Gospel Story Finder

Once a group of children was playing in a home where the Prophet was hiding from wicked men who wanted to kill him. They overheard the older people tell of the Prophet’s danger, and one seven-year-old girl said, “I know what we can do. We can pray and ask our Father in heaven to keep Brother Joseph safe from harm.”

A few minutes later the Prophet went past a bedroom door in time to see the children kneeling together and to hear their simple prayer for his safety. Tears filled his eyes and then rolled down his cheeks. As the children rose from their knees, one of them said, “Now I know Brother Joseph will be safe.”

Then the Prophet returned to the room where his older friends had come to guard him through the night. He told them that they could go to their own homes, for he knew that prayers of children are heard and answered and that he could sleep in peace that night. And he did!

For a long period after I converted to the gospel, I didn’t have a clear answer to the question “Why am I given trials?” I understood the part of the plan of salvation that says we will be tested. However, in reality, when it came to this question, I did not have a conviction that was powerful enough to adequately answer it. But there came a time in my life when I too experienced a major trial.
When I was 30 years old, I was visiting the Nagoya mission as part of my work. After the meeting, the mission president kindly arranged for the elders to drive me to the airport. However, as we reached the intersection at the bottom of a long hill, a large truck came barreling down from behind us at great speed. It rammed into the rear of our car and propelled it forward more than 70 feet (20 m). The terrifying part of all of this was there was no driver. The rear of our car was compacted to half its original size. Fortunately, both the elders and I survived.
However, on the following day, I began experiencing pain in my neck and shoulders and developed a severe headache. From that day, I couldn’t sleep and I was forced to live each day with both physical and mental pain. I prayed to God to please heal my pain, but these symptoms lingered on for about 10 years.
At this time, feelings of doubt also began creeping into my mind, and I wondered, “Why do I have to suffer this much pain?” However, even though the kind of healing I sought was not granted, I strove to be faithful in keeping God’s commandments. I continued to pray that I would be able to resolve the questions I had about my trials.
There came a time when I found myself struggling with a few additional personal issues, and I was agitated because I did not know how to cope with this new trial. I was praying for an answer. But I didn’t receive an answer right away. So I went and talked with a trusted Church leader.
As we were talking, with love in his voice, he said, “Brother Aoyagi, isn’t your purpose for being on this earth to experience this trial? Isn’t it to accept all the trials of this life for what they are and then leave the rest up to the Lord? Don’t you think that this problem will be resolved when we are resurrected?”
When I heard these words, I felt the Spirit of the Lord very strongly. I had heard this doctrine countless times, but the eyes of my understanding had never been opened to the extent they were at this time. I understood this was the answer that I had been seeking from the Lord in my prayers. I was able to clearly comprehend our Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation and understand anew this important principle.
Let’s now consider that rear-end collision in Nagoya. I could have died in that accident. Nevertheless, through the Lord’s grace, I miraculously survived. And I know that my sufferings were for my learning and for my growth. Heavenly Father schooled me to temper my impatience, to develop empathy, and to comfort those who are suffering. When I realized this, my heart was filled with feelings of thankfulness toward my Heavenly Father for this trial.

