Gospel Story Finder

In January 2009, my husband and I flew to Germany. He had accepted a job there, and we spent a week in Berlin to prepare to move our family.
Instantly, I felt overwhelmed by the differences between Germany and the United States. That night, I didn’t dare leave our hotel.
But the next morning, Sunday, I gathered my courage to attend sacrament meeting. When we entered the chapel, a kind man recognized us as Americans and gave us an English hymnbook. As I sat on the back row and sang different words from everyone else, I felt like an outsider.
The ward offered English translation and gave us headphones. Halfway through the meeting, I wanted to tear mine off and return to my American ward. But when I sang the second verse of “How Firm a Foundation,” the Holy Ghost took hold of my heart.
At home or abroad, on the land or the sea—
As thy days may demand, … so thy succor shall be.1
The hymn felt like a message from the Lord. Tears poured down my cheeks as I hurried to the foyer, where a soft-eyed man gave me his trusty pocket packet of tissue. (Nobody in the ward was ever without one.)
Fast forward three and a half years. In the same chapel on a Sunday morning in June, the organist began playing a hymn. I opened my German hymnbook and started to sing.
That’s when the Holy Ghost enveloped me again. I was again singing “How Firm a Foundation,” but everything was different.
I looked around. Instead of seeing strangers, I saw friends. Behind me sat our former stake president, who had quickly learned our names. On the front row my deacon son rubbed shoulders with the young men who had visited him in the hospital when he was diagnosed with diabetes. Near them sat the ward Young Women leader, who had taught my daughter to make delicious potato pancakes.
Throughout the chapel sat young people I had taught and loved in an English-speaking institute class, my faithful visiting teachers, and others who cheerfully joined the ward ballroom dance classes the bishop had asked me to teach.
Tears blurred my vision, but this time I didn’t run from the chapel. Instead, I dug into my purse for my own trusty pocket packet of tissue.
Nobody in the ward was ever without one.

It’s a thrill, brethren, to stand here this evening and see this great audience of priesthood filling this sacred Tabernacle. Having had the privilege of serving as the Presiding Bishop of the Church for fourteen years, and thus, the president of the Aaronic Priesthood, I am thrilled to see all of the boys of the Aaronic Priesthood here tonight, and I imagine that will be true in the other buildings where the priesthood are listening in. We are all thrilled as we go through the Church to find the wonderful attitude that the Saints have toward President Kimball and, particularly, toward the emphasis that he is giving to missionary work. You know that he has indicated that every boy should be a missionary.
I think of when I was a young man, before I was even ordained a deacon, I went to one of our ward meetings in the little country town where I was raised, and two missionaries reported their missions down in the Southern States. In those days they traveled without purse or scrip, and they had to sleep out many nights when they couldn’t get entertainment. I don’t know whether they said anything unusual that night or not; but if they didn’t, the Lord did something unusual for me, because when I left that meeting, I felt like I could have walked to any mission field in the world, if I just had a call. And I went home, went into my little bedroom, and got down on my knees, and asked the Lord to help me to live worthy so that when I was old enough I could go on a mission. And when the train finally left the station here in Salt Lake and I was headed for the little land of Holland, the last thing I said to my loved ones was, “This is the happiest day of my life.”
Before I left on that mission, President Anthon H. Lund, who was then a counselor in the First Presidency of the Church, talked to us missionaries, and he said, among other things, “The people will love you. Now,” he said, “don’t get lifted up in the pride of your hearts and think that they love you because you are better than other people. They will love you because of what you bring to them.” I did not understand that then, but before I left the little land of Holland, where I spent nearly three years, I knew what President Lund meant. I went around saying good-bye to the Saints and the converts who I had brought into the Church, and I shed a thousand tears, as compared to what I shed when I told my loved ones good-bye.
For instance, in Amsterdam I went into a home where I had been the first missionary there, and the little mother, looking up into my face with tears rolling down her cheeks, said, “Brother Richards, it was hard to see my daughter leave for Zion a few months ago, but it’s much harder to see you go.” I had been the first missionary in that home. Then I thought I could understand what President Lund meant when he said, “They will love you.”
I went to tell a man with a little Dutch beard good-bye. He stood erect in the uniform of his country. He got down on his knees and took my hand in his and hugged it and kissed it and bathed it with his tears. And then I thought I could understand what President Lund meant when he said, “They will love you.”
Now I like a little story that President Grant used to tell about the love that converts have for their missionaries. He told about a couple who came here from one of the Scandinavian countries. They hadn’t been taught much about the gospel. All they knew was that it was true. And so the bishop went to this couple and taught them the law of tithing. They paid their tithing. Then later the bishop went to them and taught them about the fast offering. They paid their fast offering. And then the bishop went to them again to get a donation to help build a ward meetinghouse. They thought that ought to come out of the tithing, but before the bishop got through with them, they paid their donation on the meetinghouse.
Then the bishop went to the father to get his son to go on a mission. Now I can hear President Grant standing here, saying, “That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.” The man said, “He’s our only child. His mother will miss him. We can’t let him go.” Then the bishop countered, “Brother So-and-So, who do you love in this world more than anyone else outside of your own relatives?” And he thought for a few minutes. He said, “I guess I love that young man who came up to the land of the midnight sun and taught me the gospel of Jesus Christ.” Then the bishop countered, “Brother So-and-So, how would you like someone to love your boy just like that?” The man said, “Bishop, you win again; take him. I’ll pay for his mission.”
Now you fathers, how would you like someone to love your boys just like that man loved that boy who came up to the land of the midnight sun and taught him the gospel? I heard a missionary up in Oregon giving the report of his mission. He himself was a convert to the Church, and he came down with his fist on the pulpit, and he said, “I wouldn’t take a check tonight for a million dollars for the experience of my mission.” I sat back of him, and I said to myself, “Would you take a million dollars for your first mission in the little land of Holland?” And I began counting the families that I’d been instrumental in bringing into the Church. What kind of a man would I be if I were to sell them out of the Church for a million dollars? I wouldn’t do that for all the money in the world!

