Gospel Story Finder

The next day in nearby Peñaflor a group of Saints gathered at another font to savor the fruits of missionary labors. Cool leaf-shadows from a neighbor’s fig tree patterned the white baptismal clothing and the bottom of the font. Patterns of light and dark lay on the wall behind them. The service was being held beneath the sky in the backyard of the branch president’s home, but no gleaming new chapel was ever filled with more solemn joy and reverence.

All in white, missionaries and converts stood side by side as the opening hymn was sung and the meaning of the baptismal ordinance explained in talks. A fresh breeze ruffled the leafy vegetables in the backyard garden and whispered through the trees. The shadows in the font shattered into facets of light as a wind ruffled the surface. Elder Sanchez conducted the meeting with quiet dignity. Elder Gonzales told of a bright new life on the other side of the baptismal waters. One by one candidates entered the water and were baptized. Sometimes the words of the ordinance were spoken in easy Chilean Spanish, and sometimes they carried a strong English accent, but always they were spoken clearly and with authority.

While the shadows grew quiet again in the font, the congregation sang gospel hymns until the officiators and candidates returned in their Sunday clothes. Now Elder Holbrook spoke humbly of the gift of the Holy Ghost. Firm, strong hands were laid on heads while words of confirmation were spoken. Afterwards there were hugs and handclasps. Some of the hands that clasped that day will remain to build up Chile. Others, in their proper time, will labor in vineyards far north, but the shadows of fig leaves, the wavering pattern on the baptismal waters, the cool, leafsweet breeze, the clouds mounting from the sea, the smell of spring flowers, the love written on faces and in hearts—these will go with everyone there although years and oceans and mountain ranges, and even death itself, may lie between them.

We must always be sure to make decisions in harmony with the commandments. To obey requires that we trust the Lord’s wisdom and love for us. The story of another young man, whom we will call Fred, illustrates: When Fred was eleven, he got a job delivering newspapers door-to-door and really began to prosper. He was still delivering papers at age sixteen. One day the manager of the newspaper, an inactive member of the Church, said, “Fred, you have been so loyal and done so well in selling subscriptions that I’m going to appoint you assistant manager of circulation of this newspaper. You’ll supervise the other delivery boys and teach them how to sell subscriptions. After school, upon finishing your route, you’ll be able to come to the office to work two or three hours. You’ll be able to do some homework while you’re waiting to answer customer telephone calls. All in all, it will be a great job for you. And by the way, your pay will be tripled.”
Fred was delighted. He was saving money for a mission. This was an ideal job, at a time when many teenagers had no work.
He said to himself over and over again, “The Lord truly does bless those who keep the commandments.” He knew he had always paid his tithing, kept the Sabbath day holy, and honored his priesthood.
After a successful year and a half, George, the newspaper manager, approached him with another opportunity. “You know, Fred, one week from now we’re going to begin delivering the Sunday paper. You will not only have a Sunday route to deliver in the morning, but you’ll have to stay in the office from about 7:00 A.M. to 2:00 in the afternoon. You’ll also receive a 30 percent increase in pay.”
When Fred didn’t look too happy at the news, the manager quickly added, “I know you’re a Mormon, and you may be thinking of not accepting this extra responsibility. But if you don’t take the job, you’ll lose your paper route and be fired from your weekday job as well. Many of my other paper boys would do anything to have your job.”
As Fred rode home on his bicycle that day, he was despondent. He prayed over and over, “How could this be, Heavenly Father? I have kept the commandments. I’ve tried to do what is right. I’ve paid my tithing. I’m trying to go on a mission. Now I may lose my job. Shall I work this added job on Sunday or not?”
He explained the problem to his father, who wisely responded, “I don’t know the answer, but I know someone above who does.” Fred talked to his bishop, who told him much the same thing his father had told him. For two full days Fred prayed and struggled. He knew that he could attend sacrament meetings in another ward later in the afternoon.
When his boss asked for a decision, Fred replied, “I like my job and my newspaper delivery route, but I cannot work on Sunday. It’s not right.”
“You’re fired!” said George angrily. “Come in Saturday to pick up your last paycheck. You’re a very ungrateful young man!”
For the next several days, the manager hardly spoke to Fred. But whenever Fred wondered if he had decided correctly, the answer seemed to be the same: “There may be some who have to work on Sunday, but you don’t have to, and you should not.”
When Fred went to pick up his last paycheck, he found George waiting for him. “Fred, please forgive me,” he said. “I was wrong. I ought not to have tried to make you go against your beliefs. I have found a young man of another faith who is willing to do the extra work on Sunday. You can keep your job. Will you?”
With a thankful heart, Fred answered, “Yes.”
The manager then added, “You’ll find the extra 30 percent I was going to pay you for the work on Sunday included in your paychecks from now on.”
What great joy Fred felt in his heart as he went home that afternoon. “It is worth it to keep the commandments of the Lord,” he said to himself. Of course, it would have been worth it even without the reward of the pay increase. A year later, when he gave his final talk before leaving for his mission, Fred was overjoyed to see his manager in the congregation. He felt even greater joy when, a few months ago, he learned that, after twenty-six years of inactivity, George is now a faithful high priest group leader in his ward.

In my growing-up years in Germany, I attended church in many different locations and circumstances—in humble back rooms, in impressive villas, and in very functional, modern chapels. All of these buildings had one important factor in common: the Spirit of God was present; the love of the Savior could be felt as we assembled as a branch or ward family.
The Zwickau chapel had an old air-driven organ. Every Sunday a young man was assigned to push up and down the sturdy lever that operated the bellows to make the organ work. Even before I was an Aaronic Priesthood bearer, I sometimes had the great privilege to assist in this important task.
While the congregation sang our beloved hymns of the Restoration, I pumped with all my strength so the organ would not run out of wind. The eyes of the organist unmistakably indicated whether I was doing fine or needed to increase my efforts quickly. I always felt honored by the importance of this duty and the trust that the organist had placed in me. It was a wonderful feeling of accomplishment to have a responsibility and to be part of this great work.
There was an additional benefit that came from this assignment: the bellows operator sat in a seat that offered a great view of a stained-glass window that beautified the front part of the chapel. The stained glass portrayed the First Vision, with Joseph Smith kneeling in the Sacred Grove, looking up toward heaven and into a pillar of light.
During the hymns of the congregation and even during talks and testimonies given by our members, I often looked at this depiction of a most sacred moment in world history. In my mind’s eye I saw Joseph receiving knowledge, witness, and divine instructions as he became a blessed instrument in the hand of our Heavenly Father.
I felt a special spirit while looking at the beautiful scene in this window picture of a believing young boy in a sacred grove who made a courageous decision to earnestly pray to our Heavenly Father, who listened and responded lovingly to him.
Here I was, a young boy in post–World War II Germany, living in a city in ruins, thousands of miles away from Palmyra in North America and more than a hundred years after the event actually took place. By the universal power of the Holy Ghost, I felt in my heart and in my mind that it was true, that Joseph Smith saw God and Jesus Christ and heard Their voices. The Spirit of God comforted my soul at this young age with an assurance of the reality of this sacred moment that resulted in the beginning of a worldwide movement destined to “roll forth, until it has filled the whole earth” (D&C 65:2). I believed Joseph Smith’s testimony of that glorious experience in the Sacred Grove then, and I know it now. God has spoken to mankind again!

