved us weeks of traveling by wagon. The cattle cars were crowded, but we endured the journey well. The train stopped in Buffalo, New York, on the Fourth of July. We could only watch the people celebrate. How I wanted to join them!
Finally we arrived in Iowa City. From the train station, we walked three miles in rain and mud to the place where we were to meet the Church’s agent in charge of organizing the trek. We had been assured that everything would be ready for us when we arrived, but it wasn’t. The handcarts hadn’t even been built! We camped and worked at preparing for the journey until all was ready.
Eventually the handcarts were obtained, and our family was assigned to Captain Edward Martin’s company. Near the end of July 1856, we cheerfully began our journey to Zion. Our family had three carts when we started out. Each cart could carry about 120 pounds of baggage, 100 pounds of flour, cooking utensils, and additional food. There were 576 people in our company. I’d never been with so many members of the Church!
Pulling the handcarts wasn’t bad at first. But many of them broke down because they were built of green wood. We pulled those carts three hundred miles to Florence, Nebraska. The last members of our company, and the Willie company, arrived there on August 22. As soon as we arrived, there was some disagreement as to whether we should continue on. Some said that it was too late in the year. They felt that we should set up a winter camp in Florence and wait until spring to travel to Salt Lake City. But most of the Saints were for starting immediately. After much discussion, it was decided to continue on. We were anxious to finish our long journey. About a thousand miles remained ahead of us, but we had already come so many miles that another thousand seemed like a short trip. We didn’t know that the worst part of our journey was still ahead.

President Hugh B. Brown (1883–1975), a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and of the First Presidency, shared an experience where God made more out of his life than he would have done on his own.

Hugh had been serving in the Canadian military and was in line to be promoted to general. He had been working, hoping, and praying for that promotion for 10 years.

When the position became available, however, he was passed over simply because he was a member of the Church. That was literally the only reason, and they told him so.

Hugh was furious. He said: “I got on the train and started back … with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. … When I got to my tent, … I threw my cap on the cot. I clenched my fists, and I shook them at heaven. I said, ‘How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?’ I was as bitter as gall.”3

Then Hugh remembered an experience from years earlier. He’d once bought a neglected farm that had an overgrown currant bush. Without trimming, that bush would never provide fruit. All it wanted to do was grow taller.

So Hugh trimmed it back severely. Afterward, he saw little drops of liquid at the end of each cut branch. They looked like tears. “I am the gardener here,” he told the currant bush. Hugh knew what he wanted that bush to become, and it wasn’t a shade tree.

That experience came to his mind as he battled anger over being passed up for promotion. “I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, ‘I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.’ The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness. …

“… And now, almost 50 years later, I look up to [God] and say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.’”4

Hugh never became a general. The Lord had other plans for President Brown. With the Lord as his architect, President Brown’s life became a masterful structure.

June 27 of this year marks the 150th anniversary of that solemn event when the first prophet of this dispensation sealed his testimony of the Restoration with his blood. I testify that he was a prophet of God. I have seen the Lord convert people to His plan of salvation through the testimony of the Prophet Joseph. Many years ago I served as the president of the Canadian Mission. In the city of Oshawa, Ontario, Canada, two of our missionaries were proselyting door-to-door on a cold, snowy afternoon. They had not had any measure of success. One was experienced, one was new.
The two called at the home of Mr. Elmer Pollard, and he, feeling sympathy for the almost frozen missionaries, invited them in. They presented their message and asked if he would join them in prayer. He agreed, on the provision that he could offer the prayer.
The prayer he offered astonished the missionaries. He said, “Heavenly Father, bless these two unfortunate, misguided missionaries, that they may return to their homes and not waste their time telling the people of Canada about a message which is so fantastic and about which they know so little.”
As they arose from their knees, Mr. Pollard asked the missionaries never to return to his home. As they left, he mockingly said to them, “You can’t tell me you really believe that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God, anyway!” and he shut the door.
The missionaries had walked but a short distance when the junior companion said, “Elder, we didn’t answer Mr. Pollard.”
The senior companion said, “We’ve been evicted. Let’s move on to greener territory.”
The young missionary persisted, however, and the two returned to Mr. Pollard’s door. Mr. Pollard answered the knock and angrily said, “I thought I told you young men never to return!”
The junior companion then said, with all the courage he could muster, “Mr. Pollard, when we left your door, you said that we didn’t really believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I want to testify to you, Mr. Pollard, that I know Joseph Smith is a prophet of God; that by inspiration he translated the sacred record known as the Book of Mormon; that he did see God the Father and Jesus the Son.” The missionaries then departed the doorstep.
I heard this same Mr. Pollard, in a testimony meeting, state the experiences of that memorable day. He said: “That evening, sleep would not come. I tossed and turned. Over and over in my mind I heard the words, ‘Joseph Smith is a prophet of God. I know it … I know it … I know it.’ I could scarcely wait for morning to come. I telephoned the missionaries, using the address which was printed on the small card containing the Articles of Faith that they had left with me. They returned; and this time, with the correct spirit, my wife and family and I joined in the discussion as earnest seekers of truth. As a result, we have all embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ. We shall ever be grateful to the testimony of truth brought to us by courageous, humble missionaries.”