I was a little child when I lost my father. It was hard to be fatherless. My mother tried to support her family, but she didn’t have enough money to educate me. I was discouraged because I had to cease learning and I never learned to read. My mother and I tried to do many things in our village, like farm work, to support ourselves. For years, we struggled together.

Eventually, I got married and had children. Several years later, my husband died, and I struggled as a single parent to take care of my children.

My friends came to me and said, “You have lost your husband. You are now suffering. We want to invite you to our church to see what Jesus can do for you.” I followed my friends to their church. I also went to other churches.

One day, a woman from a few houses away came to me and said, “I have a church. Will you come?”

“No,” I said, “I have tried church after church.”

“Please,” the woman said, “I want to invite you to my church.”

“What do you call your church?” I asked.

“My church is The Church of Jesus Christ Latter-day Saints.”

She convinced me to learn more. She invited the missionaries to pay me a visit. The first day the missionaries came, I called my family together. The missionaries sat down and started to teach us.

The first time I went to church, I sat next to a woman singing from a hymnbook. I tried to pay attention, but I didn’t know how to read. I couldn’t even understand what she was singing. I felt discouraged. “I’m not going to this church again,” I said to myself.

I told the missionaries I wasn’t going to church again. One missionary said, “I’m not going to force you to be a member of this Church, but I’m going to tell you the truth. If you want to believe that this Church is true, read this book.” He gave me the Book of Mormon.

“You can’t give me this book,” I said. “I am not educated. I don’t even know how to read. I don’t need your book.”

The missionaries told me, “Your children are learning to read. They will read this for you, and you will understand.”

“I will try,” I said.

My daughter started reading the Book of Mormon to me, and I went to church again. A sister at church came to me and told me about a class for those who are not able to read and write. She said it was the gospel literacy class.

“We need a student,” she said.

“I really want to know how to read and write,” I said. “So I will go attend that class!”

As I attended the class, I learned reading, writing, and more and more about the gospel. My daughter read more from the Book of Mormon to me. One day I said, “This is the word of God. I can’t deny it.” I decided to be baptized.

The Junior Prom was just a few weeks away, and I was 16. This year I could actually go. All I needed was a date.
Finally, one week before the dance a nice young man asked to take me to the prom. All the way home on the school bus (I lived on a farm in Oregon), I felt as excited as a kid waiting for Christmas. I ran the half mile from the bus stop to my home.
“Mom, you will not believe this. The most wonderful thing has happened.” The words burst out like firecrackers. “I’ve got a date for the Junior Prom!” I danced around the kitchen as my mother reacted with appropriate enthusiasm.
Then it hit me, and I said, “I’ve got a serious problem. I don’t have a thing to wear.” And I didn’t. I was one of nine children, and we didn’t have much money. I had a wonderful mother with many talents, but they did not include being able to take a piece of material and turn it into a beautiful prom dress. I knew I was asking for more than my share when I said, “Is there any way I could buy a formal?”
There wasn’t much opportunity to earn money with all the work I did helping out at home. The problem was presented to my dad, and my prayers had to have made the top ten list of Most Fervent.
“This is very important to you, isn’t it, sweetheart?” my dad said. And the tone of his voice made me feel another miracle was on its way. “We’ll find the money. You’ve got to have a formal.” I hugged him and proclaimed him to be the most wonderful father on earth.
The next day Mother and I went shopping. Do you know what the styles were in the 50s when I was 16? Strapless evening gowns. And President David O. McKay taught modesty then just as President Ezra Taft Benson does today. Some things never change. Styles do, but the need to be modest never does.
As I stood in the dress shop that day, I knew these strapless gowns were not modest. But that’s all there was. We went to another shop, and again only strapless evening gowns. We went to yet another shop and found the same story. As I looked down the rack in the last shop, my eye was pulled to a beautiful peach gown with rows and rows of the kind of ruffles I’d dreamed of. I said, “Oh, Mom, look! It’s so beautiful. Can I try it on? I know I can’t get it because it’s strapless, but it’s so pretty. Can I just try it on, you know, to see if I really look good in this color?”
“Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to just try it on,” Mom said. And with that I was off to the dressing room. Quickly I put it on, zipped it up, and looked in the mirror. It took my breath away. I had to have this dress. And besides it occurred to me that if strapless was all there was in the dress shops then guess what everyone at the dance would be wearing. All of a sudden I wanted to be “in.”
I walked out wearing the dress and said, “Mom, we have searched everywhere and there just isn’t anything, so I guess we’re just forced into this purchase.”
She smiled and said, “No we’re not. But it is beautiful, and it does come up quite high. Maybe we could get some material and add to the top to make it modest.”
Feeling slightly foiled, I thanked her profusely. We bought the dress and the material and headed for home.
The next day, before my mother had a chance to make the needed adjustments for my dress, the phone rang. My brother and his wife, 400 miles away in Provo, Utah, called to say they had just given birth to the very first grandchild in our family and they needed Mother’s help. She was so excited, she was on a bus in a matter of hours and forgot all about making the additions to my dress. And so did I, sort of.
The night of the prom arrived, and Mother was still gone. The thought of going to the prom in my gorgeous new strapless evening gown created a pulse rate I could actually see. About 15 minutes before my date was to arrive I was ready and walked out into the living room. There was my dad.
He took one look at me and said, incredulously, “Where did you get that dress?”
And I replied with feigned innocence, “Mother bought it for me.”
He was not convinced. “Mother would never buy you that dress without a plan. Now tell me the plan.”
“There was a plan, Daddy. Mom was going to add some material to the top, but she didn’t get a chance before she left. And, Daddy, I’m just sick about it, but I have to go this way.”
My dad was not persuaded. He firmly asked. “Where’s the material?” I could feel cardiac arrest coming on.
“Bring it to me, and a needle and thread and scissors, too. Quickly.” I went to get the items thinking, “I have never seen those big calloused hands sew anything but seeds.”
Daddy held up the material and looked it over, then laid it on the table and folded it until it was a band about six inches wide. He then took one end of it and began sewing it to one side of the top of my dress, using tiny little stitches, the kind you can’t pull out. Then he wrapped it around my shoulders, cut off the excess, and stitched the end firmly in place on the other side. He fanned the fabric out, and I was modest.
As I stood there I thought, “Tonight is the night I die.”
I went to my mirror to look at the damage. To my surprise it didn’t look too bad. A ruffle hid most of the stitches. Just then the doorbell rang, and there was my date.
That night, as we danced around the floor amidst all those bare shoulders, something happened. Nobody else knew it happened, but I knew because it happened inside of me. Suddenly I was filled with an overwhelming love for my dad. It surprised me. Somehow, throughout my whole being, I knew how much my dad loved me. He loved me enough to insist that I not go to a dance dressed immodestly. It felt good.
I don’t think anything bad would have happened to me that night if I had gone with bare shoulders, but I might have really enjoyed being “of the world.” After compromising in this area, I might have found it easier to do other things contrary to gospel teachings.
You don’t live in the era of the strapless evening gown as I did. Instead you live in the era of the gownless evening strap. But you’ll make it. I know you can because President Benson said, “It is not by chance that you have been reserved to come to earth in this last dispensation of the fulness of time. … You are ‘youth of the noble birthright’” (Ensign, Nov. 1986, p. 81). And one way to exemplify that is to follow the prophet’s counsel to dress modestly.