If you want to be in our gang, you have to prove your courage,” Tyler said. “Just peek into the Crazy Man’s workshop and then tell us what you saw.”
I swallowed hard and looked at the little yellow house and white workshop almost hidden among oak and elm trees. There was a chain link fence all around them, and the gate was locked. A big sign said KEEP OUT!
“Who is the Crazy Man?” I asked, barely getting the words out in a wheeze, “And why does he live alone in that creepy old place?”
“Because he’s crazy,” Royce snorted.
“So why do you want to bother him?”
“You’re chicken!” Tyler muttered, turning away.
“I’m not either!” I protested loudly, but I felt an aching in my stomach.
“Do it then. He won’t catch you. He eats supper at this time of day.” Tyler wasn’t smiling.
Royce grinned. It wasn’t a friendly grin, but I was new here, and these were the only friends I had. I didn’t want to lose them.
“Will you wait for me?” I asked.
Royce nodded. “Yeah—we want to hear about it. Now get going.”
Slowly I crossed the street. All I knew about the Crazy Man was what Royce and Tyler had told me. He lived by himself and carried a heavy walking stick and didn’t talk to anybody. All day long he could be heard pounding and sawing and talking to himself inside his shop.
All the kids were afraid of him. They said that he was making coffins in there. They said that if anybody went into his yard, the Crazy Man would beat him with a stick and lock him in an underground dungeon. I didn’t quite believe all that, but I didn’t really want to find out, either.
I stopped at the fence and peered into the yard. There was no grass, just lots of weeds and brush and trees. I studied the house. The blinds were closed, and nobody seemed to be looking out, so I pulled myself over the fence and dropped behind an oak tree.
The sun was going down, and huge, creepy shadows were everywhere. Hunched over, I crept through the bushes and weeds to the workshop behind the Crazy Man’s house. I was just standing up to look in a window, when I heard a screen door bang. Then I heard someone coming—someone who was talking to himself! Without really thinking, I tried the door of the workshop. It wasn’t locked, so I opened it and went in to hide.
The workshop was almost completely dark because there were only two small windows. I leaned against the wall, sucking in big gulps of air. Then the door was flung open, and in walked the Crazy Man!
He didn’t see me at first, because I was behind the door and everything was still dark. He slammed the door and walked to the middle of the shop and pulled a string. A bright light flooded the shop.
I wanted to run and never stop, but I was too scared to move. The shop was filled with parts of beds and dressers and cabinets and all sorts of things. I couldn’t see any coffins.
The Crazy Man started working with his back to me. Then he turned to grab a board and saw me standing there. I could feel my eyes swelling up until I was sure they were going to pop right out of my head.
The Crazy Man was old. He had deep wrinkles in his face and black bushy eyebrows. He looked as mean and crazy as Tyler and Royce had said he was. “What’re you doing here, boy?” he growled, taking a step toward me. “Who let you in here?”
I tried to think, but the only thing that came into my head was a picture of the Crazy Man dragging me down into his dungeon.
“Can’t you talk?”
“I came to see you,” I finally managed to whisper.
“What for?”
I shrugged.
“Well, I don’t like kids bothering me while I work. You aiming to bother me?”
I shook my head furiously.
“And I don’t let kids just hang around and do nothing. Are you going to help me?”
“Wh-What do you want me to do?”
“I need that four-by-four in the corner.”
I didn’t waste any time. I grabbed the four-by-four and took it to the Crazy Man, and he started working on it. He talked the whole time. He asked me about my family—why we’d moved, who my friends were. Sometimes he just muttered to himself, complaining about the wood, the tools, the light, or anything else that bothered him. He made me work, too, but I didn’t mind. I figured that as long as I was working, he wouldn’t throw me in his dungeon.
“Boy,” the Crazy Man growled at me, “there’s a big box of old scrap boards in the back corner. You could make yourself useful and haul them to the woodpile outside.”
I breathed a sigh of relief—I could slip away without the Crazy Man knowing. I hurried to the back of the shop and found the box. As I grabbed an armful of scrap boards, a stick caught my eye. It was round and long, with neat carvings all over it: flowers, people, animals, suns. I pulled it from the box and studied it. It was one of the prettiest pieces of wood I’d ever seen. “You don’t want to throw this away, do you?” I asked, holding it up.
The Crazy Man squinted toward me. “What is it?” he demanded, coming over to where I stood. He grabbed the wood from my hands, looked at it, then tossed it into the box again. “That’s nothing,” he muttered. “Throw it away.”
“But it’s pretty,” I protested, reaching for the stick again. He shook his head. “It’s just something I practiced on.”
“Practiced for what?”
He waved his hand about. I had been too scared to look closely at the things in the shop before. Nearly all of them had carvings on them. Beautiful carvings. There was a huge bed headboard with a giant smiling sun in the middle. There was a dresser with flying geese carved in the front.
“You made all these things?” I gasped.
The Crazy Man nodded.
“Wow! That’s great carving for a crazy m—” I stopped suddenly and covered my mouth with my hand. I thought I was going to faint.
The Crazy Man started to laugh. “Crazy, eh? Is that why you came, to see what a crazy man was like?”
“I didn’t mean … ,” I croaked, but the rest of the words got caught in my throat.
The Crazy Man went back to his work. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I won’t hurt you.”
I glanced at the door, then back at the pile of scrap boards. After a moment I started hauling the boards out to the woodpile. When I was finished, I watched him work on a small table.
“My name’s George,” he said suddenly. “George Blake.”
Funny—once the Crazy Man had a name, I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. “I’m Jimmy—Jimmy Johnson.”
A while later, Mr. Blake said, “Do you think it’s right to trespass on private property?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of boy who would play tricks on an old man. Whose idea was this?”
I told him about Royce and Tyler without using their names.
“They thought I was dangerous,” he said, “but I didn’t see them rushing in to save you. Do you think that they’re really your friends?”
I shook my head. “Could I come again tomorrow?”
“If you want to.”
The next day after I had helped Mr. Blake for a while, he nodded toward a back corner. “There’s something there that you might want to look at.”
I looked in the corner and found a walking stick just my size. The bottom part was smooth and round. It got thicker near the top. The very top was carved into the smiling face of a boy, and there were small carvings beneath that. Jimmy was carved down the stick.
“The varnish is still drying, and it needs another coat. But it should be ready by tomorrow. That one wasn’t for practice. You can keep it. It’s for helping me yesterday.”
While we worked together, Mr. Blake said, “Listen, boy, I know it’s hard being new in town. But stick to what’s right, and you’ll find friends who feel the same way. Then you and I can teach them how to make walking sticks and lots of other things.”
I grinned. “You’re pretty nice for a crazy man.”
“Hand me that chisel,” Mr. Blake growled, but I knew he wasn’t really angry. Yesterday he had been “the Crazy Man.” Today he was my friend.