Another example of the importance of small things comes from Elder and Sister Jackson, missionaries serving in Guyana: “When we first arrived in the mission field in Guyana, we saw in the local Georgetown newspaper the report of the ‘Teenager of the Month.’ In the report he said his favorite food was macaroni. We took the newspaper clipping, a Book of Mormon, and a box of macaroni and knocked on his door. We have taught and baptized seven of the family since our first visit.” This small thing resulted in a great benefit in establishing the Church in Guyana.

Before we went to the temple, it was like we had cut an apple and it was apart. But then when we went through the temple, it was like the apple went together.”
That’s how nine-year-old Amanda Baum described her family after they were sealed in the Salt Lake Temple last February. She said that they are closer now because they talk with one another and share their feelings more than they did before. Her parents agreed, saying that their home is more peaceful and that the children seem more special to them now.
For a long time the Baum family—Brandon (12), Amanda (9), Laura Lee (7), James (3), and their parents, Terry and Karla—had been working on their goal of going to the temple to be sealed. It wasn’t an easy goal, but something happened that made them realize just how important that goal was.
Sister Baum was going to have twins, and the family was eagerly awaiting their birth. But when the tiny boys were born, they weren’t very strong. One died right after birth, and the doctors and family didn’t expect two-pound James to live either. A priesthood blessing, however, and lots of prayers helped him survive.
Although it was a sad and difficult time for the family, when they learned that they could have their little brother who had died sealed to them forever, their goal to go to the temple grew stronger.
Preparing for the special day meant that they had to start doing things like praying more, both individually and as a family, and paying their tithing. Now prayers are a very important part of their day, and the children are usually the first to volunteer for family prayers. Another big help was the encouragement that they received from their bishop and home teachers.
Besides bringing their family closer together, going to the temple has also given the Baums opportunities to do missionary work. Their grandfather, James Larkin, is a guide on Temple Square, so about a week before they went to the temple, the Baums invited all their aunts, uncles, and cousins who were not members of the Church to a special family home evening tour of Temple Square. Their relatives were able to learn more about the Church and to feel that they were a part of the Baums’ special occasion. Four of the families bought family home evening manuals that night.
Brandon, Amanda, and Laura Lee try to be good examples for their relatives; they are aware that they are being watched now to see if they are doing the things that the Church teaches. They are hopeful that someday their relatives, too, will join the Church.
Since the children needed to be excused from school to go to the temple, some of their teachers and classmates were curious about where they were going. Amanda and Laura Lee were able to explain to their classes the purpose of temples and how families can be together forever.
Brandon admitted that at first he was a bit nervous when the day finally came to go to the temple, but they all agreed that they felt a loving spirit and were very happy to be there.
In order to have Jason, the little brother who died, sealed to them, Brother Baum’s Uncle Bud from Arizona acted as proxy, or substitute, for him. The children said that when they were being sealed, it felt as if Jason was there instead of their uncle. Before they went to the temple, the children always asked why Jason had to die. Sister Baum said that they don’t ask anymore, because they know that someday they can be with him again.
Brandon has been able to go back to the temple with his ward to do baptisms for the dead, and he is hoping to be able to go again to be baptized for a great-uncle who died. Three-year-old James, who loves to see the Moroni statue on top of the temple, is looking forward to going again when he’s “big like Dad.” The three older children have already set goals of going on missions and being married in the temple.
It is hard to imagine how something can go on forever and ever, but Brandon said that as he looked into mirrors in the sealing room, he saw his family reflected there in a never-ending line for as far back as he could see. That gave him some idea of what eternity is all about.