A four-year-old Brazilian girl, Mayara Fernanda Dos Santos, suffering from leukemia and with oxygen going into her nose from a tube, was blessed in 1996 by Elder Claudio Costa and myself in Curitiba, Brazil. After the blessing, little Mayara smilingly wiped a tear from her anxious mother’s cheek. Instinctively wise beyond her years, Mayara knows how to “comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9), including her precious parents.

Brother Snederfler recalls another unforgettable moment: On 20 May 1991, the phone rang. The caller was President Thomas S. Monson, then Second Counselor in the First Presidency. “He said: ‘Jirí, you have been called as the president of the Freiberg temple. You will begin this office on 1 September of this year. What do you say?’ At first I was not able to say anything at all because of my astonishment. President Monson inquired, ‘Are you there, Jirí?’ I told President Monson, ‘I accept humbly this calling.’”

In the temple, the Snederflers opened prison doors to generations of deceased persons who had never had an opportunity to hear the gospel. And they also opened temple doors to patrons who—having had no religious freedom—had languished in spiritual darkness on earth. They welcomed members of the Church from such former Communist nations as Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Croatia, Poland, Hungary, the Czech and Slovak Republics, and the DDR.

“It is so, so good to be in the temple,” Sister Snederfl er says simply. After four years of faithful service there, the Snederflers have returned home to Prague to continue family history research so that more of their own ancestors may enjoy temple blessings.

The construction worker lay where he had fallen, precariously balanced on a plank nine inches (23 cm) wide and 100 feet (30 m) in the air. He had been struck by a falling steel beam that had partially severed his left arm and leg.
In this case, the victim could not be moved safely until his injuries were assessed. I was hoisted up by crane on a metal cargo platform. Once I reached the victim, a construction worker held onto the back of my reflective jacket, serving as a human “crane” to allow me freedom of movement to examine the victim.
In situations like this, years of training take over, so I began to assess the man’s injuries. On his knee was an emergency field dressing placed there by the construction crew’s own first aid responder. Normally I would examine the injury to assess the damage since that is the protocol we are trained to follow.
But as I reached out, the Spirit prompted me: “Do not move the dressing.” So I did not touch it. Three more times during the incident, I was encouraged by others involved—the first responder, my colleague on the ground, and a doctor—to examine the knee wound, and three more times, the Spirit prompted me not to touch the dressing. Once we had stabilized the patient, we lifted the man onto the cargo platform, we were both lowered to the ground, and we transported him to the hospital.
In the emergency resuscitation area, the trauma team waited for us. One doctor quickly removed the field dressing from the knee. Immediately an artery ruptured, and the patient began bleeding profusely. In the controlled environment of the hospital, this life-threatening situation was quickly resolved. If it had happened on the plank 100 feet up, the victim may well not have survived.