Spencer found a note in his brown paper bag at lunchtime. It was from Mom. The note said, “You are a super smart boy.” He looked at the words and smiled.
His friends took the note and read it. They said, “No, you are a super silly boy.” They laughed at him. Spencer felt sad. When he got home he told Mom what happened. She felt sad too.
“Words can hurt,” Mom said. “But they can also make people happy. You can always choose to use kind words.”
Spencer didn’t want to go to school the next day. He didn’t want his friends to laugh at him. Mom drove him to school.
“Try using your words to make someone else happy,” she told Spencer. “Go say something kind to that teacher standing by the front doors. See what she does.”
He looked at the teacher. He thought for a minute. Then he jumped out of the car. He didn’t know the teacher, but he wanted to use kind words. “I hope you have a great day!” he said.
The teacher smiled. “You made my day!”
Spencer felt great. He felt the power of good words. He walked to his classroom with a smile on his face. He colored at his desk. His friends didn’t laugh at him at lunchtime. But even if they had, Spencer knew he could choose to use kind words.
After school Mom picked him up. She asked him what he learned that day. “Good words can make someone’s day better,” he said. “I want to be kind to someone every day.”
Mom smiled. “You are a super good example.”

Even though Carrie Peters of the Newport-Gwent Ward, Cardiff Wales Stake, has struggled with poor health, she chose to use her projects to develop her abilities and the talents of others.
Carrie organized a ward entertainment night, attended by more than 100 people. The event turned out to be such a great missionary tool that she organized a show for the Tregwillym Lodge elderly home the next year.
Her performers delighted listeners with Broadway songs and ended the program with the hymn “I Believe in Christ” (Hymns, no 134). Carrie’s living testimony of this song touched many hearts that night. She had just been discharged from the hospital 48 hours before the performance. It’s no surprise Carrie has since been called as her ward’s cultural arts specialist.

My daughter Norma says the following about the way Relief Society has been a blessing in her life: “When Darren and I were newly married and expecting our first baby, we were living in a small college town. We were both full-time students with very little income. Our nearest ward was in a town about 30 miles [48 km] away, and our only means of transportation was an old car that didn’t work most of the time. When the sisters in the ward discovered our circumstances, they immediately joined together to arrange for one of them to always give us a ride to and from church on Sundays and for other Church activities. Some of the sisters lived in other towns and drove 20 or 30 miles [32 to 48 km] out of their way just to pick us up. Additionally, many of the sisters would invite us to their homes for nice family dinners after church. No one ever made us feel like a burden to them. I will never forget the true love and charity that the Relief Society sisters extended to us during that short but challenging time in our lives.”

When my sister, Estella Torres, was expecting her second child, she suffered from diabetes, toxemia, and high blood pressure. She faced a real risk of death. Though born in El Salvador, she was living in Salt Lake City at the time and so was admitted to a hospital there. She recuperated, but for the first few days her spirits were low. She felt lonely and depressed with no loved ones nearby. Then one morning, a kind nurse, noticing that my sister spoke with an accent, asked her what country she was from.