One day in fourth grade I took a spelling test. I had studied and felt I knew the words well. When I got my paper back, it was marked 100 percent. But as I read over the words, I found that I had misspelled one. I thought about keeping the good grade, but decided that it wouldn’t be honest. So I told my teacher about my mistake. She looked at me and said, “Well, I’ll give you 100 percent anyway since you’re so honest.” It makes me feel good to know that I can follow the Savior and have eternal life.

Nellie and her sister eventually moved south from the Salt Lake Valley to Cedar City. Here Nellie married William Unthank and reared their six children. With a leather apron slid under her damaged legs, Nellie crawled about their small home on her knees, keeping it spotless.
Nellie willingly worked at whatever she could to help provide for her family. Along with other jobs, she took in other people’s clothes to wash, and made articles to sell to add to the family income. If anyone offered food or assistance, she insisted on repaying the favor. As a way of showing gratitude, she gathered her children once a year to clean the church meetinghouse. While the boys carried water, the girls washed windows, and Nellie scrubbed the floors.
William carved wooden “cup feet” for Nellie, but they only irritated her never-healing stumps. Later, through donations, wooden legs were given to Nellie, but these she only wore on special occasions, because they added to her constant pain.
Despite poverty and pain, Nellie rarely complained. She had come to know her Heavenly Father in her sufferings. From the shoes provided for her bare feet, the carriage sent when she couldn’t go on, help given to her through a lifetime of affliction, Nellie Pucell Unthank knew she could count on the Lord.

“Talc, granite, feldspar with aphanitic crystals, obsidian.” I quickly examined each rock and tossed it aside.
“Hey, I think I ought to go up to my grandma’s house for a couple of days. I’ve been planning on going for a long time, but you know how it is—always something. I could leave after school Thursday and be back on Saturday,” I said to Bev.
“Have you gotten those rocks down yet, gals?” Mr. Davis, our science teacher, stood above us clearing his throat and pushing his thick, black glasses onto his nose.
“What’s this one?”
“Umm, magnetite?” I answered.
“Way to go,” he patted me on the shoulder. “Test on Friday, remember?”
“Oh, I forgot!” I guess I can’t go to Grandma’s next weekend, I thought, but it just seems important that I go now.
“Could I possibly make up the test? My grandma’s been sick, and I was thinking of going to stay with her for a few days.”
“Uh, yeah, Carole, don’t worry about the test. Rocks are here to stay, but grandmas aren’t always around,” he smiled.
“Thanks.”
I was 17 and feeling very independent when I walked into the bus station. I bought my ticket, sat down on a long green bench, and waited. The stench of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Two boys laughed wildly as they stooped over a pinball machine. The rhythm of balls hitting bells started my foot tapping.
I’d never gone anywhere on my own before, and although my grandma lived only 80 miles from Orem, I didn’t feel like I really knew her. Sure we visited her a lot, but with the family it’s different. I was excited. I boarded the silver, shiny bus and waited impatiently as it cruised along. The familiar rugged granite mountains flashed past my window, then Salt Lake City streaked by, then Lagoon. Soon the bus pulled into Ogden. I rode the city busline to the stop near Grandma’s home. By the time I carried my small brown suitcase the two blocks up the hill to her house, my arms ached. It was an older home, white frame with blue trim, surrounded by junipers and tams. My knuckles pounded on the solid door. I waited smiling. The door opened slowly. Her distinct laugh made me laugh too as I embraced her fragile body. She was wearing her white and black polka-dot dress.
“You sweet girl. You came to stay with me. How’s S.J.?”
“He’s doing pretty well.”
She was always worrying about my dad and his health. For the next couple of hours we talked about my plans, school, art, relatives, my brothers and why they weren’t married yet. We even talked about the weather and a little politics. I could see where my dad got his conservative ideas from. Then Nana (as we usually called her) told me about Grandpa. I sat across from her on the tan sofa and listened. She had met him at a dance.
“He told his boyfriends he wanted to marry me that first night, but it took many sleigh rides, schooner rides down college hill, and buggy rides with Dad’s Ol’ Dahl to convince me,” she laughed. “We had a wonderful marriage.”
I tried to imagine my grandma young with Grandpa riding in a buggy. I couldn’t. I never knew Grandpa well; he died of a heart attack when I was only five.
Nana also helped me with my crocheting. She seemed pleased that I was making things and that she could be helpful. She always kept her hands busy making afghans and other things for her grandchildren.
As evening came I sensed a strain in Nana’s breathing. She grew weak and was soon having a very bad asthma attack. My mind went back to many family gatherings. Nana was always reaching into her purse for her throat syringe. I’d never heard her complain much about her asthma; she just accepted it with all the rest of life’s ups and downs. I helped her into an orange cotton housecoat with snaps down the front, and then into her high double bed. I wondered if she’d ever fallen out of it onto the hardwood floor. Already her usual cheery personality was fading along with the healthy color of her face.
“Carole, I’m sorry I had to get sick and ruin your visit.”
“Don’t feel bad about me,” I told her.
Slumped in the living room corner, I tried to keep my mind off her by reading, but her heavy gasping could be heard throughout the house. I checked on her every few minutes. I got out her heavy genealogy book and flipped through the pages. I stopped at the photos. There were pictures of her from when she was a baby to when she was about 25; she was pretty. I was surprised to see how much my baby pictures resembled hers. I recognized one of my uncles—Bill—her son. He was dead; death frightened me.
I checked on her again. It must be something like drowning, I worried, only it just continues on and on and she never actually drowns. She lay still on her large bed; her wheezing and slight moaning continued. Her face was pale, and the wrinkles were now deep crevices. I couldn’t help but think she looked like a body in a casket. They always put so much makeup on them, but they can’t hide the look of death. I was worried, frightened and I didn’t know what to do.
“Are you awake?” I whispered, although I knew she was.
“Yes.”
“Do you think we should call someone to come and administer to you?”
She nodded. “Call Carol Garner; she’ll know what to do.”
I found her number in Nana’s little address book. Scribbled among the addresses and telephone numbers were little thoughts, reminders, and an occasional recipe. I recognized a familiar thought, “What ere thou art, act well thy part.” Nana always knew who she was and acted accordingly. I called Carol; she said she would send some priesthood holders over as soon as possible.
About an hour later a knock came at the door. With relief I opened it to the two men dressed in suits and ties.
“Hello, I’m your grandma’s bishop, Bishop Thompson, and this is my counselor Brother Wells.”
“I’m Carole,” I said as I showed them into my grandma’s room.
“How are you feeling, Sister Thayne?” the young bishop said and touched her hand.
“Oh,” she smiled weakly, “I haven’t had such a bad spell in years. My granddaughter, the sweet thing, came all the way up here to stay with me. She’s been taking good care of me.”
“It sure is lucky she came when she did.” Brother Wells glanced at me.
“Inspiration,” Nana whispered.
The two priesthood holders stood above her as she lay upon her bed. Brother Wells anointed her, and Bishop Thompson sealed the anointing and began the blessing.
“We, the elders of Israel, lay our hands upon one of thy fine servants, Irene Erickson Thayne, a dear lady who has given much of her time unto the service of others … and we ask that she might be comforted and might get the rest that is so badly needed for recovery. Thy will be done. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
“Amen,” I repeated.
I gave them each a cherry chocolate on Nana’s orders. Detecting my worry, they lingered a few minutes longer.
Bishop Thompson clasped my hand in a shake.” Call us if you need us.”
“I’m sure she’ll be all right,” Brother Wells assured.
“Thanks for everything.”
They left and I shut the door behind them, alone again, responsible for Nana’s life. The dark muffling still of the night continued. I read, prayed, worried, and listened, listened to the constant gasping for breath, not conscious of my own breath.
I glanced at the clock: 1:15. I tiptoed into Nana’s room. Her face was white, and her hair was matted.
“I hope,” her voice faltered, “my wheezing isn’t keeping you awake. Close your door so you can sleep.”
“Don’t worry about me; just try to get some sleep yourself,” my voice shook.
Leaving my door open I crept into bed and buried myself between the cool nylon knit sheets. My body was motionless, and my eyes fixed on the flowered drapes. My ears were alert, almost expecting the heavy breathing to falter and quit. I heard her struggle out of bed and her feet drag slowly into the hallway. She paused at my door and closed it; then the steps slowly returned.
At 2:35 I quietly slipped into her room again, her body lay sideways on the bed, and her feet hung over the edge. She had been too weak to pull herself back on the high mattress. I moved her so she would be lying straight and pulled the covers over her. Her shaking hand reached for mine. I clasped it.
“Thank-you, you’re sweet.”
I glanced at the baby photograph on her dresser of Dorothy, her first child. She was killed on her first New Year’s Eve. My grandpa was driving the car, and a drunk driver hit them head-on. Nana nearly died and was unconscious for eight days, waking up to find out her only daughter was dead.
Again I crept into bed and listened until fatigue overcame me.
Early that morning I awoke with the cold memory of where I was and what had happened during the night. I couldn’t hear her wheezing. I was scared and wondered if she was all right. Apprehensively I slithered out of bed and went into Nana’s room. She was still, but as I walked nearer I could hear her breathing softly in a deep rest. Grateful, I slipped out of the room. It was as if she had been immersed in water the night before but struggled to the top for air and had won, this time.
A couple of days later I again sat at the black desk in E-21, measuring with my fingernails the pink crystals in a piece of granite. Mr. Davis cleared his throat above me.
“Well, Carole, how’s Grandma?”
I held the rock tight in my hand and thought of her soft grasp. Like the rock, “she’s still around.”