The sun has barely risen over the ocean. White morning glories cling tightly to the dunes. The strong breeze whipping in from the ocean all night long has carved the sand into waterlike ripples; no human footprint breaks the pattern. It is a deserted strip of Padre Island, off the coast of Texas.
Into this solitude roars a blue pickup truck, stopping at the edge of the wide, flat beach. Three young women haul five white Styrofoam coolers from the pickup bed. In the distance car doors slam. The high-pitched voices of teenage girls talking and laughing pierce the air.
The beginning of a wild beach party?
No way.
In the Styrofoam boxes are hundreds of newly hatched Kemp’s ridley sea turtles. This species is biologically extinct—there are so few reproducing females that its survival is considered impossible without intervention. The Young Women of Corpus Christi Third Ward are helping park rangers of Padre Island National Seashore save these turtles.
The girls stand in the surf listening attentively to instructions. Then each one arms herself with two aquarium nets. Meanwhile, a park ranger dons plastic gloves and begins taking baby turtles out of the first box, one by one. There are 66 of them, each small enough to be encircled by a bracelet.
A few do push-ups to limber up their flippers. After all, they hatched from golf ball-sized eggs only yesterday. Then the tiny black turtles crawl straight towards the ocean, following the sun.
“Oh, they’re so cute!” say the girls.
It’s hard to believe these little darlings will someday weigh 80–100 pounds and be up to two and a half feet long.
The turtles ignore three photographers. They ignore a park ranger filling in the hole of a menacing crab. They ignore a row of spectators standing just west, where their shadows won’t fall on the turtles and confuse them. They ignore a spotter yelling, “Here’s the first one … get ready!”
The lead turtle makes the water’s edge and is tossed rudely by an incoming wave. Still she crawls stubbornly forward, making a rippled track with her tiny flippers in the wet sand. After being thrown by several breakers, she finally gets deep enough in the water to swim.
Alert girls watch carefully. They must allow the turtle to swim for long enough to be “imprinted,” but not so long that she gets away. After a few moments, Michelle Boyd, 17, dips her net into the murky water and retrieves the turtle. Everyone claps.
“Yea Michelle. You got the first one!”
Not a single turtle must get away, for its chances of surviving in the wild at this age are only about one in a hundred.
“I was scared at first,” said Teresa Mareth, 14. “I thought I would lose a turtle. They would have been goners if we’d let them go.”
LDS seasonal park ranger Ann Neville trusted the girls enough to invite them to help, and their efforts were invaluable. On the day they came, there were five clutches of hatchlings to release. A clutch is the number of eggs, from 50 to 100, laid in a nest by one mother turtle. All the turtles in one clutch must be released at the same time.
“The girls did a real service,” said Ann. “We only have a staff of six to eight people. There’s no way we could do it all by ourselves, especially when we have several clutches hatch at once.”
Ann put the girls on call, since nobody knew for sure when the turtles would hatch. Once they did, the girls had to be there first thing the next morning.
None of the girls had ever seen a live sea turtle before. If their efforts indeed help save them, perhaps others will have the opportunity to see a Kemp’s ridley sea turtle someday.
“Man is not the only creature on earth that is important,” said Ann. “We are all linked together. When we help another creature to survive, we enhance our own survival.” Ann has worked with the harbor seal and the harbor porpoise in Alaska, both also endangered. “I love to be able to help an endangered species,” she says. “It helps you be in tune; makes you appreciate what’s around you.”
Each girl realized that her participation made a difference in the natural history of the world.
“I thought it was neat that we were saving little baby turtles,” said Michelle. “I felt I was a part of something. I learned a lot.”
“I learned to appreciate what we have; not to waste by killing animals just for fun,” said Beth Regen, 14. “They can become extinct.”
Sabrina Zmeskal, 13, really summed it up. “It made me feel special to know I had a part in history,” she said.
After all the turtles were recaptured, they were taken back to the ranger station. The girls celebrated with a brief dip in the ocean, then returned to Corpus Christi, leaving the beach release site as deserted as before. Only their footprints remained, to be filled in with the ever-blowing sand in a matter of hours. But if, because of their help, the Kemp’s ridley sea turtle survives, their footprints in history will remain unerased.

On the way home from school, Ben ran to catch up with his older brother, Rick. Rick didn’t seem to be in a good mood, but Ben had something important to ask him that just couldn’t wait.
“Hey, Rick,” Ben panted, “are you going to enter the school spirit contest this year?”
“I have no choice,” Rick said without slowing down. “Everyone has to enter.”
Ben was surprised. “But you probably can’t win it again.” Ben swallowed hard and then spoke quickly. “Maybe you’d like to help somebody else win.”
“Like who?” Rick asked.
“Like me.” Ben smiled weakly.
“You? Bashful Benny?”
“After I win, nobody will call me Bashful Benny anymore. They’ll know I’m somebody special, a real winner, like—well, like you.”
Rick’s expression softened. “Think so, huh? I’m sorry I can’t help you. It’s against the rules.”
“I didn’t mean for you to do anything. I just need to borrow your camera for a few days. Please?” Ben pleaded.
“You can use my camera for one week if I can cut up all your old magazines for my poster,” Rick said.
“Deal!” Ben sprinted home before Rick could change his mind.
Ben worked hard on his project. For the contest, students had to get involved in school activities and make posters to promote school spirit. Ben decided to take photographs of different school activities and mount them on poster board. He had just finished writing carefully under the last picture when Rick came into his room and looked over his shoulder.
“You spelled a word wrong,” Rick said.
“I did not! Mom checked all my spelling. You’re just jealous of my poster.”
“I’m not jealous,” Rick said. “I won last year. You’re the one who should be worried.”
“What do you mean?” Ben asked.
“What are you going to do when you have to get up in front of all those people and accept your award?” Rick asked.
Ben thought about that. “I won’t have to give a speech, will I?”
“You never know.” Rick shrugged and turned to leave.
“Rick,” Ben said, “were you ever scared to win?”
“Of course not,” Rick said quickly. “Well, maybe a little.” He sat down on Ben’s bed. “Do you know what helped me last year?”
“What?” Ben scrambled up next to him.
“My friend, Pete—remember him?”
Ben nodded. “The one who moved away?”
“Yeah. Pete started clapping and yelling so loud when they announced my name that it made me laugh. And I forgot my fear.” Rick smiled, remembering it. “Tell you what, Ben. When you win the contest I’ll clap really loud, and maybe even whistle.”
Finally the day came when the whole school assembled to find out who would win the school spirit contest. The room was so crowded that Ben had to look for a long time before he saw his brother. Rick grinned and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Ben tried to smile back, but he was too nervous.
The room fell silent as the principal stood up to speak. “I am so proud of each of you for the hard work you’ve put into your projects this year.” Her words echoed throughout the gymnasium. “Normally we would not award the prize to the same person two years in a row,” she explained, “but we have an exceptionally talented student at our school.” Ben’s mouth dropped open as the principal announced that Rick had won. Again. At first Ben wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Then he thought it must be a mistake. The principal had probably confused him with his brother.
Ben looked up hopefully at the principal, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking across the room to where a group of boys was shoving Rick forward. But Rick wouldn’t move. He shook his head, looking disappointed and a little frightened.
When Ben saw this, he realized his brother really loved him. Rick had wanted Ben to win. Ben could also see that Rick was scared. He couldn’t face the crowd alone. Ben wished that Rick’s friend, Pete, was still there to help him.
Then Ben had a rather frightening idea. He wasn’t sure he could do it, but he knew he had to try, for Rick’s sake. Ben closed his eyes. Then, finding his courage, he leaped to his feet and started to clap.
“Way to go, Rick!” he yelled as loud as he could.
Some of Ben’s classmates tugged on his shirt and whispered, “What are you doing? Sit down.”
“That’s my brother!” Ben whispered back. Many students stood up and clapped with him. Others patted Ben on the back and said, “You’re pretty brave, Ben!” Soon the whole room was filled with applause and cheering.
Slowly Rick walked to the podium to accept the award. He looked at Ben and smiled gratefully. Even though Ben had lost the contest, he felt happy. He knew he was a winner. Nobody could call him Bashful Benny anymore.