“El Salvador,” Estella replied.

“Oh,” said the nurse. “I served a mission in El Salvador 35 years ago.”

“Do you remember any names or places?” my sister asked. “Perhaps you knew my grandmother. Her name was Amanda Ernestina.”

“It’s hard to remember names. But I do have an old photograph of one of the Church members I knew. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

When the nurse brought the picture in, Estella was elated to see that it was indeed our beloved grandmother. The photograph showed a woman of small stature and fair complexion. She wore her long hair caught up in a comb, a style once popular in small Salvadorean towns.

Thirty-five years later, my sister and I feel that a dusty photograph bore silent witness that Grandmother is still concerned for her grandchildren and loves us even from beyond the veil. As Estella held that picture in her hands, she was filled with emotion as she remembered Grandmother’s love. I feel that same love whenever I remember my valiant pioneer grandmother.

At the unofficial 1906 games in Athens, Greece, an Austrian weight lifter, Josef Steinbach, was scorned by the partisan crowd because it was alleged he was a professional. The frustrated Austrian left the stadium, allowing the Greek in second place to win the event. The flag was raised and the crowd cheered. Then Steinbach re-entered the stadium, walked up to the weight the winner had lifted with great effort, and with ease hoisted it three times over his head.

In 1952, super-athlete Emil Zatopek of Czechoslovakia won both the 10,000 and 5,000-meter races. To celebrate his victory, he announced he would enter the marathon, even though he had never run the 41.8 kilometer event before.

“Do you really think you can win?” a newsman asked.

“If I didn’t think I could win, I wouldn’t have entered,” Zatopek replied.

At the 24.1 kilometer mark, Zatopek was side-by-side with Him Peters of Great Britain, the pre-race favorite.

“Don’t you think we should be going a bit faster?” Zatopek asked, then ran ahead. He was grinning when he won.

Football player Floyd Little of the Denver Colorado Professional Football Team summed up self-confidence: “I choose not to be an ordinary man. It is my right to be uncommon if I can.”