Shawn stared at the cracked picture frame lying on the floor. He knew that he shouldn’t have been tossing his football in the house. He certainly hadn’t meant for the ball to hit the picture of Grandma and Grandpa and knock it off the table.
Mother was going to be upset when she saw it. She always dusted the frame carefully and placed it carefully on the table. It was a very special picture to her. Grandma had given it to her when Grandpa died. Grandpa had made the frame himself. The more Shawn thought about what he’d done, the worse he felt.
He put the frame back on the table, stood back, and squinted. He could still see the ugly black line running through the carved side of the frame. He knew that it wasn’t possible, but the line seemed to be growing bigger and blacker.
No one had seen him kick the ball or break the frame. No one else knew he had broken the family’s rule about playing ball in the house. Only he knew how the frame had been broken. But he did know—and Heavenly Father knew too.
Shawn could hear Mother out in the garden, pulling weeds and singing. “She won’t be singing when she sees this,” he said to himself.
He knew what he should do, but he didn’t want to make Mother unhappy.
He liked to hear her sing. He liked to see her smile and hear her happy voice. Shawn knew that when she found out what he had done, she wouldn’t be singing or smiling or saying happy words.
“I guess I’d better get it over with,” he said to himself as he walked through the house and out the back door to the garden. “Mom, can we talk about something?”
“Sure. What’s up. Shawn?”
He hung his head. “I don’t think you are going to like me very much any more. I did something awful.”
She pulled him down to sit by her in the garden. “What ever you have done, Shawn, I will still love you. Remember how we talked about Heavenly Father’s love for us? He loves us even when he doesn’t love the thing we have done. That is how I love you. Now tell me about what you did.”
Shawn began to tell her about the picture frame and the football. His voice shook and tears rolled down his cheeks as he told his mother how sorry he was for not obeying the rules and for breaking the frame. “Maybe I could earn some money and pay for a new frame,” he offered.
“Let’s go in and see just how bad it is.” After looking at it, she said, “Shawn, I think we can mend this with some glue.”
Shawn ran to get the glue while Mother slipped the picture out of the frame. Together they glued the crack securely. When it was dry, Mother put the picture back in the frame and placed it on the table. “There,” she said. “It’s fixed.”
Shawn stared at the frame. Even with the pieces glued together, the ugly black crack stretched across one side of the frame. How could Mother say it was fixed? “It looks terrible!” he groaned.
Shawn’s mother put her arms around him. “Not to me,” she said gently. “To me it looks wonderful. When I look at the picture, I think of your grandma and grandpa and how much I love them. When I look at the frame, I think especially of Grandpa and all the great times we had together. And when I look at the crack in the frame, I think about a son who told the truth even when it was hard—and that’s the best treasure in the whole world!”

While serving as a mission president, I presided over the membership council of a brother that resulted in the withdrawal of his Church membership. This man repented of his sins and after a year was authorized to be rebaptized.
After his baptism, I received an email from him that read: “Dear President, yesterday the ordinance of baptism was performed, and I can assure you that I feel like new. A miracle was performed within me. The sacrifice of the Lord Jesus Christ became effective in me. Today, I feel free from the oppression of sin. I know that I would not have achieved this alone. My leaders and my wife helped me keep my sights on the goal. Christ is my Savior. The miracle of forgiveness exists.”

I had many responsibilities on our farm at a young age. When I was nine years old, one of my summer jobs was to keep a herd of twelve cows and twelve calves in the pasture. Unfortunately, they loved to push over our fence and gorge on the sweet alfalfa in an adjoining field. On one of their escapes, they got into an empty canal some twelve to fourteen feet deep. I knew that the canal would soon fill with water, drowning the trapped cattle.
I couldn’t move twenty-four cattle up the canal’s steep banks, and I didn’t know how else to save them, so I knelt and prayed for help. I was impressed to drive the cattle down the canal to another man’s property. I questioned the wisdom of this, because I didn’t know the property or its owner and I didn’t want to get stuck between even steeper banks. I obeyed the Spirit, however, and soon found a section of the canal where the cattle could climb out easily. And our neighbor didn’t mind. When I told my mother, she said that I had been inspired by Heavenly Father.