Humility is a word we hear a lot about, but do we really understand what it is? I don’t believe I did until one morning years ago when I saw humility in a hotel entrance. I was sitting in the entrance of the Hotel Utah in Salt Lake City. From my soft chair I observed with great interest the comings and goings of people through the front door of the hotel. The longer I sat there, the more crowded the entrance became. People were moving in and out, bumping into each other in their haste, then exchanging irritated glances as they hurried on. I couldn’t help thinking how unconcerned we are for others as we move about pursuing our individual goals.
The very next person who came to the door of the hotel provided a real contrast. Elder George Q. Morris of the Quorum of the Twelve, a man in his 80s, reached for the door and held it open for several minutes while others hurried through without so much as a nod of thanks. When there was no one else waiting, he walked into the entrance. He removed his hat and nearly had it knocked out of his hands by a young woman who was in too big a hurry to even notice whom she had bumped into.
I watched Elder Morris for at least six or seven minutes as he made his way across the entrance, always stepping aside for others, at the same time expressing a “Pardon me” or “Excuse me, you go first.” Several times he stopped completely while others rushed by. If people were in his way, he would wait patiently until they stepped aside or moved on without ever realizing he was waiting to get by.
I am sure there was no one in that entrance with a busier schedule or more on his mind than Elder Morris. I have thought since that it would have been more appropriate (if less true to life) had everyone stepped aside for an Apostle of the Lord.
Some of the true marks of humility—kindness, consideration for others, and an awareness of their aims and needs—are often forgotten in our involved pursuits. I have always appreciated more deeply those who manifest the little kindnesses since seeing humility in a hotel entrance.

Last week I broke my arm. My neighbor who is a nurse told us that we needed to make a splint for my arm to protect it on the way to the hospital. She asked me if we had a few magazines we could use. My mom ran and got four Friend magazines, and my neighbor used them to make a splint by tying them around my arm with yarn. We had to wait a very long time in the hospital, so I was able to read my Friend magazines. I read a lot of stories, and one of them was about a boy in the hospital. I was comforted by the stories and the priesthood blessing I was given. I felt at peace. I love the Friend.Macey I., age 7, Minnesota