The building of this structure has been a bold undertaking. We worried about it. We prayed about it. We listened for the whisperings of the Spirit concerning it. And only when we felt the confirming voice of the Lord did we determine to go forward.
At the general conference of April 1996, I said: “I regret that many who wish to meet with us in the Tabernacle this morning are unable to get in. There are very many out on the grounds. This unique and remarkable hall, built by our pioneer forebears and dedicated to the worship of the Lord, comfortably seats about 6,000. Some of you seated on those hard benches for two hours may question the word comfortably.
“My heart reaches out to those who wish[ed] to get in and could not be accommodated. About a year ago I suggested to the Brethren that perhaps the time has come when we should study the feasibility of constructing another dedicated house of worship on a much larger scale that would accommodate three or four times the number who can be seated in this building” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1996, 88–89; or Ensign, May 1996, 65).
The vision of a new hall was clearly in mind. Various architectural schemes were studied. One was finally selected. It included a massive structure to seat 21,000 with a theater accommodating another thousand. There would be no interior pillars to obstruct the view of the speaker. There would be trees and running water on the roof.
Ground was broken July 24, 1997, the 150th anniversary of the arrival of the first pioneers in this valley. That was an historic event.
We did not know it at the time, but in 1853 Brigham Young, in speaking of temples, said, “The time will come when … we shall build … on the top, groves and fish ponds” (Deseret News Weekly, 30 Apr. 1853, 46).
In 1924 Elder James E. Talmage of the Council of the Twelve wrote, “I have long seen the possible erection of a great pavilion on the north side of the Tabernacle, seating perhaps twenty thousand people or even double that number, with amplifiers capable of making all hear the addresses given from the Tabernacle stands, and in addition to this a connection with the broadcasting system, with receivers in the several chapels or other meeting houses throughout the intermountain region” (journal of James E. Talmage, 29 Aug. 1924, Special Collections and Manuscripts, Harold B. Lee Library, Brigham Young University, Provo, Utah).
In 1940 the First Presidency and the Twelve had their architect draw up a plan of a building that would seat 19,000 and would stand where this building stands. That was 60 years ago. They thought about it, they talked about it, but finally they dropped the idea entirely.
These statements and actions were wonderfully prophetic. We knew nothing about them. All of them have come to our attention since we began this construction.
We have not built a temple with trees and fishponds on the roof. But on this edifice we have many trees and running water. Brigham Young may have foreseen this structure very near the temple. We have what Brother Talmage thought of, and much, much more. These services will not only be heard by all who are seated in the Conference Center, they will be carried by radio, television, and cable, and they will be transmitted by satellite to Europe, to Mexico, to South America. We reach far beyond the intermountain area of which Brother Talmage spoke. We reach beyond the confines of the United States and Canada. We essentially reach across the world.
This is truly a magnificent building. I know of no other comparable structure built primarily as a hall of worship that is so large and that will seat so many. It is beautiful in its design, in its appointments, and in its wonderful utility. It is built of reinforced concrete to the highest seismic codes required in this area. The concrete is faced with granite taken from the same quarry as was the stone for the temple. Both buildings even carry the blemishes of that granite.
The interior is beautiful and wonderfully impressive. It is huge, and it is constructed in such a way that nothing obstructs the view of the speaker. The carpets, the marble floors, the decorated walls, the handsome hardware, the wonderful wood all bespeak utility, with a touch of elegance.
It will prove to be a great addition to this city. Not only will our general conferences be held here, and some other religious meetings, but it will serve as a cultural center for the very best artistic presentations. We hope that those not of our faith will come here, experience the ambience of this beautiful place, and feel grateful for its presence. We thank all who have worked so hard to bring it to this stage—the architects, with whom we have had many meetings; the general contractors, three of whom have worked together; the subcontractors; and the hundreds of craftsmen who have labored here; the construction supervisor; the city building inspectors; and everyone who has had a hand in this project. They have all joined in a herculean effort so that we might meet together this morning. Many of them are with us, I am happy to say.
And now, my brothers and sisters, I would like to tell you about another feature of this wonderful building. If I get a little personal and even a little sentimental, I hope you will forgive me.
I love trees. When I was a boy we lived on a farm in the summer, a fruit farm. Every year at this season we planted trees. I think I have never missed a spring since I was married, except for two or three years when we were absent from the city, that I have not planted trees, at least one or two—fruit trees, shade trees, ornamental trees, and spruce, fir, and pine among the conifers. I love trees.
Well, some 36 years ago I planted a black walnut. It was in a crowded area where it grew straight and tall to get the sunlight. A year ago, for some reason it died. But walnut is a precious furniture wood. I called Brother Ben Banks of the Seventy, who, before giving his full time to the Church, was in the business of hardwood lumber. He brought his two sons, one a bishop and the other recently released as a bishop and who now run the business, to look at the tree. From all they could tell it was solid, good, and beautiful wood. One of them suggested that it would make a pulpit for this hall. The idea excited me. The tree was cut down and then cut into two heavy logs. Then followed the long process of drying, first naturally and then kiln drying. The logs were cut into boards at a sawmill in Salem, Utah. The boards were then taken to Fetzer’s woodworking plant, where expert craftsmen designed and built this magnificent pulpit with that wood.
The end product is beautiful. I wish all of you could examine it closely. It represents superb workmanship, and here I am speaking to you from the tree I grew in my backyard, where my children played and also grew.
It is an emotional thing for me. I have planted another black walnut or two. I will be long gone before they mature. When that day comes and this beautiful pulpit has grown old, perhaps one of them will do to make a replacement. To Elder Banks and his sons, Ben and Bradley, and to the skilled workers who have designed and built this, I offer my profound thanks for making it possible to have a small touch of mine in this great hall where the voices of prophets will go out to all the world in testimony of the Redeemer of mankind.
And so to all who have made this sacred edifice possible, and to all of you who are here assembled on this historic occasion, I express gratitude and appreciation, my love and my thanks for this day and this sacred and beautiful house of worship, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When I was 11 years old, I lived with my family in the attic of a farmhouse near Frankfurt, Germany. We were refugees in a new place, far away from our previous home. We were very poor.
Because I was a refugee, and because I spoke with an East German accent, other children often made fun of me and called me names that deeply hurt. Of all the times of my youth, I believe this may have been the most discouraging.
Even though I still remember the hurt I felt, I can see now that this was a time of great personal growth. During this time, our family bonded together. I watched and learned from my parents. I admired their determination and optimism. From them I learned that we can overcome adversity when we have faith and courage.
refugees—people who have to flee from their home because of danger
adversity—something that happens that is very hard or challenging
I think back on that 11-year-old boy in Frankfurt, Germany, who worried about his future and felt the lasting sting of unkind remarks. While I would not be eager to relive those days of trial and trouble, the lessons I learned then were a necessary preparation for future opportunity. Now, many years later, I know this for certain: it is often in adversity that we learn those most important lessons that form our character and shape our destiny.