Vroom! Peter’s new remote-controlled car seemed to roar to life. It zigzagged through crumpled wrapping paper. It zoomed under the Christmas tree, its blue paint reflecting the lights.
When Peter had unwrapped his present that morning, he just knew it would be the fastest race car around. He was planning to make a race track for it.
But first Peter had to go to the homeless shelter with his family. Last week they had decided to help serve dinner to people there on Christmas night. Peter had liked the idea then. But now he just wanted to keep playing with his car.
Peter slowly put his boots on. “Why can’t I stay home?” he grumbled.
Dad ruffled Peter’s hair. “Getting toys for Christmas is fun. But Christmas is really about Jesus. That’s why we wanted to celebrate His birth by doing something He would do—helping others.”
Peter still didn’t feel like going. But he trudged out the door anyway.
Once they got to the shelter, a lady led them to the kitchen. Peter followed her to his spot, and she handed him a spoon. His job was to serve green beans. Yuck! he thought.
People started coming in the cafeteria. One by one, they moved through the line. Peter dumped a spoonful of green beans on each plate. Scoop, plop. Scoop, plop. He couldn’t think of anything more boring. His mind kept going back to the race track he wanted to build.
Peter scooped another spoonful of green beans. When he looked up he saw a boy sliding his tray closer. Peter spooned the beans onto the boy’s plate. He looked up again, and their eyes met. The boy smiled. “Thank you!” he said. Peter watched him sit down by a tall woman. They looked happy. That made Peter happy too.
Maybe Dad was right, Peter thought. He could play with his toys anytime. But coming here was special. He thought about how Jesus spent His life helping people. And wasn’t Christmas about celebrating Jesus’s birthday?
When the next person came through the line, Peter smiled as he scooped beans onto her plate.
“Merry Christmas,” Peter said.
He tried to smile at everyone who came through the line. Not everyone smiled back, and that was OK.
On the ride home, Peter looked at Dad. “I think I understand what you said earlier, about what Christmas is really about.”
“Oh yeah?”
“It’s not about getting stuff,” Peter said. “Helping people is more important.”
“I think you’re right,” said Dad. “And maybe we can come back soon to help again.”
Peter grinned as he looked out the window. He was glad he’d spent Christmas night helping others, like Jesus would.

“Can you come and help?”
It’s a question Gerald and Lorna Malmrose of Washington, USA, had answered before. They said yes when their former bishop, then a mission president, asked if they could serve with him in the West Indies. They said yes again when their stake president called them to fulfill a service mission at Church headquarters in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, working with computers and human resources.
When their former bishop and mission president, Reid Robison, called again, this time as president of the missionary training center in Accra, Ghana, he asked if the Malmroses would help once again.
“We knew we could trust the Lord,” Elder Malmrose says. “So we decided to trust Him again.” They said yes, completed their recommendation forms, received their call, and soon were in Ghana.
The Malmroses’ experiences demonstrate some principles about senior couples serving missions that may not be widely understood:
There are two types of missions. (1) The President of the Church calls senior couples to serve either from their own home or away from home. (2) A stake president calls Church-service missionary couples to fill local or regional needs part-time, from 8 to 32 hours per week. They usually live and serve locally but sometimes may serve away from home.
Mission presidents are encouraged to find couples who can meet needs in their mission, and couples may indicate their preferences. “We’re not saying that couples can pick and choose their own missionary assignments,” explained Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “A call is still a call. … [But] we talk to our senior couples about their service preferences, and every consideration is given to letting them serve where and how they want to serve.”1
Mission presidents counsel with couples about how to best use their skills and abilities. “To have the most meaningful experience as a senior couple,” President Robison says, “you need to have the opportunity to work both in areas you’re passionate about and where you have a skill level that makes you feel you have something to offer.”
For example, President Robison knew that Elder Malmrose speaks French, helpful because many Africans speak French. “I had envisioned him being involved in travel and working on visas,” President Robison says. “But when he got here, I sensed that wasn’t his true interest. So I invited him to use his computer skills. He has saved us hours and hours.” Elder Malmrose also helps missionaries, especially French-speaking missionaries, prepare names and do temple work for their families. Sister Malmrose, a certified medical assistant, was assigned to work with the mission doctor and nurse.
Like the Malmroses, other couples find that when they trust the Lord, He prepares the way. That’s what happened for Alvin and Corazon Rieta of Kawit, Cavite, in the Philippines.
“Two years prior to our decision to serve, we began putting into place firm plans for our family business,” Elder Rieta explains. “Our son and daughter had graduated from college and could take over for us, but we wondered who would solve business problems and how our clients would react to our plans.”
Sister Rieta was also concerned about leaving her aging mother. “I was afraid we might lose her while we were away,” she says. “I also felt unequal to the challenge of teaching the gospel.”
They counseled with their bishop and with a couple who had recently served in Davao. “All of them bore strong testimonies that the Lord would guide each couple to know how to deal with their affairs at home, their family, and the funds for their mission,” Sister Rieta says.
“As we sought guidance,” Elder Rieta says, “our fears were addressed—our business went well in spite of challenges, our clients expressed joy and support, and our family drew closer together in taking care of our sick mother. We began to understand that the Lord truly would help us.”
The Rietas now serve in member and leadership support in the Philippines Cagayan de Oro Mission.
Some couples wonder about physical limitations, but not Keith and Jennilyn Mauerman of Utah, USA. Years ago, four months after they were married in the Los Angeles California Temple, Keith was drafted and sent into combat. An airborne squad leader, he was walking ahead of the other soldiers when a land mine exploded. He lost both legs. When he arrived back home, Jennilyn rushed to his side.
“I knew I didn’t have to worry,” Keith says, “because we have an eternal marriage. My wife has supported me all along. She still sustains me every day.”
When Sister Mauerman retired, they decided to serve a mission. But would Elder Mauerman’s being a double amputee cause a problem? “There are always things I can’t do,” he says, “but there are so many things I can do, we knew there would be a place for us.”
While completing their recommendation forms, he checked a box indicating he had served in the military. Soon they received a call from Church Military Relations. “I had an ID card that would allow us to enter military bases, so they asked our permission to recommend us for a military relations mission.”
The Mauermans were called to serve at a military base in North Carolina, USA. Elder Mauerman recalls: “The sign at the gate said ‘Fort Bragg, Home of the Airborne.’ When the guard greeted us with the airborne motto ‘All the Way!’ it was the first time I had heard it in years. It felt like home, even though I had never been to Fort Bragg. I knew our mission call was a perfect fit and that the Lord is mindful of me.”
“We taught lessons about becoming self-reliant and resilient and about strengthening marriage,” Sister Mauerman says. “Initially we didn’t want to share our story, but we found that sharing it made all the difference. Soldiers and their spouses looked at us and said, ‘If you can do it, we can too.’”
The Mauermans had such a positive experience in North Carolina that they asked to serve again. Today they travel about 40 miles (64 km) from their home in Orem to Salt Lake City two times a week to serve in the Church Military Relations office. They also teach senior couples at the missionary training center in Provo, where they find that just about every group includes somebody who has overcome obstacles in order to serve.
Called to the Brazil Cuiabá Mission, Randy and Lou Ellen Romrell of Utah were concerned. Although Elder Romrell had served in Brazil as a young missionary, he’d let his Portuguese slip. And Sister Romrell didn’t know Portuguese. Study and effort, however, helped Elder Romrell’s Portuguese skills to return and Sister Romrell’s to grow. So did a ukulele.
“I wasn’t really planning to bring it,” Sister Romrell says, “but Elder Romrell was inspired to, and it’s amazing to see what it’s done. As we teach investigators and work on reactivation and fellowship, it’s fun to use it to get people to sing hymns. We learn the language, and the hymns bring a strong spirit with them.”
Even though her Portuguese skills are still developing, she is already fluent in music. “Music brings people together,” she says. “Even if I can’t understand everything they say during a visit, when we sing, we connect.” Invited to speak in schools about the American holiday of Thanksgiving, the Romrells sang hymns of gratitude—accompanied by ukulele. And Sister Romrell also uses a more conventional instrument, the piano, to accompany hymns at church.
And Portuguese? “Even if you’re not fluent, learning just a few words helps,” she says. “Simply saying hello and greeting people goes a long way. Let them know you’re learning. Make it simple and rely on the Spirit.” And the Spirit, of course, is another language everyone can share.
Paul and Mar Jean Lewis from Utah had already served three missions together (Palmyra New York Temple; Hong Kong China Temple; and Croatia, Serbia, and Slovenia with seminaries and institutes). They were preparing to serve another when their stake president asked, “Would you be willing to serve right here in our own stake, supporting the mission we live in?”
“We’re new here, so it was a wonderful opportunity,” Sister Lewis says. “We serve with the young elders and sisters, have a close association with the mission president, go to district and zone meetings, and work with ward mission leaders.” They also visit investigators and those who are less active.
“We have met wonderful people we would never have known otherwise,” Sister Lewis says, “including some who have drifted off the path. To see them come back, receive ordinances, and go to the temple is a wonderful blessing.”
“Many couples, when they think about serving a mission, are worried about what they’ll do with their home and their car or what they’ll miss out on with their family,” Elder Lewis says. “We’ve been able to live in our own house and drive our own car. We are encouraged to go to family activities, as long as they don’t interfere with missionary responsibilities. And we were even here for the birth of a grandchild.”
On the other hand, Jill and Kent Sorensen, who are from the same stake, say one of the best ways to strengthen their family has been to serve away from home. Sister Sorensen says, “One of the main excuses couples give for not going is grandkids, married children with struggles, daughters expecting babies, aging parents—you name it. Family is a priority, and you miss them every day. But going on a mission sends a powerful message that missionary work is important too.”
Besides, Elder Sorensen notes, “there are so many ways to keep in touch now that you can check in all the time.”
The Sorensens’ missionary journey began three years ago, when their bishop asked them to host monthly firesides for couples contemplating missionary service. “After talking about it constantly,” Sister Sorensen says, “we had to go ourselves!” They received a call to serve in the Cook Islands, where Jill’s grandparents served 50 years ago.
Today, among other duties, they are asked to teach Bible classes in schools.
“We talk about Christ being the rock,” Elder Sorensen says. “We give the students a small rock and encourage them to remain rock solid in Christ. Now everywhere we go, people say, ‘Rock solid!’ when they see us.”
If you are contemplating a full-time mission or a Church-service mission, all of these couples would ask you the same question President Robison asked Gerald and Lorna Malmrose: “Can you come and help?” And they will tell you that, no matter how you participate, this promise is sure: You are needed, you can contribute, and you will be blessed and loved.