It was a gorgeous spring day about a week before school let out for the summer when my father and the house came barging back into my life. I intended to call my best friend, Marge, and go down to the corner for a pop before I started my homework. I picked up the kitchen phone and put the receiver to my ear without even realizing mom was on the extension in the bedroom. The first thing I heard was my father’s voice.
"Cathy is my daughter," he was saying. "I don’t think a week of her summer vacation is too much for me to ask."
"I know," mom answered, "but I have to leave the decision up to her …"
I hung up the phone quietly and went upstairs to my room. My school books were lying on my bed. I opened one and pretended to study, but my thoughts were far from algebra. My father wanted me to spend a week of my summer vacation with him. I didn’t want to. Why did he have to keep barging into my life and messing it up? I’d just get things straightened out, and suddenly he’d appear again to jumble them back up.
Mom tapped on my bedroom door. "Cathy," she called.
"Come in," I replied, pretending to be deeply engrossed in my studies.
Mom entered and sat on the edge of my bed. "May I talk with you a minute?"
"Sure," I said trying to sound nonchalant. "But I have a lot of homework to do."
"Your father just called," mom said in a voice that displayed no emotion. She always talked of him that way, trying not to prejudice me against him.
"Oh? What’d he want?"
"He wants to see you. He’d like you to come visit him for a week over summer vacation."
"What’d you say?"
"I said it was up to you."
I pretended to think for a moment, but my mind was already made up.
"I don’t think I can, mom. I’m planning on getting a job, and I don’t think anyone would hire me if right off the bat I said I had to have a week off."
"Yes, I can see that, but he does want to see you. Maybe you could work something out. Maybe go for a weekend."
"I don’t know …"
"Cathy, he is your father."
"I know he’s my father," I had to struggle to keep back the resentment that statement contained, "but I’m going to be really busy this summer."
"Too busy to go for even one weekend?"
I looked at mom. She could see right through my transparent excuses. "Well, maybe one weekend," I conceded.
"Fine, you pick the weekend, and I’ll call your father tomorrow to make arrangements."
I often thought it was odd that my father lived in the same city we did, and yet we never saw each other. But it was a big city, and we lived at opposite ends of it, and I really didn’t care if I saw him or not.
The house was the same as I remembered it, except for new furniture in the living room. But there was still the same stale odor of smoke. Though he never did it in front of me, I knew my father smoked. It was part of the reason why he had never taken mom and me to the temple. My father was just about the same too. He was still tall and thin with a receding hairline, except that what hair he did have was now speckled with gray.
"Hi, Cathy," he said when I arrived at the white Spanish house.
"Hi."
"You’ve sure grown up the past few years."
"Yes, that does have a tendency to happen," I replied dryly.
He laughed nervously.
"Can I put my stuff away?"
"Sure. Put it in the second room on the right down the hall. I should have dinner ready when you’re done."
I went to the room he indicated. It had green carpet and green, blue, and white striped wallpaper. It reminded me of a hotel room. I hadn’t brought much, so it didn’t take me long to unpack. When I was finished, I wandered into the kitchen. My father was taking a casserole out of the oven. "I’ve become a pretty good cook," he said.
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
We didn’t talk much during the meal. He made several attempts at conversation, and I answered as simply as I could.
"What are you doing this summer?" he asked.
"I’m getting a job."
"Oh? Where?"
"At the Chicken Barn. I’m waiting on tables."
"Going to make a lot of money, huh?"
I shrugged. "Just enough to help pay for my school clothes and cheerleading uniforms."
"You a cheerleader?"
"Yes."
"Well, I guess I’ll have to come to the Chicken Barn and donate to your school wardrobe."
I shrugged again.
"You’re pretty active at school, aren’t you? You starred in your school play last year, didn’t you?"
"How did you know?"
"Your mom told me."
"Oh?"
"I came and saw it. You didn’t know that, did you?"
I looked up startled. "You did?"
"Yes, opening night. You were really good. I even sent you some flowers. Did you get them?"
"They were from you?"
"Yes."
"I didn’t know that. The card wasn’t signed. I thought they were from Robbie Fletcher."
"Your boyfriend?"
"I wish."
"Are you disappointed they weren’t from him?"
I just shrugged once more. "I’m kind of tired tonight," I said. "Do you mind if I go to bed now?"
"Go ahead."
I’d just settled into bed when I heard a noise outside. I peered out the window and saw the silhouette of my father on the porch. In his hand I could see the glowing ember of a lighted cigarette. He never smoked in front of me, almost as if he didn’t want to admit to me that he did it. How dumb did he think I was. "What a hypocrite," I said to myself. Then I laid back down in bed.
When I woke up Saturday morning, there was sun streaming in the bedroom window. It took me a few minutes to remember where I was.
When I did, the brightness of the day seemed to dull a bit.
I found my father in the kitchen fixing breakfast.
"Good morning," he said.
"Hi."
"Here’s breakfast. I hope you like your eggs sunny-side up."
"That’s fine."
"What shall we do today?"
"I don’t know."
"We could run down to the amusement park."
"I’m kind of old for that," I said, determined to be as uncooperative as possible.
"Well then, how about going to the beach?"
"I’m kind of tired of that. Edward takes us there all the time." I hoped my reference to Edward would bite a bit, but if it did, my father gave no sign of it.
"Then I guess we can always just stay home and visit. I’d like that. This house is kind of lonely just me here. It’d be nice to visit."
"If you’re so lonely, why don’t you get married?" I asked bluntly.
My father was good at not acting surprised by my frank comments. "Well," he replied, "I guess I never met anyone besides your mother who I loved enough to marry."
All the bitterness I’d ever felt welled up inside of me, and it was impossible to keep it out of my voice when I replied. "If you were so in love with mom, why did you desert her?"
My father put down his fork and looked across the table at me. "I don’t know what your mother has told you about me and what happened …"
"She hasn’t told me anything. In fact, she’s bent over backwards to keep from portraying you as a villain."
"Well then maybe it’s time someone did tell you something."
I expected him to tell me a real sob story with him as a poor picked on man and mom the domineering nag of a wife, so I steeled myself to defend her. But I was surprised when he spoke.
"Cathy, your mother and I, we’re human."
All kinds of sarcastic replies raced through my mind like, "Oh, I’ve waited all my life to glean this bit of wisdom from you." But I kept my mouth shut and my father went on.
"We make mistakes. Some mistakes can be corrected quickly; others haunt you for the rest of your life. When your mother and I were married, we were young and naive. We still clung to some of those silly ideas about finding beautiful princesses and handsome princes and living happily ever after. We didn’t realize that everyone marries imperfect partners and the wise spend the rest of their lives working together to become better. We both expected love and each other to be perfect immediately. My idea of a perfect wife was one who left me alone to do whatever I wanted. Your mother wanted a husband who’d take her to the temple. I always said I would, but I wasn’t going to be pushed. I figured there was plenty of time for that, and there were still things I wanted to do first. Anyway, one day we discovered we’d pushed and pulled ourselves right out of each other’s lives." He paused and seemed to be thinking for a moment. Then he went on. "Oh, I guess if we’d been a bit more mature or if we’d really tried, we could’ve made things work. But it was easier to just call it quits. For a long time I blamed your mother, and by the time I realized how wrong I was being, it was too late; your mother had remarried. Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s great that she’s found Edward. They seem to be happy enough."
"They are."
"Well, I guess what it boils down to is that you’re all I have left, Cathy."
I poked at my food.
"Hey!" he said. "Why don’t we go shopping. I’ll buy you a new outfit."
"You don’t have to do that," I said.
"I want to. After all, why should I make my contribution to your wardrobe through the Chicken Barn when I can give it directly to you?"
I laughed. "All right."
I watched my father that day as we shopped. I had always been under the impression that if I was around my father long enough, I’d see him sprout fangs and claws. He didn’t, and I realized that I had spent a long time looking at him through eyes tainted by bitterness and selfishness. As I pushed them aside, I could see my father as he was—a lonely man who’d made mistakes and was paying for them.
When we got home from shopping, my father excused himself to go outside. I knew he was going to smoke and watched out the window. There was a look of disgust on his face as he lit the cigarette. He smoked it hastily with short puffs. Then almost angrily he dropped it to the ground and crushed it out with his foot. I let the curtains drop then, so that he wouldn’t know I’d been watching.