At the family history library near his home, Josh Taylor was looking at microfilm of a census for Stephenson County in Illinois. He was looking for information about his great-great-great-great grandfather, George A. Stiles. It was seemingly needle-in-the-haystack time.
“It’s a fairly big county, and I wasn’t looking forward to looking through the entire thing,” admits 12-year-old Josh. “But I had prayed about it, and immediately page 261 came to my mind.” And there it was: information about his relative.
“Whenever a page number pops into my mind, I can tell if it’s going to have something in it or not because I feel this excitement. It’s hard to explain,” he says.

Anita said she felt fine, but I moved away from her bedside, knelt, and prayed.
Illustration by Katie Payne
I was single and self-employed when I was new in the Church, so I had days when I had extra time. On one of those days I called the Relief Society president and asked if anyone needed help that afternoon. She mentioned an elderly sister named Anita (name has been changed) who had recently come home from the hospital and was lonely. I had met Anita before and was happy to visit her.
I called and then went to her apartment. She asked me to make lunch for her, and afterward we had a great visit. She had a good sense of humor and loved to laugh and tell stories about her life.
After lunch she said she was tired and asked me to help her from her wheelchair to bed. Soon I had her tucked in. Suddenly, the still, small voice I had heard so much about spoke to me: “Get her to the hospital now!”
Anita hated hospitals and had just returned home. I asked her if she felt OK. She said she was fine but felt tired.
I moved away from her bedside and knelt. As soon as I started to pray, the voice repeated, “Get her to the hospital, and get her there now!”
I hesitated, asking myself, “What am I going to tell the doctor at the hospital?”
I called a friend, who also prayed and then told me to follow my prompting.
Anita was angry that I would even mention taking her to the hospital, but I called an ambulance anyway. When it arrived, two paramedics entered and took her vital signs. Without asking questions, they put her on a gurney and sped off in the ambulance.
I followed in my van. After arriving at the hospital, I sat and waited. Soon a doctor came out. He asked me, “She didn’t tell you that she had fallen before you came to her apartment, did she?”
“No,” I responded.
He told me that Anita had injured her spleen and was bleeding internally. Without immediate medical attention, he said, she might have died.
I felt a mixture of remorse and exultation—remorse that I had hesitated and exultation that ultimately I had listened to the Holy Ghost. Most of all, I felt grateful to know that the Lord had trusted me to help this injured sister and had inspired my Relief Society president to send me to her.
My own health has deteriorated since this experience, but the Lord still prompts me. I pray always for the strength to follow those promptings.

I met Regis Carlus for the first time in 1995 in France. He was not a member of the Church. His daughter, Charlotte, was being sealed in the Bern Switzerland Temple the next day, and he had written, asking if he could stop by my office to meet me. He had heard that I often inquired about him, and he was perplexed as to why.

After being called as a General Authority and assigned to serve in the Europe/Mediterranean Area Presidency, I received Mr. Carlus’s request to meet and hoped that he would follow his children into the restored gospel.

When Charlotte’s father was a university student in the 1960s, the missionaries had taught him the gospel. He was drawn to the restored Church and felt the power of the Book of Mormon. He decided, however, that joining a small, American-based church would not help his professional career.

Now, as I greeted Mr. Carlus and exchanged pleasantries that day in 1995, he asked why I had demonstrated such an interest in him.

After praying with him, I told him that these few minutes with him might be the only time in this life that I would see him. I complimented him on his remarkable daughter and son and told him I respected him immensely for raising two righteous children.

Then I spoke to him of the purposes of the Savior in restoring His gospel upon the earth, the role of the priesthood, the importance of family and the sealing power, and the gathering of a covenant people across the world.

I told him I felt that when the missionaries taught him as a university student, his righteous destiny was to join the covenant people of the Church. I asked that he not be offended as we read two verses that I felt applied to him.

Together we read in Alma about those “called and prepared from the foundation of the world … on account of their exceeding faith and good works; in the first place being left to choose good or evil; therefore they having chosen good, and exercising exceedingly great faith, are called with a holy calling … while others would reject the Spirit of God on account of the hardness of their hearts and blindness of their minds, while, if it had not been for this [for they were on the same standing] they might have had as great privilege as their brethren” (Alma 13:3–4).