I was a boy during the Great Depression. I remember children wearing galoshes because they had no shoes and going hungry because they had no food. These were difficult times.
A bright light of hope shining amidst the gloom was Primary. I was 10 years old. I had a marvelous teacher. I look back upon that year as my finest in Primary, and I must say it was because of my wonderful teacher. It wasn’t because the boys in the class were particularly enlightened or unusually well behaved; on the contrary.
The laughter of the boys and the chatter of the girls at times must have been most disconcerting to our Primary leaders.
One day as we left the chapel for our classrooms, I noted that our Primary president remained behind. I paused and observed her. She sat all alone on the front row of the benches, took out her handkerchief, and began to weep. I walked up to her and said, “Sister Georgell, don’t cry.”
She said, “I’m sad.”
I responded, “What’s the matter?”
She said, “I can’t control the Trail Builders.* Will you help me?”
Of course I answered, “Yes.”
She said, “Oh, that would be wonderful, Tommy, if you would.”
What I didn’t know then is that I was one of those responsible for her tears. She had effectively enlisted me to aid in achieving reverence in our Primary. And we did.

This story happened in Germany.
“There is sunshine in my soul today!” Matvii sang. His mom and brother, Tymofii, sang with him. It was dark outside the car window. But the song helped everything feel a little brighter.
It was a scary time for Matvii and his family. They were moving to Germany because their home wasn’t safe anymore. They had traveled for two days, and now they were almost there. A bishop here in Germany was driving them to a place to stay.
Matvii was glad Heavenly Father helped them get to Germany safely. But he missed Dad. He had to stay behind in their country because of a war. Matvii worried about him a lot.
The bishop parked the car outside a house. “Welcome to my home.”
Matvii grabbed his bag and followed his family inside. It was quiet. The bishop’s family must have gone to bed already.
“You can stay in Mats’s and Lore’s rooms while you’re here,” the bishop said.
“Wait,” said Mom. “They don’t have to give up their rooms for us.”
The bishop smiled. “They are happy to do it. We want you to feel comfortable.”
Mom nodded. “Thank you.”
In the morning, Matvii and Tymofii went to the kitchen for breakfast. The bishop sat at the table with a boy and girl. They didn’t look much older than Matvii.
“These are my kids Mats and Lore,” the bishop said.
“Nice to meet you,” said Tymofii.
Mats and Lore looked a little confused.
“They don’t speak your language,” the bishop said. “But I’m sure you’ll be good friends.”
Matvii frowned. How could they be friends if they couldn’t talk to each other? He felt like the sunshine he had been singing about last night was gone.
After they ate, Mats and Lore showed them a playroom. Two younger children were playing with some toys. Matvii guessed they were Mats and Lore’s younger siblings.
Mats said something. It sounded like a question, but Matvii didn’t know what he said. Mats sat down and opened a box of cards. He sorted them into piles. Then he and Lore picked up their cards. Matvii wanted to play. But he didn’t know how!
Mats laid down a card and looked at Matvii. He said something again.
Matvii wanted to cry. He didn’t want to live in Germany if he couldn’t understand anyone.
Lore said something to Mats, then ran off to the closet. She came back and set a new game on the floor.
Matvii knew this game. The wooden pieces looked like the ones he had at home. It was chess! He had played chess with Dad for hours. Matvii nodded happily. He knew how to play this one.
Lore smiled big and started setting up the pieces.
Matvii moved his pawn two squares and watched as Lore moved her knight. Then Matvii moved his bishop to Lore’s knight. He and Tymofii cheered. Lore made a frustrated sound, but she was smiling.
They played for a long time. Soon they were laughing. They didn’t understand each other’s words, but they still had fun.
Over the next few weeks, they found other games they all knew. They played football outside with other German kids. Matvii learned a few words in German too. Sometimes he made mistakes, but he kept trying.
Matvii still missed his dad and his home. But he was grateful Heavenly Father had helped him make new friends.
Illustrations by Hannah Li