Jennifer sat up sleepily in her bed and pushed the flowered curtains away from the frosty window. Rubbing a small spot clear with her fist, she peeked out and saw the drifting snowflakes. “It’s finally snowing!” she declared. “Now it seems like Christmas.”
She climbed out of bed, rushed to the closet, and pulled out her velvet dress. Mother had said that just this once she could wear it to school for the Christmas party. As she tugged the beautiful dress over her head, Jennifer’s thoughts skipped ahead to school and the party. First there would be a whole morning of spelling, arithmetic, and reading. How can I stand it until one o’clock? she wondered. She shivered with anticipation as she adjusted the lacy collar and sleeves on her dress.
“You look like you’re ready for a party,” Mother said when Jennifer came into the kitchen.
“I am,” she agreed. “The Christmas party!”
“You look lovely, Jenny, but you’d better hurry now and eat your breakfast. The bus will be here soon.”
The school bus rumbled to a stop in front of Jennifer’s house. She climbed aboard and sat next to Sally.
“What do you think we’ll do at the party this afternoon?” Sally asked. “Do you think there will be games and prizes?”
“Oh, I hope so. I just can’t wait!” Jennifer bubbled.
The girls entered their classroom just as the clanging bell signaled nine o’clock. Four more hours until the party!
Every few minutes throughout the morning, Jennifer glanced up at the round clock above the chalkboard—ten o’clock, eleven-thirty; at last it was time for lunch.
When the children returned to their classroom, red and green crepe paper streamed down from the ceiling, and bright signs proclaimed MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY HOLIDAYS. At the back of the room a table was loaded with candy, cupcakes, and punch.
“First we’ll play pin the star on the Christmas tree,” Miss Brewster announced. Blindfolded and equipped with a paper star and pin, each of the children tried to place his star at the very top of the green paper tree. Next they played musical chairs to the tune of Christmas carols.
“Now we’re going to play a word game,” Miss Brewster said. Jennifer glanced over at Jeff who was sitting in the next row. She and Jeff were the best spellers in their class—one of them was sure to win the word game.
“When I say ‘go’ write as many words as you can think of that can be made from the letters in MERRY CHRISTMAS,” Miss Brewster explained as she handed out sheets of paper. “These drawing pencils and this sketch pad will go to the person who has the longest list.”
Jennifer gazed longingly at the rainbow of pencils and the creamy colored sketch pad Miss Brewster was holding. What fun it would be to take the pencils and pad out into the woods and draw the brown squirrels. The green pencil is just the color of the spruce trees and the red would be perfect for drawing poinsettias. I just have to win! she thought determinedly.
“Miss Brewster, what if there’s a tie?” Sally asked.
“Then both winners will receive a box of pencils and a sketch pad. Now it’s time to begin. You have fifteen minutes. Ready? Go!”
Jennifer began writing: sit, sat, miss, rim, tear, and on down the page. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Jeff writing furiously, never pausing. Jennifer forced her thoughts back to her own list. She had twenty-four words now—mist, hat, hit, ham, tire. A slight noise attracted her attention. Jeff had turned his paper over and was writing on the back! She had to hurry. Yam, ram, mast, hi, tie—forty-nine words. How many does Jeff have? she wondered. Looking up, their eyes met. Jeff’s confident grin spurred her on. Sir, him, tam, rite, cast, tar, she scribbled, her mind racing. Sixty-two words. Surely I’ll win, she thought with assurance.
“Time’s up,” Miss Brewster said. “Put your papers on by desk. You may help yourselves to punch and cupcakes while I find out who our winner is.”
Jennifer nibbled nervously at her cupcake as she watched Miss Brewster check the lists. “All right, boys and girls. We have a winner!” she announced. “Our grand champion word maker for today is …”
The moment’s pause seemed to stretch on for hours as Jennifer waited to hear her name.
“Jeff Mason! Congratulations, Jeff. I hope you’ll enjoy the prize.”
Jennifer turned away, blinking back the tears that flooded her eyes.
“Jennifer,” Miss Brewster called gently.
Jennifer turned around, her head down, her face hidden.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t have been a winner too,” Miss Brewster said, “for you and Jeff almost tied. He had just one more word than you did.”
“Only one more?” Jennifer asked in disbelief. “Then I could have tied with him. I could have won the other set of pencils except, except—” she broke off, her voice faltering.
“Except what, Jennifer?”
Jennifer looked up, a wistful smile brightening her face.
“I thought of one more word, but I just couldn’t use it. Christmas is such a happy season, so full of love. I just couldn’t make hate out of MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

I know how you feel. In my school, the children think that I am strange and that I am “too” good because I never swear or do inappropriate things. I felt very much alone, but I made friends with some girls who have good hearts, although they are not members of the Church. Today, whenever students need help with something, they come to me because they know that I am a member of the Church, that I would never lie, and that they can trust me.Ester K., 11, Itatiba, Brazil

In the spring, Jason planted three pumpkin seeds in the corner of the garden. His sister, Ellen, planted three tomato plants, and his brother, Tom, planted a row of corn.
The warm sun shone. The rain fell. All the plants grew, but Jason’s pumpkin vines grew the most. They spread all across the garden and had large, green leaves. By July, they had beautiful orange flowers. Jason kept busy pulling the weeds from around them and watering them with the garden hose.
Ellen’s tomato plants blossomed, too, but they had only small, yellow flowers. Before long, though, little green tomatoes appeared on them. And ears of corn began to grow on Tom’s cornstalks.
“Where are my pumpkins?” Jason asked.
“Look under the leaves,” Tom told him.
Sure enough, tiny green pumpkins were growing there.
Soon the first of Ellen’s tomatoes were large and red. Mother sliced some for sandwiches. Then Tom’s ears of corn grew big and plump, and they roasted some on picnics. The tomatoes and the corn were delicious, and Jason wished that he had planted them, instead.
“Just wait,” Ellen told him. “The pumpkins will get ripe.”
The pumpkins got bigger, but they were still green and hard when Tom and Ellen started back to school. Tom’s corn had all been eaten or quick-frozen for winter meals by then.
One night there was to be a frost, so the whole family went to the garden and picked all the tomatoes—even the green ones—still on Ellen’s plants. They would be made into spaghetti sauce or preserves.
“What about my pumpkins?” Jason asked.
“They’ll be all right. Pumpkins like frost,” Father said.
The next morning Jason ran outside and across the white, frosty lawn. “My pumpkin vine is black and dead!” he cried.
“But look at your pumpkins,” Mother pointed out. “They’re turning orange.”
Soon the pumpkins were bright orange. They were huge. Father cut one from the vine, and Mother made it into delicious pumpkin pies. Then, on the Saturday before Halloween, the rest of the pumpkins were cut from the vines. A couple of them were canned for winter pies and pumpkin bread, then all but three were given to friends.
The last three were for Tom and Ellen and Jason for jack-o’-lanterns. Tom and Ellen made scary faces on theirs, but Father helped Jason cut a big grin on his. Jason was very proud—pumpkins were worth waiting for!