I politely shared with Mr. Carlus that I believed he had been prepared to be with us, and when he refused because of the appeals of the world, the Lord continued to bless him with two choice spirits to be his children. They embraced the covenant path meant for his family. Then I invited him to accept the invitation he had been given 30 years before.

Regis Carlus did not join the Church in this life, but his children had chosen the covenant path, and they have remained on the path.

A few months later, during Christmas time, Radmila began to hear more about Jesus Christ. There were shows on television about his life, and people talked about him more. She wanted to learn about him, and she remembered the Book of Mormon. She began to read it. “I couldn’t understand a thing,” she recalls. “It wasn’t that the German was too difficult for me, it was just that I didn’t understand words like repentance because I had never heard of them before.”
She decided she would call the missionaries for help. At the same time, two new missionaries were praying for inspiration about which investigators on their list to visit. They both felt that Radmila needed them. When they knocked, she opened the door and said, once again, “Oh, come in—I’ve been waiting for you.”
She still didn’t want to hear the missionary discussions, but she set up a study schedule with them. Each week she would read ten chapters in the Book of Mormon, write down her thoughts, and then discuss them with the missionaries.
“They were so patient with my sometimes provoking and unimportant questions,” she says. “One time I told them not to come in because I hadn’t read that week. They suggested that we read together. We started reading about Ammon, and then they said they had to leave. I couldn’t believe it. For the first time, I was beginning to feel the Spirit and get excited about the book. As soon as they left, I went to my room and finished the story.”

Zach knew he wasn’t supposed to use that word. But so many boys at school said it that he had started using it too. At first he felt guilty, but after a while it started to feel normal. He got so used to saying the word that one day he said it at home.
“What was that?” his dad said after the word slipped out. Zach and Dad had been playing basketball in the driveway, but suddenly Dad was holding the ball and looking at Zach.
“Oh, nothing, Dad,” Zach said. “It’s just something the kids at school say sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”
“Hmm …” Dad wasn’t convinced. He shook his head and passed the ball to Zach.
“But everyone says it!” Zach said. “And other words are a lot worse!”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Dad said. “But just because a whole bunch of people say or do something, does that make it right?”
“Well, no,” Zach answered, looking down at the ball.
“Here’s a question that might help you decide if using that word is right,” Dad said. “Do you feel like you have the Holy Ghost with you when you say it?”
Zach’s family often talked about living so they could have the Holy Ghost to help them. Zach knew that when he made good choices, the Holy Ghost would guide him and he would feel good about his choices. But when he made bad choices, the Holy Ghost could not stay with him.
“Not really,” Zach said. “When I first said it, I felt guilty, but that feeling went away after a while.”
“That feeling was the Holy Ghost speaking to you,” Dad said. “When we don’t listen, we are tuning Him out.”
“I’ll try to do better,” Zach said.
“I think that’s a good decision, buddy,” Dad said as he took the ball and tossed it into the hoop. “What do you say we go inside for some ice cream? I’m beat!”
“OK!” Zach said as he scooped up the ball and took one last shot.
The next day at school, Zach was on the basketball court with his friends. They were running down the court when Zach’s friend Bryan used a word Zach knew wasn’t a good word. All the other boys laughed, but Zach didn’t.
“What’s wrong?” Bryan asked.
“Nothing,” Zach said as Bryan passed the ball to him. He hoped Bryan and the others wouldn’t make fun of him. “I’ve just decided I’m not going to talk like that any more.” Then he shot the basketball right through the hoop.
“What did you say?” Jeremy asked as he walked over.
“I just think I’ve been talking in a way that isn’t right,” Zach said. “I know better. So I decided last night that I’m only going to use words that make me feel good inside.”
The boys looked at each other. “OK, that’s cool,” Bryan said. Then the bell rang to go inside.
As they headed into class, Jeremy said to Zach, “You know, I’ve been thinking the same thing, but I didn’t want to say anything. Thanks for bringing it up.”
Zach nodded and smiled. He felt good, and he knew that feeling was from the Holy Ghost. He was glad he’d had the courage to choose the right.