My grandma came to our house in Wyoming once. We live in a valley in the mountains. Sometimes deer and elk nibble at our trees. Grandma didn’t come to see the animals. She came to make lefse. She and Mom bought lots of red potatoes. I helped wash them. Then they mixed the potatoes with other things to make the lefse dough. The dough is like the quilt, because it is made up of many different pieces. The different pieces taste much better mixed together.
Grandma’s lefse has more potatoes than anything else. Our family is made mostly of potatoes. I mean that like the ingredients of lefse are mostly alike (potatoes), the members (ingredients) of our family are a lot alike—but not exactly. For instance, I like to make snow angels, but even though Grandma used to do that, now she usually stays inside on cold, snowy days. And we all go to church on Sundays, but Grandma goes to a different one.
Grandma and Mom made round balls out of the lefse dough. Then they flattened the balls into thin circles bigger than our dinner plates. The circles looked like tortillas, only tortillas are made of corn, not potatoes. I tried to make a “lefse tortilla,” but my circle looked like a squashed white tomato. Grandma started giggling when she saw it. I giggled too. Then Grandma fixed my lefse.
She and Mom cooked the lefse on our griddle until it made little brown spots on the dough. Using a long stick that looks like a sword, they picked up each lefse circle and turned it over. I tried to turn mine over, but it slid off the stick onto the stove. Grandma helped me put it back on the griddle. When the lefse was all cooked, we put butter and brown sugar on one side and rolled them up. It tastes really good! I like lefse.

“After traveling along several hundred kilometers the monotony was broken by our cattle stampeding. It seemed the longer we went and the harder the cattle worked, the easier they got frightened. The one that terrified me the most was at night. We had had one or two stampedes before so the cattle were prepared for one at any moment. I think it was because of the Indians, or it might have been the large herds of buffalo that we saw daily, that our company was counseled to corral their animals every night. At night the cattle were turned out to feed, they were watched and herded, then brought into the corral. It was made with wagons formed in a large circle with the wheels touching each other with one opening to drive them in, then logs were put across the opening, so they were perfectly secure.
“We were in buffalo country. We had heard what a terrible thing their stampedes were, and that not long before a large herd had started on their mad run and that when those in front came to a high bluff of the Platte River, they dashed in and made a bridge for the last ones who trampled to death and drowned their companions.
“One night about two o’clock the whole camp was peacefully sleeping when all at once there came an awful sound of tramping and bellowing, the ground shook, our wagon trembled and rocked. It flashed through my mind in a moment that a herd of buffalo was stampeding and that we would all be trampled to death. So I covered my head and prepared to die. Mother soon called out to Phebe and myself since there was no sound from our little bedroom (the front end of the wagon). I gave a smothered answer from under the bed clothes that I was alive.
“All at once there was a change. It was our own cattle that had broken out of the corral. Something had frightened them and then they started on their wild, mad run. They had run around and around inside and then broken through the logs blocking the opening. Nothing could hold them back. They scattered over the country for many kilometers. It took our men days and days to gather them back again, and they looked terrible, those that were left, for some died from exhaustion and others were killed. One pair of the captain’s cows ran up a very steep hill, fell backwards and broke their necks—one pair less to pull his wagon and one pair less to milk (oh the delicious milk—what a luxury on the plains).
“In that stampede there were two or three men hurt, one quite badly. He was a gold digger going to California who had overtaken us and was traveling with our company a while. The California emigrants traveled much faster than the Mormon emigrants. In trying to stop the cattle he was knocked down and trampled on. His groans were hideous. I did not see him again until one day the next winter, when he visited us. During all the time he was there he was down on his knees. He could stand up but could not sit down. I never heard from him again after he left for the gold mines. Old cattlemen say that tame, domestic horned cattle are the most crazy and wildest of all animals in a stampede. It is remarkable, but they seem to start all at once, just as if lightning had struck every one at the same instant.”