It was summertime, right in the middle of haying season. A lot of hay was down, and my neighbor Frank Rees waited eagerly for the dew to come so he could get started. It was a Saturday night when the conditions were finally right, so Frank drove to his field and started baling his hay.
As he baled he noticed the headlights of his friend and neighbor across several fields. He too was taking advantage of the favorable conditions and was baling his hay. Several years before, Frank had made the decision not to work on the Sabbath, and he knew he would stop on this night just before midnight to honor that commitment. He wondered what his neighbor would do. It would be such a temptation to continue baling under these favorable conditions with so much hay down and ready.
As the hours passed he continued to notice his neighbor’s headlights and knew he was still baling. A few minutes before midnight Frank shut off the baler and drove the tractor to his truck. In the quiet darkness he noticed that his neighbor had also chosen to honor the Sabbath and had quit baling.
After telling this story in sacrament meeting, Frank looked over his shoulder to his neighbor, now the bishop of their ward.
“Do you remember that?” he asked.
Bishop Munns nodded and said, “I didn’t have a watch. I was watching you.”

In Auckland is the Panmure stake. And in that stake’s boundaries is Bucklands Beach, where Bella Aniterea and Nicolas Purcell live. This morning Bella, a Mia Maid, is giving a talk on prayer in sacrament meeting. There’s a good reason her dad, a member of the Howick Ward bishopric, asked her to give that talk. She says she has a testimony of prayer because she prays.
In preparing for her talk, Bella reread the story of Enos in the Book of Mormon. “He prayed for one whole day, and he prayed for his enemies,” Bella recounts. Although she had read the story before, she had never noticed that Enos prayed for his enemies. “I haven’t done that yet,” Bella says, “but I think I’m going to start today.”
And, if you look to the left of the pulpit where Bella bore her testimony of prayer, you’ll see Nicolas, a teacher, putting away the sacrament trays after the meeting.
It might sound strange, but Nicolas’s testimony of the priesthood began with a head injury. “I was Rollerblading down a hill with a mate, and I hit something and cracked the back of my head open.” At 10 inches, the “crack” was more like a canyon, and the doctors said Nicolas would not pull through or he would have severe brain damage. A priesthood blessing from his dad and others in the ward proved the doctors wrong. “That experience gave me quite a shining testimony of the priesthood,” Nicolas says. The Lord preserved his life through the power of the priesthood, and Nicolas plans to honor his priesthood by serving a mission.

At this same time, one by one my children all decided to stop attending church. Two eventually had their names removed from Church records. This has certainly been the trial of both my wife’s and my life. And even though he wasn’t a Latter-day Saint, my father was pained and confused by our children’s choices as well. He was a privately religious man, and he joined us through those years in praying for them.

In 2005 my father passed away after being diagnosed with cancer, and my mother passed away three years later. My wife and I rejoiced in acting as their proxies in providing temple ordinances after their deaths.

I’ve long prayed to understand how best to relate to our children now that they’re adults, some with their own spouses and children, none of whom are LDS. We are emotionally close to all four of our children, and we are grateful that they often reach out in love to us.

I eventually received a very clear answer of how I must conduct myself, possibly for the rest of my life, regarding these adult children. I needed to do what my father had done with me. In spite of the different lives we lived and the different religious perspectives we had, my father was determined to draw closer to me as a father and a friend while I experienced the pain of seeing my children choose different lifestyles and beliefs from mine. I realized I must follow the example of my father, who taught me how to treat children of a different faith: love them completely, just as the Savior would.

Now, let me introduce you to a group of twenty-five teenagers who have come to the temple at dawn to participate in the sacred ordinance of vicarious baptism. These young people had been found morally clean and worthy by their bishop. You see, bishops today are bound by the same guidelines as bishops of old, who were also taught: “Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully.” (Ps. 24:3–4.) There has always been a standard in the house of the Lord: that standard is purity and cannot be compromised.

These teenagers come in a spirit of reverence with the desire to do something for others who have lived before. One teenage girl made this comment: “Being baptized by immersion for one of my ancestors, who lived in the 1700s, made me very proud. I felt that she was right there with me. I know she was pleased and accepted the work that I did for her.”

For over 40 years, my great-grandfather, J. Hatten Carpenter, served as the recorder for the Manti Utah Temple. Each day he would walk from his home in Manti to the temple to fulfil his duties and responsibilities there. As the temple recorder, he was aware of sacred spiritual experiences that occurred in the temple.
One such experience he shared involved a patriarch watching vicarious baptisms being performed in the temple one day.
He recounts that the patriarch saw “the spirits of those for whom they were officiating in the font by proxy. There the spirits stood awaiting their turn, and, as the Recorder called out the name of a person to be baptized for, the patriarch noticed a pleasant smile come over the face of the spirit whose name had been called, and he would leave the group of fellow spirits and pass over to the side of the Recorder. There he would watch his own baptism performed by proxy, and then with a joyful countenance would pass away [to] make room for the next favored personage who was to enjoy the same privilege”1.
As time went on, the patriarch noticed that some of the spirits looked very sad. He realised that the people in the temple were finished with baptisms for the day. The unhappy spirits were those whose baptisms would not be performed that day.
My great-grandfather said, “‘I often think of this event … for I so often sit at the font, and call off the names for the ordinances to be performed which means so much to the dead.’”2