Amy was baptized this year. “My daddy baptized me, and he made me stay under the water for a long time to make sure I was all the way under.” When she came up, she took a big breath and said, “I’m all clean.” Later, she added, “I felt really different when I was baptized. I felt clean afterward and wanted to stay clean.” Whenever Amy has to make a hard decision, she asks herself, “What would Jesus do?” She always tries to help people and even animals who need help.

On a winter’s morn, a father quietly awakened his two sons and whispered to them, “Boys, it snowed last night. Get dressed, and we’ll shovel the snow from our neighbors’ walks before daylight.”
The party of three, dressed warmly, and under cover of darkness, cleared the snow from the approaches to several homes. Father had given one instruction to the boys: “Make no noise, and they will not know who helped them.” Again, the word anonymous.

Not long before Christmas Grandpa had another heart attack, and a few days later he died. I was very upset. Never again would I be able to go with him to the summer sheep camp.
Christmas morning at our house was quieter than usual because we were all thinking about Grandpa. I, for one, knew I’d never forget him. As we gathered around the tree, Dad handed me a package. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I wasn’t in the mood for presents. I think he could tell, because he urged me to open it.
I couldn’t believe my eyes! It was the old Bible. Inside was a brief note from Grandpa. “I thought you might like this,” was all it said. So simple, and so like him.
As I stared at it, I had the feeling that Grandpa was there, watching me, waiting for my reaction. I smiled and pressed the Bible close to me. There were other presents waiting under the tree for me, but I knew none of them would be better than Grandpa’s Bible.

When I was about 11 years old, a man came to our little town to teach at the Church academy. He played the violin a little, and we hadn’t had anyone there for a long time who had played the violin. My mother was impressed and picked up a little violin, I guess at some little rummage sale somewhere, and decided that I should learn to play the violin.
Even though I had never seen anyone play the violin in public, he came to our house and started giving me some little simple lessons on playing the violin. I was coming along fairly well by the time we graduated from the eighth grade in grammar school, and for the graduation exercises held in the high school I was asked to play a violin solo.
I’d carefully practiced the little number “Träumerei,” as I remember the name. My sister who was four years older than I and was then one of the popular girls in high school was my pianist. At the graduation exercises, Connie McMurray was the valedictorian. Girls are always smarter in school than boys. As she was giving the valedictory address, there was a little pedestal with a pitcher of water and a glass on it for the school board. The school board was on the stand, plus a little handful of us who were graduating from the eighth grade.
As Connie McMurray was giving her famous valedictory address, near the end of it we noticed the little doily under the pitcher of water on the pedestal was moving over a little bit towards the edge, and over it fell with the pitcher and glass of water! Connie McMurray fell in a dead faint.
In the scurrying around of cleaning the water off the stage and rearranging the chairs, they announced that we would now have the violin solo from David Haight. I walked over to the little old piano, and my sister came up from the audience. I took that little simple violin out of that wooden case as my sister sat down at the piano and sounded an A. I said, “Go ahead and play.”
She said, “David, you’d better tune it.”
I said, “No, no, I tuned it at our piano at home.” We had an old Kimball piano at home. You know, homes in those days—if you had a piano and books, that’s all you needed for the family. I had carefully tuned the strings by twisting those ebony pegs of that violin, but I didn’t know that all pianos weren’t the same. So as my sister said, “You’d better tune it,” I said, “No, no, it’s all tuned. I tuned it at home.”
So she went ahead and played the introduction, and then I came down on the first note. We were off about two notes.
As she slowed down, I said, “Keep playing,” because I couldn’t imagine anyone would take the time of a famous audience like I was playing to—you know, 100 people in that little high school auditorium. You wouldn’t hold up Carnegie Hall while you tuned your violin! That would be shop work. You would do that in the back room so that when you would start to play, why, you’d be all ready to play.
She slowed down. I said, “Keep playing.” We finished it, and she didn’t speak to me for days following that show.

When I was a young girl, my mother, Lovina Anderson Low, told me, “You can be anything in life you want to be, Elaine, if you work for it.” She was right. Because of a heart ailment, she wasn’t well for a good deal of my growing-up years. By the time I was twelve or thirteen, I was taking care of the home—doing the washing, baking bread, and doing quite a bit of the cooking. Mother taught me the pattern for managing seasonal things: I canned fruits and vegetables in the summer, and I helped my father put carrots and potatoes in the storage pit in the fall. Sometimes I felt like I was asked to do too much, but I learned to do what had to be done.