“GOLD! Gold!” I shouted, running my fingers through the sand. Everywhere I looked, gold sparkled in the sand. It wasn’t fool’s gold, either—it was real! That’s why it’s called Gold Bluffs Beach.
Above the sound of the rushing waves, my sister, Lisa, was calling, “Ryan, come wade in the ocean with me.”
I paid no attention but began stuffing my pockets full of sand and gold. Soon my pockets were bulging, so I bent over and poured sand inside my shoes.
“What are you doing?” a voice behind me boomed.
I looked through my legs at Lisa. “I’m gathering gold,” I replied, my head still upside down. “I’m going to be rich. I’m going to buy a swimming pool and the fastest bicycle in the neighborhood and—”
Lisa wasn’t listening. “Mom and Dad want you to come see the Roosevelt elk,” she said.
Trying to follow Lisa down the beach wasn’t easy. I could barely waddle along in my lumpy shoes full of sand. But I was not giving up my gold.
The next day I came prepared. I brought a big garbage bag from our campground. After Mom fell asleep on a beach blanket and Lisa and Dad went for a walk in the redwood trees on the bluff, I began furiously scooping the glittering sand into my bag.
“What are you doing?” asked a voice.
Startled, I looked up into the puzzled face of a boy a few years older than I.
“I’m going to get rich on this gold,” I announced.
“Well, you’re going to have a rough time of it,” he laughed. “No one has ever figured out how to get the gold out of the sand.”
“How do you know?” I retorted.
“I’ve lived here all my life,” replied the boy. “My father’s a ranger at this park.”
“Well, I bet my dad can get the gold out of this sand. He’s an engineer, and he can do anything.”
“I wish you luck,” the boy said with a shrug.
I watched him saunter down the beach, then settle on a smooth, whitened log and begin to read a book. He often looked up and gazed thoughtfully at the ocean, then underlined something or wrote a few words in the book’s margin.
Once he called to me and motioned down the beach. “See the elk—aren’t they magnificent! That one bull really has a big rack of antlers.”
I glanced at the big animals in the distance. Their chocolate-colored heads and necks stood out against their creamy bodies.
I looked down again. Gold was more exciting than elk. Heaving the bag over my shoulder, I searched for the sand with the most sparkles. When my bag got heavy, I began stuffing sand in my pockets. I decided to rest on a log near the trees at the edge of the beach. I struggled over to it, turning my back to drag the bag the last few feet. Just as I reached the log, I lost my balance and keeled over backward, landing in a heap on the other side of it.
Suddenly I flinched. My hand was resting on something soft and furry. Then something bleated loudly right in my ear. I jerked around. Right in front of my freckled nose was a black quivering nose. My eyes traveled past the long, floppy ears to the brown, spotted body. “An elk calf!” I gasped.
The tiny elk bleated again. Then I heard an enormous grunt.
“Look out!” shrieked the boy with the book.
I staggered up. In horror, I saw a huge cow elk charging down the beach toward me, her ears flattened against her head.
“She thinks that you’re hurting her baby,” cried the boy. Dropping his book, he ran toward the cow, trying to distract her.
I grabbed the top of my sack and tried to drag it with me, but it snagged on the log and broke. Gold-filled sand spilled all over as I lumbered away without it. Then the sand spilled from my pockets—the seams had broken from its weight.
Shaking with fear and exhaustion, I looked over my shoulder. Snorting and pawing, the cow had stopped beside her calf. She glowered at me a long time before finally lowering her head to nudge her baby.
The boy rushed up beside me. “Are you all right?” He led me to his log where I collapsed, trembling.
His small book still lay there where he had dropped it. The Pearl of Great Price—so he likes treasure, too, I thought. I got up shakily, lamenting, “We have to go back to Fremont tonight, and now I have to start all over again to get more gold.”
The boy shook his head. “After all this, I thought that maybe you’d give up.”
“Oh no,” I said, “I want to be rich.”
“What would you do if you were rich?”
“I’d buy the tallest stilts in town, a life-size transformer, maybe a whole toy store!” I was still dreaming about my toy store as I asked, “What would you get if you were rich?”
“All the money in the world couldn’t buy what I want most.”
“Really?”
He looked wistfully out at the sunlight dancing on the water. “I want to give my mother back her eyesight.”
Suddenly I forgot about my toy store.
The boy gazed down the beach, where the elk were now frolicking in the surf. They bounded and kicked and tossed their heads. “Sometimes I bring my mother here. She can feel the warm sand squish through her toes. She can hear the waves lap on the beach. But it’s not the same as seeing those beautiful elk splashing in the water, or a pink sunset stretching across the ocean.”
He motioned toward the redwood forest on the bluff. “Sometimes I take her walking in there. She can hear the breezes rustling, and she can feel the rough bark of the huge trees. But it’s not the same as being able to look up and up along one of them until it towers out of sight.
“But my mother says that she’s happy. She says that it gives her comfort to know that the very biggest ones were living when Jesus Christ was born. She says that when she’s resurrected, she’ll see the redwoods and the ocean and the elk with her own eyes. Best of all, she’ll see the Savior with her own eyes.”
“Oh,” I gulped, not knowing what to say.
The boy chuckled, not unkindly. “You know, you remind me of the man who built his house upon the sand.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been building your dreams on a pile of sand. Even when you were charged by a dangerous elk, you tried to drag your sand with you. For me, I’d rather build my dreams on something that can’t spill out of my pockets.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A faith in God like my mother’s,” he answered.
“Oh,” I said. I pointed to The Pearl of Great Price. “Is the ‘house on the sand’ story in that book?”
“No, it’s in the Bible and the Book of Mormon.”
I’d never read the Bible, and I’d never even heard of the Book of Mormon. “So what’s in this book?”
“It explains a lot about why God created us.”
“Wow!” As I reached for the book, Dad called. I groaned, “Oh, no! I have to go now. I really wanted to see that book.”
“Quick,” the boy said, “write down your address on my bookmark, and I’ll ask some people I know in Fremont to give you one, OK?”
“OK!” I said, scribbling my name and address. “Thanks.”
As I hurried off, I looked back at The Pearl of Great Price in the sand. I had forgotten all about the gold there.

Meanwhile, faithful members of the Church had resided in the German Democratic Republic and in Czechoslovakia during decades of political duress. Of course, no missionary couples served there. Members’ activities were limited by the restrictive regimes of those lands. For example, the first time Sister Nelson and I visited Czechoslovakia in 1975, I had been invited to participate in a medical capacity. While in Prague, we met with a few Saints in a member’s apartment, which we accessed up a dimly lighted stairway. Well do we remember meeting the fifteen-year-old daughter of two members who indicated that they had never before revealed to their daughter their affiliation with the Church. That night—for the first time—she was being entrusted with that potentially dangerous information. After the meeting was over, the district president dropped us off some distance from our hotel so that police would not identify him in our presence. Under such imposed limitations, there was no hope of missionary work either in Czechoslovakia or in the German Democratic Republic, both of which had been blessed with missionaries prior to the onset of the Second World War.

READER 2: One 18-year-old boy stood on the deck of a troop ship out in the Pacific.
READER 1: He didn’t really want to be there.
READER 2: He really wanted to be on a baseball diamond. For almost all of his 18 years, he had wanted to be on a baseball diamond, and five major league scouts were considering him.
READER 1: Then Uncle Sam called. Suddenly he didn’t have a bat in his hand.
READER 4: He had a rifle, and he was on a troop ship.
READER 2: The water was almost like glass. The ship lay there still and calm.
READER 4: Three thousand men were crowded onto the bow of the ship singing “Abide with Me.”
READER 2: Then the chaplain started speaking:
READER 3: Now, men, I’m not going to kid you tonight. You’ve been training for what you’re going to do for the last year, and you know full well what’s before you. All our statistics tell us that a lot of you aren’t going to make it. About half of you will lay your lives down in this attack. What I’m saying, men, is that half of you will be standing before your Maker tomorrow morning before 8 o’clock. Are you ready?
READER 1: And the boy Paul, who wanted most of all to be a big league baseball star, suddenly wanted very much to know the answers to certain questions: Does God really live? Why am I out here? Does he care about me?
READER 2: The whistle went off at 5 o’clock in the morning, and he was assigned to the seventh wave.
READER 4: The first six waves didn’t even get ashore. They were completely blown out of the water.
READER 5: By then the tide was in, and I had to wade ashore in water clear up to my chest. I had to push through the dead bodies of my friends. I was asking a lot of questions. Why’s that wonderful 19-year-old kid lying face down in the water there? Why? Finally I was pulled ashore and I got about 10 feet on the beach where I dug a small—a mighty small—hole. There I took off my helmet and started to ask the Lord why? “Why, Lord? Why should I be out here? Do you live? Are you real? Is Jesus Christ really a Savior? Is Joseph Smith a prophet?” And then it came, that sweet, inner commitment and verification. It was Spirit touching spirit, saying in a solid voice: “It is so.” A testimony was born because I asked with real intent to know. I really wanted to know. “Are you there, Lord? Will you tell me?” And he did.
(Music: 20 second organ interlude “Abide with Me”)

You may know that I am the mother of seven sons. I know boys! It has been an exciting life at our house! I’ve learned a lot from them and from their friends, both boys and girls, and I could tell you a few of their secrets. Maybe I could just share one and hope that I won’t get in trouble. This is it: boys hate to be embarrassed. I remember the time a young man I know had a date for the prom. He brought her to our house before the dance so we could take pictures. When they got there he came into the kitchen, where I was looking for the camera, and said: “Wait until you see my date’s dress. She looks so beautiful!” This boy had never said anything like that before so I could hardly wait to see what he meant.

When I saw her I understood; she was lovely. The dress she was wearing was beautiful; I learned that she and her mother had searched everywhere for it. When they finally found this dress, they knew it would be perfect with some added fabric and finishing touches to meet their high standards.

All their efforts were rewarded because she was absolutely radiant this night, but it was more than the dress that made her shine. It was her quiet confidence. As I looked at her, I was reminded of the scripture, “Let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong.” Where did this confidence that she had come from? I noticed that this young woman could focus on others because she was not worried about how she looked. She had taken care of that detail weeks before. The young man she was with felt comfortable and safe and happy when he was with her because her dress was not revealing. It was modest in every way, and this made her confident and happy. And that’s appealing. He wasn’t embarrassed by her; he was proud of her.

The kind of young woman who can be a terrific torchbearer has high standards all the time, not just in her prom dress, but every, ordinary day. There are so many of you who are like that, and I salute you tonight. You have made modesty your way of life. It is more than how you dress. It includes at least six things that I can think of: (1) your behavior is decent and modest, and yet you are very fun to be with; (2) your language is never crude but happy and interesting; (3) you are well groomed, and that is appealing; (4) you are focused on developing your talents and achieving your goals, not piercing and tattooing and flaunting your body; (5) you play sports with gusto but never lose control; (6) you don’t seem to care about what the latest pop star wears or does because you have a certain style of your own. In summary, you do not imitate the world’s standards because you know a higher standard. You know who you are, and that puts you at a real advantage. You know that you really are a daughter of Heavenly Father. You know that He knows you and that He loves you; you want to please Him and honor His love for you. You know that even if you make foolish mistakes, He will help you if you turn to Him.

You act like you have memorized For the Strength of Youth! Isn’t that a great little guide? Sometimes I like to call it “helps for happiness” because living these standards can be your secret weapon for attracting good people to you and keeping you on the right track. When you live the high standards of the Church every day, you hold high the torch.

A girl I will call Liz is an example of what I am talking about. She was a student in a math class with a girl I will call Lindsay, who noticed that there was just something about Liz that “glowed,” as she put it. Lindsay admitted that she really didn’t think Liz knew her, but she still made her feel good. She really stood up for what she believed, and she always made others feel good and included. For several weeks Lindsay observed Liz. Then one day, Liz didn’t show up at school. Then another and then another passed. Lindsay finally learned that Liz was very ill with life-threatening meningitis.
She came home from school and just sat at the table crying. It wasn’t like she and Liz were close friends, but she said to her mom that they just had to do something to help her. Lindsay suggested that perhaps their whole family could fast and pray for Liz. What a shock it was for the mother to hear that coming from one of her own children, because fasting and prayer had not been mentioned in their home for years. When Lindsay and her mom talked with the rest of the family about it that night at supper, there was some resistance, but Lindsay pleaded with them and finally they all agreed to fast and pray for Liz, a stranger. The most wonderful thing happened. It wasn’t long before Liz returned to school appearing healthy and happy as ever. But even more important than this, the experience brought the most remarkable spirit of hope into Lindsay’s home. Because of it, some serious changes have taken place in their family. They are now having family prayer together, something that had not happened for years.

Liz’s goodness glowed, and it was catching. Liz, if you are here tonight, I would just like to say, “Thank you! By your goodness you have blessed at least one whole family whom you probably do not even know. And who knows how many others have been guided as you held high your torch.”

Being good makes you feel good, and it also makes others feel good! Can I just tell you this—it is so much easier to do what is right than it is to do what is wrong. Life is so much less complicated when you are good.

The greatest advantage of being good is that it will lead you to the temple, the most beautiful and sacred of all the places on this earth. The temple is the place the Savior could visit because it is His holy house here on earth.

President Lorenzo Snow’s granddaughter was in the temple with him on one occasion when President Snow said to her, “‘Allie[,] I want to tell you something. … It was right here that the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to me.’ [Grandfather] put his right hand on [my] head and said, ‘Now granddaughter, I want you to remember that this is the testimony of your grandfather, that he told you with his own lips that he actually saw the Savior, here in the temple, and talked with him face to face.’”

Can you imagine the reverence you would feel to walk the same halls the Savior walked? Do you picture yourself there, pure and clean, a daughter of God, prepared to receive His finest blessings?

Personal Progress will help you in your preparation for the temple. It is inspired of heaven. What a beautiful little treasure it is. It will help you draw closer to the Savior, and it will help you magnify the divine gifts of womanhood of which we have spoken. It is designed just for you at this very important period of preparation, for the patterns you set and the choices you make now will affect the rest of your life. It is our prayer that as you complete your Personal Progress, your light will shine so brightly that it will be an influence for good on generations to come. For these reasons and more, the First Presidency has said: “We desire all young women to strive to earn the Young Womanhood Recognition. As youth work on these goals, they will develop skills and attributes that will lead them to the temple and prepare them for a lifetime of service to their families and the Lord.” The beautiful new Young Womanhood medallion depicts temple spires reminding you that you are preparing to receive the ordinances of the temple, for it is through the temple that we come to Christ.

We are especially thinking of Christ on this Easter eve. More than 2,000 years ago on this eve, as His body was in the tomb, some believed that the light had gone out. But we know that on the morning of the third day, which we call Easter, He arose to be our salvation, our Savior, our eternal light that will never fail us. I testify that Christ is the light and the life of the world.

Dear young women, let your light shine so brightly before all of your family and friends that they may see your good works and glorify your Father who is in heaven. It is a privilege to carry the torch. It is our prayer that His light will shine on your path every step along your way and that your goodness will qualify you to one day receive the ordinances of the temple, for it is in that holy place that you will find the greatest light of all, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When I was 14 or 15 years old, I worked for my father in the family dry cleaning business during what free time I had. That summer, business was slow. So I said, “OK, I want to read the entire Book of Mormon—from the first page to the last.” And I did. The reading excited me.
In the edition of the Book of Mormon I had, Moroni’s promise was printed on one of the opening pages. That promise struck me. If someone read the book and then asked God, He would answer (see Moro. 10:3–5). I had heard the promise before, but in that moment the Holy Ghost impressed it upon my heart.
After finishing the last page of the book, I knelt in a small private room at work and prayed to Heavenly Father. And through the Holy Ghost I received the testimony I sought. From the tip of my toes to the last hair on my head, I felt that the Book of Mormon was the word of God and that Joseph Smith was a prophet.